The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening, trying to sense whether there was someone else in the space. Dust motes danced like miniature fairies along the streams of daylight around him. None seemed more agitated than other, implying that no one had disturbed them. Still . . .

John stepped further into the garage, trying see beyond the stacks of cardboard boxes and translucent storage crates. Nothing moved among them, but that meant nothing. His weapon ready, he moved into the space between two of their rows.

He spun, causing them to sway, as the door leading to the house closed and clicked. It took a moment for it to register, for that door had often stuck, but the additional sound was unmistakable.

Fuck. He locked me in.

John turned to face the large garage door. The automatic opener would make it difficult to open, but he could manually disengage the system. Peering upward, he tried to determine how easily he could reach the mechanism with the boxes and crates in the way. The bright orange-red handle dangled tauntingly on its cord, just out of easy reach.

He turned. There was another door that led to the outside of the house. Going that way, though, meant that he would also have to unlock the gate that led out to the driveway and street. Staring back at the large door, he realized that neither route was an optimal one, and that he would lose time going either way.

Better than going back through the house, he considered unhappily. But not by much . . .

He opted for the large door, as he was nearer to it. Reaching the smaller one that led to the side yard would mean navigating his way back out through the stacks of storage crates.

Stretching upward, his fingers missed brushing the manual override handle by barely more than an inch. He stretched, balancing himself precariously on his toes, watching his fingertips barely brush the plastic thin handle, while at the same time, knocking it away.John swore silently, and then realized that he might be able to make that work to his advantage. When the handle swung back, he was able to grab it, although tenuously, but enough to get a firm enough grip to wrap his fingers around it. They ached from the tension, but he held on.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He heard something, faint and seeming to come from a distance. He could not make out what the noise was; it sounded almost like a cat scratching at a door to be let out.

Cat?

John tried to remember whether his father had a cat. As far as he could remember, there had not been one in the house since they had been forced to put Calico to sleep.

Mice? Or something else?

The sound did not immediately repeat, although he was certain that he did not imagine having heard it. He once again began moving toward the stairs, continually turning his head back toward the other rooms to check for any signs—sights or sounds—that someone might be in them.

He reached the top of the stairs, preparing to make his way down them, when a new sound echoed through the quiet. It was the sudden, sharp sound of something falling and then stopping abruptly. John was certain that it had come from the garage—or at least the area outside near it.

Before he realized it, he was leaping down the stairs, clearing two of them at a time. He reached the door that led to the garage in moments, throwing it open without hesitation. His taser, raised like a pistol, led his way.

The garage was dark. Not entirely dark, as light filtered in through the small windows mounted near the top of its large door that opened to the driveway. The air contained the same unventilated, musty feel that it was always had, except during rainy weather. If someone had passed through it lately, or been working on there, John could not tell by any change in its ambient aroma.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Two boxes were stacked neatly in a corner. Something about their color and condition told John that they had been delivered recently. The top one was unsealed, its wide transparent slit neatly from end to end. He reached down and opened one flap and then the other one. Light reflected off the clear plastic bags that protected its contents. John leaned closer, unable to clearly see the box’s contents in the odd shadows of the room.

His breath caught and he froze, even before it registered on his consciousness what he saw. Transparent film reflected some of the light back at him, causing John to squint and shift to get a better look. The glossy plastic packages nestled within the box protected items that it took him only a moment to identify: inexpensive gym bags of various colors, exactly like the ones he had seen at each of the murder scenes.

John stared down at them, trying to conjure up any rational reason why his father might have purchased them. He was not much of an athlete. Hardly one at all, John knew, other than for semi-regular trips to the local gym during the week. There was no reason he needed all of these bags just for that . . .

Staring down into the box, John realized that it appeared to be only half-full. Clearly, some of the bags had been removed and—

John froze at a sound coming from somewhere outside the door. Turning slowly, his hand rested ready to draw his taser. He waited, listening, ready to move dart out quickly when the sound was repeated.

For several long moments, nothing happened. John took a slow, deep breath, realizing that he had almost been holding it in.

There!

It was not exactly the same sound, and might have been just another ambient noise from the house, but John moved anyway. He was in the hallway before he realized that he did not know exactly where the noise had come from, other than that it had come from somewhere outside the room. Turning his head slowly, he continued to listen, waiting for another clue as to the source of the noise. Again, several long seconds passed.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He waited, listening. The house was nearly silent except for the sound of the furnace fan. Warm air blew across his face, tickling his nose. He wrinkled it, fighting back a sneeze.

Nothing.

John stood there for several more seconds, and then carefully climbed the next step. And then the next one. He stopped, glancing back down to the lower floor, wondering if his father might have remained down there. There were fewer places to go on that level without going outdoors, but John knew that he had not conducted any kind of real search.

Looking back up, he decided to continue. If his father remained downstairs, it would probably be too late to try to prevent him from leaving. If he was upstairs, John could should trap and detain him there.

His office is up there.

Just about everything his father valued was in his home office.

Even if he manages to escape, John told himself, although finding it difficult to imagine the old man being able to outrun or evade him. I might find some clues up there.

His fingers gripped tight around his taser, John finished his climb up the stairs. He paused at the top, taking a moment to quickly survey the space.

His father’s bedroom door was open. The office door was partially ajar. The door leading to the small bathroom was open. His own bedroom door was closed.

John could find nothing unusual or alarming in any of that. He typically kept his door closed out of habit, chiefly to avoid remarks from his father about its condition. His father typically only closed his office door completely when he needed guaranteed quiet for a call or there were untrusted visitors in the house. His bedroom he rarely closed except at night when he was sleeping or when he was traveling somewhere overnight—something that did not happen very often.

At first, John asked himself where he might try to hide. It took him only a moment to realize that was probably the wrong approach.

How does he think? Where would he think he might be safe?

John turned and looked toward the office door. That was his father sanctuary.

He might think it was safe . . . but he must also know that it’s the first place I’d look.

It would also be the best place to look for any clues, John knew.

Cautiously, he approached the door. With one hand, he eased it open the rest of the way, his other hand ready to pull out his taser.

Empty.

The room was tidy and organized, just as it almost always was. His father kept it that way almost all the time. John could tell when his father was on a particularly hairy deadline, or sick, when the perpetual orderliness began to slip.

John quickly surveyed the contents of the room, skimming over some of the printed sheets on the desk, knowing that it was unlikely that he would understand their contents. Even when they were just stories, he had trouble comprehending them.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

His father had never been a violent man, John reflected.

Sure, he yelled once in a while. Usually at me, he recalled with a faint, wry smile.

Even those times had been exceedingly rare. His father had generally been patient and calm, usually resorting to a kind of moody silence rather than explosive outbursts of emotions.

Sure, John remembered. He’d been known to lose his temper . . . but it took a lot for him to do it. A lot.

The ceiling creaked above him. It was so soft that it might have been a natural movement of the beams.

But then again, it might not be.

His father was not a large man, but he had gained some weight over the past few years as he had gotten older. He had never been, that John could imagine, someone who could move throughout a house without being heard.

John climbed the stairs, feeling the knot tighten within his stomach. He paused just as his head cleared the floor, peering across it for any signs of his father’s passage through the thin carpet. Swirled patterns revealed someone’s passage through the hallway, but there was no way to tell how recently. He tried to remember when his father had vacuumed last.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John’s hand went to the taser at his waist, but it hovered there, uncertain. His father was making no threatening moves. He just sat there, looking miserable and lost.

No, John corrected himself. Not lost . . .

His thought trailed off, unable to find the word.

“Dad . . .”

His father looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Beyond the weariness and seeming despair, John could still see the bright spark of the man who had been his father.

“You want to know why.”

John nodded, slowly. His fingers continued to rest on the grip of his taser.

His father nodded slowly in return, his head bobbing as if he were dozing off into sleep.

“Because it had to be done.”

John’s eyes remained on his father, studying his face, his expression, waiting for more. His father’s eyes brightened. At first, John thought they filled with tears. Then, he saw that they shone with madness.

John’s stomach tightened into a hollow knot. His hand dropped to his taser.

“Don’t.”

His father’s single word stopped his hand. Despite all of his experience and training, his father’s voice could still control him. Breaking free of its hold, his fingers tightened around the taser’s grip.

“I don’t said, ‘Don’t’.”

His father did not raise his voice. Yet, John paused in his motion again, only for an instant. But it was long enough. By the time he realized he had, it was too late.

John felt as much as heard something whizz by his forearm. He turned his head to follow the sound, but missed seeing it. Whatever it had been, it clattered to the tile floor in the kitchen beyond the doorway behind him.

Recognizing that the moment danger had passed, John turned back to face his father, his hand firm around the grip of the taser. He froze in surprise, and then his hand dropped away from the weapon once more.

His father was gone.

#

John fought down the immediate urge to chase after his father. He was an old man—well, a lot older than he was—and not in especially good shape.

Where can he go?

There were probably a dozen or more places where his father could hide in the small house. It was just a matter of time before John could search them all.

It made no sense, though.

He must know that I’ll find him.

Moving slowly toward the doorway, he grew even more concerned. His father was behaving irrationally. Not just strange, John realized. Totally irrational.

Alzheimer’s? he wondered.

As far as he knew, his father had not been displaying any of the symptoms. Although, John recognized somewhat guiltily, he had not been around much to actually notice.

Some kind of stroke?

That was an easier answer, he realized—and an easier one to accept. Something had caused his father to snap, but until he found him, he would never be able to figure out what it was.

Walking slowly and quietly, and pausing often, John checked for signs of his father’s passage through the house. His hand never strayed far from the grip of his taser.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John took another gulp of the energy drink, feeling the cool liquid slide like smooth oil down his throat. Taking a deep breath, he buckled himself in and started the car. The report could wait. He could not imagine that he was likely to forget any of the details. His mind still sifting through the events of the evening, he pulled out onto the empty street.

#

 

“Remember when you were young?” his father asked him. “When all you ever wanted was to be Batman?”

John nodded, thinking back to that time. He had been . . . what . . . four years old? But that phase, he remembered, had lasted for a long time—more than two years, if he remembered it correctly—almost an eternity at that age.

“I remember,” John replied softly. He looked toward his father without actually meeting his eyes.

“That was justice,” his father declared. “Justice.” John watched his father take a slow, ragged breath. “Not what passes for law—or decency—these days.”

John opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but found that he did not have the words. He knew what his father meant. When he was younger—not all that many years ago, he realized—he had spent a night in the county jail for the being in the wrong place at the wrong time. His companion, and supposed friend, had walked free in less than an hour, able to afford an expensive lawyer.

It’d been his rock, John remembered. The memory still left a sour taste in his mind. And he left me there to rot.

Luck, and a sympathetic judge, had spared him from a permanent blemish on his criminal record. That was part of why he wanted to become a police officer: to prevent such inequalities from happening whenever he could.

“Dad . . .” John took a deep breath and then turned his eyes to look at his father’s face. “I don’t understand.”

“Justice,” his father whispered again.

John stared at his father, wanting to understand. He felt torn, pulled between the father who, while often different from the other ones around them, had always been there for him, and the man who appeared to have methodically and chillingly killed eight seemingly random people.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The multi-colored strobes of the lights had stopped. The night, it seemed, was returning to normal. John turned back to discover that he was the last one remaining in the office. Just to be certain, he headed back to check the rear section.

The overhead lights had been left on, but the area was otherwise deserted. John checked the rear door to make sure that it was still locked, and then shut off the lights. As the interior of the office space filled once again with darkness, he remembered that he had left his flashlight resting on one of the desks near the front. Moving slowly and cautiously, uncomfortably aware of how the night had gone, he managed to make his way to the front without banging his knees against any of the furniture.

By the time he reached the desk, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, aided by the remaining light reflected in through the front windows. He retrieved his flashlight and holstered it. Pausing, he turned back toward the interior, wondering whether there was something else he should do. It seemed a shame to leave the place a mess, but it really was not his job to clean it back up.

I’m already way freaking late for my other patrols.

He exited through the front door and turned to lock it, realizing that he should have checked the interior alarm panel first.

I could go back inside . . .

Peering into the darkened depths of the office, he sighed, and then turned the key in the lock. He could try the exterior panel on the side of the building first. Then, if the alarm refused to reset, he would go back inside. Given a choice, he never wanted to enter the office again.

After hooking his keys back on his belt, he pulled his flashlight out again, but relied on the dim illumination provided from the overhead streetlights to guide him back to his car. Opening the alarm panel, he was forced to turn on his flashlight so that he could read the labels on the switches. He blinked in the sudden burst of bright light. When his vision cleared a few moments later, he felt relief when he saw the green glow coming from the trio of indicator lights. The alarm system had reset properly and was, once again, active.

John snapped the access door closed and locked it. Turning, he returned to his car and dropped into its front seat. The emotional numbness he had experienced earlier had now passed, replaced by a deep weariness. He knew its cause: the crash from the adrenaline rush. Although he tried to rally, he had trouble trying to get his muscles to obey him. He finally managed it, though, retrieving a tall can from the center console.

He downed a long swallow from the energy drink. The late autumn night air had kept it cool, the way he preferred it. During the summer, he relied on iced coffee instead. He strongly disliked the heavy, cloying taste the energy beverages acquired when they grew warm.

Settling back into the cushioned seat, he waited for the caffeine surge to kick in, thinking that he should probably jot down some notes before heading off to his next scheduled patrol stop.

That report’s going to suck.

Routine reports were bad enough, but an incident like this one could take a long time to write up. In addition, his e-mail was filled with the corroborating reports from the officers and police investigators.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John shook his head slowly. “No, sir.” He managed to turn his eyes away, but remaining looking at the sergeant’s face. “I . . . just found it.”

He felt tired, weary. He just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and pray that the past several days had been some kind of weird nightmare.

“You do seem to.”

John thought he saw a hint of puzzlement on the sergeant’s face. He felt a faint ember of hope that the officer might actually be beginning to believe that he had nothing to do with these deaths—even if he could not explain why he kept being present when they were found.

The sergeant checked his tablet and then looked back up. His eye fixed on John’s without quite holding them.

“Until the coroner determines a cause of death,” he said. “It looks like you’re free to go.”

John hesitated. It was not that he did not want to leave . . .

“Is there a problem?”

John’s cheeks burned. He felt foolish, but he had policies to follow.

“I’m not supposed to leave . . .” he faltered, and then regained some of his confidence. “Until the site is secured.”

The sergeant stared at him. He blinked, twice, before he said anything. John braced himself. He felt foolish enough as it was.

After all, how much secure could it be with two squad cars of officers swarming over the place?

Still, he knew, they did not have the keys or alarm codes, so no way they could lock the place back up when they were done with their investigation. They could call his security company when they were finished, but that would just mean that he would have to come back.

Easier just to stay . . .

John could not be certain, but he thought he saw the sergeant’s feature soften for an instant. His eyes brightened almost to a twinkle, but it was gone before John was sure he had seen it.

“Fine,” the sergeant agreed. He sounded, John thought, just slightly less gruff than usual. “Just try to stay out of the way.” Now he did fix his eyes on John’s. “And, for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”

John’s cheeks grew warm again even as he bristled. He nearly opened his mouth to protest, but managed to hold back his remarks.

I’m not some kind of rookie!

Still, he stepped back into a corner of the office, away from the main flow of activity, while still giving him a good view of it.

After the body had been carried out, the rest of the officers and other investigators began to disperse. Some carried small boxes or translucent bags marked as containing possible evidence. John thought that he spied a small box about the same size and shape as the ones he had seen at the other murder scenes.

I wonder what color gym bag it has this time.

The color choices, as far as he knew, were random. Still, he was a little surprised at that being his first thought.

And at least there weren’t any snakes this time.

The snake, he realized, seemed to have been a one-time thing. The murderer, whoever he—or she, he reminded himself—was, appeared to be choosing a different method of execution each time.

Execution? John paused, startled by the revelation. Something about it rang true. “Is that what it is?” he murmured.

Thinking back over the victims, he had trouble imagining anything that might link them together. There were, from what he knew, as random a collection of people as he could ever imagine.

A loan shark? he wondered, and then dismissed the idea. No, then they’d never get their money.

Often, from what he had learned, while serial killers often had a pattern to the victims they selected, it was often not always clear what it was until later.

John’s looked toward the front of the office at the retreating back of the sergeant.

Maybe he knows something.

That same sense that told him that these murders were some kind of executions now informed him that the police sergeant knew little more than he did.

But he probably does know more.

John watched the older officer become a silhouette as he exited the office onto the parking lot. It was darker beyond the windows now, lit only by the overhead streetlights and the headlights of the squad cars.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John looked down at the officer’s face. Her skin reminded him of expensive milk chocolate. Pulled back into a short ponytail, her dark hair fell barely below her collar. Her espresso brown eyes regarded him coolly.

Her questions were the basic ones—and she made it clear that she was all business. John could not find it within himself to muster up even an attempt at a charming smile. He doubted that it would have made a difference. For a brief moment, John wondered if she might like girls instead, but she did not seem the type.

“Don’t leave,” she instructed him, lowering her tablet. “The sergeant might still want to talk to you.”

“Right.” John answered her flatly.

This earned him a narrow-eyed glare from the female officer before she turned away. Aware, but not watching her, as she headed toward the back of the office, John stepped further out of the way, finding a vacant space near the front windows, watching as the coroner’s team arrived.

John stared out into the night as they worked, having had enough with looking at corpses. He squinted and blinked against the strobing pulses of white, red, blue, and amber lights coming from the small parking lot.

Shit, he thought dully. I can’t believe this is happening. Again.

He felt strangely numb, almost detached. It was not simply fatigue, he knew, but an odd sense of disassociation from the events taking place around him. It was how he thought an out-of-body experience might feel like: being a detached observer of the events without feeling like he was actually a part of them.

The sensation lasted only a few moments, but it still left him with a chilled, hollow feeling. He nearly shivered, but did not know why. It reminded him of the fever chills he had experienced during a particularly bad case of the flu last winter. His father has stayed home from work for most of a week to take care and watch over him.

Dad. John let out a renewed sigh that was focused more inward than it was a heavy breath. How the hell am I going to explain this to him again?

He considered simply not mentioning it, but knew he would not keep the secret long. His father had a way of asking the right questions, almost as if he knew things that there was no way that he should. It was not mystical or anything—just unsettling and, occasionally, awkward.

Hearing footsteps approaching, John looked up, knowing who he would find there. The sergeant stared at him. The officer’s gaze was like steel, his expression nearly unreadable.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be here for another two hours,” John blurted out. “I—”

He stopped, unable to think of anything else to that might explain his presence there—at the scene of yet another death.

“Did you find a box?”

The sergeant nodded twice, breaking his hold on John’s gaze.

“In the back,” he told John. “Near the coffee maker and office supplies.”

“No snake?” John did not like how his voice wavered as he asked that.

For a moment, John thought he saw the faintest glint of amusement in the sergeant’s obsidian pupils.

“No snake.” The older officer glanced toward where the coroner’s team lifted the dead man’s body onto a transport stretcher. “In fact,” he said. “We’re not sure what caused it yet.”

His eyes fixed on John’s again.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea.”

It was not so much a question as a statement. Apparently, the sergeant already knew the answer.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

John rose, feeling suddenly light-headed, wondering if he had stood up too quickly. He held himself perfectly still, taking slow and regular breaths. It helped. His hand moved to his radio, and then dropped away. He really did not want to make this call—for several reasons.

With a sigh loud enough to echo softly in the darkness, he reached for his radio and activated it.

“Dispatch,” John said. He heard the uncertain quaver in his voice—and wished it was not there. He swallowed hard against a thick lump in his throat. “I have a ten-fifty-four.”

Only a faint hum of static answered him for a long moment. He began to wonder whether the signal had gotten through when he heard Carole’s voice over the speaker.

“You’re kidding . . . right?”

I wish I was. John sighed again, softer this time, trying to gather some semblance of control. Fuck.

“Negative.”

“You’re serious?” It was as much a question as a statement.

“Yes.” John took a slow, quiet breath. “Just call it in. Please.”

Discordant sounds crackled from the radio speaker. John tapped down the volume, wincing against the sudden burst of noise. A few moments later, Carole’s voice returned.

“Units have responded and are on their way.”

“Copy that.”

“John,” Carole’s voice was flat, even over the speaker. “If this is some kind of joke . . .”

“It isn’t,” he replied tightly. “I fucking wish it was.”

“What the—“

John missed Carole’s next words as a bright barrage of kaleidoscopic light glared in through the front windows. Unconsciously, he stepped away from the body, moving to stand next to a desk to his left. In addition to giving him some distance from the corpse, it also hid his view of it.

A noisy bustle of activity came from the front door of the office. Bright beams from several flashlights sliced through the air, momentarily blinding him. Automatically, he reached for this ID, just in case any of the police officers did not feel that his uniform was sufficient to explain his presence.

Blinking against the floating spots in his vision, John made out four silhouettes moving through the office. One of them passed him. Whether it had seen him, or even given him a glance, John did not know. He remained still, waiting for his vision to clear.

A few moments later, the overhead lights flickered on, causing him to blink and squint again.

“Sergeant,” a voice called out, startling him coming from so close behind him.

John looked up as one of the officers approached. His heart became a lead weight in his chest. He recognized the officer’s now-familiar gait even before he saw the man’s face.

The sergeant stopped less than two paces in front of him. He studied John’s face for only an instant. His own expression betrayed no surprise at finding John there. Slowly, without breaking eye contact with the sergeant, John replaced his ID.

“Officer,” the sergeant called out evenly, addressing one of the uniformed men behind John. “Take this man’s statement. Evans, call for the coroner.”

Two replies of “Yes, Sergeant”, each with a different tenor, came from behind John. The sergeant held John’s gaze firmly for a moment, and then turned and headed for the back area of the office.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Sweeping the beam along the narrow pathway, and then across the raised concrete pavement in front of the building, he found nothing more than additional bits of scattered trash. Slowly, he passed the light across the windows and doors, looking for signs of vandalism or forced entry. Aside from some scratched graffiti etched long ago across two of the windows, John saw nothing else unusual. His hand resting near his baton, John moved closer to the third door.

He found it closed. Shining his light through the tinted window into the office space beyond, the interior appeared dark. A faint glow came from something deep within the office.

Someone probably left a computer on . . .

John tried the door, surprised to find it unlocked. It swung open with a quiet screech of metal against metal.

Shit.

He had reset the alarm. Now, he had at most a minute to locate the inside panel and override it again. John was sure that he run and reach the panel on the side of the building in time, but that would not solve the problem. He still needed to check inside the office.

Playing the beam across the walls of the office, he searched for either a light switch or the alarm panel. Although the latter was more critical, turning on the lights would make it easier for him to find the panel.

“It’ll either be up front here,” John reasoned quietly, pausing with relief until he realized that his flashlight had located the thermostat. “Or in the back.”

He hoped that it was not hidden away in a locked storage closet. It would not be the first time he had run into that kind of setup. There was, he knew, a rear door as well, so he could still head for the outside panel without having to go all the way back through the office.

Assuming it’s not locked.

Some of the business owners, in violation of several state and local safety codes, felt themselves to be more secure if they left those rear exits locked and bolted at all times. Since they never used those doors, the owners often forgot to provide copies of the keys to the security company.

Josh moved quickly through the dark office space, trying to avoid bumping into desks and other office furniture. He stumbled, but caught himself, swearing in hushed tones. Automatically, he swung the flashlight down to get a look at the unseen leg of a chair that had attempted to trip him. He froze for an instant, his breath coming to a stop, when he saw a dark-suited man sprawled across the carpet.

Not again.

That was his first, absurd thought. Then, his training took over and he knelt, reaching down to check for a pulse on the man’s neck. Even before he failed to find one, John knew it was too late. The man’s skin was cool and papery. He considered for a moment turning the man over, just to be sure, but the strong hints of other scents convinced him that what had once been a moderately successful businessman was now definitely a corpse.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He tapped the radio control.

“Los Altos Apartments,” he reported in. “I’m just finishing my circuit.”

That was not entirely true, John knew, but no one would know if he completed it on his way out to wherever they needed him to go.

“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “There’s an alarm event at the property at Paxton and Smelt.”

John brought up the map on his tablet. He already knew the property was a small strip mall southeast of his current location. The app reported that he should be get there in about eight minutes.

“Copy that,” he responded back. “I’m en route.”

Shifting the car into gear, he headed for the exit. Heading directly to that intersection would take him out of his way from the three other sites he was scheduled to patrol that night. Going back to them after he dealt with the alarm event would require a somewhat convoluted route back.

Maybe I can tackle them in reverse order . . . ?

He tried to map that out in his head as he drove, although his fingers itched to tap it out on his tablet.

Both hands on the wheel, he cautioned himself.

Although there was almost no traffic at that hour, it was exactly the kind of time when a drunk or overtired driver would do something stupid, such as running through a red light or stop sign, not expecting there to be any other cars on the road in be in their way.

Eleven minutes later, after being forced to wait for two unmetered lights, John arrived at the location. He slowed, surveying the empty parking lot. His hand remained poised over the spotlight control, ready to trap someone in its intense glare if they seemed suspicious. He saw nothing, though. The interior of each of the shops and offices appeared dark. He pulled around to the side of the building, coasting to a stop adjacent to the external alarm panel.

Leaving the car running, he grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of the car. He played the flashlight beam around the area, but it revealed nothing more than scraps of garbage and two large empty glass bottles. Each was a different shape and color. One of them he guessed had held vodka or gin; the darker one had probably contained rum.

Using his key to open the alarm panel, he saw that the alarm on Suite 3 had been triggered. Playing back the building signs in his mind, he tried to remember whether that was the tax office or the small Asian herb store. He reset the alarm, waiting to see whether it went off again, and then closed and relocked the panel.

Returning to the car, he turned it off and removed the keys. Retrieving his baton from the passenger seat, he slid it smoothly into its holster on his belt. He locked the car and headed toward the front of the building, his flashlight aimed out before him.

“Silent Night”

Author’s Note: This was a piece I did for the A Merry Little Apex Christmas Flash Fiction Contest. I didn’t win, so I’ll publish it here for you. Happy, um, holidays.

---

Gerard barreled down the stairs.

I’m first! I’m FIRST!

He reached the landing and skidded to a halt. The tree was dark. Even the lights strung along the mantle were out, resembling a black, tangled vine in the dark.

Gerard’s heart thumped in his chest. He hated the dark. Things lived in the dark, in its shadows.

“Not on Christmas,” he whispered. “Not on Christmas.”

It really was Christmas morning; he was certain of it. Yet, underneath the tree, there was nothing.

“There have to be presents,” he mumbled angrily.

Looking toward the mantle, he saw six stockings hanging there. Gerard approached them. Unlike the others, which remained flat and empty, his clearly bulged with . . . something.

He grinned. “That’s how it should be.”

Gerard grabbed it down, his eager grin changing to a look of confusion when the contents rattled.

He dropped down to sit cross-legged on the floor in a patch of gray-white light and poured out the stocking’s contents. Five small, dark shapes clattered against one another as they tumbled onto the carpet. Each one was about the size of his finger and perhaps twice as wide.

He examined one, turning it slowly beneath his fingers. Its edges felt rough, almost sharp. He stared down at it, recognizing the shard for was it was.

Coal!

He nearly flung it away. In the reflected light, though, from within the black substance, his mother’s face stared back at him.

Gerard began to scream.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

It was nearly midnight when his patrol route returned him to the apartment complex from the night before. He drove slowly through the parking lot, seeing nothing unusual. He brought the car to a stop beside the same garbage enclosure where he parked the day before. A startled cat darted across his headlight beams, a quick black and white dappled flash of motion, before disappearing into the shadows of the landscape shrubbery.

John stared up the stairway toward the apartment. It seemed to be dark. At least, no light came from either the small kitchen window, or from the large sliding door that led to a narrow balcony. If lights were on deeper within the apartment, he could not see them.

I probably wouldn’t want to be alone in there either right now, he thought with a vague shiver.

He wondered if she was alone up there, and whether he should check on her.

I could call it in as a welfare check.

He settled back into the seat to think about it, recognizing that he really had no justification to make such a call.

I’ll probably take eight sorts of shit for it too, he knew, thinking of at least one fellow officer would persist in making rude and suggestive remarks about John and the young woman.

She wasn’t that bad looking, he decided.

It had been difficult to tell for sure between the robe and her puffy face and eyes. There had been something about her face, though. Even through the blotchy complexion brought on by fear and crying, it had been oddly familiar, as if he had seen it somewhere before.

Thinking through his collection of friends and acquaintances, he knew that perhaps one or two of them might live somewhere in this part of the city, but he had never visited this apartment complex before the last night. His uncertainty told him that he was probably looking in the wrong place. If he had ever seen her before, it had not been among his friends.

Where then?

“Car Twenty-Seven, what’s your ten-twenty?”

The dispatcher’s voice broke him from his thoughts.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He was not sure that he liked it—nor was he entirely certain that he did not. Based on rumors he had overheard, she sometimes liked to bring her work home, as it were—complete with handcuffs. John could not quite figure out whether the idea intrigued him . . . or terrified him.

Probably both, he decided, and then shoved the whole idea forcibly from his mind. That is so not happening.

Snapping the keys onto his belt, he looked down to his clipboard. With mixed feelings of relief and reluctance, he saw that it was the same patrol assignment as he had received the previous night. Although there were plenty of other places along the route where a dead body could turn up, he found the consistency somewhat reassuring. So far, he had only encountered when he had been assigned to a different patrol route

And let’s keep it that way.

John knew, though, that this patrol assignment would probably change tomorrow—or certainly within the week. Although he had not thought to ask whose route it normally was, he guessed that it probably belonged to someone was out sick, or on vacation, and he would be assigned somewhere else when that person returned. For the moment, though, he took it as a sign that the evening would hopefully be far less eventful than some of the previous ones had been.

He climbed into the patrol car, dumping his computer bag and lunch onto the passenger seat. Starting it, he saw that the gas tank showed as nearly full.

About time . . .

His two of his last three shifts had all started with him having to locate an open gas station so that he could complete his full patrol for the night. Most gas stations, he thought, were open twenty-four hours a day. Apparently not in this part of town, he had discovered much to his initial aggravation. Once the tank was filled, and he was feeling more charitable toward the owners of the stations that he had found closed, he decided that it probably did make sense. Getting robbed on a regular basis was probably less profitable than remaining open all night in a neighborhood with a high crime rate.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Peering around the doorway, he checked the large numeral digital clock on the dresser. He was at little risk of being late for his shift. As he finished toweling himself off, he tried to decide whether he had time to have dinner there or if he should grab something at a drive-through before heading up to pick up his patrol car at the dispatch office.

He tried to remember how much cash he had in his wallet . . .

. . . probably like three dollars . . .

. . . and how much he had in his bank account . . .

. . . probably even less than that.

John checked the clock again. Unless his father was earlier than usual, John would already be on his way by the time his father arrived home from work.

I guess I can text him, John decided. He’s going to lecture me either way.

A speech by text—while no less annoying—was, at least, was a little easier to ignore.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he padded barefoot back to his bedroom, once again wishing he could remember where his slippers were. The fake wooden floors were cold this time of year.

Later, as he drove to the dispatch office, with the aroma of fast-food burritos mixing with the other stale scents in his car, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder where he might be assigned to that night.

My track record lately has been . . . well . . .

He trailed off, unable to find a good way to rationalize that nearly all of his patrol shifts over the past few days had involved someone being dead. Tempted to call ahead, to see whether they would tell him which assignment he had drawn for the night, he resisted, afraid that he might just turn around and go home if he knew.

When he walked into the dispatch and signed in for his shift, John had the distinct feeling that he was on the receiving end of several sidewise glances. He caught no one at it, specifically, but was certain that it happening. Carole’s customary smile seemed a little wider and, John thought, almost predatory. Her eyes appeared a bit brighter as well when she handed him the keys. John the smile noncommittally, feeling uncomfortable.

In the past, she had been friendly enough—in a cordial, yet professional sort of way. She had, however, never really teased or flirted with him the way she did with most of the other men. Although she was not really at all his type, being a bit too lean and with a narrow face that he did not find particularly attractive, he still felt a dull stab of jealousy and disappointment at the perceived rejection.

Tonight, however, seemed different. It was a poorly kept secret that the night dispatcher preferred “bad boys”. His getting hauled in for questioning by the police the night before had evidently now placed him into that category in her mind.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

The first he had almost casually discarded it, glancing only briefly at it. It was not until they had found the dead man at the upscale house that the sergeant had seemed to actually read what was printed on the sheets. John remembered the sergeant’s puzzled expression, and then his sudden, urgent reaction.

John was certain that the sergeant had expected to find a snake in the bag delivered to the dead woman at the office complex’s bag—sure enough so that he was willing to involve Animal Control. Once the bag had been proven to be empty, the sergeant had immediately called it a homicide.

And then the same thing at the apartment last night.

So the sergeant clearly saw the pattern.

But what did those sheets say?

If they were already secured as evidence, then John knew that there was little chance that he would be allowed to see them.

Would they let my attorney see them?

Possibly, he decided, but the problem with that idea was that he had never actually been charged with anything. He had only been questioned and then released.

“Damn,” he swore softly, rubbing his closely shaven head with the towel. “I should have thought of that last night.”

He then pondered whether it would have been worth the several hundred dollars it would have cost him just to satisfy his curiosity.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

He also suspected, though, that he would find out that the victims had nothing in common. Thinking back on the guest lectures in the his Administration of Justice classes, he tried to remember what the officers and detectives had said about serial killers—that it usually turned out that there was some kind of pattern even to the supposedly random ones. It was usually when the profilers were called in that it became obvious—often much too late for subsequent victims.

“Well, this guy seems to have a thing for workout bags . . .” he murmured, also unable to recall the last time he had made it to the gym for more than one day in a row.

The moment he spoke the thought aloud, though, the connection became apparent to him. An instant later, he tried to dismiss it.

For sure that sergeant must have picked up on that.

Playing back the scenes from two of the murders in his mind—the most recent one at the apartment, and the one at the expensive home—John saw the sergeant had recognized it.

It’s like a calling card . . . he’s sending them gym bags with something inside.

John turned off the water and stood there, frowning while he dripped. This was the part that did not quite make sense.

Each of the bags contained something different.

He thought back through them: a snake (probably), a bottle of expensive liquor, a box of (presumably) poisoned brownies, and . . .

Damn.

That was where it kind of fell apart. That one bag, shipped to the woman in the office complex and unopened, had contained nothing but a bunch of papers.

The papers?

John thought about those. There had been several sheets of paper in each of the bags.

What the hell were they?

He had never gotten a good look at any of them. The one set that had actually passed through his hands looked like a college term paper or something.

Some kind of manifesto?

That kind of document was not at all uncommon from being issues by serial killers—particularly among the more severe whack jobs.

So what had it said?

John remembered the expression on the sergeant’s face when he had read it.

No, wait, he told himself, reaching for a towel.

The sergeant’s reaction had been different each time.

The Stories of the Wild One (continued)

Even as he shuffled down the short hallway to his bathroom, he found his mind returning to memories of the day before.

Why the hell did they think I did it? He pulled on the shower control. I know all about being in the wrong place at the wrong time—I did almost a month in Juvie for it. But this . . .

He could see a certain logic to the sergeant’s suspicions, but he also knew that he was completely innocent—not just innocent, but totally uninvolved.

It’s not my fault I got assigned to those patrols.

He paused in mid-step out of his pajamas, trying to convince himself that the notion bubbling through his thoughts was just a side effect of not yet being fully awake.

Did someone deliberately send me to those sites?

John knew that he had not requested any of those patrol sites. They had all been assigned by his supervisor. Sure, he had expressed a desire for ones closer to where he lived, but only of them—the man in the expensive house—had been anywhere near his neighborhood. Even then, it was a good fifteen minutes distant, up in one of the more exclusive private communities up in the hills.

Frank? he wondered.

He considered the possibility whether his supervisor might have manipulated his assignments. It seemed a reach. Frank Marshall was an ex-cop, retired from the force, who had started his own security company. While it was entirely possible that the man had made enemies while he was part of the police force, John had a lot of trouble imagining that any the people he had seen killed would have been among them. It just did not feel right.

John stepped into the shower, letting his mind roam while the water ran down on him.

If they truly were not random killings—and he still had no good reason not to believe that there were not—then all of the victims must have something in common. It was not, he felt, something immediately obvious, for the victims had spanned a variety of ethnic origins and age groups. The age of the first set of victims seemed to cluster around the forties or fifties, but the most recent one was at least a decade younger than that—maybe two. It also did not seem to be a grudge against a particular gender, as was often the case, as there had been both male and female victims.

He considered next what he had seen of each of the crime scenes. For several of them, though, he had seen very little. They were all radically different: an underground parking garage, a luxury home, a corporate office complex, and an economy apartment. There had been only one snake. The cause of death for each of the other ones had been . . . what?

John realized that he did not know. Only the first one had been obvious. He had never heard the results of any testing or autopsies from the other ones.

Of course, he thought. Why would I?

If there were evidence in a trial, they would not be released. Even if they were not, they might still not be a matter of public record. Or they might be, if he knew where to look.

That could be a problem, John considered. He had never learned any of the victim’s names.

Easy enough to find out, he realized—if he was truly interested in finding them out.

He discovered that he was, particularly now that he had been dragged in for questioning about it.