After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (18 page)

“LISTEN Harmon, I’ll be dead before you get here.
The perp’s name is Michael Gates.”

The phone was jerked away from Fairchild, but they
could hear him shout in the background, to “Tell Lucille I love
her.”

Gates started to speak, but Harmon cut him off.

“You touch him and I’ll kill you with my bare
hands.”

Calmly, dispassionately Gates replied.

“I’ve been waiting for someone to kill me for a very
long time.”

He placed the telephone back on the receiver. There
was no mistaking the look of resignation on Ed’s face. Gates simply
shook his head.

“I’m afraid it’s time, Inspector.”

His heart pounding out of control, Ed focused on the
eyes of the man who was about to end his life. He said goodbye to
his wife again, and followed that with a brief prayer for the
salvation of his soul. Gates allowed him to finish the litany
before he leaned over and whispered.

“Ed, I promise I won’t rape you.”

Ed Fairchild’s last thought was the contemplation of
that final statement. His mouth opened, his face contorted, his
eyes froze, and his last breath escaped.

As he had witnessed with Abrams, Gates replicated
every detail of Lori’s heinous acts although the thrusting and
stabbing was far more vigorous. He cherished each penetration of
the blade, until he felt the rush of an orgasm. He backed away from
the bed. The victim’s genitals lay on the dead man’s abdomen. The
knife protruded upward from the center of the chest. He ruthlessly
proved that the blood would mix with the urine forever obscuring
their secret. He kept his promise, and did not rape Edward
Fairchild.

He felt strong again. Gates knew he missed the hunt
and the kill. Since he had hooked up with Abrams, he had gone
dormant. Now, he was alive again. It truly was unfortunate, he
thought, that it would all be over soon.

The white cloth was dipped into Fairchild’s blood
and “Ed” was written in blood on the wall. He had to leave some
things behind for the “stupid cops” to tie it all together. Michael
Gates, the sick, demented serial killer, calmly walked away from
the warehouse and listened for the footsteps of fame to catch up
with him.

* * *

There are times when you can’t move fast enough. You
claw desperately at space and time, but the harder you fight, the
harder it fights back. Obstacles that would otherwise not have
hindered your progress, find their way into your path. I can’t get
to Ed fast enough to save him.

I’m driving because I have to. I don’t care about
Harmon’s complaints, or who is in the way. We narrowly miss
pedestrians and other vehicles as I swerve. The tires screech,
sirens wail and blue lights flash. Harmon is alternately screaming,
and crying.

I want Gates. I want him bad. I want to jam my Glock
into his mouth and kill him. I want to save Ed. The second hand of
the clock inside my mind sweeps faster. The seconds Ed has left are
counting down. Ed believed in me. He taught me how to survive.

One more street and we’re there. I can see the
warehouse. SWAT teams leap out of their vans into the parking lot
and surround the building. Black and whites cordon off the dirty
street. Unmarked cars arrive from every direction. We all want to
save him.

We’re almost there, Ed. Hang on.

I slam on the brakes and the car stops abruptly in
front of the doorway. Two uniforms are already there with their
weapons drawn. A vice detective from the house comes out of the
warehouse with a nine-millimeter Berretta in his hand, crying.
Kicking my door open, I jump out of the car. Harmon grabs the
detective, Williams I think his name is. He is sobbing and can
barely answer. He finally forces it out.

“We’re too late.”

“Where? Where?”

“Second floor...back––”

The detective’s voice fades as we sprint inside and
up the back stairs. As “We’re too late” reverberates inside my
head, I know there is no need to use precautionary entry tactics.
My whole body is tense. My hands are trembling. I don’t want to go
in. I can’t.

“Oh, no.”

I’m riveted by what I see, can hardly breathe, or
look away. Collapsing inside, I fall back against a wall. My Glock
is gripped tightly in my fist. Any justification I had for mankind
evaporates instantly. I reach out for Harmon, but he is lost in his
own horror.

Ed is lying in a river of blood like a sacrificial
lamb with his arms outstretched. He looks as if he is waiting for
an embrace from God. My hand slowly rises to cover the open space
of my mouth. Tears burn and sting my face on their way to the
floor. After all the years on the job, I thought I could take it,
was prepared, and desensitized.

Harmon is weeping, everyone in the death chamber
weeps. The room is awash in heartbreak. The paramedics push through
us. They are the only ones at the scene still holding onto a
glimmer of hope that Ed might still be faintly lingering. They are
wrong.

I don’t know how, but I make it to his bedside. His
vacant eyes stare upwards as if he was searching for his Maker to
save him. His body is mutilated. Blood is still foaming out of his
mouth, nostrils and each wound. I reach out to touch his still warm
face.

“I’m sorry.”

He cannot hear me.

“I’m sorry, Ed.”

Harmon comes up behind me and we lock in a hug. All
of those who have raced to protect Ed Fairchild begin to slowly
file out of the building. Nothing is right anymore. Nothing makes
sense. Evil is still one step ahead of good.

Right now, after the evil, it’s up to Harmon and I
to find Ed’s executioner. It’s our case. The impersonal detachment
necessary of one human being to investigate the death of another is
now required of us. We’ll have to bury our pain and wait to mourn
another day. We have to find the “Who’s Your Daddy” killer, or
Runner
—Michael Gates. It’s personal. I make a silent promise
to Ed.

I’ll find him, I swear. He’ll pay for this,

Harmon asks if he should call Mika.

I nod because I know I can’t do it. I know I will
lose it for good. There is only one mind-set now, just one. I don’t
care about anything else.

Harmon turns away and heads for a corner of the
room. His hand draws out his cell phone and the number is dialed. I
watch him wipe away tears thinking about how it is going to
devastate her. I can barely hear him say it.

“Mika? Harmon. I’m afraid...you won’t
believe...”

That’s all I can take. I close my eyes and picture
what his words are doing to her. I never could take it when she
cried. My fingers press against my temples.

His head shakes as he gives Mika the details. He
stops talking and turns to look at me. Again, he shakes his head
and stares at the floor, while giving her time to absorb it
all.

There is work to do. My grieving will have to wait.
I draw two latex gloves out of my pocket to begin the process of
evidence collection. The others have already put in a call for the
crime lab along with every other resource the department has to
offer. I already know the victim, the where, and the how. When I
find Gates, I will find out the why. Right before I put a bullet in
his brain.

The process is simple and we can do it in our sleep.
The cardinal rule is to not touch anything and contaminate the
crime scene. Even in the initial dark moments, when each of us
burst into the room, we were careful not to contaminate it.

I shout orders. The paramedics leave knowing their
attempts to revive him are futile. They did their job and know when
to leave so we can do ours. Other homicide detectives search
inside. Uniforms roam near and around the outside of the warehouse
searching for any possible clues no matter how minute, or obscure.
A few uniforms canvass for witnesses.

SWAT, whose primary function is to take down violent
offenders on-site, is not needed here. They offer to help in any
way, but I tell them to pack it up.

The crime lab truck arrives, and the technicians
assail the area with brushes, tape and the other tools of their
trade. The department’s photographer knows her craft and captures
the scene properly on film. The flash goes off repeatedly. Because
the latest victim is one of us, everyone works harder.

Someone has to call Lucille. Notification of next of
kin is difficult enough when you don’t know the victim. It’s
impossible when you do. Again, Harmon does the dirty job. I can’t
face Lucille, or the kids either.

Outside, members of the media are swarming. I hate
them almost as much as I hate Gates. They are demanding to come
inside with “It’s the public’s right to know” as their litany. I
try my best to protect Captain Edward Fairchild’s dignity, despite
the fact I was unable to protect his life. I look over at him. A
little over an hour has passed.

Out of my pocket comes my recorder. I start
recording the gruesome details. The initial significant notable
difference between Ed’s murder, and Abrams’s, is this crime scene
is ripe with clues.

The postmortem changes begin with Rigor mortis
decomposition, succeeded by the liver mortis skin discoloration.
Ed’s body is cooling down. I feel it. The techs finish with the
body and make room for the coroner’s people. The M.E.,
affectionately nicknamed “Quincy” by all of us, officially declares
my captain, and friend, deceased. Even hearing the word sucks.

The body bag is lying open on the gurney. With all
due care and respect, they lift Ed’s body and place his remains
inside. The sound of the closing zipper is like fingernails on a
blackboard. The process is cold and clinical. It has to be even for
Ed.

Officers and investigators stop what they were doing
and watch as he is taken away. Sobbing is heard everywhere. I watch
scenes flash through my head of the good times with Ed.

He always had that quirky smile. Not long ago, over
a cold one, during a discussion of human mortality, he said we were
actually dying every day of our lives, from the time we were born.
I had learned a lot about life from the perspective of a man who
had seen more than his share of it. Sometimes, I didn’t get what he
was talking about, sometimes I did. Harmon broke into my
memories.

“Mika is on her way.”

I never wanted her to leave. I thought of a million
excuses to get her to come back, but not for this reason. Still, I
was glad she was on her way.

The rage was there along with the control and
domination. The body position and the killing technique were the
same, multiple stab wounds, and castration. Ed had struggled for
freedom as evidenced by the wrist and ankle marks. There didn’t
appear to be any sexual assault. Painted on the wall was––Ed. It
was the same, but not the same. As I talk into my recorder, Harmon
walks over with a CD hanging on a pencil.

“It was playing when Williams first busted in. He
turned it off just before we got here. The CD player is set to
repeat song number three. Maybe Mika will be able to shed some
light as to its significance.”

“We’ll listen to it when we get back to the house.
Did they get your conversation with him on tape?”

“I got it all. I swear, I swear on my mother’s
eyes.”

“I know.”

My hand finds his huge shoulder and I grab tight. I
want to make Gates suffer, too.

“Any witnesses?”

“The guys are still out there looking. It’s a
bright, sunny morning and it’s not even 9:00 yet.

Someone had to be around, somebody must have seen
something.”

We keep our own anger and rage harnessed in as best
as we can. We need to stay focused and check the emotional baggage.
As I look to see how much tape I have left on my cassette recorder
my cell phone rings.

“Tell me it isn’t true. You tell me Ed Fairchild is
alive. This is madness, absolute madness! The world has gone
insane, I was just with him.”

It’s difficult enough without hearing her cry.
Nothing I say will make it any easier.

“Harmon and I are still at the scene. We have enough
right now to hang this guy, we’ll have more by the time you get
here.”

She struggles to say she’d be here soon.

“I’VE GOT A CLEAN PRINT. I’ll take it to the lab and
get started. I should have something for you by this
afternoon.”

The tech is ecstatic. The CD player and the CD have
clean prints that appear to be the same. I have an uneasy feeling
about his enthusiastic state of mind. The technician might very
well lose them both. A vision of O. J. Simpson’s botched
investigation passes through my mind. I watch the tech carry them
as if they were a human heart being transported for transplant.

“Fingerprints, CD, various fibers, and blond hair
strands? What’s up with this guy? He’s never been this careless
before,” Harmon says.

“Game’s over? Time ran out? He wants to be caught?
If he is as intelligent as we think he is, he probably has another
plan, an out, you know like insanity. Who knows? Who can figure out
what’s in his head.”

Harmon tosses out “Mika?” to answer me. That one is
easy to acknowledge. She would know. I don’t care why he wants to
be caught. I just want to stop him. I’m willing to do that any way
I can. A uniform bursts in shouting. He can hardly breathe from the
hundred-yard dash he has just run.

“We’ve got a witness.”

We give him time to stop hyperventilating, but
anxiously prompt him. Swallowing hard, the officer provides the
information.

“A guy down the street was walking his Doberman. He
saw a male in his late twenties to early thirties, blond hair,
ponytail, casually driving a late-model silver Lexus out of the
parking lot right here.”

He points to the floor.

“Do you think it was Gates?”

Harmon looks at me then turns to the officer and
asks if he got a plate number.

“Yes sir, Alpha-Nine-Three-Lima-Golf-Tango. He wrote
it down, no mistake, He said it was as if the guy didn’t care if he
saw it. I found him across the street, waiting. Said he didn’t want
to interfere until we finished up. He said he didn’t want any of us
beating him to death by mistake.