After The Morning After, installment 4

Ernie had spent the rest of his day, and evening, going over the stabbing and chainsaw attack in Miami. Even when he left the precinct, long after his shift ended, he kept stewing on it. The brutality is what stuck in Ernie's mind. “Anderson was stabbed 83 times and Garcia 65, ordinarily that would be a crime of passion … of anger, hate, lust, or something that makes sense.” He talked to himself while walking to his car, “But Sharp, what the hell was that? A chainsaw, for chrissake? No, that was,” Ernie was struggling to find the right word, to understand what the perpetrator was thinking or feeling, “that was for the thrill of it. That was so … extravagant … unreal … beyond extreme.”

When he got to his car Ernie had a strange feeling, one that he had not had for years. Not since he was a young Airborne Ranger fighting in some of the most dangerous areas the world had to offer. The hair on his neck pricked up, he felt a burning sensation on his back, a dire sense in his gut that screamed RUN! He stopped several feet from his car. He considered that feeling. The sense of being watched, hunted that makes a rabbit or a squirrel freeze and stand motionless while it scans the area looking for its predator. That sensation, sixth sense, if you will, is hard wired into every animal, humans included. For combat veterans that feeling had saved their lives more than once was heightened. Ernie was no exception.

Ernie had first learned to pay attention to that while working in South America two or three lifetimes ago, as he was fond of saying. That sense seemed like ESP to the younger troops who would later work with him. He taught them, as he had learned, “You pay attention to that ESP-like feeling we all get when being watched. That's your brain telling you that something meaningful is about to go down.”

Continuing past his car, Ernie walked on for several blocks. His attention now was devoted entirely to finding who was following, hunting him. He would stop at store windows and pretend to look inside at the displays while glancing side to side with his eyes, noting the descriptions of who was at each side of the street and who was passing him. Crossing the street in the middle of the block and going around turns to see who came hurrying around the corner was another tool he used to see who might be following him. Nothing.

Shrugging it off Ernie decided that maybe he was just being paranoid. “I oughta get a coffee and something to eat before walking home, he said to himself.” He had decided that if, and he did mean if, he was being followed, there was no way that he was going to backtrack into an ambush. He headed for a corner cafe.

He hadn't been at the counter for more than 5 minutes when a tall, slender man came in and sat down on the padded stool one down from him. After he ordered his food he casually looked in Ernie's direction, “Hey,” he said.

“Evening, “ Ernie replied.

“So, how safe do you really feel walking around here at night? I mean, what with kids, teens, that is, being violent and attacking people.”

“What, you mean the knockout game?” Ernie asked in response.

“Yup.”

“If you're paying attention to the world around you then you don't look like a target.”

“Yeah, I can see that, people being sucked into their own little world of distractions, huh.” When Ernie didn't reply the man went on, “What about that recent killing? What was the victim's name? Williamson?”

“Williams,” Ernie corrected him. “The man's name is Craig Williams.”

“The man? Really? I was sure that he was dead, you know, a victim.”

“He was a human being, with people who knew and cared about him. It's good to remember that and to call him by name until his murder is figured out.”

“I don't think that the police are going to catch this guy.”

Ernie spun a little to look at the man, “Really? Why not?”

“Come on, there have been serial killers before that have gotten away from the police. The Frankford Slasher was never caught. Neither was the I-70 killer.” Ernie looked as if he was going to retort when the man interrupted, “Besides, officer, who's to say that the Frankford killer didn't teach someone how to use a knife?”

“Are you telling me that you think Williams was killed by one guy who might have been trained by pervert like Frankford Slasher? How old would someone like that have to be now, 55, 60 years old? Great,” Ernie quipped, “we'll start looking for the Senior Slasher.”

“I didn't mean to be so insulting. I have no doubt that you and your coworkers are far more capable now than the Philadelphia detectives were during 1985 into the early 1990's. Think about it, though, an apprentice, a younger protege, perhaps, wouldn't that be quite a way to leave a legacy going? Going from Baltimore to Cove Fort, Utah?” He dug out some cash and put it on the counter as he stood up and headed for the door. He stopped at the door and said to Ernie, “ Maybe Charlie Chop-off didn't commit suicide, but was killed by Slasher's apprentice because Charlie was simply a disgusting creature and needed to be destroyed” he steps out the door and disappears into the night.

Finally, Ernie stopped feeling so uneasy. “I never told him that I was a cop, but that doesn't mean much,” Ernie was trying to reconcile instincts, and the reality of the likelihood. Dropping a handful of bills on the counter and heading for the door, Ernie swore, “The fucking reality is that I've been chatting with the bastard that killed Williams and who has been stalking me tonight.” Looking up and down the street Ernie did not see anyone. “Of course not, you're too smart to hang out on the street and wait in plain site.” Stepping out to the curb he hailed a cab and went straight to his apartment. Ernie, in spite of the Aussie or was it English, driver being chatty, sat in silence thinking about his next steps.

Once inside his apartment he called Jason. “Hey, kid. Listen, I just had the strangest conversation with, and you will never guess who, the guy with the knife.”

“You have got to be shitting me.”

“No, it was him. I was thinking about that case from Miami and What had happened to Williams. I'd been working late, was tired ...”

“I get it, you were tired, off your game. Don't sweat it.”

“The guy is crazy. He's absolutely insane, Jason.” Ernie paused, “Shithouse crazy, but good stalker.”

“Go ahead, talk to … “

“You know, Jase, I shouldn't have bothered you. The jack spooked me a bit. I'll file a report in the morning. It's nothing but a thing.”

“You sure, Ernie?”

“Yeah, no big deal. Go back to getting your warm milk together, kid.”

After hanging up his shirt and tie in his bed room, locking up his Barretta, and pocketing his S&W hammerless revolver into his pocket he headed back to his tiny kitchen. Once there he got himself a glass, some ice, and then poured a generous amount of vodka. He considered the bottle for a few moments, Stolichnaya. “You always had higher tastes than you could truly afford, Ernie, ol' boy.” He shook his and put the rest of the bottle away. On his way back to his over stuffed recliner, he turned on some old quiet jazz, then sat back.

The cold Vodka tasted good and felt warm in his throat, warm like the summer night out there.

Jason Bolger had always been as interested in keeping his mind and body strong as he was in being a top of the line police officer. Between studying, becoming a detective, and the keeping in top shape made it so Jason had no time to stay in a long term relationship. He couldn't even say that he dated for long. His training showed. He was handsome, clean cut brown hair, lean, muscular and lean.

When Ernie had called, Jason was just finishing up a workout. The idea that anyone on the team was being stalked was troubling enough. The possibility that it was the same guy who was part of the group that did Williams was troubling. He grabbed his phone again and dials Love's number. It goes to voice mail. “Hey, it's Jason. I, uhh, just got off the phone with Ernie. He thinks that one of the perps from the Williams case had stalked him. He said that the guy was talking to him at the diner down from the precinct. FYI, you know. Call me.”

“Now, I need a shower, yuck.” The shower was on and ran hot for several minutes.

Zachary had already cased the area and the apartment, having been in the area for several weeks now. Hunting was so much more gratifying than random killing for Zachary. He found it so much more challenging as well as more personal. He really enjoyed getting to know people.

He knew his path in and out as well as the methods he would use to do so. There were also several hiding places selected as well as alternate routes.

Waiting in the shadows, he listened for the telltale sounds of a person rubbing their body in the spray of a shower. He was listening for the change in how the water fell against the tub and the sides of the shower wall. When he heard those sounds Zachary smiled.

Quietly, deliberately Zachary opened the closet where he had been hiding. He crept gingerly through the hall and into the master bedroom and up to the bathroom door. It opened easily, the bathroom was steamed up, and as quietly as the door had opened it closed again.

Zachary reached in with one arm, pulling the shower curtain from its rings and wrapping his victim with it. He held his target in a python like hold with his arm around the neck and tight under the chin, there was no way that any shouts or hollering were going to come out of that mouth. His victim fought, and fought hard. Zachary grunted in pain and surprise as as elbow smashed back into his midsection, taking some of his breath away. A foot came smashing back against his knee and nearly broke it. “Oh, we'll have to put an end to that and fast.”

Zachary pulled his knife from behind his back and thrust the knife into the side of his victim up to the hilt. He stabbed again, and again, and again. The blade entered at steep angles going from beneath the shoulder blade up and through the body until the blade stuck out under the clavicle. He stabbed at shallow angels so that the dark blade went straight through tissue, muscle, and organs. The black blade easily pierced both shower curtain and flesh.

Zachary smiled. In the beginning, decades ago, there was a time when there seemed to be a point of hesitation, a moment where the victim's skin resisted being punctured. But, at some point, that changed. He knew exactly when the change came for him. It was in Philly, and he was young. He learned much then, but he had so much more to learn from that point going forward to get him to where he was now, standing in that bathroom, dancing with both his knife and his would be hunter to the decadent music that had been playing while Zachary waited patiently in the closet of the guest room.

Yes, in the beginning there was a point of hesitation when the point of the knife just entered the skin, not anymore. Now, it slid up to the hilt with ease each time, like a graceful dance.

Zachary continued his stabbing along with the beat of the music until the song ended. At which point he tossed the now dead body onto the bottom of the shower. The curtain fell away partially from the face and part of the torso. Water running into the curtain at the top washed through and ran down the drain red, mixed with blood, tissue, and other bits of body waste.

On the bathroom sink Zachary carefully placed a delicate finger and a business card.

Jason's phone was ringing. It was now 12:26 in the morning. The phone went to voice mail. After a few moments it started ringing again. “Shit, what? … where? “ Jason stumbled out of his bedroom into the hallway to pick up his cellphone. “What? Yes?”

Amy was on the other end, “I just called Joyce, get dressed and get your ass over the The Bradbury. It's just you two for now.”

“What? Why? What's going on?” Jason was having a difficult time getting his head together.

“Ernie,” Amy paused for a moment, her tone changed drastically, “Ernie is heading to Dorothy Acevedo's place.”

“Oh, shit, no. Was she … “ Jason did not want to say the word.

Amy finished it for him, “Killed, yes. She was found just a little bit ago, stabbed in her shower.” She swallowed hard as she stomach rose. “There was a finger from another victim left there, too. Along with it was a business card from The Bradbury.”

Jason's blood had already gone cold and he was feeling sick and livid. “You think that might be Gabrielle's finger.” It was not a question, rather a statement. “I'm there.”

12:56 The Bradbury

Jason had been waiting outside for Joyce for 5 minutes, and was already sick of waiting. He decided to go upstairs and see if she was there waiting for him. If not, he could get a start processing and looking things over before they brought in the CSI technicians. In that instant, he winced. He pictured Dorothy being stabbed to death by a shadowy figure; some ghoulish thing that lurked in the shadows, a boogey man that prayed on the unsuspecting and innocent attacking Dorothy without mercy and leaving her to die alone in the dark of her apartment. Those images flashed uncontrollably through his mind, enraging him. “Damn it all,” Jason swore bitterly under his breath as he pushed through the doors. He marched through the lobby with grim determination, he was on a mission. Jason had determined that he was the one who was going to bring down this slasher.

Jason knocked at the condo door. There was no answer. He checked the door and found it unlocked. Stepping inside, the living room is dark. Jason steps to the side of the door as he closes it quietly behind himself. He takes out his pistol and a flashlight. Instead of turning the flashlight on immediately, Jason stands there and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness and his ears to the sounds, as well as the silence, that he can hear in the condo.

After a few moments a faint glow became clear from up the hall. “That must be the den,” Jason whispered under his breath to himself. Quietly and carefully he crept around the edge of the living room. The thick carpet easily swallowed any sound that might have been made. In the shadows of the kitchen there was something large and round that caught his attention. Jason paused momentarily, stared at what was two large wagon wheels. He shrugged, “Doesn't seem to fit the décor in here, but maybe Gabby wanted to change things up. Who am I to judge?”

Zachary watched Jason quietly, gingerly step in from the living room. He crouched in the deeper shadow behind the small table just beyond the entrance to the den from the hallway and watched as Jason considered the wagon wheels in the kitchen for a few seconds. Zachary felt a tingle, a thrill, excitement pulse through him. “I love the hunt,” he mouthed without speaking a word.

Completely unaware that he was being watched by predatory eyes, Jason crept closer. The light Jason saw was coming from the den. It flickered and glowed lightly. Someone had left a candle burning. Jason stood to the side of the entry to the small room and peeked in before edging inside. The room was too small for anyone to hide there, so Jason walked in. Jason knew that something was amiss, but could not place it. He had that feeling of being watched, but he lacked the experience to rely on that feeling.

Jason started held his weapon in front of him at arm's length and down some, but ready to snap the weapon up to position for use in at a moment's notice. Nothing, no one was there. Without warning a woman, hands and legs tied, fell face down in the hall at the den's entrance. She turned her head to look at Jason. Her dark brown hair obscured her face some. He saw that she had already been badly beaten her face was bloodied and bruised. Jason recognized Joyce almost immediately. He did not catch the look of fear and warning. Jason made an instantaneous decision to get Joyce.

Joyce shook tried to shake her head, but pain ripped through her head and neck stopping rapid movements, pain so severe that she nearly passed out. Having landed face down on her ribs, several of which already broken, made breathing hard enough, but the ball gag strapped into her mouth made it even worse. Everything that hurt inside her, the broken bones, the bruises, not one of them hurt as much as knowing that what happened to her was about to happen to Jason.

Jason was reaching out for Joyce when something stopped him. Maybe that nagging little voice finally screamed loud enough that he could no longer ignore it, but he stopped mid stoop. There was something in the shadow to his right in his periphery. As he turned to look Jason reflexively brought his hands up.

The kick was hard enough that it would have knocked Jason unconscious had it not been for him swinging his hands into a blocking position. Still, the force of that kick knocked Jason up and back, landing him on his back on the small coffee table, breaking the table under him. Jason was dazed his pistol had slammed into the right side of his face, cutting him open near the temple.

Zachary stepped over Joyce and into the den at speed. Raising his pistol, Jason tried to shoot, but the room was too small and Zachary was moving too fast. He kicked Jason's gun hand with so much power that the bones in Jason's hand near the pinky and in his wrist shattered.

Zachary dropped onto Jason, ready to go into ground and pound. Jason pressed up with his damaged hand to gain some sort of control over his attacker and pulled him down sharply, forcing Zachary to quickly place his hands out for support on the ground. Using his left, Jason threw as many solid hooks as he could land against the right side of Zachary's face, head, and jaw. “That's the spirit, Jason!” Zachary cheered with enthusiasm, clearly enjoying the fight.

Joyce lay on the floor, helpless to do anything, in physical agony, watching this lunatic kick and then land on her partner, her hope for survival. Her heart sank as that man landed. When Jason started throwing punches, she found a sense of hope. Joyce tried as best as she could to cheer around the ball gag. Hearing the pleasure in Zachary's voice chilled the blood in Joyce's veins.

Taking Jason's damaged hand in his, Zachary smiled as he squeezed and twisted it. The reaction was immediate and automatic, Jason hollered as he reached over with his good hand to fight. Zachary hammered with his other fist against the side of Jason's jaw and head a few times. Jason went limp.

How long Jason was unconscious, he had no way of telling. What woke him up was the sharp pressing, almost cutting sensation of steel against his upper left arm, then it stopped. The overhead lights were on. He figured that he was on the kitchen floor. The pain, what woke him up, started again, grabbing his full attention.

His attacker was standing over him and pulling against a red handle. Pain increased in his arm and Jason snapped to full consciousness and stared in shock. There was a large pipe wrench around his upper arm. Jason tried to move, all of his limbs were strapped tight to something. To what he wondered. Trying to keep his mind occupied while this lunatic was snapping the bones in his arm was impossible, but the realization hit him. The wagon wheel that he saw when he came in was what he and Joyce were strapped onto with heavy duty zip ties.

Having his arms completely broken was excruciating, knowing that Joyce was watching while awaiting her turn was tearing him up inside. Jason was helpless, he knew that this guy would make sure that he would watch Joyce get busted up just like Joyce was being forced to watch him.

“Jason, where are my manners?” His attacker leaned in. “I have neglected to introduce myself to you and your lady companion. I am Zachary Leach, lifelong purveyor of pain,” he swung the large, heavy pipe wrench hard against Jason’s thigh. It cracked hard against the bone after causing massive amounts of damage to the thigh muscle, “sultan of suffering,” he swung again at the same spot, Jason was writhing and screaming against his gag as Zachary readied for a third swing, “and master of mangling.” This time he smiled a twisted smile as he swung the wrench with both hands. Jason’s thigh crunched as it broke. Zachary continued like this until every part of Jason’s body that could be broken had been.

Then, as Joyce watched, Zachary weaved each of Jason’s limbs through the spokes of the wagon wheel. As each limb was brought to the end of its pattern Zachary zip tied it in place. With Jason broken and tangled through the wheel, Zachary Propped the wheel up so that Jason could see Joyce clearly.

“Now, Jason, you will be broken.” He put a hand under Joyce’s chin, “You see, everything that I just did to you, you will watch me do to Joyce here.” With that, Zachary went about his gruesome work of putting Joyce into the breaking wheel.

Zachary stood there admiring the two detectives for a few moments. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms, “there is one thing left to do.” Reaching behind him Zachary produced a long, thin bladed black knife. He stepped over to Jason first, slid it gently across the man's cheek, “You like that? It's a Sykes Fairbairne commando knife. It was a gift from the Frankford Slasher. I earned it when I was just 13 years old.” Zachary smiled and, to Jason’s surprise, looked nostalgic when he mentioned it.

Fear and pain were clear in Jason's eyes, but no tears had fallen. Zachary had not broken him, and he knew it. “No, you are too strong for that. You know that you are both going to die here tonight. You have already resigned yourself to that. But are you ready to watch your close friend and partner bleed out?” Zachary walked over to where Joyce was hanging. Taking Joyce's ball gag out of her mouth, he looked back over his shoulder and into Jason's eyes, adding, “First.”

Joyce was gasping in agony, trying to get enough breath to speak. All she could do was beg, “Please, Zachary, you don't have to do this. Really, killing us … “

“Is necessary.” Zachary grabbed Joyce's jaw from underneath, his fingers and thumb pressed the tender flesh on the inside of her mouth against her teeth. “You see, I do have to do this. For me, killing is like breathing to you.” With that, he smiled as he gently, slowly pushed the razor sharp knife easily into the soft flesh beneath Joyce's tongue. Blood of a deep, rich cherry color immediately flowed fast and steady, filling her mouth. Zachary tugged the blade to one side, widening the hole and increasing the blood flow. Joyce screamed, but it was cut short as Zachary pushed her mouth shut and her head back and up. He held her there for a few moments before letting her go. Joyce hung her head down, arterial blood draining from her mouth as she cried and made odd noises while she tried to make words with her tongue mutilated.

Zachary looked at Jason for a moment. Tears were running down his cheeks. He was crying. “Crying for Joyce, are you?” Zachary smiled. He smiled an honest smile, one that came from the heart and it showed true happiness and joy. “Now, I can kill you, Jason.” Zachary removed the ball gag from Jason's mouth and he immediately spat into Zachary's face. “Kiss my ass,” Jason said defiantly.

“I believe that John Wayne Gacy said that exact same thing at his execution, too, in 1994.” Zachary said with a twisted smile. In a flash the smile was gone as he grabbed Jason's face as he did Joyce's. Jason fought it, but the force in Zachary's grip felt more like a vice. “Go ahead, Jason, make me break your jaw. I don't care.” In the background Zachary could hear Joyce crying and her blood running out onto the kitchen floor. He squeezed Jason's jaw a little harder and twisted his hand harshly, wrenching Jason's mouth open. “Right, then, here we go, say ahhhhh.”

As Zachary left The Bradbury and walked up the street, he smiled, saying to himself, “Now, to go tend to Gabrielle.”