by J. L. Drake
“They took his fingerprints back to the lab a while ago,” Craig said. “Should be soon.”
The three detectives donned plastic gloves like surgeons and began operating. They examined every inch of the ground, the walls, the body, the very air the killer had breathed.
Jason placed one foot on either side of the dead man and hovered over him. The wide eyes stared blankly back at him, blue as a summer sky. The whites of the eyeballs were coated with airborne dirt and grime that had gotten stuck in the moisture.
The killer stood right here.
Jason knelt next to the body, careful to avoid the bloody puddle.
Was this man scared or relieved when he realized that his breaths were numbered? I’d sure be relieved.
They say dead men tell no tales. Jason made a living proving that statement wrong.
He rolled up his sleeves and slid his hand into the inside pocket of the body’s suit jacket. Several small items were stuffed into the pocket: a bottle of lotion, hand sanitizer, Band-Aids, a hankie, and a pack of floss.
Garth eyed the objects as his cinched his necktie. “Finicky little fella, it would appear, huh?” He kneeled beside Jason. “Now, I know that stereotypes are like dirty words in this line of work, but I wouldn’t expect a sterile sort of guy to be wrapped up in murder.”
“You’d be surprised,” Jason said as he stood along with Garth. “I once tracked down a crazed real estate agent from northern Amador City who used chicken wire to strangle his fiancé’s family.”
Cheyenne cocked an eyebrow. “When was this?”
“Several years back. Strange thing was, when we found the bodies, the entire scene was clean as the Waldorf Astoria. The killer left behind any of his bloody clothes. His socks, his trousers, even his shirt that only had the smallest speck of red. A total neat freak.”
He paused, staring into the reflective pool of blood on the concrete. It had turned inky black from its lengthy exposure to the air.
“Emphasis on freak.”
Hollow footsteps sounded from outside the alley. The four investigators turned to find Sam Washington strutting into the scene, again, trying to look as stylish as possible for his invisible fans. All of a sudden, he recoiled and slapped his hand over his nose.
“My god!” he exclaimed, the shout bouncing around the small space. He doubled forward as if he had been punched. “God almighty, what is that smell?”
Jason glared at him, keeping his voice completely calm and level. “About half a day’s worth of fecal matter, urine, and death.”
Sam straightened up. He joined the other detectives, mustering up all of his shattered pride. “So,” he clapped his hands loudly, “what’s the deal with this guy?”
Craig sighed and filled Sam in.
Cheyenne scratched the side of her face, staring at the dead man’s haunting eyes. She then clasped her hands together, seeming to appreciate the fact that she had control over her own appendages.
“One shot,” she muttered to herself. “Boom, you’re down, can’t move an inch to save your life. Can’t call your dad one last time, can’t tell your friends how much they truly meant to you. Alive, but…you may as well be dead—”
“All right, Childers,” Sam interrupted, a gawky grin on his face. “We’re trying to think. Cut the cord.” He snickered uncontrollably.
Jason gave Sam a glare that could make a charging elephant change direction. Unfortunately, Sam was too busy laughing at his own terrible joke to see it.
“How long have you been waiting to use that one?”
Sam responded through gasping breaths, “Couple minutes now.”
Detective Sam Washington was famous, or rather infamous, for his unbelievable pigheadedness and insensitivity. Saying “cut the cord,” after the victim had been paralyzed by a gunshot to the spinal cord, was tasteless as cardboard. He would tell a Nazi gas chamber survivor to “take a deep breath” if he could get a few chuckles out of it.
A buzz came from Cheyenne’s pocket. She dug out her phone and answered, “Detective Childers.” She paused while the person on the other line spoke. An occasional “Yes” or “Uh-huh” from her, a lot of garbled words from the other speaker. She finally said, “Got it. Detective Flynn and I are en route.”
Jason smirked. “That’s what I call being volun-told.”
Cheyenne spoke firmly as if she hadn’t heard his quip. “We got a match on the victim’s fingerprints. Adam Fischer, age twenty-seven. Address is 220 37th Street, apartment number 4-H. Captain Jones has given us clearance to investigate. Forensics is en route.”
Jason gave the dead man a brief glance and thought he sure looked older than twenty-seven. The man had deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. Jason would’ve pegged him more around forty. He pushed the thought out of his mind and said to Cheyenne, “Let’s go.”
She turned to Garth. “Wanna come along?”
Garth shook his head, still eyeing the alley’s cracked floor. “Nah. I’ll stay here, poke around a bit more.”
Sam, needing to be the most important, blurted out, “Yeah, yeah, me too,” and started to examine the floor as well.
She raised an eyebrow to Craig. “Doctor?”
Craig gave a half-hearted smile, but he only looked more sad and timid. “Call me if there’s a corpse.” It was meant as a joke, but it only half-way was.
Jason and Cheyenne left the alley, climbed in Cheyenne’s gray car, and drove away, leaving Sinai Hills and the body named Adam Fischer behind.
Chapter 3
“Each one should test his own action. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else, for each one should carry his own load.”
—Galatians 6:4
The sun had, indeed, morphed into a gigantic, blazing basketball, just as Jason had predicted
The scenery shimmered from beyond the windows as if they were in a submarine rather than a car. Jason turned his head away from the expansive cityscape, tapping his gold L.A.P.D. badge. It was amazing how much a small trinket could change a man’s demeanor.
Cheyenne pulled into an uneven, deteriorating parking lot and stopped in front of a stout building that seemed to frown. Many happier trimmings adorned its windows and doors, like flowers or ribbons, but they did little to lighten the overwhelming sense of desolation that radiated from the bricks and mortar.
This was the apartment block that housed the late Adam Fischer: 220 37th Street, as the painted numbers on the curb declared for all who cared to know, which could be counted on one hand.
Several dull-colored cars milled around in front of the building, trying and failing to be inconspicuous. The cars held a dozen forensic officers Captain Jones had sent to meet the two detectives. Through one of the vehicles’ windows, Jason spotted the erect, attentive silhouette of Josh Locke staring at the monstrous residence.
Cheyenne and Jason climbed out of her car. Immediately, all of the forensic men also leapt from their own hiding spots and swarmed toward the apartment.
Josh approached the two.
“Hey, Josh,” Cheyenne said with a smile, although it sounded more obligatory than most greetings.
“Morning, Detective Childers, Detective Flynn.”
The young man fell into step beside them as they moved toward the apartment. Even though it was still early by Jason’s watch, Josh’s steps were vigorous and sharp, filled with more purpose than most people had in their entire body. His eyes were harder than diamonds, piercing anybody brash enough to challenge him.
In Jason’s honest opinion, Josh was a bit too big for his britches. He was still a fledgling, a child from most cops’ perspective, yet he marched through each day as if he had done it for years, seen all there was to see. Those who had seen all there was to see didn’t care too much for Josh’s veteran-like attitude. One day, his misplaced confidence would get him into some hot water that would leave a pretty severe burn.
They entered the apartment complex and strolled through the lobby. A s
haggy carpet that had probably been fashionable during Carter’s administration covered the floor, slowing Jason’s steps like some invisible creature from a horror film. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if this creaky old building had inspired a ghost story or two.
Cheyenne, Jason, and Josh led the forensic investigators upstairs, creating a loud symphony of clangs and booms as their feet knocked across the old metal stairway.
Second…third…the fourth floor. This was where Adam Fischer lived in 4-H.
The party entered the linoleum hallway and sauntered past doors of faux wood with metal labels: 4-A, 4-B…
4-C. Almost there. The hallway got shorter and shorter as the investigators’ strides grew longer and quicker.
Suddenly, the floor began to tremble violently, causing Jason to stumble. The cops glanced around, trying to simultaneously remain on their feet and keep their weapons level. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and decorations on the wall clattered onto the carpet.
Then, as abruptly as it began, the shaking stopped. A stunned silence enveloped the group. They stared at each other as they tried to regulate their heavy breathing.
Jason shot Cheyenne a nervous glance.
She smirked. “It’s the subway.”
A relieved sigh sputtered out of Jason’s lungs. He shook his nerves off and led the team farther down the hall.
He felt irritable at himself for being so surprised. His teeth clenched, and he almost chewed out the group then and there for letting a little shake get the best of them, but he banished the thought.
Anger, Jason, Keri’s soft voice nudged. Keep it in check.
While his impulsive anger often had its advantages, this was neither the time nor place for it. Years ago, he had done his best to kept his hot-headedness in check in all circumstances, as it was Keri’s least favorite quality of his.
Finally, they arrived.
4-H.
Ding-dong. Honey, I’m home.
The journey screeched to a halt. Jason Flynn, Cheyenne Childers, and Josh Locke stood before the door.
Jason exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and extended his fist to the door. Three raps of his knuckles on the surface sounded like an earthquake in the silence of the hall. The silence was a miracle in of itself, considering how many people were jam-packed into the limited space.
No answer from inside the apartment. Jason shot a side-glance at Cheyenne, who briefly bit her lower lip, then nodded.
Jason gripped the doorknob and twisted it to its left without resistance.
Unlocked. How convenient of Adam.
A tiny click made Jason turn his neck. Josh quivered behind Cheyenne, his loaded Glock clutched in his sweaty, pasty white hands. The boy looked seconds away from a stroke, or a heart attack, or exploding, or all three at once.
“Is there a reason to be nervous, Josh?” Jason asked in a quiet voice.
Josh let out an unsteady chuckle that was barely audible. “Never be too careful, Detective.”
Jason cocked his head. “You really took that vigilance speech to heart, didn’t you?”
Josh nodded, recalling his first day out of training, where he learned of the Don and his own open fly. Good times.
With a slight push, Jason opened the door, his eyes still locked on Josh’s face. Whenever the inside of the room was revealed, the young officer convulsed slightly, the muscles in his neck taut. Jason gave him a nod and turned to face 4-H.
Knees bent. Ears perked. Glock still holstered. Jason placed one foot inside the apartment and stepped in.
It was dark. There wasn’t a sound. Shutters were fastened across the windows, only letting thin slices of light enter the apartment. Jason looked around and found a short table by the door with a sleek, black wooden lamp sitting on top. He turned on the light and ventured forward.
The team switched on the lights as it made its way deeper into the home. Compared to the rundown building it was a part of, the living space was quite lavish and cozy.
Jason’s first thought was that it was like a scaled-down version of the Playboy Mansion. Artsy, abstract wallpaper and paintings swathed the rooms, nearly giving Jason a migraine from the onslaught of colors. The hardwood floors ruined the illusion of stealth the investigators had been going for, announcing each step with a heavy thump. On the far wall hung a gigantic mirror that reflected each movement the team made, giving Jason the eerie feeling that they were not alone.
Cheyenne crept through the apartment. Jason was a few steps behind her, hand unconsciously resting on the butt of his Glock. He found this to be very odd and considered letting go of the gun but decided to leave it be. As Josh had said, one could never be too cautious.
Heeding his own advice, Josh tiptoed through the living room, breathing and blinking heavily. Gun pointed ahead, he seemed to be calming down and becoming accustomed to the situation. But his index finger was flexed around the gun’s trigger. If he didn’t like something he saw, one push of the finger would make sure it was never heard from again.
Josh eased further into the room, stepping past the large mirror. He glanced at the mirror and found a dark, ominous figure staring back at him. Josh shrieked at the shadowy form and fired.
Jason jumped a foot in the air and skipped a few heartbeats. He took cover behind the sofa, reaching for his Glock, but then he saw the mirror, shattered into a thousand shards on the floor. A small bullet hole had been left in the wall, a thin line of smoke rising out of it.
Josh had literally been scared of his own reflection.
And shot it.
“Josh!” Jason shouted at the officer, blood boiling in his veins. “Stand down, officer!”
Josh looked at Jason, aghast and ashamed. Jason only raised his volume, anger coloring his face purple.
“Holster your gun!”
Slowly, Josh lowered his gun and stepped out of the way.
A gunshot’s been fired in the building. No hiding that. Great.
Jason sighed and ran a hand over the hole the bullet had pierced in the wall. A marble could be popped through it, nothing larger.
It was only a matter of seconds before the neighbors began to file over to 4-H, questioning about the earsplitting bang they had just heard. The uniforms would have to keep them at bay for as long as possible.
Cheyenne placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. He snapped his head over to look at her. She grinned softly.
“Jason smash.” She giggled.
He sighed. “Let’s see what’s hiding in the back.”
The two moved from the living room into a smaller alcove that was just as well groomed as the rest of the apartment. The air was heavier here, though—it had stories it needed to tell, but couldn’t get out. A bed fit for an emperor rested against the far wall, thick blankets and thicker pillows draped across it.
Jason heard Cheyenne gasp. He quickly grasped the butt of his holstered Glock.
A large cube sat on the floor beside the bed. From across the room, its surface looked rough, with small cracks and blemishes in it. It had a strange color, a sort of brownish-gray combo. It just sat there, which unnerved Jason the most. It was completely motionless.
A lion was most dangerous when motionless. As was a hidden assassin.
Just today, Jason had seen a dead man noiselessly screaming at him, the eyes punching his heart, a sickly black pool of blood formed around his body…Yet, this gray cube scared him far more.
He drew his own gun and gently flicked it forward, giving Cheyenne an affirmative signal. The fellow detective set her jaw and took one step, then another. As she and Jason approached, he could see the cube was a solid block of concrete, the wooden floorboards straining under its weight.
But, to acknowledge the enormous elephant in the very small room, what was it doing here?
Cheyenne circled around the concrete cube and froze. Her hand slapped over her mouth in order to muffle her gasp. She gulped and locked eyes with Jason.
Oh, no. Now what?
Jason quickly jogged around the cube and stood beside Cheyenne.
He nearly gasped, too.
Two bare feet stuck out of the concrete cube’s side, toes pointed to the ceiling. Jason holstered his gun and dropped beside them. The ankles disappeared into the block, which could only mean one thing: An entire man was frozen inside.
He reached up one hand, hesitated for a brief moment, admittedly sickened by the sight, then grasped the left foot. He probed it deeply, desperately searching for any sort of a pulse, any warmth, any feeling of flowing blood, but the skin was stiff as ice and pasty as dough.
Removing his hand from the foot, he looked over his shoulder at Cheyenne, who was still rooted to the floor, her face blankly petrified. Her weak fingers barely clung to her Glock as it dangled loosely.
His voice caught on his tight throat. “Long dead.”
Standing, he beckoned in the waiting investigators. “Get a DNA sample,” he gestured to the protruding, deathly still feet, then to the concrete cube, “and a chisel.”
***
A few forensic officers sliced away at the concrete block with electrical saws that made Jason’s ears throb and shrivel at the same time. He left the bedroom, slowly shaking his head.
A blood sample had been withdrawn from the left foot of the dead man buried inside the solid cube. Like Adam’s blood on the alley ground had been, it was heavy, thick, and dark in color, and made Jason woozy. The sample was swiftly sent to the forensics lab, where, hopefully, the boys in white coats could identify this mystery John Doe quickly, before what trail there was to follow blew away in the breeze.
He moved into the living room, which was practically white from all the officers dusting for fingerprints. He nearly sneezed, but that would’ve made all the powder go airborne and tick a lot of people off.
Cheyenne stood right outside the front door, jotting down notes in penmanship that was always perfect no matter how rushed she was. Her face was still slightly pale from the shock of John Doe’s feet, but most of her lively complexion was returning.