Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (3 page)

Mann watched the CSU team doing a sweep across the parking lot with flashlights. “How’d the guy get in?”

“The attendant says that nobody borrowed the key but the door is often left open.”

Mann stood silently and watched the reporters gathering outside the inner barrier.

It didn’t feel right for gang bangers. Not their style with the head beating and the dump in a washroom. Gang killings were public, noisy things. If they were sending a message, and they were always sending a message, you put the body on display.

No, it just smelled wrong. Or was that just wishful thinking?

Safe.

Preston let the water beat down on him, adjusting it just a bit hotter so his skin took on a deepening flush. He relaxed and slumped against the side of the shower stall.

Suddenly, he straightened. Slapping the water off, he stood listening. He waited, sure that he had heard a banging on his front door. As silently as possible, he pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped out of the shower. Snatching up his glasses but ignoring a towel, he tiptoed out of his bathroom and down the front hall toward his apartment door. He looked through the peephole into the hallway.

Instead of what he expected, the hallway was empty. Listening carefully, he heard another thud farther down the hall. Stretching high on his toes to look down through the peephole he could barely make out the edge of the newspaper lying in front of his door. He exhaled loudly and sucked in another breath. He took another look through the peephole. Cracking the door open slightly, he reached through and grabbed the newspaper.

Holding the newspaper, he shivered and looked down at the puddle of water on the tile floor. He flipped through and pulled out the sports section. He laid it on the floor to soak up the water and took the rest of the paper to the dining room table. He glanced at the front page and was saddened to see the story was not there.

Realizing he was still dripping, he stepped back into the bathroom and quickly toweled dry. He slipped on a pair of hospital OR pants. Up until last night, that had been one of his bigger crimes, stealing the pants from the hospital. But everyone did it so it wasn’t really a crime, right?

Returning to the dining room, he started to flip through the newspaper, scanning each page for the story. The first time, he flipped quickly through the paper. The second time, he spent longer scanning each page. The third time, he even went back to the front door and looked through the wet sports section.

How could the story not even be in the newspaper?

He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the newspaper. Sleep had eluded him last night. Not that he had wanted to sleep. He hadn’t even tried.

He could feel the returning warmth and let his hand slip down to the crotch of his pants as he replayed the night.

He had killed someone. He had actually
killed
someone! Accident or not, that kid was Dead. Dead with a capital D. Dead by his
hand
.

He had hoped, but not really expected, to see the story on the front page but he was sure there would be a story.

He glanced down at the
Kesle Daily Post
. How could they just ignore his first killing? Like it hadn’t even happened? Like the body wasn’t even there?

Wasn’t there – yet!

“Of course!” he said aloud, slapping his hands together. They didn’t find the body yet or at least not in time for the newspaper.

He stepped into the living room – which meant he stepped off the linoleum and onto the carpet that marked the division between the dining room and the living room. He walked over to the couch and snatched up the remote. He flicked the television on and turned to the local television station. The early morning news show was already started so he settled back on the couch and waited, his free hand still down his pants.

He had to wait a few minutes but he was soon rewarded with a very short news story about the killing. They called it a suspected gang killing. The entire piece lasted less than thirty seconds.

He couldn’t believe it, thirty seconds! Why was the story so short? Very disappointing. Didn’t his first killing merit a longer story than that? Where were the fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol had promised?

Well, it is only your FIRST kill.

True. But still.
Suspected gang killing?
What the hell was that? But what did he expect from the dickhead cops anyway?

Be honest, you thought they were breaking down the door while you were in the shower.

“Okay, sure, maybe for like one second, I was worried.”

He had been in a sweat when he got home. Ricocheting between total exhilaration and mind numbing fear but the panic had passed quickly. There was no link between him and the kid. There were no witnesses and no way to connect him with the body.

The perfect crime.

Glancing at the clock, he realized he had to hurry and get himself to work. God, how could he be expected to work when he had just killed someone? Didn’t they usually give you time off for something like that?

“I need a better union,” he said, chuckling to himself.

*

Preston settled into his chair and sipped his coffee. He slid down in his office chair as he heard someone walking by. He could hear the muffled footfalls on the carpeted floor as the person moved away from his cubicle. That is the way he always liked it – just let them walk on by. Maybe one of the cleaners? No, too late for that. Normally, not many of his co-workers got in as early as he did but he was later today. He usually arrived early and left late. He was conscientious about his work. And, yes, he admitted, it made it easier to avoid running into anyone. That eliminated the awkward goodbyes when the rest of the office was going for a drink and he wasn’t invited.

Avoiding people had been his life.

How much of his life had he spent scurrying from one safe place to another?

But was anywhere safe?

Why not make your world safer?

Ignoring that voice, he slipped his lunch into his desk drawer beside the latest novel he was reading. Both his lunch and the book would reappear again precisely at noon. Since he wasn’t doing outside inventories today, he would eat his sandwiches and read the book at his desk rather than risk the lunchroom. Eating with the others was just asking for trouble.

And he had enough trouble.

He closed his tired eyes but still felt the excitement of last night. He was just reliving the sound of the boy’s head hitting the wall when he heard the loud voice.

“PeePee!”

Preston jumped and spilled coffee on his shirt and tie. He stared up at Jake “The Jakester” Wilson. The name never came out as PP in Preston’s head. It always came out as PeePee, a name that had haunted him since Mrs. Muroka’s Grade Two class. Stricken with a kidney infection and high fever, he had stood too long in the line at Mrs. Muroka’s desk, waiting for permission to use the washroom. Right there, at the front of the class, he had wet his pants.

He had run to the washroom and never gone back to class. His teacher thought he had gone home. His father was too drunk to notice he wasn’t there until his mother finished the afternoon shift. Eventually, a janitor found him slumped in the bathroom, the infection and a raging fever almost shutting down his kidneys.

And PeePee had chased him his entire life since.

*

“Jesus, Peterson, you in there?” Jake said, his unmistakable bray booming down the hallway between the cubicles.

Jake Wilson shook his head at the pathetic blubber sitting in front of him. Since Peterson had started, Wilson had targeted the useless prick. Some jerks, Jake had told his friends, just screamed to be taken advantage of. It was like the nature channel. There were the lions and there were the antelopes. Jake was a lion and Peterson was an antelope, a really lame antelope. And there was no herd to separate him from since he just didn’t belong anywhere.

“Earth to Peterson!” Jake slapped Preston’s cheek, hard enough to turn the flabby skin red and was rewarded with the usual little girl squeak. Jake remembered that first day when Preston had made some smart-ass comment, actually correcting Jake’s grammar like some old schoolmarm. The fat twat just had to make out as if he was smarter than everyone else. Jake had feinted a punch and Peterson had actually ducked and let out a little girl scream. It was so perfect. Even the boss had spit out coffee, laughing so hard.

“Are you with me, Peterson?”

“Sorry, yes Jake. What do you need?”

“What I don’t need is you on my softball team,” Jake replied. “I mean, you can get the beer but I don’t want you playing. Your leg is too sore, right?”

“My leg?” Preston asked.

“Jesus, are you stupid?” Jake asked. He kicked Peterson hard in the right shin. “There, that leg. Remember the injury now? Or do I have to remind you again?”

Jake could see Peterson fighting back the tears. “No, Jake. I remember now. I hurt my leg and couldn’t possibly play. I’m really sorry to be letting the team down.”

Jake laughed again. “Good little PeePee. But you’ll remember the beer, right?”

“Yes, Jake.”

Preston finally let himself rub his throbbing shin as Jake disappeared into the lunchroom. He felt his body relax as he realized he and his buddies would be in scarping down donuts and coffee for a while before starting work.

*

As the tension left his body, anger began to replace the fear. And the anger built until the familiar rage began to course through his body.

So are you angry with them or yourself? Mad Dog Killer…sure. Except you break out in a sweat when Jake walks in the room. Just like all the guys that have bullied you all your life.

But I have killed! I
am
a killer.

Mad Dog Killer…sure. Provided there is orange juice for someone to slip on.

He’s still dead. I am responsible. It wasn’t totally an accident.

Especially if he wasn’t dead when you took him into the bathroom.

But he was sure dead after I beat his little pissant head against that wall. All those squishy thuds. God, he had enjoyed that sound. He had been fantasizing and masturbating for many years but he had never come like he did last night. He had finally got even with one of his tormentors.

He could feel the power surging through him. The power over life and death was in his hands.

Try anything like that with Jake and he would beat the crap out of you.

Preston looked down at his stomach and tried to tuck in the shirt that was always slipping out. That and the perpetual layer of fat had always made him look doughy.

But he didn’t need strength. Strength was nothing against a superior brain. And he had the superior brain. Surprise and guile. They would never see him coming. The rest was simple. Some tape, some handcuffs. It would all be so easy.

He felt the hardness returning as he fantasized about what he could do to Jake.

And who would be top of the suspect list? Let’s see, hmmmm, maybe Jake’s tormented co-worker?

Preston could hear them all now. “Oh yes officer, he always hated Jake. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finally just snapped.”

Last night was the Perfect Crime because there was nothing to link him to the victim. How do you follow a trail that doesn’t exist?

Of course, he couldn’t kill anyone that he
knew
. That would be stupid. He was anything but stupid – not with an IQ in the genius range. Isn’t that what they had said in High School?

What did that get you, genius? Just more bullying and torment along with a loser dead-end job?

“Now that’s a group that deserves to die!”

For a second, Preston barely realized he had talked aloud. His deep, confident voice made him smile even if he barely recognized it.

Yes, if anyone deserved to die, it was the bullies from school. They had tormented him for years and years. Oh yes, they definitely deserved to die in painful and humiliating ways.

And none of them would be traced to you, right genius? All your old classmates start dropping dead and the trail leads right to the loser of the graduating class.

Still, there had to be a way to feel this power again and punish his tormentors.

The constant buzzing barely roused Mann and he jabbed at the speaker button on the telephone. The dial tone added to the noise of the alarm and finally woke him. He reached up and shut off the alarm and the telephone before settling back in the pillow.

Yesterday had been a bitch. He hated early starts to begin with. But the body in the washroom had generated meetings with the brass. Nobody liked the idea of gangs coming into Southfield. That meant finding a solution that eliminated the gang angle. God save him from investigations directed from the top.

Then, they had fished a body out of the South Bay. Port Authority set speed records handing that one over to Southfield. And then just as quickly he lost it.

Three days before, a runner for a local coke dealer had his face blown away on a small yacht in the marina in High Bluffs. High Bluffs Division was one of the three divisions that Southfield Homicide covered. What should have been a routine case turned interesting when CSU turned up too much blood. The ME concluded that there should have been two bodies on that yacht.

When the Authority had pulled in the floater, they had notified Southfield. The floater’s blood type matched the blood found on the upper deck. They would have to wait on the DNA for confirmation but they were pretty confident that they had found the second vic. Kesle didn’t get that many bodies in the Bay with shotgun wounds.

Mann already had two shooters he thought were good for the killing. According to rumor, the cocaine runner and his partner had been working behind Angelino’s back, trying to cut into the market. No doubt in Mann’s mind that Angelino had ordered the hit and even less doubt who had done the job.

Mann’s detectives were already on the street trying to find the duo when headquarters yanked the case out of their Division. The Mayor’s favorite political cop had stepped in and the Special Organized Crime Unit got the case. Mann had fought to keep it. He owed Angelino and had vowed to bring the murdering bastard down. But what SOCU wanted, SOCU got.