by J. L. Drake
A bit of escape was what the daughters needed now, so Jason had decided to not question them. Not today, anyway.
Marge gulped back her tears and looked at the detectives. “Max didn’t have any enemies. He always invited everybody from his work over for the Super Bowl and barbeques. Paid his taxes, never stole a cent…” She sniffed back another wave of emotion. “I’ve no idea who could’ve done this.”
A psychopath named Abel. That’s who.
Jason stepped in. “Were there any defining hobbies of Max’s that really made him stand out?”
“Well,” Marge dug through her thoughts, “he collects stamps, and every day after work, he empties his loose change into that big jar.” She motioned to a large glass jug sitting on the countertop that held more coins than the Federal Reserve.
Jason whistled and grinned. “Impressive. Did your husband moonlight as the Tooth Fairy?”
Marge laughed, something she obviously hadn’t done in a while.
“Oh, and,” Marge continued, “he loves movies. All kinds. He could quote them up and down, tell me about the actors and the writers. It was fun…” She drifted off, staring at the floor.
Finally, she looked back up. “Y’know the line from Indiana Jones, ‘It’s not the years, it’s the mileage?’ I get that now.”
The words struck Jason. The little girls in the adjacent room now had enough mileage to span from San Diego to New York.
“Ma’am,” Cheyenne said. “Does Max have some sort of study or office in the house where he spent his time?”
“Yeah,” Marge answered. “Down the hall, where he works and keeps his computer and books and files and such.”
“Do you mind if we look in there a bit?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you very much.” Jason smiled softly as he and Cheyenne began to walk toward the office. “We won’t be long.”
Marge nodded a couple times, her smiling face looking more like a plastic mask. She gave the jar of pocket change a long glance and then joined her daughters in watching Toy Story.
The detectives entered the small office space. Beige carpet, gray walls, dusty ceiling fan. Jason moved over to Max’s desk and began to sift through the mountains of paperwork while Cheyenne perused the bookshelves. Nothing worth noting, except that the man was diligent in his work, sometimes overly diligent.
“Wow,” Jason breathed as he examined the desk’s contents. Papers, papers, and more papers. “The Amazon Rainforest must have nightmares about this guy. He’s killed half of the trees for all this paperwork.”
“Not to mention the books.” Cheyenne pulled one off the shelf. “It’s a Business Doing Pleasure: The Evolution of Viagra. Riveting stuff.”
“I’ll admit, that’s a bit creepy,” Jason said.
Cheyenne shot him a raised eyebrow.
“Okay,” he shrugged, “a lot creepy, but I still don’t see why Abel killed him. None of the pieces fit.”
“And he said these murders would make the world a better place?”
Jason nodded, recalling the phone conversation. “Yeah. There’d be no going back, he said.”
“Well, we’ve got a bona fide humanitarian, eh? What about killing could possibly improve our world?”
“Let me see.” Jason raised his fingers one at a time. “Adolf Hitler, Timothy McVeigh, John Dillinger, Gordon Northcott, Osama bin Laden…People seemed to think killing them would help.”
“Touché, but Maxie here isn’t exactly Hitler. I agree with you, nothing here adds up.” She shook her head and laughed. “We were out. We had transferred off this case.”
“Believe me, I’d rather not be looking through a dead man’s stuff, trying to catch his murderer.”
“So why are you here?”
“Abel didn’t give me much of a choice. He said when he was done, he’d kill ten people…” He trailed off, thinking of the gold-framed photo sitting in his bedroom drawer. “Can’t let that happen.”
He continued to search the desk, finding nothing but average-Joe items that only made Max look even more typical and un-murder-able. A flyer for a concert in the park, empty bottle of Advil, graphing calculator, DVD of The Maltese Falcon. And, of course, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.
“What really cooks my noodle, though,” Cheyenne popped up from behind a lamp, “is that Abel hasn’t said who the other eight people are. There must be some sort of pattern or method to this madness, right? Random killings won’t change the world. Select killings would, though. So what pattern is he following?”
“Believe me, my noodle is cooked.” Jason plopped down in the desk’s chair, exhaling loudly. He felt a large lump on the seat, though. He wiggled around, trying to become more comfortable, then realized there was something under the chair pad. He reached his hand under the cushion and felt a flat, thick rectangle. Curiosity building, he slid the object out from its hiding spot.
A notebook.
“What’s that?” Cheyenne leaned over Jason’s shoulder.
He flipped open the book. A date was scrawled on the first page’s upper corner:
Aug. 19, 1991.
“A journal,” he said, his mind racing. This would be interesting. The stuff Max wouldn’t/couldn’t tell anyone else. He flipped quickly through the entire book. The rest of the pages were blank.
“With only one entry…” Cheyenne muttered to herself.
Cheyenne and Jason locked eyes for a second, and he knew they were thinking the same thing: He felt the need to hide this one entry. What was it?
Apprehension crawled through his bones, and Jason began to read aloud:
“I’m not proud of this journal. I want that to be perfectly clear to whoever is reading this. I’m writing this not because I feel guilty or scared, but just to tell the story. Like a giant secret you have to share with somebody, just one somebody. Then you can move on from it. Again, though, I’m not proud of it. My name is Maximilian Turner Black. I am twenty-six years old. My parents are James and Kathy Black. My girlfriend is Claire Jackson. My address is 34—”
The rest of that sentence was scribbled out.
“Yesterday was August 18th. 1991. It was strangely cool, I remember. Usually, the temperature doesn’t get that cool until Thanksgiving. The weatherman said to expect severe rain, but what does that guy really know anyway? It turns out he was spot on for that day’s forecast. Good for him, right? So, where to start?”
Next to that sentence was a small drawing of a fuzzy monster. Max must have paused there twenty years ago and doodled while he thought of what to say next.
“I was in my apartment at about half-after five, reading the newspaper’s comics (Dagwood. Classic!) when there were five knocks on my door. I remember five knocks. My senses were really sharp, I guess, like they knew what was going to happen next. Open the door, and I find this tall gawky IRS jerk with glasses like bricks. He smiles at me like I’m his best friend, although there was no one else I wanted to see less. It was the IRS, y’know? Ironically, our exact conversation is a giant blur now. I can’t remember a thing that was said. Something about taxes and interest and stuff like that. It wasn’t good. Yet I remember he had a blue tie with white dots, three moles on his cheek that looked like Mickey Mouse, and he was left-handed. I even remember the punchline from the Dagwood comic. All that, but I can’t remember my conversation with the IRS guy. The guy turned to leave. By now, it was raining cats and dogs, like the weatherman had predicted. Severe, that was his word. The guy trotted through the rain and got in his car, like he was afraid of getting wet. Pansy.”
Jason shared a look with his partner.
“I stood at the front door, numb. All my finances had just been burned and flushed down the toilet by this man. I had a girlfriend, a future. What would my parents think? This IRS jerk had just screwed me over and walked away. Now, I’m not trying to explain the next part. Just reporting exactly what happened. Like a journalist. Don’t shoot the messenger. I got in my own car and followed the ‘89 crap
-brown Ford the IRS guy was escaping in. He drove past Redwing Lake and I nudged him off the road. The Ford got caught in the mud and the guy got out screaming. Nobody was at the lake’s shore, due to the rain, most likely. I always loved the smell of rain, but the water slapping on my face was pretty annoying and made it hard to see. I approached the guy and he instantly got really apologetic. He screamed ‘I’m sorry!’ a lot, and called me ‘sir’. I was in this rage, though. My life was gone, thanks to this jerk in front of me.”
Another glance at Cheyenne, who encouraged him with a nod.
“All of these memories are very acute, surprisingly acute. Especially since I was so angry. I feel a deep lump in my gut as I write this, so I hope whoever is reading this appreciates my hard work. You’re welcome. I punch him in the face. Hard. His glasses shatter and some of the shards poke my knuckles but don’t draw blood. The IRS guy sure was bleeding though. From the mouth and nose. The heavy (severe) rain washed most of it away, but it just kept flowing from his face. I wrapped my fingers around his neck and strangled him. Just like that.”
Jason stopped dead and heaved an unbelieving sigh. Cheyenne did the same. He held in his hands a murder confession. Too bad the murderer had been murdered.
“I couldn’t believe it, and I still kinda don’t. A day later, it seems unreal, like maybe I saw it on television or read about it. But I knew it was true. I had strangled the man. I tossed him in the lake. He sunk like a rock. The rain most likely washed away any blood evidence or footprints on the lake’s shore. I’m pretty sure I got away with it. Weird. That’s it. There’s the story. I told you, now I can move on. As a matter of fact, I’m planning on proposing to Claire. Wish me luck!”
The entry ended.
The page’s worth of finely manicured penmanship shouted at Jason. His head throbbed to the point that he began to see double. Things had just become complicated.
“Max killed that man?” Cheyenne asked.
Jason nodded slowly. “Sounds like it.”
“So,” she began to pace around the study, running her fingers through her hair. Jason stood and dropped the notebook onto the desk.
She continued, “Maximilian Turner Black committed first-degree murder twenty years ago…”
“And was never taken to trial. He was right in the journal. He got away with it.” The words hung in the air like a physical entity.
A vibrating from Jason’s pocket shattered the surreal moment in the office. He took out his cell phone.
“Hello?”
“How’s it going, you two?” It was Garth.
While Jason and Cheyenne had headed here to investigate Max, Garth and Sam had returned to 37th Street to further probe Adam’s apartment.
“Have you found anything interesting in Fischer’s place?”
“Interesting, to say the least. We—”
Jason interrupted briefly. “Hold on, Garth. Cheyenne is here. I’m gonna put you on speaker so she can hear.”
He did so, and Garth’s voice rang out of the phone for both detectives to hear.
“Now that I have a full house…” Garth spoke again. “Anyway, we inspected Adam’s personal items more thoroughly. He had boxes of files and paperwork stashed under his bed, so we knew that was the good stuff.”
He said something muffled to someone else on his end of the line, then returned to Jason and Cheyenne.
“I’ll save you the nitty-gritty details and get to the point. Well, Adam Fischer is one of the most notorious pimps in all of L.A.”
Jason felt numb to all the surprises this case had offered thus far. “Adam? A pimp? I need an explanation.”
Cheyenne said, “I second that.”
“The files and documents we found were receipts, schedules, and timetables for the organization,” Garth said. “Jason, your good friend Carly is one of his MVPs. He operates out of the Ace of Spades on the west side of town. You wouldn’t believe the dirt we now have on some of the hottest politicians and movie stars. And here’s the kicker,” Garth pressed. “He’s only open for business on Sunday. The catchphrase for the whole deal is that it’s for working men. I tell you, Abel picked a good target in this lowlife.”
After Garth finished, there was a pregnant pause as Jason and Cheyenne looked at each other, completely speechless.
Then, Garth’s voice spoke again. “So, you guys get anything on Black?”
Jason stammered, his mind racing faster than he could comprehend. “Uh, we’ll get back to you, Garth, in a couple hours, all right? Just keep investigating. You did a good job.”
Garth heard the anxiety in Jason’s voice and hesitantly agreed. “Sure thing. Keep an eye on this guy, okay, Cheyenne?”
“Can do,” she answered.
Jason hung up the phone. He was already pacing, rubbing his hands together as if that would help along his thoughts.
“Both Adam and Max are bad people.”
She dropped in the desk chair. “Yeah, an arrogant pimp and a scot-free killer.”
Sinners in the highest degree. Suddenly, the pieces began to slide into place for the first time. An idea hit Jason like a bat clobbering a baseball. It was inanely obvious.
How could I not have thought of that?
“Hold on.” Jason began spilling words out of his mouth before they could escape his train of thought. “Abel seems to be very religious, at least he was on the phone. Like you said,” he gestured to Cheyenne, “he’s acting as a humanitarian, saving the world. Also, he knew the exact text of the Cain and Abel story from the King James Bible.”
He was pacing furiously now. “He says there will be ten corpses. Adam and Max are sinners…”
These gigantic speculations pounded violently against his skull. He paused for a second to get his thoughts organized, then immediately began to walk back and forth again.
“Wait a second, wait a second.” He held up one finger. “A man who works solely on the Sabbath, keeping it unholy. That same man was frozen alive for an entire Sunday, thereby observing it as a day of rest. His sin was turned upon him as a punishment.”
He held up another finger. “Another man is a murderer. An unpunished killer. This man was slain. Again, his own sin used against him. Ten sinners, ten punishments…Abel is basing everything on the Ten Commandments.”
The study was silent. He turned to Cheyenne, out of breath either from his vigorous pacing or the terrifying conclusion he reached.
“I think we just found Abel’s pattern.”
Chapter 6
“Stupid people always think they are right. Wise men listen to advice. When a fool is annoyed, he quickly lets it be known. Smart people will ignore an insult.”
—Proverbs 12:15-16
Apparently, it was Captain Jones’s time of the month.
“If—and I mean a huge, wooly mammoth IF—you’re right about these killings being Biblical, we’ll act accordingly. If and only! There isn’t enough evidence yet to support your little theory, so try to keep your dam-like mind open to other possibilities. All right, Flynn?”
Jason leaned his head back and spun around in his rotating chair, the world flying past him in a whirl of colors.
He ground his feet into the floor to stop, locked eyes with the police captain looming grimly over him, and gave a small salute. “Aye-aye, Cap.”
All he received in response was a glare. “I’m serious, Flynn.”
“As am I, Captain Jones.” Jason turned formal, but still let a small smirk tug at his lips. “Really. As far as I’m concerned, his days are numbered, and there is a big red bullseye on his back. If there’s one thing I am serious about, it’s catching this twisted, homicidal sucker.”
That seemed to satisfy the captain. He snorted and left the bullpen.
The truth of his own words settling on his mind, Jason spun around and slammed his palms on the long table.
The bullpen was large and durable enough to hold dozens of squabbling men, all yelling and arguing at the tops of their lungs. But it was, at the
moment, limited to him, Cheyenne, Garth, a few depressingly thin files on Abel and his kills, and a single whiteboard.
Written on the whiteboard were ten phrases in red ink:
1. No other gods
2. No idols
3. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain
4. Observe the Sabbath
5. Honor your parents
6. Do not murder
7. No adultery
8. Do not steal
9. Do not lie
10. Do not covet
The Ten Commandments.
The holiest of laws, turned into a twisted game.
Numbers four and six were crossed off. Adam and Max were already victims of those two commandments.
Jason wasn’t religious, but he couldn’t really argue with these ten rules. If people followed them, the world would be a lot safer and saner.
Cheyenne opened the file dedicated to Adam Fischer and his Sunday-only brothel. “Creep, creep, creep,” she muttered as Adam stared up at her with his cocky eyes from a photograph. “You never know what goes on behind closed doors.”
Garth nodded. “Right. Who knew how devious Adam really was, or what really went on at the Ace of Spades?”
“And Max,” Cheyenne added. “Neither his wife nor kids, who supposedly loved him to death, knew the one secret that actually defined him. Privacy can be a killer.”
Indeed. If someone had known about Max’s past or Adam’s present, they may have been spared from Abel’s wrath.
“All right,” Jason sighed, attempting to get his own mind on track. “Eight more commandments, eight more bodies to come. Adam and Max were victims of their respective sins. As I see it, our priority right now is to identify the future victims.”
“And that’s a dead end right there,” Garth spoke, seemingly defeated. “We have no idea who’s next on Abel’s hit list.”
Silence enveloped the room. It was a difficult silence to read.