Читать книгу The Anointing - Aubrey Smith - Страница 2

Every night after his bowl of cereal, he would take the van and scout for young people. How he enjoyed watching boys while they romped and played. As a child, Father required his services at home. Father had never allowed him to participate in any sport activities. There were always chores to do, and Father did not like him talking with the other boys. Even after all these years, Gordon hated his father, maybe now more than ever. He remembered the terrible pain associated with those awful afternoons in the barn. After all these years, he could still remember the smell of the cows and trodden hay.

Gordon had two unforgettable memories of the barn. First was the first time Father sodomized Gordon’s tiny body. He remembered the pain. It was a compassion-less burning that devoured his inner core. The second memory, which haunted his soul day and night, was the afternoon he had heard the sound of three gunshots from the direction of the old ramshackle wooden building. He had been drying dishes for his mother when Sister came running through the kitchen. She had not even stopped to speak as she ran past Gordon and his mother. Sister ran up the stairs and into the bedroom. Gordon looked back on that day and remembered Mother dropping her dishrag into the pan and following Sister up the stairs. He could hear Sister sobbing and telling Mother something. Then Mother came down the stairs and went to the hall closet, where she took out the rifle. Stone faced, she walked past her youngest son, carrying the rifle in both hands. She used the rifle barrel to push open the screen door and disappeared from sight.

He recalled how he had been frightened. He had run up the stairs to Sister’s room. When he opened the bedroom door, Sister was hanging from a rope tied to a rafter. She dangled in death as the afternoon sun cast lingering splashes of gold on her blue face. He walked to her and touched her muddy leg. Looking up, he saw that she wore no panties. Sometimes at night he still woke, dripping with sweat and gasping for life as images of Sister’s exposed body arrived crystal clear in his nightmares.

He counted the shots; one, two, three. Then he waited, dreading Father’s return to the bedroom. There was no question in his mind. He just somehow knew that Mother and Sister were both dead and that he and Brother would be next. When his mother came into the bedroom, he was relieved. Mother stood in shock as she watched her only daughter swing gently around the room, suspended by a death noose. She propped the gun against the wall and got a chair. He helped his mother lower his sister’s lifeless body. They put Sister on the bed and covered her with the sheet. Gordon then watched as Mother picked up the rifle and poked the barrel into her own mouth. Looking straight at Gordon, she pulled the trigger. In slow motion, he could still see every glob of blood, bone, and brains as they were spewed from Mother’s head. The red covered the walls and stuck to the ceiling.

That night when the sheriff left, a woman from the children’s shelter took Gordon and Brother away. They were placed in separate foster homes. The last he heard, Brother was in the penitentiary somewhere.

Gordon had missed his childhood. He had known only pain, death, and destruction. The only enjoyable thing he could remember about his youth was baseball. He had been an all‑city pitcher and still loved to go to the games.

“Tonight’s final score, Dodgers fourteen, Roadrunners eight.” The announcer faked excitement and quickly started to roll up the mike cord. The field lights were turned off while the spectators were hunting for their cars. Tonight the twilight of dusk was hot and the color of taupe. Dust boiled, as a stream of station wagons and minivans filled with mothers and children rushed for exits. Noise and dust covered the quadruplex baseball center near San Pedro Street and, as the car lights illuminated a path away from the Little League games, Gordon took a long sip from his Coke can.

“Hi, I’m Father Gordon. You played a swell game tonight. What’s your name?”

“I’m Alex McCoy. I play third base.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been watching you. I played for the Los Angles Dodgers a few years ago. When I hurt my knee, I had to quit.”

“Really?” the excited boy probed.

“Sure, really. I think that with just a little coaching, I could have you hitting five hundred. Yes, I’m sure you have what it takes to be a home run hitter,” he assured the boy.

“Man, I want to hit a homer,” Alex exclaimed to the priest. “I know I could if our coach, Mr. Fry, would just let me bat more.”

“I could see that. I wondered why he didn’t let you play. Really, I did!”

“Oh heck, there’s my mother, I’ve got to go. Thank you, Father, Bye.” Alex rushed to meet his mother.

Gordon clinched his jaws as a frown swept over his face. What a time to show up. That kid was ready to play, he thought. He forced a smile and waved at Alex, as the young man scrambled into his mother’s protective white car. Alex turned and waved goodbye to Gordon.

“Jim, why’d anyone throw away a kid? Every time I see one of these it makes me…”

“Let it go,” Lieutenant Grimes quickly answered, wiping the sweat from his glasses.

“Juveniles, just little lads. That’s what they call them. Teenyboppers. They call them little tykes in the movies,” Sergeant Slore continued to ramble, as he went methodically about the job of putting together the jigsaw puzzle of death and wasted potentials. Chatter is what Slore did when he was nervous or upset. “Emergency room doctors, morticians, and cops see it all.”

When Slore stood and began to dust the soil from his pants, he seemed to be a million miles away. He began to roll up a well-used, hundred-foot tape, “Did you know ER doctors won’t ride motorcycles? They’ve seen too many smashed heads.”

Slore looked at the body and thought, No matter how you prepare yourself, you’re never ready for a call like this. Who’s this kid lying here naked for all to see, wide-eyed and dead? Look at the terror in those eyes that will never sparkle again.

“Come on, people wrap this one up. Cover the body before the sun… Lieutenant, here’s the kid’s underwear,” Slore continued, as he scribbled in his folding notebook the location of the white Jockey shorts.

Flat-faced with Santa Claus hair, Lieutenant Jim Grimes had investigated too many violent crimes. He knew too well what a dead child looked like. “Any blood?”

Slore shook his head. Most people thought Slore handsome. Women looked and called him a hunk. His blond hair contrasted a dark tan and he worked out every day. The first thing they noticed about him was his clear, green eyes. Carefully, he took a stick and lifted the boy’s underwear into a clear plastic bag marked EVIDENCE.

“What’s that over there?” Grimes asked as he pointed to something shining, half-buried in the dirt.

Slore called out to Officer Mark Carter, “Carter, check that out. What’s that?”

“It’s nothing, Sergeant, just a snuff lid,” Carter answered, as Slore stuffed more Vicks up his nose to mask the stench of death. The smell of death stays with you for days, he thought.

“Come on, Carter, mark it and tag it. You never know.” Slore felt a bead of perspiration roll down his neck and evaporate into his collar. The afternoon sun showed no mercy. Not even one cloud could be seen in the vastness of the Texas sky. It was just plain hot and dry. A horrible summer. No rain and temperatures near a hundred degrees every day. The mayor was already talking about water rationing. Slore forced the tape into his hip pocket. He thought, If there was just something to work with here besides dust. Crime scenes are tough anyway. I’ve just got to let my mind do the work.

He looked for more signs and reminded himself, You’ve just got to be there. You’ve got to see it, feel it. “Carter, take three officers and start a grid search. Spread out for about three hundred yards.”

Turning to Grimes, he said, “Lieutenant, I’m going to do another quick look about, then I’m ready.” Slore was more than ready to go.

The rape and murder of a twelve, maybe thirteen-year-old, yet unidentified white male was ready for the computer. Now it was time to type and file. The boy’s body was now prepared for the slick, shiny black bag. When this kid’s identified, someone will have to tell the parents, Slore thought. He was glad he probably would not be the one who had to tell them. That’s what lieutenants were for.

Several questions nagged and gnawed at Slore, questions he knew had to be answered. Why was this victim’s body brought here? Why here? Why to this side of town? This was the second body. The Smith boy was left just a few blocks away. Why had both of the bodies been hauled to the area surrounding the Alamodome? The press had already tagged the first murder, The Alamodome Murder. Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? These were the questions even rookie policemen understood needed to be answered to solve any crime. “The note! Lieutenant, read that note to me.”

“And the Yeled grew and was weaned, and Abraham made a great feast the same day that Isaac was weaned.”

“Well, from the other note, we know that a Yeled is a young boy or a child. What do you think, Lieutenant? Has anybody checked with a rabbi on this?”

“Grab the ball, Slore. Go find a rabbi. Then you can ask him. It’s got to be another quotation from the Bible.” Grimes continued, “Quotes from the Bible seem mighty odd at a murder!”

The two men walked up the trail that was made today by investigators, as they rushed in and stumbled out of the vacant lot. Neither spoke. Both men consumed by inner rage, disgust, and sorrow. Slore lifted the yellow POLICE CRIME SCENE tape for Grimes. “You want me to talk to them or do you want to?” The Lieutenant stared at the mob of TV, radio, and newspaper reporters that were held back by two uniformed officers. “You talk. What a bunch of maggots they are.”

Slore nodded and turned to face the rush of reporters. Then quickly, taking only two minutes, Slore gave the press a rundown of the boy’s murder. Once he let his feelings show and referred to the murderer as a sick and perverted creep. He knew better. But it’s the truth. That creep’s a sick and perverted slime ball. He’d told his wife, Kelly that very thing this morning while they were dressing for work. She agreed, but cautioned him not to talk that way in the house. Joey might hear him. “You know how fifteen-year-old boys are,” she’d said. He nodded, but he didn’t regret saying it. He gave the pushing horde of reporters a statement, with as little information as he thought he could get away with, and didn’t answer any of their questions. Slore felt almost rude turning away like he did to follow the Lieutenant to the car. “The media and police investigations mix about like oil and water,” Grimes said. Suddenly he looked past the throng of reporters. “No matter how often you see a dead child your heart is squeezed. These two murders are the worst I’ve ever seen. They’re like some kind of devil worship or maybe Jamaican, Santeria. What do you think?”

Slore was slow to answer. He unlocked the car door and felt the oven‑like heat hit his face. “They have to be some kind of voodoo or why else would they cut the middle finger off? And why is a Bible verse left near the body?” Frowning, he remembered seeing reports recently that several graves had been unearthed and wondered if there could be any connection. Maybe they are some type of cult worship and sacrifices? “You know, I think we ought to look into those grave desecration cases the Sheriff’s Office is investigating. I heard the middle finger of the corpse was taken in some of those. There may be a connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Grimes shook his head, “You got it. Police 101, there’s a rhyme and reason for everything.”

Cool air from the sedan’s air conditioner felt good, even icy, as it mixed with drops of perspiration on Slore’s face. The blue Ford, with no hubcaps and black wall tires, turned left into the parking lot next to the San Antonio Police Station. Slore parked near a lamppost with the hope of a little shade falling on the vinyl seats. The twenty-minute ride from the side street near the Alamodome had been a time to be quiet, to think. Slore thought of his only child, Joey. If something like this happened to Joey, he didn’t know if he could take it or not.

As they entered the building through the rear door, Grimes said, “I’ve never seen anything like that! That pervert just bit it off.” Maybe it was the heat or maybe the sight of the torn, bloody, gaping hole in a young boy, whatever the reason, Grimes felt sick and, as soon as they entered the building, he went straight to the Men’s Room.

Slore dropped into his chair and turned on the computer screen. Today the chair felt good, like an old friend. His now wrinkled sports coat hung wet and saggy from his broad shoulders. His tie was crammed into one of the pockets. Today even the detective’s office felt cool and good, a haven after a storm. When the Medical Examiner’s office first told Slore that victim number one, Tommy Lee Smith, had bled to death from being bitten, he felt nauseated and was afraid he would pass out. Now, after seeing the results of another child gnawed to death, the shock seemed to settle around him and grow worse.

As Slore started to type, he called to Randy Hoffman. “Randy, check with Missing Persons and see if they have a thirteen or fourteen-year-old white male reported missing. This kid has brown hair, brown eyes. He’s fitted with braces. Also, better check with Juvenile.”

Detective Randy Hoffman nodded and walked toward the door, flipping a paper ball in the general direction of the trash basket. “Lots of blood at this one,” Hoffman said as he stopped and winked at the homicide’s secretary, Lucy Rodriguez. Then he was gone and it was quiet.

Slore felt tremendous pressure to solve these cases. He often wondered if maybe he had been in the police business too long. He chewed on the inside of his lip then picked up the phone to call Intelligence for files on cult activities when suddenly, he felt weak. Slowly his mind faded. First came the black, then the red rolled in to his mind. He gasped a hollow breath. Take a deep breath and it’ll pass, he thought, as he dialed his home phone number instead.

The phone rang only once before he heard the click of the receiver. It was picked up and answered with a familiar purr. Slore smiled as he heard his wife’s almost too sexy voice. Kelly should have been a DJ instead of a legal secretary, he thought. She was a lovely, open book of romantic poems. Not too tall, with light and soft auburn hair. Her hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of yellow and green. They would celebrate seventeen years of marriage next week.

He recalled that during the Christmas holidays they had talked about adding to their own family before it was too late. Kelly wanted another boy, but he had yearned for a little girl this time. He felt contented as he remembered those happy times. Joey had begged for a motorcycle for Christmas and had a hard time hiding his disappointment when he received a watch and boots under the tree. Now that seemed so far away, and something he could not figure out had changed in his relationship with Kelly. She now seemed a little distant, and she no longer talked about a second child. He told Kelley he’d be late then hung up the phone as Grimes came through the door.

Grimes’s flat face had regained its normal color. Letting the Homicide Office door slam behind him, he walked straight to Slore’s desk and reached over for the stack of missing person’s reports. Someone had told Slore that Grimes’s mother was an Eskimo and that his family, on his father’s side, had migrated from Russia. That could explain his expressionless Asian face.

“Sergeant, pack it up and go on home,” Grimes said. “I need you to cover for me tomorrow. I’ve got breakfast with the chief and the mayor in the morning. They want a complete update and you’ll have to run the show till I get back.” Grimes grunted and sat on the edge of Slore’s desk.

“Are you sure? I can stay and check out the missing persons reports before I go.”

“No, get out of here. Now! See you tomorrow. Hoffman can follow up on these files. Can’t you, Randy?” Sometimes Grimes enjoyed his authority. Tonight the Lieutenant displayed the patience of two town dogs waiting for table scraps, as he held the reports out for Hoffman.

Slore thought, Kelly and Joey will be surprised. What good fortune, just what I needed. Maybe a night off will help me forget. His head spun for a second. Relax, you idiot, he told himself as he shrugged his shoulders. I’ll call her and we can go to that Mexican restaurant on West Avenue. No, I think I’ll stop for Chinese take-out, and then drive home with the surprise. If I hurry, she’ll just be finishing her exercises. Joey will be starved, he always is, and he does love Chinese.

Slore was a man on the move, both mentally and physically. Could be I’ll get to wash her back, he hoped, as he paid for three number one deluxe dinners. His thoughts hollowed as he thought about the murders. He knew that a small tear had begun to rip somewhere deep in the inner part of his sanity. The futility of violence had pushed through his subconscious and now slashed at a seam that was beginning to unravel.

He was now stalked, not only by his own emotions that were pushed taut by exposure to so much death and destruction.

Somewhere, in a small rundown apartment building not far from the Alamo, a man sat watching Slore’s interview on the five o’clock news. “How dare that stupid cop call me perverted and sick? I’m God’s celestial messenger! An angel of salvation! Maybe God will choose him to be saved! Or maybe, some of his family ought to become one of God’s brides, then that phony will know what kind of man I really am!”