Addicted In Cold Blood (10 page)

How one could knowingly ingest something that could render them a fraction of their highest potential due to a broken heart, dashed dreams or crushed spirit, was beyond his comprehension.

The addict of alcoholism was, albeit not ideal, easier for Xzion to manipulate. The drug effects eventually wore off, and the subject was, many times, still able to be controlled, even under the influence. Alcoholism brought on a slow death, while its cocaine, crack and meth counterpart ripped the subject to shreds within a fraction of the time. The human body was incredible, and though he admired many aspects of it, the emotional ties it had to endure made him queasy. Those under the power of crack, cocaine, heroin or meth were volatile and no seizing of the mind was even remotely possible. 

Their brain began to warp, the functionality permanently diminished and the quality of their blood oftentimes severely impaired. Synthesizing, for the hardcore heroine and meth user, would take upward of two hours in some cases and even then, the extraction and harvest may still render lackluster results. He hated them all—the alcoholics, who he’d have to purify to death with a gas mask on if they were hard-core drunks. The damn spirits had a way of fermenting and pickling them; they stunk, and never even seemed to know it. There were issues with the entire lot of them, but this was the nature of his business.

Xzion made his way to his dresser, cool air escaping his lips as he stepped further into the ice enclosure. His bedroom had temperature controls. He’d found out that there was such a thing as too cold, so after he’d received relief, he’d adjust as he saw fit. Removing a neatly folded sweater and pair of jeans from the drawer, he closed it shut. He stood in front of a mirror and meticulously dressed himself, turning in various directions as if he were preparing for a date. He grinned, now eager to see who he could hunt for this evening’s events. The equipment to synthesize would arrive soon and he’d be expected to perform. It was easy to beam down equipment—no heart rate to monitor, fuel levels to watch or brain conditions to evaluate.

He grabbed his sneakers, a green and white pair of Nikes, and placed them on. Standing erect, he posed, winked at himself and exited the door on the quest for his latest victim...

“We gon’ start this shit out right, we got Jayme Knight in tha house tonight!” chanted the smiling DJ as he rallied the small crowd.

The people paraded around laughing and clapping to the classic hip hop beat, swarming in clusters as they danced. In the last two weeks, Officer Knight was given congrats by most, experienced envy from many and received roadblocks from some. Each morning, afternoon and evening, she consumed information from the F.B.I as if it was her breakfast, lunch and dinner and attended pressing meetings with the district attorney. Life flew by at warp speed, and it was time to unwind before she went out canvasing the town at three in the morning. Her ‘ON’ switch was flipped—the FBI had officially set her loose. Now, armed with more leads, she was better prepared. On her initial jaunt, she was greeted with smiles from the local familiars but as she began to ask questions about the ‘XXX’ murderer, she was shunned, much to her surprise...and boy did word spread fast. Soon, she was greeted with doors closed in her face, unreturned calls and the occasional, “Bitch, please!”, “You 5.0., I ain’t telling you a damn thang!” or, “I ain’t seen shit, bye!”

She had a new plan—a new circle of people to question, and she’d use what she had to get what she wanted. Jayme was determined to make a difference in this stagnant case. No one was gaining ground, and time was ticking. She was up for the challenge. It didn’t make her happy, but one deserved the other. This guy was far more dangerous than anyone she’d arrested and put behind bars. He was more treacherous than if the streets came alive, became a person, and sought retribution.

Nevertheless, she didn’t have time to waste or lose, and this quick shindig Wanda had thrown her at the local watering hole, ‘KJ’s Place’, was not her thing. She’d nursed the same gin and tonic all evening, and added plenty of ice. She needed to be on full alert, but Wanda insisted, due to her mounting frustration over the lack of a lead and in celebration of her untied leash from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that she unwind for a few and kick her heels up with the town favorite.

“Come on, Jayme!” Wanda grinned as she spun her friend around, dancing in circles to old R&B favorites. “You have to get into the moment!”

Junior crooned out, ‘Mama Used To Say’ over the thumping speakers.

Jayme shot her a weak smile and disengaged, immediately going back to the plastic, wobbly red seat in the corner. The plywood walls were plastered with time-warped alcohol ads, such as Billy D. Williams holding a Colt 45 beer, and sun-faded musical group posters such as the S.O.S. Band and Jodie Watley. The whole place had the feeling of a club that hadn’t been updated since 1986. Yet, despite being filled with colorful huge Christmas bulb lights and a slight musty smell, it was still home and the people there always welcomed her with open arms.

T.S. Monk serenaded, ‘Bon Bon Vie’, making all the old-school macs twist their hips back and forth, dangling cheap, skinny bottles of beer and doing ‘the bump’ as their intoxication loosened their inhibitions. It was fun, it felt good, and all that was missing was the spandex, slick jheri curls and sparkly halter tops. KJ’s was a time warp, and that was why so many of the forty and up crowd loved it. Jayme, however, was an old soul and this was one of the places she dashed to, to try to forget the bruised ladies, the D.O.A.s, the endless coroner reports, and now, branded, spliced bodies that were so cleanly cut, it seemed the person was either a surgeon or their fingers were like a damn knife set. Either way, she had to get past this and get back to work, but first, her mind needed to be at ease.

“You are so lame tonight,” Wanda teased as she approached her again, putting her hand on her hip and twisting her lips as she glared at her preoccupied friend.

“I know.” Jayme laughed. “I just need to get home. But thank you for inviting me out, Wanda, and throwing this party for me.” Jayme stood and grabbed her purse, putting it over her shoulder after setting her half drank glass on the table in front of her. “You know I love you, girl. I have to go out tonight though, got work to do and I’d like to get cleaned up first.”

Wanda sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’ve gotten so boring in your old age,” she teased some more before giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek.

Jayme laughed as she made her way toward the crowd, hugging and thanking everyone.

“Call me!” Wanda yelled out before she turned back to the dance floor and snapped her fingers to the beat.

“I will and thanks again!” Jayme disappeared out the finger smudged glass doors into the cold that kissed the side of her face, welcoming her into its icy arms. Christmas was three days away and all she could think was:
What gift will the ‘XXX’ killer give the people of DC this time? Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be topped in a bloody red bow...

****

Xzion leaned lazily against the outside of the dark brown brick apartment building. Propping his leg up a wall, he brought his black hood down over his face and began to play with his cuticles. Police cars roved past, and his heart never changed tempo.

Who out here would make a good candidate?

A woman walked past, her violet short leather shirt hiked up, exposing long legs covered in black fishnet stockings. It was only nineteen degrees outside but she acted as if she were walking around on a sandy beach in the tropics.

He opened his wrist and moved it toward her while his right eye scanned her body.

Subject: twenty-four in human years. Ethnicity: African American father, European mother. Drugs in system: Yes. Time of last usage: Six hours, twenty-two minutes and seven seconds ago. Drug(s) of Choice: Alcohol, Marijuana and Crack cocaine.

Well, she sure as hell won’t do. Fucking druggie, damn addict. Is anyone clean around here?!

However he knew he was hitching his hopes to a frail prayer. He fully understood that prostitution and drug abuse often went hand in hand. Never the less, he needed someone that no one would miss...just in case things went awry.

He turned away and continued to wait. She was the ninth person he’d scanned in the heavy sex trafficking area and though he understood quite clearly the ties between the sex trade and addiction, he also hoped for a shooting star.

Will she do? Will anyone miss her?

...and who cares about a woman that sticks herself with needles and sucks dick for a living? There in Ward 7, east of the
Anacostia River, he had high hopes of taking a pretty streetwalker home, to make his very own. Yet, sex was the farthest thing from Xzion’s mind. He liked sex, hell, he
loved
it, but that wasn’t his reason for staking out the area. He needed to fulfill Aton’s request and he hated to admit it, but nights like this reminded him of the suppressed concerns he had.  The United States was taking too damn long to shake down. He’d saved the easiest for last, or so he thought...

He anxiously rubbed his hands together and peered mysteriously from beneath the covering of his oversized hoodie. From a passerby, all one could see was his long Romanesque nose with a slight bump on the bridge and his plush, heart-shaped lips. He crossed his arms over his stomach as he conducted another scan of a passerby, and cursed to himself as she, too, was enjoying her kryptonite to the fullest. Xzion shook his head in disgust, pulled his hoodie away from his face and peered across the street.

There, shrouded in darkness, she came into the light. Wearing a midnight blue little dress, thigh high black boots, a long red scarf around her neck and long, dark brown hair, she pivoted, like a ballet dancer in slow motion. He couldn’t believe his luck...not one hit of blow, Casper, China girls, Rich White Girl, cherry meth, highballs, smack, acid, or zambi in her system, not even a drop of liquor...and she was young. Way too young to be on the streets, but that never meant anything as of late. Xzion’s lips curled upwards as he took steady steps toward her, almost salivating over the delicious morsel that came into his proverbial lap. Little Red Riding Hood had met the Big Bad Wolf... bon appetit.

****

Jayme continued to stand close to Candi, much to the woman’s chagrin.

“You been causin’ too much heat, bringin’ static. We all know don’t none of y’all give a shit about these dope boys gettin’ killed. Jayme, don’t even front. I thought you’d keep it one hundred but I see I was wrong.” The prostitute rolled her green contact lens colored eyes, flipped her blonde hair and turned away in repugnance as she adjusted her red lace bustier.

“She’s right, you know?” Macelina piped up, a transsexual transplant from Philly. “I been on these streets here for four years, and when people were getting killed every day all day, me and my girls,” she grimaced and flicked cigarette ashes onto the group while Candi high-fived her, “no one gave a shit but as soon as these dealers get got, then it’s time to investigate. Pulease!”

“That’s not how it is, Macelina. You only see one side of the story,” Jayme corrected.

“I got five days last week for having a cooker on me. Bullshit. My girl Carmen got her throat sliced by a bad date. Happens all the time and no one gives a flying fuck. We ain’t talking about shit because one,” Macelina’s voice escalated as her recently imbibed alcohol loosened her tongue, “we don’t know who is doing this shit, but at least his ass isn’t fuckin’ with
us
for a change, and two, some of those motha fuckas are just as bad as the pimps! Nuh uh, Jayme, you ain’t getting us tied up in some bullshit, no ma’am!” She crossed her arms and moved around nervously, looking around more than likely for other police and familiar johns.

“Macelina, I was the first one to help you, over and over again, so don’t try that with me,” Jayme said angrily. “I know someone saw something and if you think you’re safe because whoever is responsible for these murders is targeting drug pushers, you are mistaken. No one is safe until this guy is off the streets! If he did that to the drug dealers, took out fellow police officers, what do you think he’d do to a woman at the wrong damn place, at the wrong time?!”

Macelina and Candi glanced at each other, then turned away from Jayme, forcing her to face their backs.

“Oh yes!” Jayme laughed loudly. “I know that look! You all know something. Talk to me!”

The two women kept quiet and started to move slowly away. Jayme stayed close behind, but kept a safe distance.

Finally, Candi broke the silence. “I don’t know if we should tell her...”

“She’s right though—anyone out here could be a target...”

The two women continued to talk amongst themselves ahead of her as they strolled the dimly lit sidewalk with cars passing by every few minutes.

“Jayme, Michelle saw something a couple days ago...” Candi admitted, her voice low, almost inaudible.

“Michelle? MeMe?”

“Yes,
that
Michelle,” Candi clarified. “She was out of it; don’t know how true it was. Sounded like some crazy story from a movie... said she saw DeAndre get iced.”

Chills went up Jayme’s spine. DeAndre Williams was the latest case to roll across her desk. He wasn’t a drug lord by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a penchant for influencing the street crowd and conducting some of the most outlandish pill parties. The police had been on to him, knowing that any party flyers stapled to telephone poles with his name listed as the DJ, more times than not, meant he was dealing. The problem was that he offered freebies to new prospective clients, and no one could turn that down. His specialty was PCP, premium blunts and roofies. The college-dropout had a record a mile long, but his awardwinning smile and charisma, as well as gift of gab, made him more friends than enemies. He was good to his customers, always jovial on the surface—but there was a dark side to DeAndre. If his kindness was mistaken for weakness, which it often was, he was known to hire brutes and unleash mafia-style beat-downs. He never wanted to get his own hands dirty, preferring to spin records, make people happy and count his cheddar. Now, the only thing he was counting was daisies...seven feet under.