The Monster Smiles

Deputy Barnes glanced up from the crossword puzzle in his lap to check the time on the patrol car's radio just to see the 79 Oldsmobile Cutlass scream by him. The radar detector flashed 83 miles an hour. Along this desolate stretch of highway in Gila Bend, AZ., seldom a car was seen. Let alone one traveling that fast. Pitching the newspaper into the passenger seat, Barnes threw the vehicle into drive, hit the lights and sirens, and floored it as he pulled onto HWY 85. He grabbed the radio off of the dashboard and barked into the mic "Unit 246 to base." The voice on the other end, dispatcher Karen Moon, sounded as sweet as honey. "Go ahead, Charlie." Hearing her voice could make Deputy Barnes smile no matter how serious the call was. "I got a flier. Older model Cutlass, AZ plates YUT876. Run a check for me while I get him on the side, darlin."

"Anything for you, love dumplin," came the reply. Charlie shook his head as he grinned. Sometimes he could swear that woman was hitting on him.





The deputy's grin began to fade as he bore down on the cutlass. After what had happened to Jerry Pvelts, every officer in every department in Arizona was on his toes ten fold with even a minor traffic stop. The driver of the speeding car saw Barnes in his rearview mirror and began to slow, signaling to pull off the road. As both vehicles came to a stop on the shoulder, Charlie grabbed his cowboy hat out of the back seat. As he put the patrol car in park, he went for his radio again.

"Little miss moon, I'm 10-20 at mile marker 47."



"Roger that, babe. Be careful," sing-songed Karen. The Maricopa County Sheriff's department worked with a certain indecorous behavior other agencies would find highly unprofessional. But Charlie enjoyed the casual enviroment.







Hauling his 6' 4", 290lb frame out of his Crown Vic, Deputy Barnes walked casually up to the driver side window. Leaning over and resting his left hand on the window seal, he allowed his right one to fall gently onto his service revolver. He was shocked and had to pause when he saw who was behind the wheel.





The man was obviously short, even seated in his car. Balding and wearing thick wire framed glasses, he had both hands gripped white knuckle tight on the steering wheel. But none of this surprised Barnes. The little man was nervous;  an expected response to being pulled over. What took the deputy aback was that the man was a priest. Wearing his black suit with white vestigial tab collar, he turned to the lawman.



"Have I done something wrong, officer?," asked the clergyman, trembling just enough to be visible by Barnes.



"I'd say so, father. I clocked you at 83. This section of highway is posted at 55." The priest turned away and fixed his gaze on his own lap. Speaking so softly Barnes almost couldn't hear him, he whispered "I'm terribly sorry, officer. I don't drive much, and I suppose I just let this machine get away from. I have never been in trouble with the law in my life."



Now, Charles Dixon Barnes was a God fearing man who had been raised in the church and still attended every sunday. But that didn't mean he was without obligation to uphold the law, whether it be broken by a man of God or not.



"Be that as it may, father, it's still speeding. I need to see your license and insurance information, if you would."



The priest was now sweating. Even on this hot summer day in the middle of the desert in Arizona, the little man shouldn't have been perspiring as much as he was. Deputy Barnes noticed the AC turned up full blast.



"I'm afraid I don't have either one, officer. See, this car belongs to St. Catherine's church. I was simply driving to Phoenix to deliver a message to the pastor at Mount Carmel church there. I am not in the habit of carrying a wallet or identification. There is simply no cause for it in the church."



Barnes eyed the pastor through his mirrored aviator sunglasses. After a few seconds, he responded. "Wait right here, father. I'm gonna run back to my car. I'll be right back."



Deputy Barnes slid back into his cruiser and grabbed his radio again. "Base, this is 246."



Karen's voice, though still soothing, lost some of it's sweetness when it came crackling through the speaker.



"Charlie, I tried to get ahold of you a few minutes ago, but your mobile radio must be off." Charlie glanced down at his hip and noticed that indeed, the green light that would otherwise indicate his Motorla radio was working was off. Damned dead battery.



"Yeah, friggin thing died. What ya got?"



"Charlie, that car is stolen. Belonged to a guy named Kadis Turner from Flagstaff. I say belonged because the entire Turner family was murdered two days ago. That car is wanted evidence."



Charlie felt his stomach tighten. The words coming through the speaker told him he better start calling on his fifteen years of training.



The deputy went for his shirt pocket to grab a pen, realizing there wasn't one there. Must've left it somewhere, he thought. He reached down to the passenger side floorboard where he kept his bag with pens, notebooks, spare ammunition and his lunch. He rooted around for a pen.



After fifteen years of loyal service upholding the law, that one mistake was the biggest one Charlie had ever made. As he sat up after finding a ballpoint Bic, Charlie caught something out of the corner of his left eye. Yanking his head around to face the movement, his mouth dropped open, ready to yell.



The yell never came, though.



Richard Spellers, who was anything but a man of God, shot Deputy Barnes at point blank range in the face. The dedicated lawman's head exploded as the .45 caliber bullet smashed it's way through the back.



Turning back to his car, the vultures began to screech as Richard laughed hysterically, ripping the collar from around his neck.

















































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Vincent Peretti stared at his computer screen. The image on the monitor was more gruesome than any horror movie could ever produce. A photo of a young girl, twelve to be exact, stared back at him. Well, she might have stared, if her eyes were still intact. Instead, Vincent gazed into two black pools where just a week ago eyes had been that held all the wonder and amazement only a child can possess.



She had been evicserated. Her internal organs bulged out of the jagged, gaping wound that run from her chest down to the bottom of her stomach. The rug on which she lay appeared soaked with her blood. Vincent should have been nausous.



He wasn't.



The phone on his desk ran and shook out of his reverie. "Homicide, Peretti," he answered. God damned DA on the other line, droning on about how it was imperative that Vince be in court in two weeks to testify at the murder trial of some lowlife who had pushed his pregnant wife down two flights of stairs. Peretti had made the collar. And even though he and DA Frank Dominguez were on the same side, and Peretti was in fact obligated to be in court, he still hated the little bastard. Frank Dominguez was a douche bag in every sense of the word. Vincent despised him.



Muttering a "yeah, I'll be there," Peretti hung up and turned back to his screen and the hell that was plastered on it. What a life he had. Sometimes it wasn't worth the effort anymore. But it hadn't always been that way.





Vincent Emmett Peretti was born in Brooklyn, NEw York, in nineteen sixty one. WIth a devout Catholic for a mother and an alcoholic father, Vincent's childhood was anything but pleasant. Carletta Peretti did her best to raise her only child to the best of her abilities, but being married to Daniel Peretti was a lifetime of work in it's own. When he wasn't yelling or slapping her around for one thing another, he was venting his anger on their son. Vincent took his mother's advise and prayed that God would show his father the way to happiness, but it never worked. Many a night was spent with Vincent spent cowering on his bed under his sheets while his father rampaged around the house, destroying things as he screamed at Carletta.



It was at a young age that Vincent decided that he wanted to grow up to be a law enforcement officer. The numerous visits from the Brooklyn  police inspired the younger Peretti to want to help people. VIncent noticed how much better his mother felt whenever the cops dragged his father literally kicking and screaming from the house. So many times the boy prayed that God would keep Daniel in jail, never return to hurt Vincent or his mother again.

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"Jesus, you look like shit," said Detective Romano, sitting down at Vince's desk. "Gym membership expire?"

Vincent glared at him. With a diet consisting of caffiene and a two pack a day cigarette habit, Vince was not in the best of shape. And the eighteen hour plus days he pulled didn't help. Vincent was a mess. Had been for years.

"What the fuck do you need besides my foot in your face, Romano" Vince hissed without looking away from his computer. "I'm busy."

Detective Romano cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, clearly realizing Peretti was in one of his moods. "What do ya got on the Turner case so far?"

Vincent grabbed his monitor and swiveled it around so Romano could see. The color drained from the detective's face.

"Jesus," Romano whispered. He stared at the horror in front of him. Vince leaned back in his chair.

"He did this to all of them. Gutted them like deer. Cut out their eyes. The son and father were castrated. The CSI's say he took the genitalia. They couldn't find them." Romano leaned forward, placing his head in his hands.

"The crime scene didn't show anything we have that we can use. No prints, no fibers or hairs. No DNA save for the victims'. This sicko took his time cleaning up." Peretti stated matter-of-factly. You would have thought he was describing what he had for breakfast.