After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (21 page)

“Is the world a failure, or are some of us just
failures?” Mika says.

There’s no real answer. Her mind is just wading
through the morass, part of the post-traumatic thing.

“Does a guy like Gates plead insanity before
God?”

She needs to get it out with someone who cares. I
understand what she is going through.

“The shield says Fidelity, Bravery, and
Integrity––not assassin.”

“Don’t even go there. Sometimes a situation requires
violence. You saved my life.”

She just became a member of the club. Few of us join
by desire. The militia girl paid for my membership. Her facial
expression changes from angry to uncertain. She alternately
dominates the conversation then goes stone silent. Mika is
analyzing, rationalizing. It comes with the territory. For her the
color of truth has changed from black and white, to a medium shade
of gray. The nightmares will come later.

“Back in 1999, I arrested a skinny, drug-infested,
white-trash biker girl who was responsible for numerous robberies,
rapes, abductions and murders. She flirted with me as I drove her
in. Said she wanted to have Hard-core sex with me in the backseat.
Didn’t faze me at all, I just did my job. Two years ago, I took
down a male suspect, a Latin Kings enforcer named Bobby ‘Bang-
Bang’ Benitez. He had just ‘hotshot’ a drug dealing competitor with
a syringe full of battery acid. The remains of the victim grossed
out all of the guys, but I took it without a problem.”

She takes a sip, pauses.

“Last year, I bagged another female suspect with so
many rough edges a sandblaster couldn’t smooth her out. She had
bleached blond hair, crooked teeth and a miniskirt that covered her
snatch by a hair. Singlehandedly, that goddess had bludgeoned and
stabbed four people. I hauled her ass in and never once had the
slightest urge to vomit.”

Mika’s stories are nauseating me. I put my beer down
on the table. I know what’s coming next.

“But Gates, Michael
goddamn
Gates, bothers
me.”

After a few heartbeats pass I tell her.

“I don’t think you heard most of what he said in
there. It might make it a little easier.”

“No I didn’t, I got there a few minutes before you
came out.”

As I speak, I see Gates sitting in that
interrogation room with a demonic look in his dark eyes.

“He professed bizarre, fanatic religious views, and
anti-government rhetoric, his preference for castration. He said if
he was horny, he’d get it on with the corpse, At times, he was
perfectly calm then he’d flip into a rage. Not once did he show any
indication of remorse. He made up some story about Lori and Abrams.
God only knows how many corpses he actually left decomposing. He
was up to twenty plus when you––”

I catch myself and apologize. She moves right past
my apology.

“There was a guy in Russia, a guy named Rostov, who
dismembered and disemboweled his victims. He ate their testicles
after boiling them. As far as Gates’ bragging about the
quantity
of victims, he has a long way to go to pass up at
least two others, one from Peru and one from Italy. And then
there’s Dr. Harold Shipman from Britain.”

The server drops off two more cold ones, but neither
of us is interested in getting wasted. It’s my turn.

“Strangely enough, Gates was a religious guy, full
of God, penance, right and wrong––confessing. Obviously, he didn’t
get it, the right and wrong part.”

“Religion has always been a breeding ground for
terror,” Mika says.

After a half-smile and a nod, I continue about
Gates’ sick mental state, how he believed in what he was doing, and
how he enjoyed murder.

“Of course, he enjoyed it.”

Not surprised, she asks whether or not Gates
mentioned anything about his sleeping habits, or pattern.

“Nocturnal insomniac.”

“Makes sense.”

She looks casually around the room and notices that
the televised National League baseball game is interrupted with a
news report about the shooting. No one else in the bar pays
attention. We can see the report, but miss most of what is being
said. The report cuts to Harmon briefing the reporters, followed by
a photo of Gates, followed by an old precinct photo of Mika.

“Well, it didn’t take them long did it?” she
says.

“It never does. Get ready for the second-guessing.
They come at you from all sides, dissecting your every move. The
problem is they weren’t there. They just know the outcome, the end
result.”

“Anything about his childhood, siblings, parents?”
she says.

He gave me the standard abusive, unstable,
dysfunctional family speech. Swore he didn’t do drugs. He also
said, and I don’t if it’s relevant, that he abstained from killing
when he and Abrams were together.”

Mika’s internal hard drive downloads and processes
the information.

“And he returned to the scene, that’s the first time
I’ve come across that in all of these cases. I should have put
surveillance on the victim’s funerals. He might have attended one,
or possibly all of them.”

She looks past me. I want to give her as much
background information as I can, but I can’t help tossing out my
opinion.

“He gave me a story about why he finally led us to
his front door, but it didn’t make sense.”

“Gates was a serial killer. He doesn’t have to make
sense––premeditative and spontaneous, targets familiar victims and
strangers, antiseptic, yet he leaves enough evidence to hang
himself at the last one. I think he’s created a profile category
all his own.”

“He needed to die.”

“He wasn’t afraid of dying, he was more afraid of
living. Maybe he finally realized that he was a monster. He didn’t
say ‘thank you’ to be sarcastic, he said it because he meant it.
Self-destruction for some reason was impossible for him. He needed
someone else to finish it.”

“Like I said, he needed to die.”

Harmon tracked us down. His face is changed. He’s
different now. Being thrust into the loneliness of command, and the
circumstances surrounding, it’s taking an early toll on him. He
isn’t smiling, but then again there really isn’t anything to smile
about.

“It wasn’t hard finding you two. You can bet the
reporters will figure it out soon enough, so I wouldn’t hang around
here too much longer, unless you want to be in the spotlight.”

He talks just above a whisper and looks cautiously
around the bar. Cop eyes scan.

“Jake, maybe you should take Mika––”

“Are you crazy? I’m a federal officer.”

Mika tries to throttle down the remark, but she
draws some unwanted attention from the other patrons anyway.

“I can handle it,” she says.

“Jake, explain it to her, I’m not in the mood.”

“Harmon’s right, you’re going to need some room to
recover, decompress maybe not right this minute, but it will start
to dog you soon.”

Mika takes a hard look at both of us.

“I know you both mean well, but I can handle it. I
need to finish this.”

Her lips firm up and the look in her eyes clearly
says the discussion is over. I’ve known Mika long enough to know
she isn’t going to change her mind. It’s time to swing the
conversation in another direction. Harmon looks like he needs a
boost to take the edge off.

“So Harmon, do I call you Chief Blackwell now?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘Chief’. Do you mean a
respectful Chief Inspector Blackwell, or do you mean like an Indian
wisecrack thing?”

“I’m going with the wisecrack thing.”

“Funny Roberts, there isn’t enough on my plate right
now, so I need some of your adolescent behavior?”

Ouch.

The day has changed everything. The old Harmon is
gone, replaced by one that’s all business. I’ll have to find a new
way to cope because the jokes aren’t going to smooth out the rough
spots anymore. No jokes and no more helpers. I need Lori time.

“Any new information since we’ve been gone?”

Harmon leans forward on his two large elbows.

“Butzer and Rabinowitz found course materials from
the university’s Criminal Justice Department that describe how
various crimes are committed and crime scene investigation. There
were also books on psychology and profiling.”

He glances at Mika and then looks for a server.

“They were in a closet in his room at his parents’
home along with a file full of obituaries. The guys are comparing
names to the victims he claims.”

He waves at the bartender to get his attention.

“In the apartment he was living in, paid for I might
add by Abrams, they found gray flesh trophies––skulls, hands,
various anatomy parts––all packaged, catalogued and labeled by
Gates.”

“Bet mom and dad are proud.”

Harmon and Mika deliver disapproving looks at me.
Apparently, my level of compassion exists at a point somewhat lower
than theirs. I just can’t understand how two parents can fail to
notice that junior’s seriously different than the rest of the
kids.

“The
parents
, Detective Roberts, are
understandably traumatized as any parent would be after finding out
such horrific things about their son.”

Harmon is stern. I shrug while running a mental list
of the evidence. I tell Mika about the CD and ask her if it has any
significance.

“It must have had meaning to Gates,” Mika says.

“Course we won’t find out why now.”

His subtle reference brings an unfortunate spike of
reality to Mika, but she immediately dismisses the remark.

“Everything suggests he’s our man,” she says.

“Why do you think he gave up?”

Harmon tosses in his supposition.

“In early Rome, the soldiers used to swear an oath
by holding their testicles. They didn’t place their hands over
their hearts, or on a bible. That’s where the word ‘testify’ comes
from, the root word is ‘testes.’ Maybe Gates thought someone was
sooner, or later, going to cut his off.”

“Maybe he just wanted to be somebody,” Mika
says.

It’s painfully obvious we’re pretty much brain dead
by now. The emotional reserves are depleted as well. All I can
think about is getting some sleep. I look at Mika.

“Want me to––”

“No, I’m going back with Harmon. I need to look at
some files before I go to sleep. I’m way too wired right now.”

I give her my “are you sure?” look.

“Yes, I’m sure. I want to look into them while it’s
all still fresh in here.”

She points to the side of her head and gives me one
of her reassuring smiles.

“Thanks Jake, but I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, then just call me
Hibernate Jake
. I’m
going home and try to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

Harmon gives me a hard look. He places a hand on my
shoulder for emphasis.

“Jake, I’m serious about this. I don’t want you
taking any more of those pills, do you hear me?”

Harmon isn’t speaking as my friend and partner, now
he is “the man” giving me a strict warning, but he’s right. I reach
into my pocket, grab the small prescription bottle and hand it to
him.

“Now
I’ll
sleep better tonight,” he says.

* * *

The very moment dusk turns to night, the
streetlights illuminate. The city transforms into silhouettes and
heavy hues. The residents of my city bathe in the shadows and morph
into people they weren’t only an hour before.

The nature of the job requires constant evaluation
and reevaluation. I’m stuck in this cerebral vortex about my
ferocious craving for Lori, versus my career. Maybe I need to throw
the big cosmic switch, and take a chance on a life outside of the
badge. Maybe I’m just too tired and hallucinating. Everything
revolves around my job. It has always been my reason for
living.

I wonder if it’s too late to call.

In my righteous opinion, Lori has saved me. I was
faltering, struggling and drowning in despair when she came along.
She has the capacity to take away my pain with a simple word, or a
single look. She understands, and knows exactly what I mean without
a need for a long dissertation. When she’s with me, I don’t feel
lost.

I’m going to take a hot, steamy shower, wash the job
off then give her a call. I want to hear her smoky, sensuous
voice.

Standing at my front door with my key in hand, I
think about spending the rest of my life with her. I could be happy
just watching a burning sunset with her. Peace, I need peace in my
life, and I believe Lori’s my answer and my salvation, amen.

* * *

The kitchen had always been a place of refuge for
her. She found it easier to push away the troublesome thoughts
there. Food preparation, particularly the cutting motion of a knife
against meat, or poultry, replaced other more grisly
recollections.

Lori was dining alone again. She missed having
someone, a companion to be with. As she sliced through the tomatoes
for her dinner salad, the dark memories pass through her mind. Her
husband had been an angry, vicious man who was marinated in
alcohol. The beatings she had endured, and the sexual abuses of
Emily, were both mentally and physically devastating. There were
times when she felt so loved that the horror disappeared in a
mist.

The knife she was using to cut the tomatoes was the
very same one that ended his miserable life.

She claimed that Mr. Powers had abandoned them, and
even had the presence of mind to file a missing person’s report
with the police. The search went on for years, but he never turned
up. Friends and neighbors believed her when she said he ran off.
There was no extended family of his to contest the accusation. It
was suggested that he couldn’t handle the responsibilities of
married life and a child. Some thought he left with another woman.
Whenever asked about it Lori cried real tears, and everyone
sympathized with her. They never knew the tears were for what she
couldn’t confess. As more time passed, they understood when Lori
and Emily Powers became distant from them.