After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (7 page)

“I can’t seem to shake the nightmares, feel like I’m
on my seventh, eighth and maybe even my ninth wind. She was a kid,
Ed.”

He puffs and the smoke rises and disperses into the
fluorescent lights.

“So were the two jerk-off kids from Columbine, what
did they have? Semiautomatics and Uzis! Fuck her. You play hard,
you die hard.”

Fairchild’s been around. I’m not going to get
anywhere with him. He gets off the edge of his desk, and does an
end run back to his high-backed leather chair, where he positions
himself for more intimidation of me. He leans forward.

“I want you on this case. I need a problem solver
with initiative.”

“What you’re asking of me is hard.”

“Yes it is, but it’s the hard that matters.”

He stares me down. He prepares to hit me with the
next punch.

“You’ll be working with Mika.”

“That’s impossible, we still have issues.”

“Get over it.”

I think about her. I always felt at peace when I was
with her. She knows all of my secrets, weaknesses. She understands
my inner, whining child. Mika somehow knows how to heal me. She is
calm water to my battling raging seas. I need her more than
ever.

Fairchild interrupts my thoughts.

“Don’t you have something more important to do
besides harass an old man?”

I fight back the word no. Ed shuffles papers on his
desk. I ask meekly as I get up and head for the door.

“Where is she?”

“Briefing room A, remember where it is? Glad to have
you back, Jake. You’re one of the best. I need you, son.”

Whatever small amount of pride I have left begins
ever so slightly to grow. I leave without saying another word.
Without signaling, I cut into an open lane in the hallway’s rush
hour traffic. Taking the off ramp to the briefing room, I feel as
if I had been gone more than just a few days. As the door to the
briefing room opens, everybody looks to see who is brainless enough
to show up late. I take a seat in the back, close to the door as I
can get. After my butt is in the chair, Mika restarts the briefing.
I can only hope she notices the sentimental look in my eyes.

“Our serial killer is geographically transient, like
a Theodore Bundy, or Henry Lee Lucas. He’s intelligent, and has
kept us guessing. He’s done his homework. He is familiar with our
methods and tactics. The crime scenes are clean, antiseptic
actually. Two things tie them all together. One, the victim’s first
name is written above the head in the victim’s blood. Two, the
victim’s genitalia is castrated.”

A hand is seen in the front row.

“Castrated?”

He made a notation on his legal pad as he spoke.
He’s new to homicide. He believes it was the perfect time to
establish a rapport with Mika. Besides, Mika is hot, and he wanted
to hear her say more about the victim’s genitals in her sexy
voice.

“Can you expand on that, Agent Scott?”

Having spent a great deal of her career among the
lower animals of the species, well aware of how juvenile they
become whenever sex was the subject, Mika answered unnerved.

“The perp cuts off the victim’s dick,
detective.”

She waited, knowing what was coming next.

“Thank you, Agent Scott. Would it be true then our
perp is not only a murderer, but a homosexual as well?”

“Very possible, detective. Do you have any special
insight to offer us about such tendencies?”

She was clearly the top seed in the match. The
paralyzed detective was left without a witty retort. The rest of
the group proceeded to harass him with conjecture, catcalls, and
whistles. After they settled down, Mika drove home the more
gruesome details for our digestion.

“Our perpetrator appears to be motivated by anger,
hate, and a desire to dominate. It’s likely he experienced
physical, or sexual abuse early on in his life, and is seeking
revenge for it. Usually serial killers are control freaks, just
like most of you.”

That one did not go over well, but she wasn’t
interested in their affection as much as their respect. She
softened the blow.

“Well, like
all
of us.”

Their startled faces smoothed out.

“The murders are brutal and savage. He inflicts
psychological punishments along with physical punishments. The
victim struggles and our boy gets off on it.”

She scanned the room.

“Any more questions?”

I know better, I really do, but I can’t stop. It’s
like a joke that rumbles around inside your head and has to be let
out. I raise my hand. She has no choice, but to call on me.

“Yes detective?”

“Did they teach you all of that in
Quantico
?”

I ask with a perfect touch of sarcasm. She gives me
the arctic stare. Fortunately for me, Fairchild walks in and
interrupts with his usual philosophical speech regarding
incarceration.

“And none of them ever finds Jesus, or has a change
of heart, until they are in the slammer and somebody’s wife.”

He is the Chief, so he gets applause and thumbs
up.

“Yeah, yeah, you have a copy of all the current data
in those files in front of you. Get out there and make me
proud.”

* * *

She floated with her eyes closed. Her toes protruded
from the calm water like two miniature periscopes. Her outstretched
arms waved slightly. There was no one else around. The water was
warm and soothing. All she wanted was to float on her back down
stream forever. She was completely relaxed, more relaxed than she
had been for quite some time. The feel of the water wasn’t right.
It felt more like oil, or syrup.

She opened her eyes to look at it and saw she was
floating in a sea of blood. Startled, Lori awoke from her deep
sleep, and quickly looked at the red digital numbers of the alarm
clock on the nightstand. They said it was 3:23 A.M.

Where am I?

The room was dark, except for some light coming from
the street through the crack in the curtains. It was a common
occurrence for someone who traveled as much as a flight attendant.
Often crews experience a momentary loss in space and time. Cities
and hotels, dates and time zones, become a blur.

Oh yeah, Philadelphia.

Lori thought about the dream of floating in blood.
She knew the psychological ramifications of it. It was amazing how
the subconscious worked. Knowing it would be difficult to fall back
to sleep again until her 5:00 A.M. wake-up call, she decided to
read. The only thing available was a magazine she had found left
behind by a passenger on her flight.

The magazine, MAXIM, had an article about bizarre
murders. Lori used the article as a source of reference, or
comparison, to see how far she had gone over the edge. She had read
right before nodding off to sleep.

Erzebet Bathory, Hungarian countess, killed 600
girls, bathed in their blood, and then had her servants lick her
clean.

Gilles de Rais, French protector of Joan of Arc,
killed 800 boys and then performed necrophilia acts on their
bodies.

Roman rulers had wild animals ravage humans, while
the empress Messalina would masturbate. From previous research, she
learned that
ritual killing
was performed in order to
consume the better human qualities of the dead. What wasn’t clear
was whether the bad qualities were swallowed, along with the good.
She laughed aloud when she read about
revenge
murder. The
husband had put his wife in the oven, and baked her. When the
police arrived, he was found laughing hysterically. She thought
about her abusive ex-husband.

* * *

The look on her face told me I was in deep trouble.
The pointed toe and lean on the hip punctuated by the crossed arms.
Yeah, I was going to get it good. I was going on trial right there
in the hallway in front of my peers. Legal counsel would not be
provided. Contrite sounded like a good approach right now, a good
suggestion.

“Good to see you, Mika. Harmon told me you were
here.”

It feels like I’m ten years old again. Inside my
cranium, I watch the stream of words forming into sentences then
slide toward my mouth. Each of them is carefully scrutinized by
some kind of verbal-quality-assurance mini-Jake. Then the motion
picture of one particular night we shared begins. The opening
credits warn me about the rating.

Her thrusts made the wind spill from my lungs. Her
contractions were powerful.

Establishing some common ground by rebuilding on our
past relationship might have helped, but she sensed it coming, and
her eyes said not to go there. What I should do is fall on my knees
to the hallway floor and beg her for forgiveness. I decide to drop
the personal and go with the practical.

“Look, I believe we can still work together, we’re
professionals. And, I
think
we’re still friends.”

I take my shot. Shifting her weight, she rotates to
a more controlling stance. Her raised eyebrows scrunches down and
rest over a serious face. She looks stunning in her business
suit.

Stop it, Jake,

“Did you have to belittle me in front of them?”

The level of anger in her voice is deafening, but
the words are a forced whisper through grit teeth. A strong retort
would help, but the basic male grunt comes out.

“Huh?”

“I have a job to do, and it doesn’t help one damn
bit for you to walk in late and make wiseass remarks.”

The best thing would be to take the high road and
apologize. The worst is to disregard my inner sensitive female, and
let my testosterone speak for me.

“Why did you leave, Mika?”

I reject the high road. I use a tactic I learned
long ago, probably as long ago as in a classroom with the nuns. If
asked a difficult question, buy time by asking a question. I also
want to hear her answer, again. Mika’s eyebrows crunch and she
gives me an “I gave you a chance” expression. She answers with an
annoying, rising inflection used by teenage girls.

“Because Jake, you had a significant issue with
commitment.”

It worked. I use it on Fairchild and it always
works. It worked on the street during investigations. My briefing
room behavior is now the furthest thing from her mind.

“And don’t try that ask-a-question nonsense with
me––I know you.”

On the outside, I simply raise both eyes. On the
inside, the bells and whistles look like an arcade.

Run, Jake, run.

“Well what do you expect from a poor Native American
boy from a poverty-stricken reservation?”

“Please, are you
still
using that?”

Turn it up, Jake.

“I guess it started in the orphanage––the commitment
thing.”

My smile disappears as my head droops.

“When you start out alone, you don’t think anyone
really cares.”

Slowly look up at her, Jake.

“I cared, my parents cared. You just couldn’t see
it.”

Her tone is less caustic this time. As a detective,
I detect a shift toward sympathetic understanding. I push the
envelope.

“You were lucky to have parents, someone to teach
you about commitment.”

Mika considers for a moment. Her head twists a
little to the side, and her eyes glance down at her conservative
9Wests. Guilt has its good points. A look away enhances the
moment.

“My parents have always been there for me.”

She’s almost apologetic. She glances from face to
face, as strangers pass us in the corridor, until her eyes lock on
mine. I lightly brush her hand.

“Life has a way of punishing us for our mistakes.
For the past few years, being without you has punished me. It’s
been just me, and me.”

I feel bad about making her feel guilty. I didn’t
mean to drive the conversation into this turn. I just went into
survival mode, because I’m swinging in the wind. Mika’s voice is
gentle and low when she speaks.

“Harmon told me about the girl.”

She takes my hand.

“You did what you had to, but just the same, I’m
sorry. If there’s anything I can, well...”

Swallowing hard, I sheepishly continue the
attack.

“Listen, I was way out of line in there, and I
apologize. It really is good to see you.”

The words I should have used earlier spill out.

“Truth is Jake, I’ve missed you, too.”

Silence, thought, a look, and a dramatic pause pass
by.

“But you must understand, I’ve been chasing this guy
and I’m obsessed with caging him. Maybe after he’s caught...”

Maybe?

* * *

Mika never exaggerates. What she says is exactly
what she means. She also has that uncanny, womanly way of seeing
even microscopic details, like picking out a flaw in a diamond. Men
can’t do that and miss the details. A man is only cognizant of the
big picture after the billboard falls on him. I’m not good at much,
but I know details better than most, and I really am good at my
job. At least Fairchild thinks so.

“His simplicity clouds his complexity,” Mika
says.

My curiosity compels me to ask.

“How do you know the killer’s a male?”

I need to start at the beginning, so I can get a
grip on what we are dealing with. For me, I need to place things in
a logical order, or into an equation, so I can solve the problem.
It’s why Harmon and I fool with science. Cold, hard facts fill in
the empty spaces in the equations and timelines.

“A woman couldn’t do this,” Mika says.

She looks at the people, places, and cars going by,
but focuses on some metaphysical nothingness beyond them.

“P-M-S?”

I offer it in order to understand. Mika smirks
without looking at me.

“That’s how you men see us, don’t you?”

Levity takes the pressure off for me. One minute I’m
analyzing blood and guts, and the next I’m doing one-liners on the
corpse. It’s the same when I’m in a hospital, or a funeral parlor.
The gravity of death brings out a nervous anxiety I have. Abrams
probably knows the reason, but he is in no condition to explain it.
What I do know is you can only wallow in human suffering for so
long before you became cynical, sarcastic––and a comedian. Unless,
you killed a girl whose entire life was ahead of her.