Leave A Whisper - Chapters 10-11

Chapter 10 - All Good Things, Wicked Things

Reddick punched out on the time clock, missing its mark, ending up cock-eyed to the side of the time card. He didn't care.

He slid onto the driver seat of his old Dodge, turned the ignition key and the starter symptomatically squalled. He'd already replaced the starter and solenoid, so he figured it must've been the flywheel that caused it. Another paycheck and another fuckin' day wasted, he complained. But it finally started.

He turned on the radio. Kiss blared, 'Detroit Rock City' as he played imaginary drums on the dashboard, pausing long enough to light a cigarette before resuming the beat in perfect synchronization.

Backing his raggedy car in between two parked cars, he slid his CDs under the seat and flipped the cigarette butt out the driver's window, where it landed on top of the hood of the car next to his.

He walked inside the bar. A couple of guys were shooting a game of pool, three men were slouching on barstools at the bar, and a couple sat holding hands at a table in a far corner. A redhead was standing at the jukebox wearing a short skirt, low-cut tank top, and red high heels. Cunt, he thought, walking past her.

Reddick pulled a barstool away from the guy sitting next to it, and spun it around examining it for cracks on its vinyl top. He checked it over and traded it for a different stool with no obvious defects.

"Beer," he bluntly demanded, pulling his wallet from his hip pocket.

The bartender placed a mug foaming over with draft beer in front of him and snatched a few bills off the counter where Reddick had laid ten singles.

'I Will Always Love You,' blared Dollie Parton's twanged-nasal voice from the jukebox and two speakers that hung over the bar. Whitney Houston's version is better, he thought.

The redhead strutted over, clad in a short skirt that almost showed her ass, and climbed up on the barstool beside his. Her skirt hiking up as she sat, showing a glimpse of crotch, and she reeked of cheap perfume that burned his nostrils. She looked him up and down obviously sizing him up, as if deciding whether he were approachable or not.

"Hi, my name's Sue Ellen. What's yours?" she asked in a gruff sounding voice. A cigarette was dangling from her ruby-red lips, and her eyes squinted from smoke curling upward.

The bartender laid a napkin down in front of her, placing the mug of draft on top of it, then told her he'd put it on her tab.

Reddick didn't look or acknowledge her, then downed the last gulp of beer in his mug. "Another," he ordered, slamming the empty one down and sliding it toward the barkeeper.

"Let me buy that one. It's on me," the woman told him smiling a toothy grin stained with lipstick.

Reddick continued to ignore her. She wasn't worth his time or the sweat off his ass. She's a tramp-- a whore like mother-- she even sounds like her.

He finished his beer and left the bar without tipping. While walking to his car and lighting a cigarette-- he saw her.

A beautiful brunette had walked out of an adjacent store carrying a package. She was desperately trying to find something inside her purse and paused with a bewildered expression on her face, then continued to dig inside it, retrieving a set of car keys. She went to her car and manually unlocked the door then threw the package on the backseat.

My luck, her bad luck. When you least expect it, all things good come your way. You just have to pay attention to recognize them.

...Your misfortune is my desire,
the place you are, within my vision,
is your chosen fate, and my destiny.
Count your days, count your minutes,
I'll count all my artful intentions,
of the masterpiece you will become.
For soon you'll taste my prurience,
and I'll have my fill of your lovely essence ...


******
Reddick quickly followed the brunette out of the graveled parking lot into congested traffic, afraid he'd lose sight of her green Jeep, he trailed close behind preventing anyone from cutting between them.

Excitement of the hunt and chase, gripped the marrow of his being and he felt a need to enhance the thrill with music. He retrieved a few CDs from under the car seat choosing Black Sabbath, inserting it into the player and selecting 'Wicked World' for proper ambiance. He turned up the volume, adjusting the bass and treble.

He sang along with the music, changing the lyrics to fit his own personified version... "the world today is such a wicked thing. Fighting going on between the human race. People give good wishes to all their friends...while people just across town are counting the dead...of my job they say is very high...for I have to choose who's got to go and die... They can put a man on the moon quite easy, while people here on earth are dying of my own handiwork... A woman goes to work every day after day. She just goes to work just to earn her pay. Child sitting, crying by a life that's harder, he doesn't even know who is his father..."

The woman signaled a right turn and pulled into a paved lot in front of an office building, parking. She got out, dropping her car keys while trying to recover the package laying on the backseat, and bent down in an effort to retrieve them. He watched her as she fumbled around under the Jeep. Damn, she's a klutz, but a beautiful klutz. That deliciously fine heart-shaped ass, is a fully ripened moon just waiting to hang juicily in both my bloody palms.

He eyed her as she walked inside the building and wondered what her business was inside the lawyer's office. It wasn't a law firm. Only one name was painted on the door. 'George H. Bartlow, LLP.'

He'd heard the name somewhere before ...


Chapter 11 - The Crucifix

The plane flew overhead with both Rotax - 582 engines loudly purring, with one wing tilted and ready for another turn to sweep of the area again.

Meadows covered his brow with a stiffened hand, blocking the sunlight while gazing up in the skies watching the plane circle back around for its third trip.

"I'm anxious to see the aerial photos, aren't you? They're bound to give us some insight into this perverted bastard's head," he exclaimed, while continuing to watch the plane. He never could understand why they stenciled 'POLICE' on the planes, figuring it only attracted unnecessary public attention.

"I don't need pictures to tell me what I already know," Toni replied, without glancing up. She hadn't stood after her vision, and had remained seated in the grass to recoup from the tremors and headaches it always caused her. The sounds of the plane didn't help.

Meadows realized by the tone of her voice, that his remark had been doltish of him. He'd momentarily forgot Toni was a psychic, possessing more sagacity than any evidence could offer the investigation. "That's right, you surely don't. You know more than any picture could ever tell, being a psychic and all."

The day's toil had her irritable. "I'd rather be referred to as a criminal profiler than a psychic," she retaliated. "It's easier explaining I'm a profiler, than try to explain that I'm a psychic."

Meadows sat down next to her in the grass and placed his arm around her shoulder. He gave her a slight squeeze, followed by a unison of pats. With a free hand, he toyed with a patch of grass beside him, plucking one blade at a time, piling his pickings in a single spot as if constructing a diminutive monument. "Are you all right?" he asked, breaking the brief silence.

"I don't know. I can't shake hearing his whispering in my head. The visions are bad enough."

"If it's any consolation to you, you can lean on me. I'm here for you. Let it all out. Cry, cuss and swear-- uh, whatever you need to do to feel better and to help you cope with this wicked shit," he solaced.

Burnstein quietly walked up on them, embarrassed he might be interrupting their conversation or a private moment, judging by their expressions and fashion in which they sat. "Uh-hum, excuse me, Detective. The aerial crew informed me that they have one more fly-over and they'll be finished. I put a rush on the pictures. They should be developed by tonight."

Meadows stood up brushing grass off the pant legs of his tousers, and extended a hand to help Toni up. She accepted his offer, smiling into his eyes briefly before gathering her worn notepad and purse from where they lay almost hidden amidst high grass. She saw that she and Meadows, had left two butt prints where they'd sat, and noticed her own was remarkably larger than Meadow's posterior signature. She indiscreetly stepped onto the confined area, brushing the indentions with a foot before anyone could notice.

"Sir? Come back," a staticky voice blared over Burnstein's walkie-talkie.

The portly Burnstein lowered the volume and adjusted the squelch. "Go ahead, Alexander."

"The team is ready for you and the detective now, sir," she announced.

"We'll be right there," Burnstein informed her, glancing at Meadows and Toni.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked them.

Toni hesitated, not responding. Meadows looked at her for the approval cue to go. Opening her purse, Toni resurrected Aniel, her constant companion, and clutched it to her to her heart before nodding her 'okay' response.

"It's time. Let's find out what we're dealing with," Meadows told her, grasping her elbow.

It was a good five minute walk through flattened grass on the man-made path that the forensic team had previously created for the crew.

Toni already surmised the letter 'R' could be his initial. Was it his first or last name?It was if he'd signed his work; a perverted perception of an art form. His ill-whispered words echoed through her mind all jumbled and disconnected, as she walked. Her notes would likely organize them into some bit of coherent corollary, hopefully revealing an insight into his mind.

When they reached the appraised crime scene, she stopped, standing in solemn silence, counting the coroner's white sheets. The crew hadn't placed the parts of the victim in zippered-body bags yet, waiting for them to arrive and valuate the scene first.

She counted five white-covered areas scattered in another pattern.


A crucifix.

Meadows and Burnstein saw the pattern.

They'd simultaneously stopped in their tracks, gawking at the symbol.

"Why didn't you inform me about this?" Burnstein asked Mary Alexander. He glared at her. She was squatting by the labeled sheet marked number one, while conferring with another examiner.

"Sorry, sir," she answered, standing up. "I guess I didn't think it was relevant since you were in the field, sir."

"Alexander, I'm to be appraised of any and all details, regardless of my field position. That's why they pay me the big bucks and gave me the title, 'Chief Forensic Examiner' --your boss," Burnstein shouted.

"Yes, sir. My misjudgment. It won't happen again," she apologized. "I believe you should look at this tag-sheet first, sir," she recommended. She looked down at the sheet and the young examiner who was pretending not to hear the verbal reprimand. He continued to write notes on a clipboard as if he'd been too busy to notice them.

The three walked around the areas of blood-saturated grass to the spot, then Alexander unveiled the body part. Toni hadn't been prepared for what she saw. She fell to her knees, violently emptying her stomach onto the ground, heaving convulsive spasms until there was nothing left to discard.

Detective Meadows, concerned about Toni, handed her his handkerchief, and Alexander offered her a canteen of water to flush her mouth.

"Thank you, give me a moment, please. I'll be all right," Toni embarrassingly mumbled, but not looking up.

Alexander placed a yellow marker that read 'Non-Evidence' on Toni's abrupt mishap.

A young woman's decapitated head was mounted as if being on display, on a thick tree branch, stuck deep in the ground. The head's eyes and ears were missing. The eyes had been plucked from their sockets, and bloody holes were all that remained where ears once were. The mouth gaped, void of a tongue.

Toni had regained her composure. "The act of displaying the head and removing the eyes, ears and tongue, signifies something. Probably his distaste for intimacy."

"I agree. Of all the cases I've seen, and according to the top profilers, cutting out the eyes are the killer's way of avoiding the victim seeing him," Meadows remarked.

"He didn't cut out her eyes-- he removed them," Toni observed.

"She's right," Alexander replied.

"He plucked out her eyes, careful not to damage the eyeballs for a reason.

Probably for later use, a trophy or something," Toni informed them.

The young male examiner, who was still squatting by the mutilated head, finally spoke up, "I think a lock of hair was his trophy, Ma'am. Unless he collects more than one trophy."

Toni didn't want to, but she forced herself to get closer to the horrific head.

"See?" the young man asked, using a plastic pointer to lift an area of bloody, blond hair for her to view.

Mary Alexander handed Toni a small-sized pair of powdered-latex gloves. Toni fumbled trying to get the tight gloves on, and lifted the strand of hair for a closer examination. The small area, clearly had a lock missing. Not cut off, but plucked from the scalp. Roots and all.

"So what's the missing ears and tongue represent?" Alexander addressed Toni.

Meadows interceded, "Missing ears means he didn't want her to hear, for whatever reasoning. And the missing tongue probably means he didn't want her talking to him. He must not be the kind of perverted son-of-a-bitch that gets off to their begging and pleading for their lives- which is new to me."

"No. I don't think so. Not in this case," Toni reverberated.

Burnstein decided to insert his two cents worth into the melding pot of opinions. "I don't think it's any of those things. I think he took them for another reason."

"What makes you think that?" Meadows asked. He was surprised Burnstein had anything valuable to offer.

"Well, Ms. Taft has already surmised that he plucked the eyeballs from their sockets, not cut them out, and cut the ears off-- why we don't know yet. Plus, he cut her tongue out, and none as a trophy. So that only leaves one reasonable deduction. They're placed in a different location from the initial crime scene. Rest assured, my team will find them. And find out what his demented reasoning was," Burnstein deduced.

Toni walked a few yards to the number two marked sheet where another forensic examiner stood. The sheet was larger than the first. She could tell what was beneath.

The tall, lanky female examiner pulled the blood-stained sheet away from its hidden contents, exposing the gruesome body section.

It was a woman's torso with severed arms, missing both hands. The arms lay carefully arranged crossed over its center, as formable as a body in a casket. The breasts were carefully carved off, and with the missing legs and head, the torso looked even more horrendously despicable.

Toni didn't remember hitting the hardened ground. Meadows, Burnstein, and Mary Alexander, hovered above her wiping her forehead with a dampened cloth. Mary passed a vial of ammonia smelling-salts under her nose.

"What happened?" Toni asked, trying to sit up.

"You fainted again. Are you all right?" Meadows asked, worried.

He regretted again, asking her to help him with the case. He hadn't planned on developing close, personal feelings for her, even though he had been attracted to her when he'd first laid eyes on her. He thought she'd be some old, loony-kind of hag, claiming to see all and know all, like some wanna-be psychic, gypsy-type with a fake crystal ball. Fake crystal ball? Oxymoron-- as if there's actually a real crystal ball, he cynically thought.

Later, they stood at the number three marked sheet. Two dismembered legs lay in a spread V-position, which was even more vulgar in appearance without a torso.

Number four hid a severed hand clutching a red rose, as number five did. There were no roses in the area. Where did they come from?

Decapitated head, number one. Torso with severed arms, number two. Dismembered legs, number three, severed hands clutching red roses, numbers four and five, making the crucifix pattern.