Monster: The Story Of A Maniac

by Peter Cry

  “Looking great, Mr. Hope.”

  Alfred smiled.

  “I appreciate it, Sean. I guess my colleagues won’t look at me like I am black sheep again.”

  “I’m sure they’ll start to look at you with a bit of envy.”

  “You flatter me, Sean,” Alfred replied and headed for the stairs.

  Upstairs, he confidently opened the doors.

  “Sorry for being late, colleagues,” Alfred said.

  Looking at the newcomer, Agent Duncan gasped.

  Before settling down at his desk, the newcomer placed his new brown leather briefcase on it. He had bought it during a hectic weekend. He opened his laptop and logged in with his new password. As Agent Polaski had promised, Alfred had received it on Friday night.

  He did not even have time to type a few letters when a message arrived on his smartphone. It was a message from his direct superior, Rita Coleman. “Agent Hope, I’m waiting for you in my office as soon as you arrive. On the corridor to the left."

  Alfred was excited. Nonetheless, he was a little anxious. He did not believe she wanted to reprimand him for being late. But, in any case, he had a good excuse.

  Rising from his desk, the novice straightened his suit and went in search of the office with the sign "Director Rita Coleman."

  He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” he heard and entered.

  “You called me.”

  “Yes, come in, have a seat,” Rita said officiously.

  Laying a folder of papers on the table, she sat back in a comfortable leather chair.

  Her subordinate disarmed her with his new look and she instantly calmed down. Solid as steel, the careerist Rita Coleman had not experienced anything like him for a long time. The last time it happened was in college when she fell in love with a classic handsome bully. His academic performance was poor, but he wore tight jeans that looked so good on his firm butt.

  Alfred sat down and gazed with a friendly smile at Rita, who for some reason remained silent.

  She was no longer facing the provincial, albeit charismatic, patrolman from Seattle. She saw a copybook FBI agent or a model Man in Black. With one difference – he’d had his suit fitted. His pants were narrowed, and his jacket perfectly emphasized his athletic shape.

  “You were late,” Rita said calmly, avoiding eye contact.

  There was no trace of her former ardor.

  “Yes, I know. I had to pick up my new suit,” Alfred answered. “You yourself recommended changing my clothes. I was following your instructions.”

  Rita nodded her head. Putting her elbows on the table, she propped up her chin with her fists.

  “Please, next time, if you’re not in the office on business days, or driving around on an operation, let me or one of your colleagues know about it. It’s not okay to be absent without us knowing what’s going on.”

  Rita didn’t understand what was happening to her and why was she losing her professional grip. She tried not to look into the dark eyes, across from her, which for some reason she was finding incredibly attractive.

  “Yes, you’re right. Excuse me.”

  The compliance of the tough guy in tight pants, melted her even more. Pulling herself together, she retrieved her expensive designer brand handbag from the windowsill and pulled out of it items her subordinates longed for.

  “Your badge, your ID and the keys from your car. The dark blue Ford Crown Victoria is parked at the airport. All the necessary documents for the car are in the glove compartment.”

  Alfred was not very fond of showing his emotions to others. Seeing the golden sparkling badge and the identity card, on which “FBI” was written in big blue letters, the stamp, and the inscription “special agent”, he nonetheless radiated with pride.

  “Who could have imagined,” Alfred said quietly, picking up his documents, and examining them. “Two years ago, I was a bum on the streets and now I am with the investigation department of the main federal agency of the country.”

  Rita responded with a smile.

  “We took the photo from your police file. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” Alfred replied, noticing the sudden courtesy of his boss.

  “What about the apartment?”

  Alfred spread his hands.

  “So far, I’ve not had much time to search for one. I’ve been preoccupied reading reports I found in my office mail. I promise to deal with it by the end of this week.”

  “Hm... And have you read a lot of them?” Rita became interested in what she heard.

  “Three months of reports on the progress of the investigation that Kate composed for the head office in Washington.”

  The phone in the office rang.

  “Excuse me,” Rita said.

  She picked up the phone.

  “Yes.” She listened for a while and was clearly not pleased. “Not now, Polaski, I'm busy.” She hung up abruptly.

  “Go on,” Rita requested Alfred.

  “Witness testimonies and minutes of interviews with parents.”

  “Have you found anything interesting?”

  “Yes, but until I’m sure, I don’t want to say. I’ll just ask you to give me permission to talk to the parents, teachers, and classmates of the abducted children.”

  “That’s out of the question,” she snapped.

  “Why?” Alfred was confused. “Your new agent is trying to get into the picture. I think personal acquaintance with the witnesses will be for the better.”

  “We spoke several times to each of them,” Rita insisted. “With the best friends of the children, classmates, teachers, parents, relatives, treating doctors. It didn’t get us anywhere. All the reports on those conversations and long hours of audio recordings can be found on the second floor. We have mountains of that junk.”

  Alfred did not understand such a harsh, negative, reaction. So, in fact he was not being allowed to work outside of the office. How then could he help to solve the case.

  “I don’t understand why you are denying my, as of now, legal right to investigate.”

  Rita didn’t like his attitude and switched to an arrogant tone.

  “The parents of the abducted children are getting on with their lives, Alfred. I know that maybe this sounds cynical, but many of them have other children or, for instance, interesting jobs. And I, sitting here in this office, want to believe that they have turned all their attention to the things that have remained in their lives. Do you know how the parents of children who have been kidnapped look like?”

  “I have dealt with people whose children were victims of pedophiles.”

  “No, Agent Hope, you dealt with those whose offspring you’d saved from the clutches of pedophiles. And I'm telling you about the ones whose children were abducted by someone who had killed a man just before that.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Alfred said calmly, realizing it was better not to aggravate his boss.

  “That's right, and all of us have already talked to them. That is why we all went a little crazy here.” Rita leaned back in her chair and began to spin slowly, to the right, then to the left.

  “Several times a year Ashley Mitchell comes to us, white as chalk.”

  “The mother of Andrew Mitchell?” Alfred interrupted.

  His boss nodded.

  “She comes here completely pale, with empty eyes.” Rita stood up and went to the window. “She comes on his birthday, or the day he was abducted, or the day she came up with his name. All agents, including me, are afraid of that moment. On those days, she tries to find me or someone from the staff. Then she falls on her knees in front of us, and cries, clutching Andrew’s photo to her chest. Usually, she is on antipsychotics and antidepressants, but on the days when something important happened in Andrew’s life, even her pills don’t help. Everyone who works in this building feels guilty before her and the rest of the parents. And especially when one of them comes here.”

  Rita looked intensively at Alfred as she continue
d moving from side to side. “Do you know what distinguishes Ashley from the rest of the parents?”

  “What?” Alfred asked sadly.

  “She still believes that her son is alive, believes that he will return to her someday. The rest understand that their children are dead. They only pray for one thing, that their children died quickly without suffering.”

  “And what about you?” Alfred stared at his boss. “Do you believe that they are still alive?”

  Director Coleman sighed heavily.

  “Sometimes I also pray and hope they have not suffered. And I would also like this case to come to naught, like the killing of Kennedy or the Dan Cooper case. In time, the pain in the hearts of the parents will abate, and perhaps they will have another baby which will fill a void in their souls. They will not suffer, and only occasionally, on the anniversary of the abduction or the birthday of their kidnapped child, they’ll be sad. Ashley Mitchell will be happy and stop coming here. However, these are just my fantasies.”

  Rita became still and concluded. “You won’t get my permission to meet and question the parents once again. I value their peace too much.”

  Alfred smiled coldly.

  “Well, you are the boss.”

  ***

  The suburb of Indianapolis, located a few miles northeast of the city, seemed cozy and welcoming. Its narrow, similar, two-story white houses were not much different from those in Alfred’s native Seattle. Neat clean roads, concrete sidewalks, and low trees, rarely taller by a few feet than the gray roofs. Almost the same, but there was a small, almost imperceptible difference.

  It was sunset. During the day, the suburban areas were underpopulated, most adults were at work, and children were at school. The only ones who shuffled along the smooth, paved sidewalks were the elderlies. In the evening, when people returned home, the suburb came to life. Children appeared on the empty streets playing before bedtime, as well as their parents, sitting on the porch, caring for their lawn, or talking with neighbors.

  Alfred rode along the road, trying to be as careful as possible. At any moment, a small cyclist or skater could jump off the sidewalk and find himself in front of his car. Holding a cup of cooled coffee in his left hand and a steering wheel in his right, he gazed at the houses rushing by, looking for the required number.

  During the past week, the newcomer from Seattle had got quite comfortable and he’d got into his work. He did not seem much different from his colleagues with vast operational experience. Having studied thousands of pages of reports, and listened to several hours of testimonies, he had not made an inch of progress. But that was exactly what made him like some of the most powerful minds of the FBI's Investigation Department. The only difference between him and them was the desire to do something. It was still burning, in the newcomer.

  “Okay,” Alfred thought, and stopped the car, parking it on the opposite side of the house he was looking for.

  Hastily swallowing his cold coffee, he got out of the car. Buttoning his jacket, he headed towards a neat white two-story house, in front of which there was a well-kept green lawn.

  After three steps up the wooden stairs, he knocked on the door.

  A fair-haired middle-aged woman opened the door. Without waiting for her question, Alfred took out his leather wallet with the ID and badge.

  “FBI, ma'am,” he said confidently, showing the documents. “I'm agent Alfred Hope, we spoke with you yesterday.”

  Without thinking twice, she invited him in.

  Alfred entered and looked around in a way that would not seem impolite. From the small bright hallway, a cozy living room and a spacious kitchen connected to the dining room could be seen.

  “My husband is not here yet, so you have to wait a bit,” said the woman, walking into the living room.

  Alfred followed her.

  “Please, have a seat,” she added, pointing to a sofa by a low coffee table near the fireplace. “Would you like some tea or maybe coffee?”

  “No thanks,” Alfred smiled politely. “I’ve just finished a cup of disgusting ice-cold coffee, so if possible, I’d just like a glass of water to wash out the bitterness.”

  “Yes, sure,” Mrs. Stevens said and hurried to the kitchen.

  Left alone, Alfred began to peer into the details of the room. On the walls – beige wallpaper with poorly distinguishable colors. On the fireplace – souvenirs. Books. A patterned carpet under his feet. Several armchairs. A desk with a computer. A TV, and many, many, many pictures of a happy little Emmy Stevens.

  “Here you are,” the tired graying woman put a transparent glass with water on the coffee table.

  “Thank you.”

  Alfred took a couple of loud sips.

  Mrs. Stevens, sitting in the easy chair to the left, seemed detached.

  “Is there any news?” she asked apathetically.

  Her guest put the glass back in its place and looked sympathetically at the hostess.

  “Unfortunately, not.”

  “Then why have you come?”

  “I started working on the abduction case recently, just a week ago. It seemed reasonable to me to speak with the parents of the children personally.”

  “And it seems to me that we’ve already told your colleagues everything possible and impossible.” Mrs. Stevens looked at her guest with misty blurry eyes.

  “Yes, you are right, but I, as a newcomer, may be able to spot some details that no one had noticed before.”

  Alfred sighed awkwardly and moved to the edge of the sofa, closer to the host. “I understand that I will make you go through that horrible experience once again, but there is a small chance that, after talking with all the parents, I will discover something new.”

  “Do you have any hope of finding someone?” the woman asked indifferently.

  “I hope so,” he answered slowly, afraid to seem ridiculous.

  Mrs. Stevens tilted her head to the left, turning her gaze to the dark redundant fireplace.

  “I just want to bury her. Just bury and cry, then arrange a funeral for relatives, and cry some more. I must be certain that she is no longer being tormented. I'm tired of waking up at night from the terrible nightmares in which she is next to me and John. There is nothing worse than when those dreams end, and after two seconds I realize that Emmy is not sleeping in the next room.”

  “I understand,” Alfred nodded sympathetically.

  “No, you don’t,” the woman retorted coldly.

  “I used to watch movies about abductions, ransoms, all kinds of nonsense like that, and thought that I understood. I sincerely sympathized with the crying heroes, convinced that I would have acted in the same way, driving away evil thoughts about Emmy. But I was wrong. It’s the most terrible thing in the world. Once I was afraid of something, many things – John cheating on me, the death of my parents, that I’ll get sick with something. Now I’m afraid of only one thing – that I’ll never see my daughter again, dead or alive.”

  A tear flowed down Mrs. Stevens’s cheek, but she continued to smile.

  “God bless ‘Xanax’ for preserving my sanity.”

  Alfred noticed a thin female wrist peeking out from under the sleeve of a pale purple shirt. There were several scars on it. From their appearance, it was possible to determine that they had been made at different times. Some were fresh, others were old, almost imperceptible.

  “Do you know what not one of your agents did?” Mrs. Stevens continued.

  “What, ma’am?” Alfred felt guilty.

  “No one hugged me and said ‘Ma'am, we will definitely find your daughter.’” Even if you’d lied, it would have been easier for me. Instead, all those agents with whom I spoke, dressed in good suits, showing sparkling badges, from the first day after the abduction behaved as if Emmy was already a corpse. On every piece of paper, in every letter that I received from you, she and the other children were referred to as if they were the name of a street, or an object that did not have a soul. And she had one – beautiful, pure,
and joyful!”

  Another tear rolled down Mrs. Stevens' other cheek. “And he devoured it.”

  “Who?” Agent Hope was looking at his interlocutor with confusion.

  “The monster who took my child and killed the bus driver. I am sure that she wasn’t kidnapped by a human being. It was a monster who feeds on human souls.”

  Alfred looked at the suffering mother and did not understand if she was speaking seriously or was being figurative. The sedative pill which destroyed her will, only hid the disease but did not cure it. The drug fueled delusions that became the tormented woman’s life.

  “That’s the reason why you can’t find him. He becomes invisible. Children’s souls are transparent, completely invisible like the air. Devouring them, he can become invisible. Who knows, maybe right now he is sitting in this room, watching us and laughing at me.”

  All the grief, all the frenzy, experienced by Mrs. Stevens penetrated Alfred’s soul. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “No,” he said through gritted teeth, looking at the woman with moist red eyes. “No, ma'am, he’s not here, and he’s not a monster at all. He exists, we will find and punish him. I promise you.”

  Mrs. Stevens wept and covered her trembling lips with her hand.

  “I beg you, agent, raise my hopes.”

  “I will find him and find your daughter, dead or alive. Even if I must go into every house and speak personally with every person in this country, even if I have to dig through every inch of soil.”

  The sound of the door opening distracted Alfred and Mrs. Stevens. After wiping her tears, she got up and went to the hallway. Agent Hope turned around.

  “You cried again,” John hugged his wife.

  “It’s okay, don’t pay attention.” She made it clear to her husband that she was not alone in the house. “We have guests. The FBI agent... I’ve told you about him.”

  Handing his wife his beige-colored coat, he hurried into the living room.

  Alfred got up in advance and straightened his jacket and tie.

  “Hello,” Emmy's father held out his hand, looking at the guest with interest. “John Stevens.”