by J. L. Hickey
“Not at the moment, thanks,” Pike slid her a twenty, “Keep it. If you don’t mind, we’d like some privacy, keep the drinks coming through, I think we’ll need them tonight.”
“Thank you, detective,” Sherry smiled, pocketing the twenty in her jean’s back pocket. “—And no problem, I know how you officers like to talk shop. I’ll keep the patrons seated near the bar, that’ll give you folks all the space in the world. And don’t you worry, I’ll keep the refills flowin’ as well, darlin’. Enjoy!” She smiled again at Clent, who tipped his beer to her.
“Yes, that’s the one.” Pike looked back to Vanessa, answering her question about the twenty-seventeen case.
“I’m not full-on all the details, other than it was gruesome,” she added.
“Yeah,” Clent frowned. “I got called there too. My old partner and I were first on the scene. We walked in with the homeowner sitting in the pool of blood. She was in shock, a catatonic state. That scene was…” Clent fiddle with the bowl of peanuts in front of him, searching for the right words.
“Horrific,” Pike responded.
“So, you both were at the crime scene?” Vanessa squeezed her lime into her beer and wedged the slice down the neck of the glass corona bottle. She took a long drink.
“Yeah, we’ll spare the details, for now,” Pike added. “But it was–until now-my worst case. I was the head detective for that one as well. But it was open and shut. Not much work to do, everything basically lined up. Lots of paperwork.”
“Same, Clent nodded. “You don’t think this sort of stuff happens in a small town like ours, but twice? And worse, this time? Makes you wonder, something in the water out here?”
“Crazy times,” Pike shook his head. “I blame the internet. Poisons people’s minds makes everything too easy these days. You can watch just about anything on, murders, killings, it desensitized the whole damn world to the point that a double murder with cannibalism is like damn water cooler small talk.”
“I can see that,” Clent added. “We could be here all week discussing that topic.” he chuckled.
“Right, so let’s stick to why I called you out here. Back to Friday, when the shit storm hit,” Pike redirected the conversation. “Obviously we’re all still a little shaken up over it, some new info has come out, I’m curious about your opinions. Because, to be frank, bizarre doesn’t begin to explain it. I have my thoughts, crazy as they may be, and need to talk em’ out.”
Clent took a long guzzle from his beer, topping almost half it off before setting it back down on the napkin. “Guys still out there, supposedly, what was his name? Gary, something?”
“Gary Thom,” Pike corrected. “Probably going to find his body out in the woods once some of that storm melts off. If I read your reports right, he fled into the state forest with just a hoodie on. It’s been below freezing every day. The storm hit hard, over a foot of snow. No way he could have survived out there this long.”
“You don’t think he could have survived? Got out of the woods that night, maybe? Hitch hiked somewhere?” asked Vanessa, downing her beer.
“I suppose anything’s possible,” Pike shrugged. “We had the dogs out, they lost his trail about a mile into the forest though, he got deep. He’s not from these parts. He doesn’t know the woods. I think he fled, and just booked it as far as he could get into the woods. He wasn’t thinking. He left two mutilated bodies in the sex room for you to discover and wasn’t going to stick around for you to stumble upon them.”
“He definitely was not equipped to survive out there in the woods. He was on foot, no supplies, no backpack. He got lost out there. Hypothermia took him, I’m sure of it,” Clent replied. “I hunt these woods, and they’re no joke. People go missing out there every year; some never come back out.”
“Time will tell on this one. We have a BOLO out for the guy. I’m sure you’ve seen the reports and news coverage. His face hit social media yesterday evening, and people are having a field day with it. So, if anyone sees him anywhere, hopefully, the words gotten out to contact us.”
“One good thing about social media, huh?” Vanessa chimed in. “When this shit goes down, everyone is retweeting, reposting. His face has hit everyone’s news feed in Michigan by now, multiple times.”
“What do we know about him?” Clent asked, finishing off his beer. He peered over his shoulder, friendly gesturing Sherry for a second round.
“I spoke to his parents yesterday once we got confirmation who he was. Left his wallet behind in the main bedroom, he lied, by the way, go figure. We also found his duffle bag and personal belongings. We were able to get into his social media accounts with the help of his parents. Things started to come together.”
“Yeah, about the crazy sex dungeon,” Clent frowned. “Who would have thought a well-respected upper management big wig, married for twenty years with a kid off in college, had a double life like that?” asked Clent. Everyone would quickly learn of Dennis’s second life as a member of the gay community, and his kink being active in the BDSM bondage crowd.
“So, yes, Dennis Simmons lived a double life. We’ve established this fairly quickly. His internet history was colorful. Nothing illegal, no kiddie porn, but he was definitely hiding his sexual lifestyle from his wife. He would often meet men from around the state, even out of state, for sexual pleasure. He used a site called Scruff, a gay hook up site, and he met men with similar tastes. That’s where he met Gary Thom, and we have records of their conversations, both through the site’s personal messaging app and on their cell phones. Nothing, out of the ordinary, two consensual adults discussing a meeting, and their sex life. Nothing illegal, nothing with motive.”
“You’re referring to the BDSM stuff in reference to similar tastes?” asked Vanessa.
“Yep,” Pike nodded. “Not that uncommon I hear, really. It’s bizarre walking into the hidden room like that, but I suppose if you’re trying to keep it from your wife, you have to hide it. There is an extensive subculture that’s into this sort of stuff. So, he found men on this Scruff site, and we assume his wife these men were business partners, or out-of-town friends. The Camaro was a cover. They were never working on a car. I guess you could say his wife and kid were covers too. You know? He didn’t want anyone to know about his sexual preference. He hid it as many do. He made sure Gary understood he was married, and that everything was to be done quietly, and that she was not to know.”
“Right,” Clent sighed.
Sherry quietly approached, “Here you go, refills for everyone,” carefully she refilled the group’s drinks. “Must be something serious,” Sherry frowned. “I can see it in your faces. Feel the tension.”
“You could say that,” Pike nodded with thanks as he plucked out the sword from his drink. This time eating both the cherry and orange slice at the same time.
“It’s about that family in the country, isn’t it?” Sherry frowned. “I cried when I read that on Facebook. It’s everywhere I look. Those poor, poor souls.”
“We’re not under liberty to discuss the ongoing case, Sherry. I’m sure you understand,” Vanessa thanked her for the second Coruna.
“Oh, I do, honey, and I don’t think I want to know what really happened out there. You know, this place used to be so quiet, now, every year there’s a killing, or a kid goin’ missin in the woods, or some idiot getting drunk and shootin’ someone. Hell in a handbasket I tell you, I pray for you folk, keepin’ us safe from all these crazies. Lots of folks don’t like cops in the cities, think you’re all corrupt. I think we’re all corrupt. It’s a matter of time before the real monsters come out, and they’ll be begging you guys for help then, I betchya every dollar I got.”
“We appreciate your support, that’s why you’re our favorite place to drink
,” Pike smiled, slipping her another folded bill.
“No,” She waved it off. “You guys get a free night; next few rounds are back on the house. It won’t hurt me to give back. You do what you do, and I’ll supply the beer.”
“You’re a doll, Sherry, really,” Pike raised his glass to her. She smiled, retreating to her other patrons.
“—So, what did Gary’s parents say?” asked Vanessa.
“Nice guy, Twenty-eight, works retail management east side of the state, fairly outgoing. Came out to his parents after high school, had a serious relationship in college, it ended a few years back. Pretty heartbroken over it. No signs of mental issues, clean past, hardly anything on record except for a few parking tickets. Parents looked to be supportive, didn’t know about the BDSM stuff, seemed shocked, maybe appalled at the notion. Not something to talk about at Thanksgiving, right? But, I mean, squeaky clean kid, no history of mental health, a lot going for him.”
“Kid just decides to kill two people, eat them, tie them up, mutilate their bodies?” Clent shook his head in disbelief. “What are we missing?”
“I mean, I’m no detective,” Vanessa took another sip of her beer, “But, I agree. Where’s the motive? Where’s the criminal past? It doesn’t seem to connect.”
“Well, so we checked records. Obviously, we can’t go just by what dear old Mommy and Daddy say about their precious son. Killers hide in plain sight, look at Bundy, look at Gacey. Now, Thom, he’s not a serial killer at this point, but he’s got the taste of blood. Maybe he’s hidden the urge well, and something happened in his life his parents didn’t know about. Did something tip him over the edge? We don’t know. All we know is he went through his life, avoiding the system, staying out of trouble, no records. If he did torture animals as a kid, no one caught him. So, let’s not rule out anything yet; he might just be really good at what he does.” Pike replied. “he may have killed, and we just don’t know about it until now.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been so sloppy? Because let’s face it, he killed the Simmons and hung out in their home for a few days, right? Did we get the full report back, do we know the time of death?” asked Clent.
“Not officially, but I just got off the phone with Fat Man before I got in here. Looks like its leaning towards a few days before the welfare check. We think he stayed with the Simmons for five days judging from their text conversations. We think it happened on day two, which leaves three days before you knocked on their door.”
“All right, well, that makes sense. I mean, not that he hung around, but the timeline,” said Vanessa.
“Things get weirder,” Pike said, spinning the ice in his Old Fashioned with the plastic sword. “There was a sheet of paper lodged in Mrs. Simmons Mouth, folded blank printer paper, half down her throat. It had the word HEL written on it in black sharpie, spelled H-E-L.
“Spelled it wrong?” Vanessa frowned.
Pike shrugged. “We still haven’t found Mr. Simmons head, and we assume he ate the rest of his missing bits. Including Mrs. Simmons eyes and tongue. Some of this ring a bell, Clent?” Pike asked.
“Yes,’ Clent answered bluntly.
“Am I missing something?” Vanessa frowned; the conversation had ruined her taste for beer.
“Not our first case with cannibalism, or missing eyes and tongue,” Pike answered for him.
“Fuck,” Clent blurted out.
“Yep,” Pike half smiled, “You just figured it out, didn’t you? We kept making the connection, comparing the two, but it was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? Strange fact, but when is anything just a coincidence when it comes to murder?”
“It makes some sort of sense, doesn’t it?” Clent was putting two and two together. His head begun to swell up with thoughts, connecting the dots.
“Wait, what?” asked Vanessa.
“Copycat killer?” Pike asked. “Sick fucker, wanting to make a name for himself? I dunno? What are your thoughts? That’s why I needed to talk this one out. Not sure of what to make with the connections.”
“Copy Cat?” again Vanessa was lost, she wanted answers.
“H-E-L,” Clent said to her. “It wasn’t Hell. It was Haylee Elyce Leveille.”
“Who?” Vanessa needed more than a name.
“You probably lost your appetite, you haven’t touched that second beer, but you’re gonna need a few more drinks as we fill you in, trust me,” Pike finished off his Old Fashion in one gulp. “Clent, I need your help on this one, because some of this is far-fetched, and I need a fresh set of eyes. You okay with that?”
“Anything to help, but first, Vanessa buckle up, we have to fill you in on a lot of history,” Clent followed suit and downed his beer.
“Well then,” Vanessa lifted her beer as well. “Looks like we have a long night ahead of us.”
THIRTEEN
“Hello, Honey,” the man’s voice was muffled with a mouth full of his victim’s flesh. Blood was smeared across his face, dripping from his lips. He was covered with it, at first Haylee couldn’t tell whose blood it was, but judging from the mangled corpse beneath him, it became apparent, it was the female victim. The man’s eyes-a familiar dark blue-gazed through the grotesque crimson mask that stained his face. They pulled her away from the site, almost in a trance. They looked tortured, like he was trapped behind them, watching in agony as the gruesome scene played out. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with the victim’s blood. His mouth, the sneer of his lips, the hunks of flesh dangling when he spoke, there was no questioning the man was crazed.
“Fuck!” Haylee shouted. She sprung back up the stairs, but the man was quick to react. He followed in pursuit, lurching at her. His hands gripped at her ankle, but she kicked and managed to slip away.
Was that him?
Could it have been?
It happened so fast. She hardly had a chance to take in the site.
But, those eyes...
Those blue eyes…
The same ones that used to look into her own with love and passion. The same ones that proposed to her months previously. But it was madness, the vileness of it all. It couldn’t be him.
Robbie, no way it was Robbie.
The man, now snarling wickedly, reached for her again. He managed to grab ahold of her ankle, with his powerful fingers wrapping around her tightly. He yanked her down, mid-way from the stairs with such terrifying force, she tripped up. Haylee’s hands reached out instinctively, catching her fall onto the steps. She spun to her side, and with all her might, she struck down with her foot, smashing her heel into straight into his nose. His cartilage crunched beneath her foot. The man grunted loudly from the blow, blood, exploding onto his face. He let up his grip, his hand covering his nose. She looked down briefly, blood freely flowing from under his hand.
Bastard!
Haylee screamed again, this time it was her who sounded guttural, crazed. She repositioned herself, back to her hands and knees. She attempted another escape this man’s wrath. He was stunned from the blow and dazed long enough for her to reach the threshold atop the basement stairs.
“Come here!” he screamed. His voice demented, more like a snarl or growl than a human yell.
Haylee had one chance to make it out alive. Her purse was still sitting atop the kitchen counter, where she had left it when she got home. Inside her bag was her firearm, the Glock .47, that was her only hope. She’d fired it many times, and practice makes for a good shot, even her critical father praised the steadiness of her aim. But she’d never shot a living thing, especially a human. Her hands already shook terribly from the adrenaline, the fear. She heard the man pursuing behind her. He was close. He’d got his bearing; the pursuit was back on.
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Haylee didn’t hesitate. She didn’t stop to look behind to gauge how far back the man was. She ran past the table, threw back a chair towards her pursuer. Her purse was there.
Thank God.
She grabbed it, pulled forth her firearm.
Not time to think.
Just act.
She spun fast; her arms extended just the way her father taught her. She steadied her weapon. There the man stood before her, now at the top of the stairs. His hand covered his face, blocking most of it from her view. He held his nose where she struck him. Blood poured freely from it, a puddle of it collecting between his feet.
She struck the bastard good.
The man went to lunge again. She did not flinch. No hesitation. She pulled the trigger, bracing for the kickback. The Glock was an easy shot. She aimed for center mass, but her aim was off. The first shot went wide, striking the wall.
The man ducked, falling to his knees to dodge the shot.
Haylee steady her breathing. She didn’t flinch, pulled the trigger for a second time.
The man hadn’t even got his back to his footing when the bullet struck him above the right eye. His eyebrow blew into his skull. His head shot back from the force, his brains exited the back of his skull, littering the stairs with what was left of it. His body stumbled backward two steps before he fell back. His body tumbled down the stairs. She didn’t see him fall from her distance. She could only hear his body as it hit the steps, the sickening rhythmic sound of his body tumbling resonated in her head. She grabbed her phone, dialed 911. She stood in shock, waiting for an answer on the other end.
Her body trembled, her knees weak.
The operator picked up. Haylee wasn’t sure what she said. She spoke briefly, not even hearing the operator questions.
“My name is Haylee Leveille,” her words mumbled, broken. “1228 Orr Road, sister murdered, I shot the man, send help, please help.”