The Merry Pranked (6 page)

Shelly looked at him.

“I guess you’re a glass half full kind of gal, huh Doc?” he said.

“Even in death there are small mercies, Detective. What I found interesting at the scene were the eyes, removed from the body and impaled on nails, each one specifically through the retinas.”

“The significance?” asked Bryan.

“I really can’t say. It was a methodical move. That’s the interesting thing about your crime scene and victim, Detectives. At times the killer seemed to be working in a methodical manner, planning his moves, arranging the body, specific rituals, like removing the eyes and destroying them, while at other times we have evidence of rage, the kill itself almost primal in many ways.”

“We talking about a split personality?” asked Ray.

“Unlikely,” said Shelly, “but definitely a truly disturbed individual.”

“What would be the significance of the eyes?” asked Bryan.

“Sorry, I digressed. I can’t really say with any certainty, but throughout history the eyes have played a big part in all of our death rituals. Take for instance the tradition of placing coins on the eyes of the deceased. It was believed those coins would be used to pay the Ferryman who would be transporting the deceased to the great beyond. No coins, no Heaven, I guess.”

“And the destroying of the eyes?” asked Ray.

“In some cultures it is believed that if you remove the eyes or destroy them, you doom the deceased individual to wander forever in the afterlife, their bodies incomplete and unable to find the way to the Promised Land.”

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Bryan.

“I’m not saying I believe that. You guys ever seen The Searchers with John Wayne?”

Detectives Ray and Bryan just looked at her.

“Great film. Wayne should have won an Academy Award. A daring role. His character held so much hate; would be considered a racist towards Native Indians by today’s barometer. Anyway, there’s a scene where his character comes upon a dead Indian covered in rocks; a makeshift grave. He shoots the dead Indian in the eyes to blind him for the sole purpose of making him wander forever in the afterlife, he hated them that much. I can’t say that’s what this is all about, although I’m sure there’s some significance to the removal of the eyes.”

“What about prints? DNA? You have anything for us Doc?”

“I’d suggest you call in a forensic psychiatrist to evaluate your crime scene. There’s nothing typical about this murder. As for physical evidence, we’re coming up short, other than your victim was drugged. Lysergic acid, LSD. Whoever did this to him sent him on a trip first. You’ll have all my reports later this afternoon. I’ve tried to be as meticulous as possible. Based on what I’ve seen here Detectives, I don’t believe this will be an only kill. This kind of commitment to death is not going to be a onetime thing. Sorry.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Bryan as he and Ray started making their way out of the autopsy room.

“Smart and a John Wayne fan,” said Ray as they stood in the hallway outside autopsy, “is it just me or did she just get a little sexier?”

“It’s just you, Ray.”

“So what have we got?”

“Well, the Doc said
rage
was involved. Rage could possibly indicate some sort of personal attachment to the victim.”

“True,” said Ray, “however, rage against Wall Street guys, stock brokers, those in the financial district, well that’s pretty common nowadays, ever since the economy went in the toilet. It could be someone who took a bath financially, sees that no one responsible is being held to account, and has decided to seek their own justice. We spent a lot of time in the Eighties worrying about nuclear war destroying the world, when we should have been keeping our eyes on the Bankers.”

“Other than Leonard’s divorce, there wasn’t much in his past to indicate he was headed for an end like this.”

“True, which can only mean one thing, we missed something.”

Bryan looked to Ray.

“I’m not buying random. Too much passion in this kill. We’ve missed something, so back to the drawing board, partner.”

Bryan knew Ray was right. They had to have missed something, but what?

chapter
SEVEN

“you
STILL
here, Les? Jesus, you ever go home?”

Leslie looked up from his laptop to see Fred Bosch, his Editor in the doorway, a press release in hand.

“One of us has to show some dedication to the job,” said Leslie.

“Yeah, tell that to my wife, buddy. Listen, you appreciate good art, don’t you?”

“One of my ex-girlfriends did. Picked out the art on the walls at home; looks good, but I have no idea what any of it means.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Fred as he moved to the desk and tossed the press release on it, “some artist; apparently taking the art world by storm. She’s got a showing of her latest collection coming up at the Sylvia Cumming’s Art Gallery. They’re opening with a private viewing for friends, the city’s elite and selected members of the press. We’ve been invited, and unless there’s a bunch of images of dogs playing poker, I’m afraid this crap is lost on me.”

“Get to the point, Fred.”

“Exhibit Thursday night. I need someone to cover it. Free booze and food, no doubt. You’re the most cultured reporter we have, so what do you say?”

Leslie picked up the press release and gave it a quick once over. Art wasn’t exactly his thing. He knew when he looked at something whether he liked it or not, but that was about it. To actually have to describe or critique a work of art, well that was another thing; he was sure his ignorance in the matter would quickly be recognized by readers who actually gave a damn about this stuff.

“No one else available, Fred?”

“Always someone else available, Les,” said Fred. “Let me put it this way. This is no run-of-the-mill show. It’s going to draw the city’s best and brightest, a truly refined crowd. Not for our younger reporters just yet, or any interns. I need someone who can handle themselves in that crowd; hell, you probably know most of them. Are on their social register. This assignment calls for refinement, so you’re my man.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to get a little culture yourself.”

“That ship has sailed my friend. So, what do you say?”

What he really wanted to say was,
no
. Socializing with the city’s elite always seemed a lot more exciting than it actually was, but then again so did a lobotomy. To them Leslie was ‘new money,’ which didn’t always endear him to the inheritors of ‘old money,’ as if inheriting money was some greater feat than earning it yourself. He hadn’t grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth, and although he liked the fact he now had money, he really didn’t fit in with the snob-set. But, whereas he was ‘new money,’ most of those around him were working class and qualified as ‘no money,’ so he was still the most logical choice to mingle on Thursday night; he knew he could say
no
, but from time to time it felt good to pull his weight and do a favor for his Editor.

“Fuck it, I’ll do it,” he said.

“Great,” Fred said, looking relieved. “Oh, and a word of advice, don’t buy anything on impulse; artist’s relatively young, will be a long time before she kicks the bucket and her work appreciates. Best thing artists can do for their careers – die. Now get home, you’re making us all look bad working late every night.”

Without another word, Fred was gone. He had a natural habit of breezing into and out of a place; a smart move as far as Leslie was concerned. Hit with a vengeance, get what you came for, and get the hell out of there before anyone could change their mind.

Leslie looked at his watch. It was getting late. He got up from his desk and looked out into the night. It was the same as usual, although based on what he was contemplating; he knew it should look just a little more sinister than usual.

You’re nuts,
he thought as he took in the city’s lights; he loved how they brought the night to life, and hid the ugliness, even though he knew the ugliness was still lurking out there. He didn’t know if he could go through with his plan, or if he even should go through with his plan. It’d been a long time coming. Maybe it was time. Maybe it was the answer to all of his problems. Maybe he was just being a damned fool.

Leslie continued to look out at the night. Donna had been good to him; there was no reason why he had let her go; why he had driven her away. It was a sickness with him, and unless he finally did something about that sickness, he was destined to repeat it again and again and again.
How long was he going to do so?
He’d been hurt, and the reality was he’d been led down a path where whether he accepted it or not, he was continuing to hurt.

Leslie took a deep breath.

The time for thinking was over. It was time for him to take action; take control of his life.

Just because you’re there, doesn’t mean you have to do anything,
he thought.
Consider it a scouting expedition.

Was it?

Leslie grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out the metal lock box and opened it. There it was the gun he’d bought illegally a while back on the streets. Ernie had led him to the seller when Leslie had snowed him about a background story he was doing on a documentary filmmaker who was covering the city’s gun problem. Ernie always did have the best information, and was always willing to share it with fellow reporters. He’d put Leslie on the right path and Leslie had purchased the forty-five for several hundred bucks. It’d been sitting in the metal box for quite some time, waiting for its new owner to decide what to do with it.

He felt the weight of the gun in his hands. He knew its potential to wreak havoc, which in some ways frightened and intimidated him. He’d never been a big fan of guns, considering what he had witnessed as a 10-year-old; while fellow students had enjoyed playing first-shooter games, he always had an aversion to them. Guns represented death and blood –
a hell of a lot of blood.
He remembered the blood. He knew it would revisit him every night in his dreams. It was relentless. It’d been a long time since he woke up screaming from the nightmares, but that didn’t matter, they still haunted him. Now he’d just wake up with tears streaming down his face, especially on those unfortunate nights when his dreamland remembrances seemed so real. He hated those times, although for one brief moment in all of them, he was reunited with his family again, and those moments, well, he lived for them –
it’d been so long.

Leslie had no idea if the gun was going to make the dreams go away; he had no idea what any of it meant. He just felt, that after all these years, it was time for action; and he had the tool to make action happen.

Lakeview, like all other major cities across the United States, offered its citizens whatever they wanted, good or bad. It catered to everyone’s needs, from the affluent to the criminal. Riverview, an area bordering on the lake, was one of those areas that catered to the downtrodden and criminal. At one time, maybe at the turn of the 20
th
Century when it was being developed, it had been something to behold; a place where families came to enjoy the waterfront; a place where parents raised their kids and were proud of their address. A lot had changed over time. If you took the time and could be bothered, you could probably pinpoint the moment in time when Riverview went from being safe and proper and started backsliding into dangerous and seedy. It had simply changed, and now, in the 21
st
Century, it was one of Lakeview’s tougher areas; a place even the police assigned to patrol it were careful around. It definitely wasn’t a place for the faint of heart; and it definitely wasn’t a place for Leslie Marshall.

The streets were quiet. It seemed like every other street lamp was out, giving an eerily dark and ominous quality to the area, where most of the businesses - a lot of pawn shops and thrift stores - were closed for the night. The only real illumination on the street was the neon sign, flickering to stay alive, although the ‘U’ had all ready given up the ghost, advertising Duffy’s, one of the local dive bars, where for more than an hour-and-a-half an assortment of rather questionable-looking individuals had been making their way in and out of. It was the kind of place where a lot of dirty jeans and leather was worn; no doubt its denizens also sported a plethora of colorful body art, and where everyone inside was strung out on some poison or another. The women looked hard and the men looked even harder. Leslie sat in his car in the city parking lot across the street from Duffy’s and wondered what it took to bring most of them to this point in life. What had gone so terribly wrong they elected not only to hang out, but to be a part of the crowd that frequented a bar like this, or even this part of town?

It wasn’t right to judge, but he did. Slouched down in the front seat of his car he was profiling everyone who came and went from Duffy’s. The middle-aged women who didn’t seem to understand the passage of time had changed them, but still insisted on dressing like they were teenagers, or young women - dressed as provocatively as they could, either unaware or not caring that the sexiness of youth that had served them well at one time, had long since faded. The same could be said for many of the men who frequented the bar; as far as Leslie was concerned they dressed in a way that was unbecoming for men of their years; trying to look as tough as they could; but age too had caught up with them and now muscles that were once firm had started to sag, and the ink on tattoo’s started to fade. Everything about them just looked a little off. Based on the world Leslie inhabited, he might as well have been an astronaut that had landed on an alien planet, and was studying life forms he’d never seen before in his life.

This is insane,
he thought as the second hour approached. He was wasting his time. Even if one of them showed up, could he actually fit in? He’d dressed for the occasion in old jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket that looked like it was well worn, but was actually an illusion he had paid a pretty penny for in a high end store – the worn look was in.

You’d better get out of here before you find yourself in trouble,
he thought, as he adjusted himself to an upright position in the driver’s seat and reached for the key in the ignition. It was time to go home.

As if life wanted to taunt him, at the exact moment he decided it was time to leave, the bastard appeared. Walking down the street towards the bar, appearing like he didn’t have a care in the world, was Harry Madwin, a dangerous-looking late forty-something man, whom Leslie knew was a longstanding member of Morgan’s crew.

“Fuck. Damnit. DAMNIT!” said Leslie as he watched Harry approach the bar and enter.

Wasn’t this what he’d been waiting for? He’d been waiting for one of them, and his prayers had been answered. It was the moment of truth, or at least one of the moments of truth that would confront him this evening.

“This is what you wanted,” he said quietly under his breath.

Leslie could feel a hollow sensation in his stomach as he considered his options; whenever he felt nervous it seemed to play on his bowels and stomach bringing a bit of discomfort. He often laughed at this, figuring if he was as nervous as the late Don Knott’s had always played it, he’d be permanently holed up in a washroom. Leslie took a deep breath; it was the best way he knew to try and control his body’s rebellion. He’d come this far; farther than he’d ever come before. He’d thought about a moment like this for a long, long time, but now that it was here he wasn’t sure what to do; he felt nervous, yes, but add anxious and frightened to that mix as well; at the same time, his mind was trying to find the strength and courage to move forward, despite those other nagging feelings.
Surely he hadn’t expected it to be easy. Of course not.

Leslie took the first step and got out of his car. He still wasn’t prepared to cross the street and enter the bar, but at least his hand had left the key and the ignition and he wasn’t driving away. That was an important first step, but what now?

He was pacing – thinking.

Fuck,
he thought.
Fuck it!

He’d tried a lot of different things over the years to come to terms with his pain; it had all failed, even trying to lose himself in a bottle. He’d tried a lot over the years to come to terms with his pain, except this.
This
, he needed to do. Worst case scenario, it would all go horribly wrong and the result would be his being released from his pain as he was relieved of his life. It would finally be over. Sort of a macabre win-win, if you chose to be an optimist.

Leslie looked at the bar and realized it was now or never; if he walked away tonight there was no point in ever returning;
could he live with that?
He’d made up his mind, ignored yet another rumble in his stomach and a brief cramping pain in his bowels and started making his way across the street.

For a lot of people there is pride in ownership; that didn’t appear to be the case with Duffy’s. As bad as the neighborhood looked, and as bad as the clientele had looked making their way in and out of the bar, the inside of Duffy’s was just as bad. Leslie would call it a shithole, but that was actually kind of disparaging to some of the finer shitholes that probably existed around the city.
What was worst than a shithole?
He had no idea, except that he was now sitting in the middle of it.