Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (3 page)

Seven

He had no problem with Monday mornings like this.  He felt well-rested and calm.  The tickle at the base of his brain, the one that would graduate in coming days and weeks into a full-blow raging obsession, was barely noticeable.

The need had been thoroughly satiated.

And then some.

He permitted himself a small smile, which he noticed in the rearview mirror.

He looked away. 

The company parking lot was half-full when he pulled in, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled into work. 

As usual, no one paid much attention to him as he was one of the drones, one of the faceless workers who did their jobs, didn’t talk much, and left as soon as they could.

If anyone had noticed him, they would have seem him frequently with his right hand in his pocket, as if he was rolling change around between his fingers.

He spent the day performing his mindless activities, just another nobody stuck in the gears of corporate America.

Toward the end of the day, the tickle that had been nudging at the center of his fantasies was now throbbing with the beginning of what could be considered urgency. 

It was the end of the day that he usually went to the bathroom before he left his place of work.

Today was no exception.

He went into the men’s room, went directly to a stall and reached into his pocket.  From it, he withdrew the items he had been playing with all day.

Lisa Young’s teeth.

With his free hand, he unzipped his pants.

Eight

Ray Mitchell drove through the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, the effects of the recent devastating rains were painfully obvious.  Along many curbs were telltale piles of boxes, mattresses, and old furniture, signs of flooded basements and backed-up sewer mains.

The scavengers, people ranging from antique hunters to trash pickers, had cruised through all the surrounding neighborhoods, hoping to find a treasure buried beneath the piles of water-damaged garbage. 

He passed a home where an old man stood with his garage door open, several card tables had been set up and they were covered with photographs that were warped and curled. Ray idly wondered how many memories would be lost forever, swallowed up by heavy rains and overflowing sewer water.

He turned onto the Menomonee River Parkway and noted that the river's usual quiet gurgle now had a faint roar.  He raised up in his seat to look down the sloping bank of the quiet park and was surprised to see the normally tranquil stream transformed into a raging river. Instead of its usual dark green, the winding column of water had now taken on the color of watery chocolate milk stirred to a frenzy.  The transformative powers of Mother Nature never ceased to amaze Ray. 

Ray saw the two Milwaukee squad cars parked ahead, their lights flashing, and pulled his sedan in behind them.  He locked the doors, then walked down to the small clearing where a small group of people stood. 

Flashing his badge, he addressed the nearest officer.

"Mitchell, homicide.  What do you have?"

The officer Ray addressed was a tall, stocky man with a short crewcut.  He looked more like a Marine than a cop.

"Deceased female," the cop answered.  "Jogger," he nodded his head toward an overweight man in a jogging suit being asked questions by another cop with a notepad, "found the body.  My partner's taking his statement."

"Casey on his way?" Ray asked.  Casey was Paul Casey, the crime scene analyst for the Milwaukee County coroner's office.

"Should be here any minute," the patrol cop answered.

Mitchell began walking toward the body, the cop followed obediently.

"Anything else?" Ray asked.  The sound of the rushing water forced him to raise his voice.

"Watch where you step, the track star over there puked," the cop said.

Ray approached the walking bridge, and saw the body.  He instinctively scanned the surrounding park for anything that looked out of place.  Nothing did.  He checked for signs of disturbance along the bank, but everything looked normal.  The body probably wasn't dumped here, anyway.  Considering how high the river was it could have been disposed of miles back and been carried here by the strong current.  In fact, if it hadn't been for the bridge, the body might have made it all the way out to Lake Michigan.

Images in conflict with the scene in front of him flashed through Ray's mind.  He had been to this very park several times before with his family.  He and Michelle had put Jennifer in the stroller and walked along the winding river with the lush green foliage surrounding it, enjoying the peace and tranquility which seemed oddly out of place just ten minutes from downtown. 

Jennifer, always fascinated by birds, had spent the afternoon pointing at any bird that took to the sky, and Michelle and Ray would tell her whether it was a cardinal, a crow, or in most cases, a sparrow. 

Ray shook his head and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.  He stepped closer and peered down at the body.

The woman whose head was jammed between two railings reminded Ray of Christ on the cross, her shoulders slumped down and her feet trailed in the water, leaving small ripples and waves as they negotiated their way around the obstacle before them.

The pale white sheen of her skin was in severe contrast with the brown, murky water, and it seemed to glow.  

Ray Mitchell walked closer to the dead woman and squatted next to her head, his soft, black leather shoes sank slightly into the muck residue left by the raging water.  Below him, in the water, a turtle poked its head out of the water then just as quickly ducked back under.

There were bruises near the dead girl's temples as well as on both sides of her face.  The woman's upper body was perfectly clear, and Ray noted that it was somewhat muscular, much like her buttocks and legs.  She had probably been somewhat of an athlete Ray thought to himself as he scribbled in his notebook.

Her head was turned so that half of her face was hidden from his view, but the half that Ray could actually see looked quite pretty, in spite of the torn lips and blood stains around her mouth.  Other police officers who had arrived on the scene now stood a respectful distance behind Ray, all of them not wanting to get a glimpse of the gruesome picture on display before them, yet all of them looking just the same.

"Ray," a voice said behind him.

Mitchell turned and saw the short, stocky figure of Paul Casey approaching him.  The crime scene technician held plastic gloves in one hand and what looked to be an old-fashioned black plastic tackle box in the other.

"Morning, Paul." 

Ray stepped away from the body, and made the short walk down the bridge, his shoes making soft sucking sounds as he pulled himself from the river mud at the base of the path.

"You got company, Ray," Casey said with a nod over his shoulder.

Ray peered over the shorter man's shoulder and saw Nancy Bishop, the reporter and scourge of most detectives in Milwaukee's homicide division, approaching.

"Fuck me," Ray said.

With a nod toward the cop with the crewcut, Ray intercepted the reporter.

"As of right now, you are trespassing on a crime scene and interfering with a murder investigation," Ray said.  He knew Bishop had seen the body so there was no secret Ray had a murder on his hands.  "Officer Dockins, please escort Ms. Bishop back to where your partner is taping off the scene.  If she takes one step over that line, arrest her."  Ray turned on his heel.

"What's the matter, Mitchell, aren't you a morning person?" she shouted after the detective.

"No comment," Ray said over his shoulder. 

He could see the crime scene photographer busily snapping pictures.  Ray had a lot to do.  First he had to interview the jogger who found the body and go over the crime scene with a fine tooth comb.  He had to interview the people who lived along the river to find out if anybody had seen anything. 

But first, he desperately needed to find a place to get rid of the coffee still percolating in his bladder. 

Nine

In Mike Sharpe's opinion, the idea behind the commercial was stupid.  It was for Ulti Wax, a company that made car wax.  The concept of the spot was that a woman, having applied a fresh coat of Ulti Wax to her car, pulls up at a toll booth and dumps her change into the bin.  The toll booth attendant, so transfixed by the beauty of the car's wax job, breaks down the door of the toll booth, vaults the bar and chases down the car to find out what brand of car wax the owner had used to get that incredible shine.

Mike spent the morning breaking through a flimsy, paper maché version of a toll both wall, then the afternoon vaulting the restraining bar.  And now he was on his thirtieth take of asking the woman what brand of car wax she used.

Finally, the director yelled "Cut!  That's a wrap," and the crew, who had been languishing around apparently completely devoid of energy, suddenly sprang to life and began tearing down the lights and props with renewed vengeance.

Mike headed straight for the craft table, dug his hand down through the bucket of ice and scooped up a cold can of beer, popped the top and put it to his mouth in one fluid motion.

He couldn't get over this director.  He thought he was Francis Ford Coppola, for Christ's sake.  Strutting around on the set, yelling at the lowest members of the crew, bitching at his assistant, it was embarrassing. 

Jesus, it's just a commercial, Mike thought, and a bad one at that. 

Then again, there were plenty of commercial directors who went on to do feature films, but this guy was clearly going nowhere. 

Looking at the craft table, though, Mike quickly understood why Ulti Wax's advertising agency had gone with him, they apparently had no budget whatsoever.  Mike had seen better food at the YMCA.  He looked at the can of beer in his hand.  Budweiser. 

Well, tonight he was picking up Laurie and they were going to Campinale's on La Brea for a nice meal and a good bottle of wine.  Mike had been there once before where he'd tried a Con Vento that was the best wine he'd ever tasted.  And since he had actually landed a paying gig, the least he could do was take his girlfriend to a nice restaurant.  It had been far too long since he and Laurie had gone anywhere nice, and she was too special a woman to not be treated to a meal of veal chops, red peppers in anchovy sauce, and crème bruleé for dessert, followed by a lovely cappuccino.

Mike's stomach rumbled at the thought of Campinale's menu.  He slammed the rest of his beer and scanned the set for the director, spotted him talking on a cell phone and walked over to him.  Mike debated waiting for him to finish the call but he knew the director would play the power game and delay his time on the phone to make Mike wait.  So Mike took the initiative and held out his hand, which the director shook.  Mike muttered a "Nice workin' with ya'," and turned without waiting for an answer.  He knew he was breaking Hollywood wisdom, which was to kiss everybody's ass, you never knew who would make it big, but it had been too long a day to put up with anymore of that bullshit.

He walked out to his Toyota Camry and pulled onto the freeway.  In L.A. they say you are what you drive, but in Wisconsin the basic philosophy is that you drive what you can afford, and since the Camry had been paid off six years ago, a car payment of zero fit his budget just fine.

Mike had changed into a pressed white cotton shirt with collar, a suede leather sportcoat, and khakis.  A pair of loafers completed the ensemble.  You didn't have to get dressed to the hilt for Campinale's, but you didn't want to look like a slob, either.  California had taken some getting used to for Mike, the first few months he was out here he just couldn't put the sneaking suspicion out of his head that when he went to a restaurant, the waiters were snickering about the farm boy at table eleven.

Truth be told, he had acted a bit like the hayseed come to the big city.  He'd never had a problem with his weight, nor with attracting members of the opposite sex, so for the first twenty-three years of his life he'd never really had to work out.  But it was different in L.A. and after several comments about his pale complexion and lack of tone, he soon joined a health club and hit the weights, losing seven pounds in the process and gaining some rock hard abs.

It wasn't really until he met Laurie at a party that he realized his wardrobe left something to be desired, too.  After they met and started dating, she would occasionally buy him a new shirt or a new pair of pants, shoes, belts, ties, whatever she saw that caught her eye, and she proved to have excellent taste.  As his appearance was vital to his career, he soon began to consider clothes an investment. 

With Laurie at his side, he quickly revamped his entire wardrobe, although because of his limited budget, they had hit the clearance racks at Nordstrom more times than he cared to remember.

He checked his watch and hoped traffic wouldn't hold him up, he didn't want to keep Laurie waiting.  She had a photo shoot near the restaurant and had arranged for a friend to drop her at Campinale's to meet Mike, then they would go home together, hopefully both slightly drunk on some good wine, and make love until sleep ambushed them in the wee hours of the morning.

The orange light of dusk was slowly fading to black when Mike pulled into the restaurant's parking lot, noting with wry amusement the way the parking valets reluctantly decided who had to park the piece of crap pulling up the drive.

There was a small, wooden bench to the left of the main entrance to the restaurant, and it was there that Laurie Bradford was seated.  Upon seeing Mike pull in, she stood and smoothed the folds of her sundress, meeting him halfway down the brick sidewalk.  They embraced and he kissed her firmly, giving her firm body an extra squeeze.

"What's that for?" she asked, smiling.

"That's for you and there's plenty more where that came from," Mike said, taking her hand and guiding her into the restaurant where the maitre d' steered them to a nice table, Mike noted with some satisfaction. 

Mike opened the wine list and selected an Astralis.

"What's the occasion?" Laurie asked.

He leaned forward in his chair, reached across the table, and took her hand into his.

"The occasion is that I’m able to take the woman I love out to a nice dinner."

Laurie smiled as the waiter brought the bottle of wine and popped the cork, then poured a small amount into Mike's glass.  He sipped it, the lush flavor spreading slowly across his tongue, and he nodded to the waiter, who then proceeded to fill their glasses.

Mike raised his glass.

"A toast to the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles, who is now going to tell me about
her
day."

"Thank you, Michael, salud," she said and took a sip of wine.  "Yum.  Okay, the model was late, the light sucked, I burned way too much film and am now hoping that I can turn it into something decent in retouching."

"Wow," he said. 

She laughed.  "Actually, it wasn't that bad, I was testing a new lens and I think I'm going to get some good stuff out of it, but I really do hate working with models.  They seem to think that being attractive on the outside means they can let their personalities stagnate and no one will notice."

"The Hollywood way," Mike offered.  "How's Frank doing?" he asked.  Frank Marconnet was her rep, a flamboyantly gay man whose ostentatious manner disguised a relentless salesman.

"Good, he's got a couple of projects he wants to talk about with me on Monday."

The waiter came and they ordered, then talked at length over their meals about the upcoming weekend.  After the grilled salmon with almonds and chicken and shrimp Creole had been cleared away, Laurie held her cappuccino cup in her hands and eyed Mike.

"I can tell something’s bugging you,” she said.  “Talk to me."

He set his cup down and looked her in the eye.

"I just wish I could accomplish something I'm proud of."  He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling, running his eyes along the slim lamps suspended from taut stainless steel wired around the room, very chic.

"It's like, I bust my ass on these stupid commercials that don't get any attention, and if they do, it's probably bad, I mean these things are horrendous!"

He looked away from Laurie.

"What?" she asked.

"And you."

"Me?"

"I don't want to act like the insecure male, but Jesus, look at us," he raised his arms in an exasperated gesture.

"You're a successful photographer and you're spending your time with some goofball cheesehead who drives an old Toyota with a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it."  He pointed in the general direction of the parking lot for emphasis.

Laurie leaned forward and took Mike's hands into hers.

"Think before you answer the following questions," she said firmly.

Mike nodded.

"Is it really your dream to be an actor in feature films?"

"Yes," he answered quickly.

"Are you doing everything you possibly can to be successful at that endeavor?"

He answered quickly again in the affirmative.

Laurie paused and looked searchingly into his eyes.

"Are you a good actor?"

He let his eyes drop to the tablecloth and he noted the subtle etching on the side of his coffee cup.  He thought for a long time, then slowly nodded.

"I can't hear you."

Mike smiled in spite of himself.

"Yes, I'm a good actor."

Laurie smiled and sat back in her chair as the waiter brought the check.  Mike signed and Laurie took his arm as they headed out to the parking lot.  They didn't say anything until they reached the Toyota.

"I'm sorry if I was being needy," he said to her.

"Forget about it," she said.  "You just needed to be reminded that you're working toward your goal and there's nothing wrong with that."

He kissed her and leaned closer to her ear.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Besides," she said, a twinkle in her eye, "I know in my heart, sure as everyone from Wisconsin smells like stale beer and old cheese, that you, my friend, are one day, going to be a very famous man."

They embraced, then got in the car and pulled away, their taillights merging among the gently swaying palm trees and bright lights of Hollywood.