Criss Cross (6 page)

M
icah careened through the dark Newark streets to the homicide department. He screeched into a parking space. Jumping out of the car he left the door wide open. He raced up the steps. Just as he reached the door, Nugent opened it.

“Micah, this one is really bad. Wolfgang is waiting for you.” Nugent hurried to keep pace with Micah as he ran to Wolfgang's office.

As they passed through the corridors, Micah could see the detectives and police officers were in high gear. A storm was definitely brewing.

Several officers looked up as Micah ran by with Nugent at his heels. Reaching Wolfgang's office, he pushed open the door without waiting for an invitation.

The big man was standing and waiting to greet him. Immediately upon Micah's entrance, Wolfgang said, “I'm sorry about interrupting your evening, Micah, but I need you on this.”

Wolfgang ran a weary hand through his hair.

Micah waved the statement away irritably. “Forget it, Wolfgang. What's up?”

Nugent and Wolfgang exchanged looks. The air bristled with an electric current. Micah placed one hand on Wolfgang's desk and the other on his hip, exuding arrogance and anger in one swift move. “What's going down?”

Wolfgang walked over to the window. He looked out over the city of Newark. He had decided to bring Micah to the office rather than the crime scene so he could brief him and they could ride together to the scene.

Micah waited. Nugent watched them both through half-closed eyes.

“We need to take a ride. Someone is killing our children.”

A hollow pain ripped through Micah's gut. “Then let's go.”

Micah, Wolfgang, and Nugent sped to the crime scene on Clinton Avenue. They pulled into the driveway just beyond where the police had cordoned off the scene. The area was crowded with policemen. Micah jumped out before the car came to a halt.

He walked up to Sidney Bowden, the charge officer. “Nobody touched anything here. Right?”

Sidney shook his head. “No one has touched a thing, sir. We've been waiting for you. Once you're done, we'll go to work.” Micah nodded his approval.

Sidney pointed to a nearby Dumpster. “In there,” he said. Micah gave him a look that could fry bacon. Then he walked over to the Dumpster. A vivid red thick substance was splattered across the Dumpster. It read “‘X' was here.” Micah blinked.

He climbed a small plastic-covered step stool that had been placed near the Dumpster. He turned around and Nugent handed him latex gloves before he could ask the question. Micah nodded his thanks.

He leaned over and peered into the Dumpster. An awful evil stared back at him. Micah was unprepared for what he saw. The nude body of a six-year-old boy lay in the Dumpster. The child lay in his own urine and feces. The boy's body was drenched in blood. The carving of an “X” had split open the middle of his chest.

His eyes stared at the twilight of the sky. They were filmed over with a glaze that only enhanced the petrified look in them.

Rigid eternity glared at Micah. The child's last expression was one of scathing, horrid fear. The fear was so cloying that even after death it hung in the air. Micah could feel it.

The nails in the child's body were rusty, ragged and much too large for the size of the child's hands and legs. They had torn and ripped the skin, leaving a trail of ragged, jagged skin, ripped and torn with blood trailing out.

A foamy, white, creamy substance streamed from the boy's lips. The child's mouth was thrown open as though a desperate plea were trying to escape it and it had gotten strangled in the creamy substance.

Micah had dealt with more homicides than he could count during his career. Some were of a caliber that he would never forget. This homicide carried a level of its own. It was a clear breach. Micah was staring at depravity at its highest level. He choked back the bile that rose in his throat.

One hand stroked his chin. His eyes were glued to the contents inside the Dumpster. He opened his mouth to speak, but discovered that only air hissed out; no words had come forth.

And then he saw her from the corner of his eye. Weeping Willow. She was standing at the rim of the garbage Dumpster; her arms were outstretched reaching out to him. Tears streamed in a steady cascade down her cheeks.

Her hair blew out behind her. She looked down on the child in the garbage can. When her eyes met Micah's they were filled with despair. Her tears continued to flow.

Micah felt a cold draft. He was chilled to the bone. Weeping Willow hadn't uttered a single word. She never did. As Micah watched, she disappeared into the mist of the night.

He knew it was useless to ask if anyone else had seen her. If they had they would have spoken because she had no right to be inside the crime scene.

Micah hadn't seen her since his eighteenth birthday. Now, here she was back again. To make matters worse, a child lay in front of him, split open to the gills, with the same mark that continually haunted him.

He turned to look at Wolfgang and Nugent. He tried again to form the words. They finally came out of his mouth sounding short and clipped. “The boy looks to be about six years old. He's been sliced. An ‘X' is branded into his forehead.”

Micah leaned over the boy's body. He read the blood-splattered note that was nailed in his neck. The note was printed in the flowing script of a computer: “What Is The Tie That Binds?”

Micah climbed down from the Dumpster. He mentally ordered his legs to follow his commands because suddenly his legs were operating like jelly. He was shaky and weak, as a tremor rode through his arms and legs.

There were few things in life that had ever truly riled Micah. Nothing had ever rendered him immobile. But seeing this slaughtered child, thrown away like so much garbage was one of them.

Only years of discipline, training, and professionalism held back the fit that was brewing just below his surface. He wanted to hurt somebody.

Micah yelled to Sidney, “Get this boy out of the garbage and be careful with him. I need to know if there has been any sexual contact.” Micah walked away from the scene to get into the car.

Wolfgang pushed him a step farther into the dark abyss he was about to enter. “There's another one. They're holding the scene on Hawthorne Avenue for us.”

Micah didn't respond. He slid into the passenger seat. They raced off to the next scene.

 

 

When Micah, Wolfgang, and Nugent walked in the door on Hawthorne Avenue they were immediately assaulted with the horrific nature that left no respect for human life.

Splashed haphazardly in blood across the walls was the question, “What Is The Tie That Binds?” The sign of the “X” beckoned. “‘X' was here” completed the message.

Micah crossed the room to a small bundle that lay on the floor. He looked down, observing the same age and pattern as that of the boy on Clinton Avenue. This time there was no Weeping Willow.

Micah's mind raced, reviewing the pattern of the killer. Creating a profile for him. Thinking out loud, he said, “These murders have Silky's signature on them. We might be dealing with a copycat.”

A scream shattered and penetrated the insulated world inside the apartment. Nakisha Thompson stood in the doorway. She was the mother of the six-year-old victim.

She stared at the body of her son on the floor. A high-pitched wail flew from her lips, “Rasheem! Oh my God! Rasheem! That's my baby. Rasheem, get up. Rasheem! Get up baby, get up now!”

Nakisha stepped forward. The shock etched on her face turned it into a porcelain vision. She trembled. Then she collapsed. One of the uniformed policemen caught her as she fell. She slumped in his arms.

Micah stared at the boy's mother. Violent rage swept through him at her pain. His heart thumped. But he managed to hold himself in rigid control.

A sudden movement outside the window caught Micah's eye. There was someone out on the fire escape. His face was painted white. His eyes were circled in red and black paint. So was his nose. His head was covered in a black skullcap. He was totally outfitted in black. And he was peering in the window.

“What the—? Is that a mime?” Micah was bugging. Hell no. Who the hell was outside on the fire escape of his murder scene? What the hell? Did they think this was some kind of game?

The face disappeared from the window as Micah approached. Momentarily it appeared again. The mime pulled long eyes and a sad face at Micah.

That was it. Micah lunged in the direction of the windowsill. He saw the mime's black-clad legs race past the window.

He shot a quick glance at Nugent. “I want him. Block off everything in the area, including the sewers.”

Nugent barked orders at the officers in the room. Micah leaped out the window onto the fire escape in time to see the mime jump off the bottom of the fire escape. He followed at a rapid speed. The chase was on.

The mime whizzed through alleyways knocking over everything in his way. Micah was right on his heels.

He raced ahead only to find a solid wall of cement blocking his path. He had run into a dead end.

He looked around, wildly searching for an out. Finding no escape, he frantically turned to face the wrath that was Micah Jordan-Wells.

He looked at Micah's enraged features. The gun was pointed at his forehead. “Halt! Don't move!” Micah shouted. He saw Micah's lips moving. He was shouting at him. But, he couldn't hear a word Micah said.

A sound like that of a wounded animal rose out of the mime's lips. He shrank to the wall. He raised his hands in the air. He looked sadly at Micah. Tears spilled out from his painted eyes.

L
ater that night in the interrogation room of the homicide department, Micah stood watching the mime. He was sitting forlornly in a chair. He sipped nervously from a glass of water.

The door burst open. Nugent raced up to Micah with the investigative information. “Micah, this is Ronnie Schaefer. He is the Thompson boy's neighbor.”

Micah didn't budge or remove his gaze from Ronnie. Nugent continued. “Nakisha Thompson confirmed his identity. He's a deaf mute, Micah. He can't hear or speak. Ronnie Schaefer is nineteen years old. He's a friend of Rasheem and Nakisha's. He's dressed as a mime for a neighborhood Halloween party. We've checked. Everything is in order. There's no way he committed the murder.”

Micah continued to watch Ronnie while processing Nugent's information. “He saw the murderer. He knows who he is. He knows who killed Rasheem Thompson. He's not leaving until I know who killed Rasheem.”

Nugent sputtered, “Micah, even the babysitter doesn't know . . . she—”

Micah brusquely cut Nugent off. “I said he knows. I can see it in his eyes. Get me an interpreter and the police sketch artist.”

Micah didn't care about the distraught babysitter, who had carelessly left a six-year-old child alone in the apartment, while she flirted with her boyfriend in front of the building. She couldn't provide a clue to this insanity. She'd walked back into the apartment to find the child had been slaughtered in her absence. On Halloween night, like a scene from some grotesque movie.

Ronnie Schaefer was a different story. He had seen the killer. There was no doubt. Micah knew he had seen him. How to carefully craft it out of him was the only question. The reflection of something haunting and terror-stricken was mirrored in the pools of Ronnie Schaefer's eyes.

Ronnie looked at Micah who never took his eyes off of him. He suddenly jumped up from his seat. He signed wildly at Nugent. He ran up to Nugent and grabbed him desperately.

He appeared to want to be away from Micah. He gestured wildly at Nugent. His eyes begged Nugent to understand.

Nugent looked at Micah—whom he knew was seething. Micah was about to blow. He glanced briefly at Ronnie Schaefer who definitely was not helping matters and said, “Why don't you take a break man. Let me try. Just take a break for a minute. Okay?”

Micah stalked to the door without another word. He flung it open leaving the room. He slammed it shut behind him. He should not have. On the other side of the door, the dead boy who had been lying in the Dumpster the last time Micah had seen him was walking through the hall. He turned his head to look at Micah.

A sharp gasp of air flew upwards from Micah's insides. A loud voice boomed through the hall saying, “Dead boy walking. Dead boy walking.”

The child suddenly stopped walking. He turned to face Micah, a full frontal impact. Micah stood stock-still. A force blew the child against the wall. His body was turned upside down. Ragged nails flew into every inch of his body, nailing him to the wall.

Blood literally flew out of the body of the splayed child. A multitude of the ragged nails carved the boy's flesh into the illustration of an “X.” The “X” turned into a flaming inferno before Micah's eyes. And then, there was laughter.

Micah leaned over, his body racked with dry heaves. He looked up to discover the entire hallway was deserted. He watched in stupefied repulsion as the “X” erased itself from the wall. All traces of what he'd seen had vanished.

Micah grabbed his head as pain of a terrific magnitude tore through his brain and squeezed tight.

 

 

One hour later, having composed himself, Micah was on the other side of the glass looking into the interrogation room. His icy gaze took in the transpiring scene. Nugent, Ronnie Schaefer, the interpreter and the police sketch artist were all there. Wolfgang stood silently beside Micah, also watching the events unfold.

Inside the interrogation room, Nugent was setting the final stage. “Ask him if he's sure the person he described to us is the murderer,” he said to the interpreter.

The interpreter signed the question. Ronnie signed back. His lips moved. The interpreter answered, “He says, absolutely.”

Unexpectedly, Ronnie jumped up. He acted out details of the murder. He threw his arms out spread-eagle in the air.

Wails of anguish and fear emanated from him just as they had emanated from the murdered boy before the life left his body.

The police sketch artist exchanged a strange look with the interpreter.

Nugent lost his cool. He looked at the police sketch artist and said, “Let me see the sketch.”

Outside the interrogation room Micah pressed his nose against the glass. The moment was here. He was going to see the face of the killer.

This was all Micah needed. The sight would put him inside the mind and body of the killer. It was for him a visual manifestation in the flesh. He could see the murder as it had taken place. Once there the killer would belong to him. He would breathe the same air. Hear his thoughts. He would witness his actions. Then he would hunt him down like the dog he was.

Micah had a keen sense of telepathy, one that he had never discussed with anyone. More than once he had walked inside the mind of a killer and brought him to justice. More than once he had experienced the rage of a maniac flowing through his veins. He couldn't explain it. It was just something that he did.

Inside the interrogation room the police sketch artist handed Nugent the sketch. Nugent looked down at it. Pure shock volleyed with disbelief for position across his numb features.

He stared dumbfounded at the interpreter and the police sketch artist. Finally, his look turned to one of absolute puzzlement as it settled on Ronnie Schaefer.

Micah lost his patience. He stormed into the interrogation room. His disruptive entrance startled everyone in the room, knocking them off balance.

Micah didn't care. He strolled arrogantly up to Nugent. “Give me the sketch, Nugent. I want to see the maniac's face.”

Micah snatched the sketch from Nugent's numb fingers, while Wolfgang, who had entered the room behind him, tried to ascertain what the hell was actually going on in the room. The vibe was off-kilter. Wolfgang didn't like interrogations that were off-kilter.

Micah looked down at the sketch. He could have been looking in the mirror.

His eyes grew wide in shocked anger as well as unmistakable amazement. Bile rose in his throat. Micah spat on the floor directly at the feet of Ronnie Schaefer.

His gaze landed on Ronnie. It practically sucked him into a vortex. Ronnie took a step back as though he'd been slapped.

Finally, Micah's gaze found Nugent. Ronnie gestured wildly and the interpreter spoke, “Ronnie Schaefer says that Micah Jordan-Wells is the man he saw commit the murder.”

An appalling silence gripped the room. Only the harsh sound of Ronnie's breathing penetrated the reign of silence that had settled like a dark cloud in the room.

Wolfgang was the first to recover. He snatched the sketch from Micah's stiff fingers. “That's ridiculous. What the hell is going on here? I'm not in the mood to play games with this boy. I'll lock his ass up for eternity.”

Wolfgang turned to Nugent, jumping down his throat. Icy scorn laced his voice. “Get me some real answers. Ronnie Schaefer doesn't move for the next seventy-two hours. I don't give a damn if the attorney general is going to represent him. Am I clear?”

Nugent nodded. He hadn't quite found his voice yet. Ronnie Schaefer had delivered a punch that had sucked all the available air from his body.

Wolfgang stalked to the door. He stopped to look back at those in the room. His eyes glittered in their anger. “I swear, if one word of what was said in this room tonight leaks out, Micah and I will be the only ones working here. And I guarantee you'll never work in law enforcement again. Do I make myself clear?” Quickly, all heads except Ronnie Schaefer's nodded.

Wolfgang shook his head to clear it from the madness that was floating around in it. “Micah, check your closets, man. It looks like you have some powerful enemies that are coming out to play.”

Micah didn't respond. Wolfgang left the room, banging the door shut behind him.

Micah Jordan-Wells looked down at the floor. He stared at the molten “X” that appeared before his eyes. It beckoned to him. Drawing him closer to his existence. Everyone else in the room had ceased to be.