Addicted In Cold Blood (6 page)

Placing his newspaper down onto the table, he slid into a booth and took a few deep breaths. Several times throughout the days, his thoughts were haunted with images of the red-headed cop from the strip club. He’d tried to push her out of his mind, but he always returned to her beautiful body moving under the strobe lights and seductive music. In that brief moment of seeing her, he hated that his thoughts had wondered. Initially, he chalked it up to it having been a while since he’d last had sex. His assignment in the
United States had been going on for over a year, and he’d shared a hotel room with one, every now and again, when it simply became too much. He’d seen his share of attractive human women, but this one...

Damn her.

So sexy—and he was particularly turned on with how she pretended to struggle with Carter. He watched out the corner of his eye, the idiot’s heavy fisted grip across her arm. All the while, she could’ve slammed the man on the damn ground...

...but she didn’t want to blow her cover. Too bad I had to kill that motherfucker right under her nose...

But he’d taken additional pleasure in taking him out, seeing as how the man had spoken to her and manhandled her.

He thrust Officer Knight out of his mind again, and concentrated on other matters.

Today was moving day, and he was eager to get into his new home later that evening. He hadn’t complained to Aton, but he had been experiencing incapacitating soreness since the last hit and it took a two hour ice bath to get him anywhere near normalcy. He wasn’t certain what was causing his condition to worsen—possibly overexertion, but he was now more in need than ever to finish the job and get back home to start Phase II.

A waitress soon came by, handing him a menu and asking what he’d like to drink. She stood there staring down at him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Xzion quickly glanced over the menu and handed it back to her. “Five glasses of ice and a bowl of chocolate ice cream.”

The waitress gave him a curious look and hesitated, at which he repeated the order.

He nodded pleasantly, watching as she shook her head before turning away to take another order. Xzion removed his laptop from the carrier case and placed it gingerly in front of him. Before he could log in, the waitress returned with a tray full of glasses of ice water.

“Hi, Sir, um, I forgot to tell you our special today. It is the Hungarian goulash.  Um, are you expecting other people? Is that why you needed five cups of ice because I can bring out some more menus and...”

“No, it’s only for me. Please, just set the glasses down. Thank you.”

He watched out of his peripheral vision as she set them all before him.

“Your ice cream will be out in just a second.”

Xzion nodded, looking straight ahead at his computer as she sauntered away.

He picked up a glass of ice and chugged it. The grinding crunching sounds caught the attention of an elderly woman sitting close by. Her untamed salt and pepper brows bunched as she watched him work the crushed cubes over in a chomping frenzy. Christmas music played quietly in the background. He took to it, enjoying the chipper ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ tune, and began to chew in beat with the song, causing the woman to huff and turn away, her annoyance more than evident. Xzion smirked, pick up the next glass of ice and quickly consumed it, just like the first.

He turned back to his computer and typed in the name, Harold Menchee. Scanning the information as quickly as his eyes could capture it, he memorized the articles on the elite businessman who appeared in various pictures—shaking hands with the mayor, smiling in front row seats of the Washington Wizards basketball game, cutting the red ribbon at the opening of a new charter school he helped fund—and a multitude of video clips showing the upper echelon, self-made mogul and entrepreneur, discussing the keys to success. One thing the public didn’t know, however, was that Harold was a puppeteer. A slew of drug dealers bent to his every command and his product of choice was Dusty Roads, cocaine laced with PCP. He was a beloved staple of the community, a handsome 6’4 blonde haired, blue eyed bachelor from a prestigious family who’d completed law school but never passed the bar. Regardless, he went on to create and maintain a successful blog on thinking and growing rich via real estate. Menchee became the flipping property king of D.C., which rendered him an overnight sensation.

No one would have suspected Harold of being involved in such a thing as his two previous D.U.I.s, an accusation of public intoxication that had been conveniently thrown out of court. His affiliation with a drug lord in France, a man that he touted as a ‘friend of the family’, went largely dismissed. Xzion, however, knew better. He’d accessed the man’s sealed files, discovering that his hunch had been more than correct. The coke line and money trail led right back to Mr. Menchee, who coincidentally, was receiving his product at cut rate prices, straight from
Paris.

The waitress returned with the perfectly circular globes of chocolate chilled paradise, interrupting his train of thought, and placed them on his table. Xzion nodded in acknowledgement. He immediately picked up his spoon, dug into the frozen treat and resumed his research...

Due to Menchee’s leanings toward paranoia, Xzion knew this hit would be more challenging. It also didn’t help that anyone with eyes and ears now knew of the ‘XXX’ killer, so everyone, including Menchee, would more than likely be on full alert, despite his anonymity. Xzion’s string of heinous crimes had slowed the drug sales, drug related crimes and deaths in the city significantly, but not nearly close enough for him to be able to declare victory. He forged ahead, planning the final stages for the next human ‘cess pool’ removal. As he continued to review the glowing write ups on the man in question, a couple came in, hugged up, hand in hand, and laughing, lost in a world of their own.

Xzion had seen quite a bit of that in the city, especially a city such as D.C., which never seemed to have an ‘off’ button or delve into a moon-lit slumber. He didn’t understand it. Sure, there were relationships on his planet, and sex was for pleasure as well as procreation, but this was different. The hand holding, the gently caressing and fondling, the laughing and nose rubbing…he found it quite perplexing. The reasoning simply didn’t compute. The way he saw it—if you wanted to engage in sexual activity, you simply told your mate or the person of interest and it was done. There was no need to lean in close and speak in absurd ways, or to exchange pleasantries. The experience of love existed nowhere on his radar. It was a foreign concept that he had no interest in, neither on a personal nor professional level, though he understood the basic premise behind it—he saw it simply as one of many human weaknesses. For instance, his thoughts of the red-headed cop were lust born and bred, and that put him at ease during his minor periods of obsession over her. It had absolutely nothing to do with love. His body wanted her, not him...

Don’t these people understand that most of their problems would be solved if they didn’t give a damn? Seems to me, love causes more harm than good. These humans don’t stay together so what is the fucking point? They get upset, and some commit suicide after a relationship ends. How silly. Fucking emotions...leave them elsewhere, bury the bastards.

Xzion turned his attention back to the computer but couldn’t focus. The sounds of more laughter, followed by the young couple in an intimate lip lock, drew his complete confusion. It wasn’t the act, but the diagnostics popping up in the thin lens of his right eye. The red alerts repeated as he scanned the couple…

Intimacy...Love...Desire…

He knew what the fucking words meant, but each time he travelled, he’d run into people like this, and it never became easier to understand, just more annoying. Give him a language to learn, he’d know it inside out, dialect correct including slang, within thirty-six to forty-eight hours. But give him a complicated human emotion, and he was stomped. It seemed so trivial to him. He shook his head, looked away and picked up the paper. He enjoyed the sensation of words in his hand. It fed his need to touch, though the same verses were somewhere on a computer website, waiting to be perused on a digital paper or blog.  Regardless, Xzion was very much sensory driven. It came with the territory. He had to be able to feel a gnat land on his hand—the slightest missed caress could cost him his life. He looked back down at his paper. Right there on the front of the creased periodical, in black in white read—

Triple ‘X’ Killer Strikes Again. Takes Five Down for Cocaine, leaving no one in Ecstasy.

“Hmmm, that’s funny.” Laughing to himself, he grabbed the third glass of ice and crunched it down. “They didn’t sell ecstasy; I guess that’s supposed to be ironic. That’s the name of the club it was close to, too.” He grinned wider then tossed the paper down nonchalantly on the table.

He went back to the online articles about Mr. Menchee, aiming to memorize each and every word. The playful couple started at it again, distracting him. Now, they stood across from him, their backs turned as they waited at the counter. He watched the man slowly reach behind and grab his girlfriend’s ass, squeezing it. As a result, she twisted and giggled in his grip. Xzion simply stared. Clasping his hands together, he looked back and forth between the two, until finally, he witnessed up close and personal another embrace, followed by a sensual kiss. He cocked his head curiously to the side, like a befuddled canine. After a few moments, Xzion turned away, and typed: ‘Love and Intimacy’ into the Google browser on his laptop.

He clicked on the top link, a sociology website, and read the information:

Love and intimacy go hand in hand. Love is the physical, emotional, sexual, intellectual, or social affection one person holds for another. Concepts and words related to love include: adore, desire, prefer, possess, care for, serve, and even worship. Intimacy, on the other hand, is a close relationship where mutual acceptance, nurturing, and trust are shared at some level. In order to understand love in human relationships, you must first understand how the self either enhances or inhibits your capacity to love.

“Why is all this shit related and so complex for them?”

You are self-developed under the watchful eyes of your caregiver or parents. When you were a newborn you were totally dependent upon the adults in your life to take care of your needs and raise you in a safe environment. You had to be fed and clothed, bathed and held, and loved and appreciated. While your caregivers provided those basic needs in your life, you attached to them and they attached to you. An attachment is an emotional and social bind that forms between one person and another. Humans are considered highly motivated to form attachments through their lives. – Paul Cheney.

“So that’s it,” Xzion mumbled. “They are like children that never grow into adulthood, constantly needing to be breastfed.” He re-read the information, trying to digest it, to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.

These attachments help fuel drug dependency. Because of feelings, the need to suppress, the humans take the drugs...maybe because they didn’t feel loved, needed or appreciated. This proves my point. It’s useless. He shook his head in disgust, then looked back up at the couple who were now exiting the establishment holding white plastic carry-out bags.

“Fucking idiots...”

His attention back on the computer, he typed in the address he had for Meechee, and did a search for an aerial view of the area. Seeing it on a screen, right there in color, made it more tangible. He quickly memorized the map, then leaned back in the booth seat and stretched his legs. A broad smile on his face, he picked up the ice-cream, now soft and runny, and devoured it, enjoying the cool sweetness that went down his throat, gave him much needed comfort, and encouraged relaxation before his night on the town...

****

Jayme couldn’t help but smile as the applause finally wore down. Dressed in her pleated navy blue pants, belt, holster and crisp white shirt, her police badge shined brightly under the warm, yellow lights. On her left arm was the Baltimore police patch—her beloved gold, black, red and white crest. She tipped her police hat forward as she bashfully returned to her chair in the audience, her gold and ivory plaque in hand. She had just been awarded her fifth acknowledgement for valor and bravery and no matter how many she obtained, she never got tired of it or became complacent. Her shelves boasted a multitude of awards from the city, county and even the state of Maryland. But she didn’t do her work for that—she did it for two reasons: to make a damn difference and she thrived on calming commotion.

She shook hands with several of her colleagues and watched as the room began to fill with chatter before turning back to her glass of water with a lime wedge. It had been a long evening, and she craved being nestled under her worn quilt, gifted to her from her grandmother, with the drone of the television playing in the background. But she couldn’t, and this was the part that she hated. She wasn’t much of a crowd person and preferred one on one time, small, quaint conversations about the best home gym equipment, to-die-for tomato sauce recipes and movies that featured kick-boxers and the occasional romance with a happily ever after. Nonetheless, she accepted these events graciously, playing the role needed, in order to simply get through the night...

*
***

Captain Jasper rubbed his red eyes and took the final sip of his lukewarm coffee. It was late, damn late, and D.C.’s finest were canvassing the area, on full alert for any suspicious activity. He pondered on how anyone could commit these many crimes, to this extent, and still be on the loose like an imperceptible opponent under his own watch. He knew his department was good, but there was no point in trying to convince Detective Max, the FBI, the district attorney or anyone else about it. He had one last shot to make this right, and he racked his brain at the eleventh hour.