Читать книгу The Anointing - Aubrey Smith - Страница 5

Slore felt a rush of danger. Somewhere out of the corner of his eye, he had seen someone move, quickly behind one of the apartment buildings across the street. He was sure, that from the shadows, someone had been watching him. Spying on him. Who could it be? He ran across the street to the edge of the building, but no one was around. He hurried to the pool. No one was there either. Who had it been? Why would anyone follow him? He was sure the man was dressed in black. He walked through the game room and the office lobby, then back outside. It must be my imagination, he assured himself and strolled quickly back to his car. He looked in the rearview mirror as he left the driveway, but he did not see anyone following him.

Today’s early morning drive into the police department lacked yesterday’s energetic wonder. Yesterday, he wondered about crime scenes. Yesterday, he had one brutal, ritualistic murder to solve. Today, there was another sick and depraved crime to solve. Today, he also plotted and schemed and wove a web of deceit and destruction for Kelly and Henserling. Even as he passed the same buildings and same people as yesterday, last night had changed everything for Slore.

“Every day I see the same people,” Slore mumbled to the steering wheel. “Every day I wave at the same faces. Every day I smile and nod to the same cars. If I can understand this modus operandi, why can’t I come up with an answer to these murders before that scum takes his next victim?”

This place never changes either, Slore thought, while navigating his personal car into the reserved spot he leased next to the police department’s downtown headquarters. “I don’t think I’ll renew this spot next month,” he told the parking attendant, as he walked past the little wood security building. “The walk will do me good.”

The next few morning hours passed with Slore in a daze. Even though he went through the motions of work, he was having a hard time focusing his thoughts. About nine, he took an hour to go to the public library. The downtown city library was a nice walk from the PD and he just wanted out of the office. Because of last night, this was one of the few days his heart was not in his work. For over twelve years he had given his all to the department. Today he could not concentrate. In some strange way, he blamed the department for the trouble he was experiencing with Kelly. To get through the day, this morning became a time for pretending everything was okay. He hunkered over several books and newspapers in the library, shutting out the world for a little while.

After his walk back to the station, Slore rode the squeaky elevator up to the second floor detectives’ offices. When he pushed open the door into the Homicide Office, he stopped and looked around. Nothing had changed. Lucy Rodriguez was still busy at her desk near the front door. Hoffman had his size twelve boots resting on his desk, which sat behind Slore’s desk. When Hoffman saw Slore, he quickly removed his feet from the desk. Slore noticed that Grimes was not in his office next to the captain’s corner office. The door into the squad room was open. Not sure whether it was the aftereffects of last night’s drinking or the residue of spent emotions, he felt sick to his stomach.

Hoffman asked, “Sergeant… are you okay? Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m okay. Too much partying last night.”

“We’ve identified the kid last night. The family has made a positive ID. Here’s all the info we have on him,” Hoffman said dropping the yellow sheet on Slore’s desk. “Lieutenant Grimes wants you to contact Intelligence first thing this morning and check on any cult activity.” Hoffman said stepping back into the hallway. He was the newest member of the Homicide Department and he seemed to be enjoying passing on the order from Grimes.

“Silas McGuire Clinton.” Slore read aloud from the yellow crime report. “Born April 15. What a day to be born. April 15 is a miserable day everyone hates… tax day. Well I guess there’s not too much you can do about it now, Silas. His father’s a Baptist minister. This should test his faith. Test it to the limits.”

“Sergeant.” Hoffman was back at Slore’s desk with a man and woman standing behind him. “Sergeant, this is Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. They want to talk with you.”

Mr. Clinton was the first to speak. “Sergeant Slore, I understand you’re the officer in charge of the investigation into my son’s murder.”

Slore hoarsely answered, “Yes, please sit down.” He quickly covered the crime scene photos and added, “I’m very sorry about your son. I’m sure he was a fine boy.”

“Yes he’s a… was a wonderful son,” Mrs. Clinton sobbed, as she stared down at the gray linoleum floor. “He was the son every mother dreams of having. When he was born, the doctors almost lost him. He was a blue baby.”

Slore felt a lump in his throat. He also gazed down at the floor. Mrs. Clinton continued, “Silas was baptized last year. He sang in our choir. He was taking piano lessons. He was very active and an absolute pleasure to be around. He had a big smile and went out of his way to help the elderly at church. You know… hold the door or help put their walkers away. He was our only child.”

Slore sat helplessly, wishing for a Kleenex to offer Mrs. Clinton. He felt vulnerable watching the tears fall in pools, staining her dark blue dress. Mr. Clinton held tightly to his wife and stared into a memory.

Mr. Clinton had a deep sadness in his voice when he spoke. “Sergeant, tell me the truth. Was our boy raped? Was his… you know, member cut off? I pray to God as we speak that’s not what happened!”

Slore knew there was no easy way to tell Mr. and Mrs. Clinton the truth about their only son. “I’m sorry, but yes, Silas was sexually assaulted and yes, his male organ was severed.” He could see Mrs. Clinton’s eyelids flitter. When he saw only white where her right pupil should be, he knew she was about to faint. “Mrs. Clinton, I know this is of little comfort for you, but I’m sure Silas did not suffer long,” Slore lied.

She jerked and her eyes opened wide. Slowly the color returned to her face and she said, “Thank you, Sergeant. I know this isn’t easy for you either. Please hurry. Catch that evil man before he hurts someone else’s precious child.” Mrs. Clinton seemed to have recovered from the shock and reached for Slore’s hand. “I’ll pray for you, Sergeant.”

Mr. Clinton appeared pale, as he silently helped his wife stand. He looked like a beaten man with nothing left to say. Slore knew these days would be the worst they would ever face. In some strange way, he thought the burial of their son would bring them some relief.

After Mr. and Mrs. Clinton left, Slore returned to the reports. Silently, he scanned the report he held in trembling hands. He was well aware that this yellow sheet of paper and all the other yellow sheets that lay in a file labeled SERIAL CHILDREN were the key to unlocking the Alamodome murders. One piece of the puzzle that bothered him was that neither of the dead children were from downtown or the east side where the bodies were found. There seemed to be no common denominator between them.

Later in the day, when the call came that another boy’s body had been found, Slore again felt sick in his stomach. Danny Kincaid became the third name on a folder. As he squatted by the boy’s naked body, Slore wondered, “How did he get you, Danny?”

If Danny Kincaid could have spoken to Slore, he would have told him that he loved the summer band program. He would have said, that yesterday he had played the kettledrum at a feverish tempo as he approached his big moment. The polished drum’s head vibrated as he struck it with felt-bound drumsticks. Two more measures to the crescendo. One, two, three, four, he counted. As the drum rose in momentum, Danny lashed his sticks at the number twelve brass cymbals with a mighty crash.

“No! No! No! Danny No!” Mr. Sanders shouted and waved his chubby hands in the air. Sanders had been band director of the Eisenhower Junior High School orchestra for twenty‑seven years. He knew the children called him Chunky. He had heard them laugh and say he was a chunk, not a hunk. Sanders was a five foot four inch block of flesh. “Danny, you’re supposed to lead the band, not follow.” The band director was in a tantrum-throwing mood, as he launched his baton at the music stand.

“Danny, the eight count, the eighth note here,” he screamed as he waved the sheet of music for Danny to see. “You set the pace, Danny. You must carry the tempo through the end of the measure.” Sanders continued to bellow, “Except for Kincaid, everyone else was perfect.” He was flailing his arms. His face was turning a basketball red and orange color. “Danny, this time try to concentrate. Do you hear me?”

Everyone in the next building can hear you, Danny thought as he nodded yes and looked down at the drum. Forty-one other eighth graders sat perfectly quiet and still, hoping they would not be the next casualties in the band hall. Danny wanted to say it was Mary Garcia’s fault. But he knew Mr. Sanders was in no mood to hear any excuses, even if it were true. Danny had watched, both the music and Mr. Sanders. He had counted every beat. Then on the sixth beat, he saw Mary Garcia open a valve on her trumpet and blow out spit. The spit splattered right on the floor just as the eight count approached. Way to go, Danny thought, I did a heck of a job to regroup my composure by the time I struck the cymbals. I could have puked all over this drum. How’d you like that, Sanders? It was so gross. Yuck, Mary’s dribbling gush from her brass horn, Danny thought as he slashed the air for the beat.

Sanders, was still in a huff. Danny kept his mouth shut, when Sanders knocked his baton off the music stand and onto the floor. “Pick that up for me,” Sanders told a young woman in the front row. Danny wanted to tell Sanders what he could do with the baton, but he knew there was never a good time to talk back to a teacher. Danny wished class were over and looked at the big clock on the wall. Twenty more minutes, he thought. He knew this had to be the worst day of his life. Sanders had embarrassed him in front of all his friends and there were still twenty more minutes to go until the bell.

Danny was the first one out the band hall door when the bell finally rang. First, he rushed to put distance between himself and Sanders, then slowly, he started the familiar route home. He ambled along, thinking about the missed cymbal beat and Mr. Sander’s red, hog jowls-flapping critique of his musical abilities. He was an average boy in most ways. Even though he was too short for the basketball team, he liked to shoot the ball. He often won when they played HORSE in PE. The coaches said he was too slow to be a baseball player and too slight for football. But he had found a niche in the band and was first chair for the percussion section. I might just quit, he thought as he mindlessly continued down the sidewalk.

Danny could hear the tap tap, tap of his drumsticks as they rattled around in their blue carrying bag. Today he wished he had left them in his locker. School was almost out. He carried several books home to prepare for final tests next week. His brown hair tasseled from under his blue and silver Dallas Cowboys cap, as he struggled along with the stack of books. “Don’t let that old ragbag get to you, Danny,” Jack Baker called just as Jack turned down the street to his house. Jack’s a lousy trombone player, but an all right guy, Danny thought when he looked up and waved a thumbs up to Jack.

Just as Danny turned around, he heard a strange voice calling, “Young man, young man, please, can you help me?” He looked around to see a priest calling to him from a white van. He noticed the green sign on the door, “Saint Thomas High School.” He knew where Saint Thomas was. It was only a few blocks from here. He also knew Saint Thomas was a Catholic school and he assumed the driver of the van was a teacher at the school. Danny went to the Church of Redemption. He was a Protestant, but he didn’t mind Catholics. Jack used to go to Saint Thomas, Danny thought. That was before Jack’s mother got a divorce and he was transferred to Eisenhower.

He walked to the curb where the priest was parked. “Young man, can you help me? I’m lost. I need to find the Flores residence. There’s been a death in the family. I need to get to the Flores’ right away. They live on Patricia Street. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes sir, I know exactly where that is,” Danny politely answered. “It’s… well, you go down this street to the third light. No, I think it’s the fourth light. No, maybe it is the third light. Then you turn this way.” Danny pointed to his right. “It’s over this way by the bookstore. That’s where you turn.”

“Please, young man, I need your help. I’m a priest and I must get to the Flores. Will you show me? I’ll bring you right back. I could even take you home. I see you have a heavy load to carry today.” The priest smiled and continued, “This is so important. I’ll have you back in five minutes. Get in, hurry.”

“Sure, I guess it’ll be okay. I know where Patricia Street is. It’s not too far from my house,” Danny said and opened the door. “What are all these clothes for?”

“They’re for the poor, my son. Hurry, close the door and put the seatbelt on.” Quickly the priest reached to help Danny with the books. “What do you have in the bag?” the priest asked, pointing to the drumstick sack.

“Just my drum sticks. These clothes smell funny. Oh, I get it. You just picked them up at the cleaners.”

The van pulled away from the curb and continued down the street. “Why do you have half a pool cue stick up there on the dash?” Danny asked. “We have a pool table in our garage. I guess you have pool tables at the school, don’t you?”

The priest reached for the back half of the pool cue as if to show the inquisitive young man how the stick screwed together. Suddenly, he unleashed his attack as quick as the strike of a rattlesnake. Pain and a flash of light filled Danny’s head when he was hit between his eyes with the priest’s homemade nightstick.

He was addled. His body went slack just before he slumped in the seat. Somewhere far off, he could hear a roar and he could feel warm blood trickle from his forehead, into his eyes before he drifted into darkness. It seemed to be only a second, and then he returned to consciousness and unrelenting pain. He wailed in agony. His nose hurt and he sensed a tightening wrap around his wrists. Through the smell of dirty clothes, he could also smell cigarette and beer breath. He tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, but he couldn’t move his arms to his face. He could see the man in black twisting coat hangers tighter on his wrists. He tried to kick, but his ankles were already bound with a wrap of plastic clothes bag. Roughly, his head was jerked from the floor and held tight as a red plastic garment bag was pulled around his face. Then he felt the drawstring being pulled tight and suddenly, there was no air. The priest cinched the red bag around the boy’s head, and then bit a hole in the bag so the boy could breathe. He did not want the boy to die just yet. It was way too soon.

Danny hurt terribly. He was having a hard time breathing and his head throbbed. There was a feeling of numbness in his bound ankles and wrists. He was also aware that he was lying on a hard steel floor with ridges in it. When he tried to shift his body to the side, he was struck in the face by something he had not seen coming. The bag was twisted around his head, but he could see a glimpse of the priest straddling him. Confused and in anguish, he wondered why a priest would do this to him. Even though the pain Danny felt was almost unbearable, it was nothing to compare with what lay ahead. He felt the priest move from his body. Then he heard the cargo door to the van close and the driver’s door open.

He was bounced along the hard floor of the van as it suddenly took off. He heard the tires squeal and then the dull roar of tires on pavement. He was having a hard time breathing. He constantly had to move his head, trying to keep the tear near his mouth. He soon became adept at breathing slowly. When he took big breaths, he sucked the bag into his nose. Danny wondered where the priest was taking him and why. He was suddenly aware that the van was slowing. He knew by the sound and roughness that they had turned off pavement onto a gravel road.

When the van stopped, the driver’s door opened. Then Danny heard the cargo door squeak. Through the tear in his sack, Danny could see a picnic table outside the van. He saw the priest climb into the back of the van and shut the cargo door. Terror flooded his young mind with the sudden realization that he would never see his mother or daddy again. Danny’s tears rolled behind the red clothes bag as he thought about his sisters. He was keenly alert to every sound. He heard a zipper being undone. He knew he was about to die unless he did something. Danny kicked as hard as he could toward where he thought the priest was kneeling.

Danny missed. With a gasp, he sucked the bag deep into his nose. He felt alarm, then panic, when he was grabbed and turned over onto his back. Danny’s head struck something hard. He was sure it was the fender well. He shivered when he heard the priest say, “Praise God, you will not go through what I have endured. It is time for you to receive your anointment.” Danny felt the man grab him and pull him close. He knew his belt was being unlatched, then he heard the priest, “You must suffer. Jesus said, ‘suffer the little children’.”

Slore knew that most of the time there was a reason for a victim being selected. However, he recalled some burglaries at a downtown hotel when he was working Burglary. He had charted everything. Did they happen on a payday or any certain day of the week? What time of the month? He looked at the times of the days and nights. He made charts of the floors and the room numbers where the burglaries took place. Were the rooms near the elevators or near the fire exits?

Chart after chart, theory after theory, until the actors were caught. It turned out that everything was simply random. There was no pattern. It turned out to be some hookers who walked the hotel floors until they found where someone had left a key in a door. Then, they would go in and burglarize the room. It was simple, Slore thought, remember, just simple, KISS it! Keep It Simple, Sergeant.