Checkmate

January 1, 2003

She let the hair fall out of her cap, and brushed the fresh dirt from her left knee. Two flares flew into the sky from her gun. She looked back only when the swamp too far away to see.

October 31, 2002

Detective Mellek was the only one not in costume, and it did not concern him in the slightest. It was still only 3:15 PM, and the Trick-or-Treaters wouldn’t start arriving until at earliest 5:00. Whereas everyone else in his department had a bowl of candy in the hall or outside of a door, he had only a small box of fliers warning against the use of illegal drugs and the damages they do one’s body.

“It’s Halloween, Henry.” Joseph chided him. “Let kids have fun, rot out their teeth.”

“It’s Halloween, Joseph.” Henry Mellek preached from his desk. “Let them be scared.”

Joseph snorted in derisive good humor, and replaced the box with a bowl when he came through the hall later. Mellek noticed, but said nothing.

Let a word be said on Henry K. Mellek: he was not a prude. However, when he wanted to get something done, he would not rest until it was not only completed but perfected. As useful as this way of life was for his work in the police, it had something of a negative effect on his personal affairs. His marriage with Katherine Wallis had lasted less than three months, when a case had come up and he spent an entire week and a half in the office. He slept on his desk, his head on his papers, as though the crime would solve itself in his brain via osmosis. He had returned home from this session, bleary-eyed and irritable, only to be ejected promptly from the household.

No, Henry was not a prude at all. Now, however, he was much too focused on his work even to attempt to maintain any relationship except that with his best friend, Joseph Vescovo, on whose couch he slept and kept his belongings, and that with Elizabeth Dronning, the intern who proved to be more helpful than most full-time employees at this local department.

As Henry sat at a desk which no one could see beneath papers, Elizabeth was dressed as Catwoman and Joseph had donned a pirate’s costume. Joseph and Henry had been friends since Joseph transferred to Henry’s high school in senior year. They had roomed together in college, and even now they shared a job.

Everyone from the Chief of Police (now a pharaoh) to the overweight receptionist (now Tinkerbell) was dressed up. Mellek too would have dressed up, had he not received new information on the case.

A recent influx of narcotics in the small town in the north of Connecticut and its neighbors had caused something of a stirring in the community. The citizens themselves were well sheltered by the nature of the close-knit and cherubically innocent town, and the group importing the drugs clearly took advantage of the locals’ naiveté as well as the miniature and amateur police force.

From Henry’s research so far, the imports seemed to be coming in at random locations around the area, though naturally he was mapping them diligently in case a pattern should appear.

October 30, 2002

The new information had shown up while he was watching television in Joseph Vescovo’s basement. Mellek had been exhausted from his fruitless day, and was dozing in front of the set, with the national news on mute. Presently, he had opened his eyes long enough to see something very familiar onscreen. The pattern and placement of the red X’s on the screen was identical to the pattern and placement he had mapped of the local drug deals! But he hadn’t shared his findings with anyone, so how could they have ended up on national TV?

He sat up on the couch, immediately conscious, and scrambled to unmute the set.

“—s map shows the locations at which the bodies of the recent victims have been found.” The X’s on the screen zoomed backwards in their formation and landed on a map of the US. “We are at this point fairly certain this is the work of a serial killer, and so far there are no strong leads. On to you, Kai.”

Henry had grabbed the nearest pen, and finding no paper, wrote frantically on his arm. The other reporter, Kai, resumed. “Thanks, Hank. So far there have been five murders, but nothing we’ve noticed to connect the victims.” The screen flashed to the picture of a young man, roughly 25, and then a picture of him dead. “Victim number one, Quinn Chaplin, was found in a river without his arms or his shins. What remained of his legs was sewn together in a surgical manner, and the stumps were cauterized cleanly.”

The detective on the couch scribbled viciously on his arm, paying no heed to the tugging of the ballpoint on his skin. He paused, a theory in mind, and waited for the name of the second victim.

“Uri Haqsi was found in his apartment, the top of his skull missing, apparently sawed cleanly around above his ears. He was an immigrant who spoke next to no English, living alone, and in no way associated with the first victim. The two were found two days apart.”

Mellek caught his breath and began drawing a grid on his arm.

“Three days later, Eleanor Eckle was found in a stable, underneath the hay in one horse’s stall. She wasn’t missing any limbs, but her arms were broken backwards at the elbow and her legs forward at the knee. She had been scalped except for the hair down the middle of her head. We will refrain from showing a photo.”

October 31, 2002

It had been 8:00 PM the previous night, and Henry Mellek had been alone in his office, copying what was on his arm into his notes and onto his map ever since. Now, with his theories safely stored in solid notes, he went to the men’s room to scrub his arm free of his thoughts. He washed his lined face.

Henry took his time meandering back from the restroom, in a better mood than he had been in in months. He complimented costumes. He exchanged smiles and pleasantries. He even had a piece of candy.

Elizabeth Dronning, sharp as a young woman can be, approached him with his coffee and even a foam clown nose so he would have a costume. Over the red ball, he peered at her young body encased in black patent leather, complete with tail, whiskers, and ears. She was something like 5’5” and built on a petite frame, which she kept covered in an equally petite layer of chub. Any day, and especially this one for her outfit, she could have been mistaken as a young Eartha Kitt.

“I have the files you wanted about the murders Channel 8 was covering last night.” She told him, and handed him the manila folder. He thanked her and returned to his desk.

A note was waiting for him on top of his notes. It said:

You think you figured it out.

You’re not even close.
Don’t try again.

Mellek opened the notebook. It was completely blank. Untouched. All his work was gone.

He would keep working. He’d keep it secret, and he’d solve the case on his own.

November 9, 2002

Henry Mellek found himself pressing a young spry body against a wall. Elizabeth Dronning looked up at him, and her brown eyes reflected the wavering light of a basement light bulb. Her glistening mouth did the same as he kissed it.

November 7, 2002

There had now been 9 murders, all matching in relative location to local drug deals. Henry was fairly confident he understood what they had in common, but could find no way to anticipate them. He had all of the names:

Quinn Chaplin

Uri Haqsi

Eleanor Eckle

Ed Stark

Norman Spencer

Dahlia Ingram

Ernest Singer

Lawrence Ackhert

Sydney Talbot

but it couldn’t tell him where the next drug deal would be. The town was losing faith in its police, and Mellek would have to work fast. He gave himself the deadline of New Years’. He asked Joseph to help, and showed him his theory.

“If an eight-by-eight grid of squares lined up to this map” Henry pointed to the map of their small town. “and an identical but larger one lined up to this one” He opened the map of the East Coast.

“And the deals were made in these squares in this order

					3	7
					4
						8
6				2
5				1
			9

which is the same order in which the mutilated bodies showed up. There seems to be a grouping, in pairs very close to each other. So we should probably set up some type of trap in the grids around 9.”

“But there’s an inconsistency.” Joseph pointed out. There’s an unusual space between 7 and 8. What if it grows again between 9 and 10? We still don’t have a name or motive for the killer, and nothing linking the victims. We don’t even know how the drugs are related to—”

Henry seized the list of victims and fumbled with it frantically. “There!” he exclaimed finally. He had never been very good or concise at conveying his ideas to others, and the random arrows and shading on the paper made absolutely no sense to Vescovo.

Mellek let out an exasperated sigh. “The names of the victims!” He circled the first letters of the last names, and wrote them out across the top of the page. CHESS.

Thrusting the paper at Joseph, he spun his chair back to his desk, searching for the small book of velum sheets he always kept beneath the papers. He hastily etched a sloppy grid, and put it over the map on the table. With Joseph Vescovo looking on, Henry Mellek shaded in every other square black.

					3	7
					4
						8
6				2
5				1
			9

“But it only works for the first five names. After that it’s just ‘ISAT.’ We’re close though.” Vescovo paused and looked at Mellek curiously. “How did you come up with 8x8 anyway?”

“Someone called in a tip.”

November 8, 2002

Henry’s 34^th birthday party was brief and concise, much like the individual it was celebrating. Joseph hosted at his house, and invited the station. Only fifteen or so showed up, but the music and beer was good, and so was the cake Elizabeth Dronning brought.

Guests started trailing home around 11:00, leaving Mellek, Dronning, and Vescovo to clean up. Vescovo, however, was somewhat tipsy and decided to retire early.

Elizabeth and Henry made polite conversation, and by the time they had finished throwing out beer bottles, it was nearly 12:30 AM on November 9, and he took her downstairs to show her the couch in the basement where he slept.

November 10, 2002

Henry arrived to find another note on his desk.

I will help you with this case

If you can guarantee me immunity in court

Otherwise, the world will know about

You and Dronning.

Type “YES” or “NO” on your screen

And leave it there the night

Your first information will come tomorrow

Henry typed “YES” on his screen and left for the day, his brow furrowed over a thought he couldn’t quite complete.

November 11, 2002

The information on the paper on the desk that morning said only:

First 1-5

First and Last 5-9

Henry was no fool. He knew exactly what it meant, and rushed to Joseph with his paper. Henry did not tell him about the note.

“The initials! The first five first names spell out ‘QUEEN’ and the first and last initials of the next four names spell ‘DIES LAST’!”

“So does that mean the killings have stopped? The last one was a girl, was she the queen?”

“Why would they stop?” Henry wanted to know. “There were nine murders and nine drug deals. If it’s related to chess, why wouldn’t there be sixteen murders instead of nine?” Joseph looked confused, so Henry continued to say, “There are sixteen chess pieces on each team. If each person was a chess piece, why weren’t there sixteen?”

Joseph Vescovo took a short pause to ponder it, then reached into his desk and pulled out the file, containing the pictures of the victims’ bodies.

“Each person is a piece? Look at how they’re shaped. The Eckle woman, she was a Knight. Her head was shaved into a mane and the limbs were bent like a horse’s.”

He tossed the photo on the desk, and Henry snatched it up eagerly. “Haqsi” Mellek continued. “the immigrant, he was a Rook. Top of his head was off, like the castle.”

Looking up from the photo of the first victim, Joseph intoned, “And Quinn Chaplin was a pawn.”

Further studying of the bodies revealed that so far five pawns, two rooks, one knight, and a bishop had been killed.

“And the Queen dies last.”

December 2, 2002

There had been no sign of their helper since the hint about names. However, four more murders and four more drug deals had taken place since, and the police were at a loss.

Detective Mellek had slept at his desk, frustrated that he could not predict the pattern of the crimes. The note on his desk when he woke up snapped him to attention.

Only three left.

Again, look at names.

Not on the paper, Your own.

PS. When did you last see Joseph?

Henry hadn’t been back to the house in two days, nor had he seen Vescovo. He grabbed his coat, keys, and that cursed piece of paper and rushed back to his friend’s home.

On the outside, it seemed like nothing was wrong. The façade of the house was intact, locked, normal. Detective Mellek snuck around to the back door, and saw a trail of blood. With a growing anxiety in his gut, he followed it inside to the bathroom.

The mirror had been smashed, and a shard was bloody, obviously used for cutting something or someone. A note on the glass:

Mellek- Hebrew

Dronning- Dutch

Vescovo- Italian

As the other police and detectives combed the house for fingerprints, Henry K. Mellek was in the public library, in the foreign language section.

Ten minutes later he sat back, and the piece of paper in front of him said:

Mellek-Hebrew-King

Dronning- Dutch- Queen

Vescovo-Italian-Bishop

Henry swallowed hard and said aloud, “And the Queen dies last.”

December 25, 2002

There was no note on Detective Mellek’s desk. Today there was a small package, bundled neatly, and in black-and-white checkered paper. It said

You have until New Year’s to

find the only other note you’ll need.

Think fast, because at midnight the

vial of acid will break on your clue.

Remember, it’s something close to

the bishop’s heart

The package held a key.

December 19, 2002

They found his body that night. The sides of his skull had been sawed away to form a point of bone at the top. His face bore a gruesome Glasgow Grin, the corners of his mouth sliced up to his cheekbones and his lips removed. His arms had been cut away but the shoulder bones were left jutting out, leaving his body in a gory T shape. He had been rent apart, navel to neck, and the skin was peeled sideways, pinned to the armpits. His innards were all in place except his heart.

December 30, 2002

By now the King had told the Queen and they knew they had barely two days left to find the Bishop’s heart.

“They’re chess moves.” The Queen had realized aloud in the basement. Elizabeth looked at Henry, and pointed to the sequence on the map. “They’re setting up the board to corner the King.”

The King looked at his war-map, and concluded, “So I have to go to that square and wait. It’s probably where the heart is anyway.” He looked down at her. “If I don’t die, you can’t. The Queen dies last.”

She replied, “Then I’m coming.”

December 31, 2002

The rest of their small town was at the party, waiting in for New Year’s to come. They only had one hour.

Meanwhile, in the square designated for the endangered King, Henry and Elizabeth were digging. They each held a typical garden shovel, which could barely make a dent in the sludgy muck of the swamp.

Their faces were grimy and Elizabeth’s bangs were streaked with mud again and again every time she brushed them out of her face. She put her hair up under her hat.

Half an hour left. Henry Mellek had gone from sophisticated and reserved detective to frantic and crazed maniac in mere hours.

Fifteen minutes, and the eerie fog of a swamp in winter chilled the two and dampened their clothes and spirits.

Five minutes. Elizabeth’s shovel hit something.

Three minutes. They raised the box above the ground.

Two minutes. Henry’s freezing and clumsy fingers finally manage to insert the key into the lock, and wrench the box open.

One minute. The slimy organ is slippery in his grasp, and he gropes for the piece of paper inside the heart.

Thirty seconds. He pulls the slip from the blood-crusted tube, and his first realization is that it is made from velum. From his desk.

Ten seconds. He opens the folded velum.

Five seconds:

The queen doesn’t die, and you’re just her fool

New Year’s—The blunt edge of the shovel swung into his skull and lodged in the back of his brain.

“Checkmate” Elizabeth says.