The Cruelest Cut (15 page)

Eddie drove the van to the North Park Shopping Center and left it in the busiest part of the parking lot. The van was stolen and so were the plates, but not from Evansville, where someone might accidentally find it. The cops in this town were so stupid they would never get him anyway. The only thing he'd done to attract attention so far was beating up that dumb shit at the motel. He'd told Bobby that the cops weren't going to give a shit if some Indian broad got clobbered, what with 9/11 and all that. But Bobby looked pale, and had not said a word since they left the motel except to criticize Eddie for losing his temper.

He had never parked the van at the motel, opting instead to park on a nearby residential street and walk. And he had never used his real name anywhere he stayed. But just to be safe, Eddie decided to leave the van somewhere for a while until he heard the news. See if the cops were looking for him or the van.

He hit on the idea of riding the city bus for a while until he could come up with a plan. No one would pay attention to him on the bus, and he wouldn't have to worry about moving the van until later in the evening, when the lots started clearing off. It wouldn't do to have some nosy cop poking around and running the license plates. He still needed the wheels for a while.

It was a good idea, even if Bobby didn't like it. The only drawback being that a lot of creeps rode the bus. He wondered where the hell they all came from.

Jack had come back agitated and sulking after his meeting with Captain Franklin. Then, in true Jack Murphy style, he immersed himself in work until, after several hours of bitching and moaning, Liddell finally threatened to handcuff Jack unless he went with him to eat. Bigfoot was getting hungry, and it was getting late.

Liddell drove the unmarked Crown Vic east on the Lloyd Expressway while Jack rode in silence. “Guess I'd better speed up a little,” Liddell said, getting no response. “We're supposed to meet the girls at seven, right?” Jack silently stared out the passenger window.

Traffic was light, so Liddell crept up to sixty-five in the fifty-five zone, hoping the troops would recognize his unmarked sedan and not give him any grief. It was almost seven o'clock, and he had promised Marcie they would be there at seven o'clock sharp.

“So Double Dick is really the chief now?” Liddell said in disbelief.

Jack grunted in reply, not wanting to think about it anymore. When Franklin had asked to see him that afternoon, he would never have guessed that it was to tell him that Dick was assuming the reins as police chief. Marlin Pope had taken vacation and was waiting to be reassigned, or if the rumors were to be believed, possibly retire.

The news of the chief being replaced shoved Mother Goose out of the limelight, and the “hastily arranged” press conference was so elaborate that it must have been planned for years. The press conference was held in front of the Civic Center that evening, and the incoming chief, Richard Dick, had assured the public that his primary focus would be on catching the killer. When asked if the police had any leads on the murders, Dick responded by blaming Marlin Pope for “dropping the ball.”

Jack had always known it was a possibility that Chief Pope would be replaced by the incoming mayor's appointee. But it was also just as easy to believe that a plane would drop from out of the sky on top of him. And the longer the new mayor hesitated in removing Pope and replacing him with Double Dick, the more relaxed Jack had become. It had been two years, halfway through the mayor's term, and it just didn't make sense to change horses in midstream, so to speak.

But what really bothered Jack was the thought that his interview at Channel Six might have been the straw that broke the camel's back. He would never forgive himself if he was the reason Hensley had replaced Pope with a media whore like Double Dick.

Although his own mood was somber, Liddell seemed to be in good spirits, as he thumped out a beat on the steering wheel.

“What are you so happy about?” Jack said.

Liddell looked at him and grinned. “I'm not happy. I'm just not unhappy.”

Jack was unhappy. Liddell continued to thump on the wheel, and it was getting annoying. “You want to stop that?” Jack said, grumpily.

“Don't you like Bon Jovi?” Liddell said, and then started singing loudly while Jack stared out the window.

When they pulled up outside the Olive Garden restaurant, Liddell spotted Marcie's car with Marcie and Susan standing beside it.

“Hello, girls,” Liddell said, and then put his arm around his wife.

“You look beat,” Susan said to Jack as they all entered the restaurant.

“That good, huh?”

Susan knew what was bothering him, but she also knew that Jack wouldn't talk until he was ready.

 

Sunset Park covered a sprawling ten acres of riverfront along the east side of the Evansville Museum. Before Eddie went to prison, it was nothing more than woods, trails, and a couple of outhouses. Now the wooded areas had been thinned out, eliminating the need for trails, and the outhouses had been replaced with restroom facilities like you saw along the interstates. There was also a playground for the kiddies called Kids' Kingdom.

While Eddie was still inside, he had talked to a couple of junkies from Evansville that told him two cops had been responsible for raising the money and supplies to build it.

Wouldn't they just love to see what I'm going to do with it?
he thought, and had to smile as he spotted the perfect place to leave the next body.

 

The stray cat's neck snapped like a twig in Eddie's strong hands. He liked cats, but he needed the blood, and Kids' Kingdom seemed to attract the scarred-up tomcats like catnip, so there was no shortage of targets.

He'd brought a knapsack with him and had three other dead cats stowed away in it near the monkey bars. Taking a folding Buck knife from his pocket, he slashed the throat of the cat he was holding upside down by the tail and let the blood drip, creating a trail down the narrow sidewalk between the teeter-totter and the swing set, past the jungle gym made to look like a castle with turrets and murder holes, leading to the monkey bars. He smeared the last of the drained cat's blood on the note he pulled from a pocket and dropped the cat.

He stuck the note to the upright wooden post of the monkey bars with the Buck knife. He then hung all the cats by their necks from the monkey bars and was about to leave when he heard the voice behind him say, “Mister, you shouldn't do that to them kitties.”

Eddie was startled. He had been so caught up in his work that he hadn't noticed anyone approaching. From what he could see, the boy looked no older than fifteen.

“I'm playing a joke on a friend,” Eddie said to the boy.

The boy was very fair of hair and skin. Even in the darkness he seemed to glow with the vitality of youth, and Eddie knew at that moment he would kill him.

“What you doing out here at night?” Eddie asked the boy.

The kid didn't even blush. He looked Eddie in the eye and said, “I need money. I come here to make money for me and my mom.”

Eddie had spent a lot of his youth in prison. He'd seen these punks before, just not this young. It infuriated him that this kid was coming on to him. But the way the kid talked and looked made him think of a rhyme from the Mother Goose book.

“Monday's child,” Eddie said, and the boy looked querulous. “That's what I'm naming you,” Eddie explained.

“Whatever, mister,” the boy said.

“Monday's child is fair of face,” Eddie said sweetly, “but the child born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe and good and…
gay
.”

It was getting nasty out, drizzling rain and threatening to storm. The boy just wanted to make a few bucks for some smokes and then head home.

“Mister, it's starting to rain. You want something from me or not?”

“Yes,” Eddie answered. “I certainly do.”

The corn knife slashed down.

Jack had left the Olive Garden and drove straight to his cabin. Alone. He didn't have the energy or desire for love-making with Susan, and admitting that to himself was just another failure. He'd been unable to keep any meaningful relationship for long, and had justified this by feeling that his work was important and meaningful. But what had he really done? The Lewises were dead. Timmy Ryan and Elaine Lamar's children were all dead. He'd been impotent to stop the killer, and there was no miracle drug, like Viagra or Cialis, to aid him with that.

Jack slept fitfully for less than four hours when the call came in from dispatch. Another body had been found. Jack dressed and picked Liddell up at home, making his apologies to a yawning Marcie, and they drove in silence toward the scene. Liddell was subdued for a change, and that was demoralizing as well.

The crime scene mobile unit was already on scene, and a uniformed officer strung yellow caution tape across the parking lot entrance to the park behind their car. Halogen lamps were set up on tripods and plugged in to the power generator on the mobile unit. When the lights came on, Jack looked in horror at the scene in front of him.

Almost every surface of the playground equipment was smeared with dark stains that could only be blood, and still looked wet in the harsh lights. Crime scene techs snapped photos from every angle as they worked their way toward the center of the scene where the body of what appeared to be a young boy was hanging by the neck from the center bar of the monkey bars. He was cadaverously thin, face twisted into a surprised look, and his bare feet were not touching the ground. What appeared to be a pile of clothing lay under his naked body, and on top of that his insides had spilled out. On both sides of him, hanging from the other bars, were the carcasses of cats, all strangled, like the boy. All gutted, like the boy, with their entrails hanging down.

Jack turned his back on the scene and took some deep breaths. As he looked toward Waterworks Road, he could see the lights of Two-Jakes restaurant in the distance. His cabin was only another mile or so downriver from there. This was the second murder that had been committed almost in his backyard.

Kids' Kingdom had been opened to the public less than a year ago. It was the brainchild of two Evansville policemen, both with children, who had taken it upon themselves to raise the money, material, and support to build a playground safe for children and parents alike. This particular patch of ground had been home to “night people” for years and was known as “Blow-job Alley” for as long as Jack could remember. It had been a hangout for dopers, sexual deviants, and the insane.

But Kids' Kingdom had changed that. The trees had been cleared to make room for swing sets, jungle gyms, seesaws, and other playground equipment. Although the city of Evansville had donated the property for the project, it had been slow with assistance in the form of utilities. Port-a-johns were finally replaced with a nice restroom facility, but there was still no lighting except in the parking area. The current mayor, Thatcher Hensley, had cited budget concerns as the holdup in getting adequate lights in the area. This coming from a man who had run for election on a platform of crime prevention.

Liddell walked up beside Jack and stood stiffly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “He's not human,” Liddell muttered.

“I demand to be let in,” said a voice from the parking area, and when Jack turned he saw Maddy Brooks and a cameraman attempting to get through the caution tape.

Jack wasn't sure how she had managed to get that close to the crime scene, but something in him snapped and he acted without thinking.

“Don't do it, Jack!” Liddell yelled, grabbing at Jack's coat sleeve but missing.

Jack reached the yellow tape, grabbed Maddy's arm, and dragged her underneath. “You want to see this up close? Okay! You got it, lady!”

Maddy came willingly the first few yards, but then, upon seeing the grisly scene at the monkey bars, turned her head away and tried to stop. But Jack still had her arm and dragged her to within feet of the dangling body whose intestines hung to the ground. She pulled her eyes away and looked around at the gutted cats. Her shoe kicked something soft, and when she looked down, she was standing on the mangled remains of yet another cat. This one had been partially skinned with flaps of fur stuck to the meat.

“Oh my God!” she moaned. She tried to yank her arm away, but Jack held on tightly, and shoved her toward the boy's body.

“Go on,” he yelled, “take a good look! You need all the facts. Go on. I said look, damn you!”

He let go, and Maddy fled toward the yellow tape with one hand over her mouth, the other clutching her stomach, and made retching sounds. Jack didn't care.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He was almost certainly going to be taken off the case or suspended, or both, anyway, so he may as well go out with style.

Liddell caught up with Jack and moved in front of him, trying to block the cameraman's view. “Jesus, Jack,” he said. “What's got into you, pod'na?”

Jack was embarrassed, but he was still angry. “I've got to leave before I go over there and shove that camera up her ass.”

“Come on, Jack, don't let them get to you,” Liddell was saying, just as one of the crime scene technicians came up.

“Jack, you'd better come take a look at this,” said the tech.

 

Jack was still examining the body when Captain Franklin arrived at the scene. Franklin walked up to the detectives and said, “What happened with her?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder indicating Maddy Brooks, who was being comforted by her cameraman. He seemed to ignore the grisly scene in front of him, as if a boy and some cats mutilated and hanging from monkey bars were an everyday sight.

“You don't want to know, Captain,” Jack assured him, knowing that Maddy would get her pound of flesh from him later. “But take a look at this.”

Captain Franklin moved around to the back of the body, where Jack and Liddell were standing, and the crime scene tech shined a bright flashlight on the boy's back. Carved into the boy's flesh were the letters:

 

Jack

 

“Ahh, shit!” Franklin said and looked away.

 

Eddie slept. In his dream he was in his old room, in his old bed. A part of his mind knew that was impossible because the house had burnt up with the preacher still in it. But here he was, in his room, in his bed, listening. Listening closely. He knew the noise would come, and his heart thundered in his chest.

Where is Bobby? his dreaming mind wondered. Why isn't he in the room? But then he remembered that the preacher had locked them both in the basement and had let only Eddie out to confess his sins. And Bobby had been left in the dark, dirt-floored basement with the spiders and other creepy stuff, but Eddie had been told to go to his room, where the preacher said he would be along shortly to administer his punishment.

Eddie waited for his punishment to come. He'd been a bad boy because the preacher had caught him and Eddie reading from a Mother Goose book instead of the Good Book during one of the preacher's daily services. The preacher hadn't punished them right on the spot, in front of his tiny congregation. He'd waited until the service was over, and then he'd shaken hands with everyone and smiled and told them how much he appreciated them coming to listen to the Lord's message, and how he would pray for all of them. And then when the congregation members were all out of the little one-room church attached to the preacher's two-bedroom house, he and Bobby had been led painfully by their ears to the basement's trapdoor hidden behind the pulpit. The preacher had made Eddie yank the door open, and both boys had been shoved brutally into the darkness below.

Eddie waited and remembered how he hated the preacher, how he wanted to kill him, how Bobby promised they'd get even one day, and he was about to remember something else when he heard the sound he'd been dreading.

The creak of the stairs was sharp in the darkness of his room, and he wondered why it was so dark.
Is it always this dark?
he wondered, but he couldn't remember.

There came the sound of metal on metal, something turning, the doorknob, the latch to his door. His heart pounded so hard his chest hurt, and he wanted to scream but he couldn't
.

“Wake up, bro. Wake up, man,” Bobby said, and Eddie snapped out of the dream. His hands shook. He was embarrassed to find he had an erection, and he wondered what the fuck was wrong with him. He hoped Bobby wouldn't notice he had a hard-on, and he shoved his hands into his lap.

“You were dreaming about the preacher again, weren't you?” Bobby said. “You were dreaming about what he did to you. What
he
made
us
do to him.”

Eddie pounded his fists on his thighs and began to cry.

 

The old man and his dog were in the back of a police cruiser. He was petting the dog's head and muttering soothing things to the little Jack Russell terrier. The dog seemed calmer than the man.

Jack was surprised to see it was the same old gentleman who'd found the body of Timothy Ryan.

“This guy should play the lottery,” Liddell said.

“This would not be an example of good luck,” Jack responded. “If it was the lottery, he'd probably get a ticket that said he owed them money.”

“Yeah. Guess you're right. By the way, his name is Duke Gibson,” Liddell said.

“The dog or the man?” Jack said, and then added, “Never mind. Bad joke.”

Jack opened the back passenger door of the police car and leaned down to scrub the dog's head. “Mr. Gibson, I'm Detective Murphy. You remember my partner, Liddell Blanchard?”

The man nodded his head straight up and down and tried to swallow. “What's going to happen to me?” he asked nervously.

Liddell straightened up so the old man wouldn't see him smiling. Jack looked at the man and said, “Mr. Gibson, this is a very serious police matter, and I expect you to tell us everything you know.”

“What'll happen to me then?” he asked.

“Then the police officer here”—Jack pointed to the uniformed officer whose car they were using—“will take you and your dog home. I don't want you coming back down here until we catch whoever did this. Do you understand, Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand, and I thank you for not taking me in, Detective Murphy. You're a good man. Thank you, sir.”

Jack straightened up and grinned at Liddell. “You want to do the honors again?” he asked.

Liddell theatrically rubbed his hands together and said in a high-pitched voice, “Oh, I'll get him, my pretty—and his little dog, too.”

Jack shook his head and walked off to interview the uniformed officers and anyone else that had information about this, which included two fire paramedic units, an ambulance crew, neighbors living around the area, dispatchers, and the original call taker. It would be a long morning.

His cell phone rang, and it was Liddell.

“The old man said his dog was acting funny, then took off running ahead of him. By the time he caught up with the dog on the playground, he said the dog was carrying something around in its mouth.”

“Let me guess,” Jack said. “A dead cat.”

“Yeah.”

“Better tell the crime scene guys that there may be dog hair contaminating the scene,” Jack said.

“I'll do it,” Liddell said and hung up.

What a cluster fuck,
Jack thought.