The Braille Killer (An Alice Bergman Novel Book 1)

by Daniel Kuhnley

  “Sorry about this.” He shuffles through the trash like walking through snowdrifts. “Won’t lie, this is a bit embarrassing. Don’t usually have guests in here.”

  I hold my tongue because the words that come to mind would do me no favors and I still need his help. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and pray that the health risk of standing in this pile of filth is worthwhile. Either way, I’m in need of a sterilization scrub down.

  Bill moves farther into the office and disappears into a back room. “Things aren’t quite organized in here, so it might be a bit before I find Mr. Hallard’s information.”

  Given the state of the front office, this revelation shocks me to my core. “My time is in your hands, Bill.”

  I take my phone out of my pocket and squint at the display. 17:58. A single signal bar. Nine missed calls, four from Seth and five from Mother. Seventeen text messages from Veronica and Seth, and six voicemails.

  Mother’s number comes up first in my contact list. I sigh and press call. I can only imagine the barrage of guilt she’ll lay on me when she picks up. Five rings later it goes to her voicemail. My entire body relaxes. She must be at work.

  I wait until I’m prompted to leave a message. I take a deep breath. “Hello, Mother. Heard you were looking for me. Sorry I didn’t leave you a note. I’ve been working a case all night. Should be home tonight. If not, I’ll call. Love you.”

  I press end, dial into my voicemail, and skip through the first five messages, all of them from Mother. The last message is from Seth. I press one and listen:

  “Alice where the hell are you? I stopped by Veronica’s apartment and you weren’t there.” He pauses for a few moments and sighs loudly. “It took a lot of coercion, but Veronica finally told me that you were never there last night. Where are you, Alice? Are you okay? What’s going on with you? Call me back when you get this.”

  I press end on my phone and exhale. I don’t blame Veronica for cracking. Seth’s very good at his job. So good that I’d give anything to bring him in on all this. I wish I could’ve right from the start of our relationship. I put my life in his hands daily. How could I not trust him with this?

  I know the answer, but it has nothing to do with trust. His help isn’t worth losing everyone I love. There’s more to it than just that though. A single picture that now hangs on the wall of my storage unit shames me and forces me to keep this secret to myself. An image of an innocent girl who couldn’t fight back.

  I’m not her anymore.

  It’s not the fact that I’m naked in the picture that shames me. It’s not that I’m with another girl or that she’s touching me places no one ever had before. I’m not into girls and would never willingly participate in something like that, but that isn’t it either. It’s the fact that I was powerless to stop it.

  Now, I feel the same way about Sarah. I had ten years to stop him before he took Sarah’s life. Her blood will always be on my hands. I cannot allow him to take the life of another girl next July 17.

  He will not win.

  Bill grunts like a hog, and his flatulence echoes from the back office like a foghorn. A deep brown fog, I’m certain. I can’t help but snort.

  I retreat a few steps and lean against the doorframe of the outer office. I’m certain it’s crawling with germs, but the thought of touching any other surface in the entire office riddles me with nausea.

  I scroll through my seventeen text messages while I await Bill’s search into uncharted territories. Several of them are Veronica responding to the text I sent her early this morning:

  Wednesday, July 18, 2018

  06:48

  Anyone asks, I stayed with you last night. :A

  07:12

  V: roger roger where u at girl?

  07:29

  V: u been dissin me last several dayz wassup?

  10:47

  V: we need ta rap bestie miss u buzz when u can

  12:14

  V: crap crap crap! boytoy at da door!

  12:48

  V: folded bestie sorry! hope ur ok

  14:15

  V: no joke u gotta bring me up ta speed

  14:16

  V: cant handle bein outa da loop

  Veronica has been my best friend for twelve years, and I need her more than ever. I send her a quick response:

  18:12

  I’ll bring you in on everything soon. Promise. :A

  Veronica responds almost immediately:

  18:13

  V: thank god ur alive!

  V: u better!

  18:14

  V: got uglies lined up if u dont!

  Uglies. I can’t help but smile. It’s one of the few jokes between us that never gets old. I skip reading Seth’s messages and pocket my phone. My attention no longer occupied, I notice that the back office is eerily quiet.

  I move toward the back office, traversing the debris. My feet slide across the papers and wrappers; it’s like walking on ice. “Bill, are you still with us?”

  I hear a snort and then a cough. I reach the doorway and peer into the back office. The state of it is far worse than that of the front office. Stacks of papers, books, and boxes rise from the floor like skyscrapers, filling most of the room. I can’t tell how far back the room extends because there are so many stacks.

  Two pathways disappear into the paper city. I take the first and it leads me back around to a cot and portable television. I reverse my steps and take the second path. It leads to a small desk at the back of the office. Bill sits in the undersized chair behind the desk, and the side of his head rests on the desk’s edge.

  I kick the side of the desk with my boot. Bill startles, gasps, and sits straight up. He raises his arms and looks up at me with deer eyes.

  I glare at him. “What the hell, Bill?”

  He rubs his eyes and nose with his hand. “Doc says it’s narcolepsy. So sorry about that. Got a bit too comfy.”

  I shake my head. “I saw the cot. Are you living here?”

  He pops up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box and grabs my hand before I have a chance to retreat. “Please, Detective, don’t say anything. They don’t pay me much, and I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  Tears well in his eyes and I don’t know what to say to him. I look down at his fat, sausage-fingered hand wrapped around mine like a greasy taco shell from an open-all-night fish taco stand and all I can think about is the germs and where that hand has been. To compound matters, I see that his fly is wide open, and his yellowish-white skivvies are hanging out.

  I focus my gaze back on his face and the five-o’clock shadow that’s several days old. Then to the pea-sized mole trapped between the right-side of his nose and his cheek. Then to his eyes once more: small, hunter-green irises and beady little pupils against a canvas of pink with red veins.

  I cannot pull my hand away from his. Not because he’s made it physically impossible but because if I were to pull it away, I’d risk him breaking down into a blubbering mess of tears and snot and never giving me the help I came for. So, I bite my lip and place my other hand over the top of his.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t foresee what would happen next. Who could’ve? In the blink of an eye, Bill pulls me close with his sausage nubs and plants his dried-out, cracked lips on mine.

  I can’t recall how long I stood there lip-locked to a scruffy blowfish before regaining my composure and dignity. I pull away and slap him right across the face. It smacks loud like a cap gun, and Bill staggers backward. His hand shoots to his fire-engine-red cheek and he just stands there in shock, his eyes wider than I thought physically possible.

  “What the hell was that?” I stock toward him and he retreats behind his chair.

  “I thought we were having a moment.” He bites his lower lip. “Weren’t we?”

  I thrust my arms in the air. “A moment? Are you being serious right now? There’s no chance you and I will ever have a moment. What’s wrong with you?�
��

  Bill holds his breath and his chest convulses. His entire body quakes and bubbles of snot expand out of his nostrils. He grabs his head and screams so loud that I retreat several steps. He grabs the back of his chair, hoists it above his head, and throws it against the wall behind him. I jump with the crash and my hand shoots over to my holstered gun.

  Bill drops to his knees and beats the side of his head with his fist. “You’re stupid, Bill. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  I bend down but keep my distance. “You’re not stupid.”

  He stops and looks up at me, his eyes even more bloodshot than before. “Mother passed a few months back. She was my entire world. I don’t know what to do. How am I supposed to go on, Detective?”

  Snot hangs in his scruff and tears shine on his cheeks. “How can I pretend everything is okay when all I want to do is die? My heart is in a thousand pieces and there’s nothing anyone can do or say to bring her back. Why did she leave me? What did I do to drive her away? Is God punishing me, Detective? Am I that bad of a person that he took my mother from me?”

  God.

  Why do I find myself caught-up in matters of a pretend deity on so many occasions? I look down at my chest and stew in a brew of my own making. My traitorous fingers have latched onto my cross pendant once again. I’m like a junkie, always seeking it for a fix, but it does nothing for me.

  God.

  I’m at a loss as to where to go with this, so I close my eyes for a moment and conjure Mother’s holier-than-thou religious spirit.

  “God works in mysterious ways, Bill. Perhaps he’s testing you to see if you’re worthy of what he has planned for you. Had you thought of that?” I can’t believe the garbage I’m spewing, but Bill seems to be eating it up like a spoon-fed baby.

  Bill wipes his face and eyes and cocks his head. “Testing? For what?”

  “To help me, Bill.” I eye my pendant again. “Help me stop a rapist and murderer.”

  He frowns and holds his chin. “Are you saying that God killed my mother so that I’d help you?”

  “Didn’t he? Would you have been here today if she were still alive?”

  Bill slowly shakes his head and his eyes light up with understanding. “Guess not. I only ever worked evenings before she died. God does work in mysterious ways…”

  I can’t believe my illogical logic is working, but who am I to say what should or shouldn’t work? I stand. “Exactly. I need your help, Bill. Do you know Mr. Hallard’s address or not?”

  Bill pulls himself to his feet and rummages through a stack of papers on his desk. “He paid cash when he first rented here, but we require an address on the lease form. No exceptions.”

  “And you have the form?”

  Bill picks up a piece of paper and cocks his head. “Curious.”

  “Can I see that?”

  He hands me the paper. It’s a lease form for George Hallard as far as I can tell, but with my blurred vision and such bad handwriting I can’t make out the address. I should’ve grabbed a pair of glasses from the box marked “glasses” in my storage unit. I’ve got more than a hundred pairs, each with a differing prescription.

  I hand it back. “Can you write that address down for me?”

  “Sure.” He grabs a piece of paper and tries to scribble down the address, but his pen doesn’t work. He tries several others without luck. He grunts and hands the lease form back to me. “Return it to me as soon as you can.”

  “Thanks, Bill.” I turn to leave.

  “Detective?”

  I sigh and turn back. “Yes, Bill?”

  He crosses his arms. “You don’t care to know what’s curious about it?”

  I shove the piece of paper into my pocket. “Shoot it to me straight, Bill. What is so curious about his lease form?”

  “He paid for seven years upfront.”

  “Seven years? That is a bit curious. I doubt many people do that.”

  Bill nods. “Yeah, that alone is curious, but what’s more so is that his lease is up today.”

  I choke on my own spit and lurch into a coughing fit. My vision goes dark for a moment and the next Bill’s pounding my back with his palm. I raise my hand, and he stops pounding, but not before he’s dislodged the fillings in my molars.

  I cough several more times and manage to sputter “I need some water” between them. Bill is a jackrabbit in his own environment and has a cold bottle of water for me in less than fifteen seconds flat. I don’t know where he produced it from, and there’s no way I’m gonna ask. He twists off the lid and hands it to me.

  I take a few swallows, catch my breath, and then down the rest of it in three big gulps. I can feel a pocket of air trapped deep in my throat, so I push it out with a large belch.

  “Yeah!” Bill raises his hand up and I oblige him with a high five. I couldn’t leave him hanging with all he’s been through.

  I hand him the empty bottle. “Thanks, Bill.”

  He tosses it on the floor, and I shake my head. Could’ve done that myself.

  He shrugs and smiles. “I’ll work on cleaning this place up tomorrow. Next time you’re in here you won’t recognize the place.”

  Next time? There’s no chance in hell of that happening. I nod, turn around, and do my best to traverse the treacherous terrain through the back and front offices without killing myself in the process. When I reach the corridor, I can’t shake this niggling thought that I’ve missed something.

  I head straight back to unit 109 again and the door is rolled up. Nausea rears its head in the pit of my stomach. I grab fistfuls of black fabric and yank as hard as I can. The fabric rips in a few spots and then the entire ensemble comes crashing down, steel bar and all. The sound is deafening. I retreat just in time to escape the bar crushing my head.

  My ears ring and my heart hammers. I draw my gun and flip the light switch on, but it doesn’t help my blurred vision. The shapeless shadows are as still as death, and I can’t make out any details beyond ten feet.

  I’m confident I’m alone, but jangling keys and pattering feet approach. “Alice are you okay?”

  It’s Bill. Sounds like he’s out of breath. The noise probably frightened him as much as it did me. He rounds the corner to my left and I proceed into the unit and toward the back. Several steps in and my heart crashes to the floor just like the steel bar.

  The mirror’s gone!

  CHAPTER NINE

  I sit in my sedan two doors down and across the street from 12136 Mockingbird Park Dr., the home of George Hallard. The clock on the center console reads 20:12, but the numbers are already starting to blur. Two hours ago, these glasses worked perfectly. It won’t be long before I need a stronger prescription.

  I know nothing about George Hallard, but my gut says that he’s the bastard responsible for Sarah Johnson’s death. I don’t believe in coincidences, especially when they begin piling up. He’s racked up too many for me to ignore. He rented a storage unit in the same facility as mine right around the same time I did. He paid cash in advance for a seven-year lease. He knew my name. He left his unit open so that I’d see the mirror and Priscilla.

  It can’t be coincidental. George Hallard must be the Braille Killer.

  I desperately want to call Seth for backup, but how could I possibly explain what led me here? “Hey, Seth. Met this creepy guy at the storage facility I’ve never told you about. He left his unit unlocked. I trespassed, saw a mirror and a vision of a blind girl in her room in it, and tracked down the address of the owner. Want to come find out if I’m insane or not?”

  I’m in so deep down this path of deception that there’s no turning back now. I should’ve run a background check on George, but I didn’t want to lose the element of surprise and have him get away. I fear this might be my only chance to nab him before he kills again. If it’s him.

  The thought of being blind again leaves me cold.

  I don’t want to live in a world of shadows again, but I’m
starting to learn that just about everything in my life is beyond my control. I am nothing more than a pawn in some game of chess, made to move ever forward despite knowing my end is fast approaching.

  I push those thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on the double cheese Happy Burger in my hands. I melt into my seat a little further with each bite. Never has one of their burgers tasted so good. Then again, I’ve had nothing to eat in the last eighteen hours.

  At this point, anything would probably taste like the world’s greatest food. Well, probably not Bob’s Chinese Food or Game Time Pizza with the cardboard crust and rubber cheese, but just about anything else.

  I wash down my last bite of burger with a long swig from my strawberry milkshake. It’s so thick that my brain’s in danger of getting sucked through the straw instead of it, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I reach into the bag on the passenger seat, grab a handful of fries, and then a car pulls into the driveway at the Hallard residence.

  I drop the fries back in the bag and brush off my fingers and hands with a napkin. Recycled materials sound great in theory but are pretty worthless in reality. I toss the wadded napkin in the seat and finish wiping my hands on my jeans. I unholster my gun, eject the magazine and verify that it’s fully loaded, and slide it back in.

  I holster my gun, take a deep breath, and exit the car. I sprint across the street, sticking to the shadows as much as possible, and approach the house. A four-foot-high red brick retaining wall hugs the raised yard and works against me. I can’t see the parked car, the walkway, or the front door.

  Across the street, a man jogs my direction with his dog, a beautiful mastiff. He doesn’t even glance my way, but his dog does. I wonder if the dog knows something is about to go down. If so, he doesn’t seem to want to get involved. When they pass by, I can almost make out the lyrics to the music the man’s listening to because he’s got it turned up so loud.