Setting Sun

The red sun is setting low

Shadows reach out and life goes cold

Bony fingers are reaching out

With a whisper snuff all lights out

Beneath the distant cold moon's glow

Forever changing what you know

Against its encroachment all defend

Such pitiful efforts in the end

Darkness falls, no need to send

The curtains rest to mark our end

Ode to the Sea

A young lad, not quite one score

Wandering along the shore

The ocean then it called to me

I answered thus and went to sea

Beasties and monsters I met out there

Of dead men's gold I've had my share

Over glass like seas to raging storms

The ocean maiden showed me all her forms

Foggy mist, all is risked, though little gained

A sailor's love for the sea may ne'er be explained

So silently you sleep

So silently you sleep

In your dreams I creep

I see the secrets that you keep

The longing of your heart

Dawn from dusk it weeps

So silently you sleep

Denying you your heart's content

Each night new horrors I invent

I see the secrets that you keep

You rest your head on tear stained pillows

Living nightly each shadow's horrors

So silently you sleep

Unspeakable torment lay fresh in your mind

Each morn from bed alighting quickly we find

So silently you sleep

I see the secrets that you keep

Bring the Ships Home

When we first met, I was like the northern seas

Dark, turbulent, frozen, and distant

Icebergs were there, those were the emotions that

I could feel

They were capable of crushing you, tearing you open

before dragging you down into the frozen depths

Quickly, though, faster than I could have ever imagined

You took from me those frozen seas

Maybe you took me from those frozen seas

I'm not sure which and I'm not sure that the distinction

really matters

You guided me, like a lighthouse, carefully past the hidden rocks,

dangerous currents, and the changing tides

Before I knew it, you had led me to warmer, calmer, clearer seas

Seas that reflected the clear blue beauty of the skies

Where I surprisingly found myself leading other boats and ships

to calmer ports for their replenishment

Thank you for bringing the ships home from sea

Dead Water

Mike Thompson had just moved to Holden, MA from Portland, OR. He was trying to put everything that happened there behind him. Cutting from his past wasn't a new thing, he'd done it before. Mike just didn't like it that much.

The sign in on the median read Entering Holden. “Holden, Massachusetts, incorporated in 1741, eh … “Considering the age of the place and the historic quaintness of it all Mike re-shouldered his bag and stepped on through the cool September afternoon.

Leaves were beginning to change colors and the air was just starting to have that touch of chill that heralded the final days and weeks of summer. While he enjoyed the turning of the seasons Mike wondered what it might be like to spend a winter or two in Daytona or perhaps on a beach in Hawaii.

The sun was still above the horizon, but the temperature had notably dipped, when Mike found the address he was looking for, a large boarding house standing back from the corner of the cross street. The limbs of the tall stately oaks and elms shadowing the house seemed to be either holding the ancient house back or warding people away. Mike wasn't sure which it was.

Time was showing it's impact on the outside. Windows had that yellow stain in them and seemed to be melting in their frames. The white exterior of the house was more like the sun bleached bones you find spread out under the desert sun, Briarwood Boarding House stood there as if it were sizing him up in the same manner he was sizing up the building.“Can I help you?” An older man, in his 60's, appeared from far corner of the house and lit a cigarette.

Mike studied the man for a few moments before answering. He was 5'6”, 220 to 230 pounds, nearly completely bald, and, clearly, a smoker. “I'm here about a room.” Mike paused to get a printed paper from his jacket pocket.

“Thompson.” The man said as he started towards the steps going up to the porch. He moved slowly and with an exaggerated waddle. “You didn't drive, how'd you get here?” The guy didn't even look at Mike as he asked this, he just ambled up the steps slowly and painfully.

“I took a bus in and walked from the depot.” Mike answered out of respect. He figured that there was little chance of the old guy hearing.

“That's quite a walk. Had to take ya at least three hours.” Years of smoking made his voice as creaky as the porch planks that he was now ambling across, the two sounds nearly harmonizing. “That puts ya comin' off the 1:15. You was in Chicago this mornin'.”

Mike smiled in spite of himself, the old man was on the ball. 'Impressive, Sir.” The screen door creaked open and then screeched before slamming shut in front of him. Those same sounds were repeated as Mike went used the door. “You must be Larry Humphrey, “ Mike said upon entering the hallway which was notably, eerily empty.

“I'm in here, Mike.” Larry's voice came from the living room. It was a large room with old furniture. It could have been antique had it been cared for, but these chairs and the couch, love seat, the rug, and other other pieces all showed signs of wear and the ravages of time.

The room itself had wood paneling and a chair rail with a fancy wall paper above it that, at one time, was likely a very expensive and classy pattern. Now, it was old and looked as if the printed patterns wanted to fall off and blow away with the draft that filtered through the room.

Larry sat in one faded chair with several papers fanned out on the coffee table in front of him. “These here are y'all's lease papers and the rules of livin' here.”

As Larry went over the pages Mike was paying closer attention to the man's voice. His accent, the words he used, the tempo, as well as his body language. Mike also took a full survey of the room itself. Smoking was clearly permitted inside for a while, if not just for Larry as he ran the place. The room temperature in the room was comfortable, but something was off, not right. There was a chill to the air that just wasn't right.

“I've never not gotten my security deposit back, as you can see from the letters of reference.” Mike offered copies of the letters.

Larry took the letters from Mike, looked at them in his hand for several seconds, then leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh as if under an enormous weight. “I read yer letters and checked y'all out and that's why I agreed to your lease without having metcha.” Larry finally looked Mike eye to eye, “Go ahead an' initial the paragraph where there's blocks ta an' sign on the bottom of the last page an', “ leaning back and digging into his pocket Larry produced a key on a tag, “ya got a place ta call yer own, fer a while.”

The barracks bag somehow seemed heavier, maybe the walk in from the bus depot caught up to him. Whatever it was, Mike felt like he was now carrying an extra ton as he shouldered his bag. The number on the key tab was 302. The idea of dragging his bag up to the third floor suddenly seemed dauntingly impossible.

As he headed upstairs a woman was coming down. She looked to be in her late 30's, shoulder length brown hair pulled back into a casual ponytail. She smiled nervously in passing and glanced away quickly after looking into Mike's eyes for a moment. There were shadows under her eyes, as if she were tired or had not gotten much rest lately.

His room was small, but as big as he needed. It was big enough for a couch, a small table with room for two in one corner of the room, a small chest with two drawers, and a double bed pushed into a nook back in one section that receded along the same wall as the door. The one piece of furniture in the room to sit on was a simple black fake leather couch.

The double doors along one wall were clearly the closet. As Mike checked out his room and the appliances he went to those last. Finding the light switch to the right on the inside wall the closet was a walk-in with a dresser, a small set of shelves with some rough towels and sheets, and a rusty frame fold out single bed. It smelled like dry, dusty wood, moth balls, and something else. Something that he couldn't quite place. A smell that was clear and definitely out of place, but, he sniffed deliberately, somehow undetectable now. The more he tried to focus on it, the harder it was to find it.

Just then he noticed other smells and sensations. His own body odor and hunger. “Pffft, I need shower and something to eat.” Four days on buses from Portland will make anybody funky and he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

The bathroom was small, little more than a sink, toilet, and a glass enclose walk-in shower. “At least it's big enough to turn around in.” Mike was not the largest of people, but he was still bigger than average standing at 6'1” and weighing 210 pounds. The shower gave him enough room to turn around in. Once inside, he felt strangely trapped, as if locked in. Several times during his quick shower he opened the door slightly just to see that would open. Each time it opened the magnets that sealed it shut against the water clicked it tight.

Mike sat on the foot of the bed, it was comfortable, surprisingly so. He lay back on the mattress and let it hold his weight. The air eased out of his lungs in a relaxing sigh as his tired muscles really relaxed. His eyes closed lightly and in this gentle darkness he breathed in the air in his new room. It smelled of old wood, some dust, and an antiseptic cleaner that was recently used on the floors.

Kicking off his shoes and using his toes to pull off his socks mike was settling into the space more and more. The floor was cool and smooth beneath his feet. “Time to wash the nasty off of me.” Mike reluctantly got up and unceremoniously dropped his clothes in a small pile near the couch and dug a towel and his shower kit out of his bag.

On the back of the bathroom door was a full length mirror. It was old and missing some bits of silver from the back, the glass was chipped here and there and it looked as if the glass itself was somehow pouring off the door and onto the floor. “Hm, old glass does that over the years,” Mike mumbled to his reflection and the small empty bathroom.

The small pedestal sink had room for a cup, a toothbrush, and a small container of toothpaste. His razor, shaving cream, brush, and comb would all go into the small cabinet behind the tiny mirror over the sink. Mike looked at this oval mirror. Like all the other glass in the old building the glass on this mirror seemed to be slowly, steadily dripping.

“That's gonna hafta get switched out sometime, I think. It's time to update a few things here.”

The porcelain handles in the shower were like plus signs, both stained by years of dripping water. “Yup, updates are gonna happen … “

The shower door clicks shut with a metallic click behind him. The porcelain handles turn roughly with jerks and fits, almost as if they had been left unused for a long while and the moving parts had rusted over some. As if in response to his mental question a few bits of rusted material fell off. Water streamed into the glass enclosed stall.

Mike turned his face up into the streams of water, it fells against his face like a steady, heavy hot rain, stressed muscles began to relax as he let the water run down his body. Stepping to turn around Mike noticed that the drain was stopped up. “Shit,” he mumbled and reached to turn off the faucets.

As he turned them there was a crunching sound and more rusted material fell away. The faucet handles came off in his hands. “That figures,” he sighed. “At least there's a plunger by the toilet.” He had recalled seeing it there on his way around the apartment earlier. He pushed against the shower door, but it would not open. He pushed harder, still it would not move.

Mike tried using his hand to create enough force to push water down through the drain with short, quick pushes as if he were doing CPR on the drain. Something had moved in the pipes as the water bubbled and started to drain. Then, to his shock, the drain began to belch dark water up into the shower.

The glass enclosure was now rapidly filling with water. Mike slammed the glass door with his fist and elbows then his shoulders, all to no avail. The glass held strong against him. “Hay!” he began yelling, “Somebody! Help me!”

The water had quickly reached his knees now. Panic was taking hold. Mike stopped struggling against the glass and took several deep breaths, “Calm down … there has got to be a way out of this … there is a way out of this.” A few more breaths and Mike had his heart rate settled down and he felt more in control of himself. “This much water has to help push the door open. There is no way that it can hold back against this kinda pressure.” With that, he pushed against the door with all his strength again.

The brackish water was now up to his waist. Mike had his back against the door and his feet against the opposite wall so that he could push with all of his strength. The door refused to budge. “Help! Come on! Help me!” His sohuts continued to be ignored

Mike was treading water now, the ceiling inches from his head. He no longer had the room to yell. Still, he tried. “Please, somebody. Help me!”

The skin on the back of his knuckles was torn and ragged from his savagely punching at the glass several minutes earlier. His elbows were also raw from smashing repeatedly against an unforgiving glass surface.

Mike had to tilt his head back now, “Please, someone, please!” he had to spit a mouthful of water out now. “Oh, shit, no.” He gulped in a final breath before the water met the ceiling, closing off his last bit of air.

Terror, absolute terror filled Mike's mind. His heart was pounding out of control. He relaxed his body as best he could.

He knew that he could hold his breath for at least a minute and a half. That was the rest of his life. The idea had taken full hold of his consciousness. Mike only had just more than a minute before his lungs started to burn for oxygen. It would only take a few moments after that before his muscles started to convulse trying to force a breath in spite of being submerged. That breath would flood his lungs with water. Not inhaling was burn, ache, and eventually cause him to pass out, then he would inhale anyway. Either way, he was about to drown.

“NO!” Panic, fear, anger, something more than anger, rage ran through Mike. He struck out against the unforgiving glass barrier again, the water muted his every movement. As he screamed out, bubbles erupted from his mouth.

His lungs empty now Mike had to inhale. When he did, his lungs reacted just as he had expected, they violently rejected the liquid. Mike sat up straight in bed coughing, sputtering. He leaned forward, fell off the foot of the bed. His knees struck hard on the wood floor. His body convulsed in waves as his lungs and stomach pushed out water.

Mike just lay there twitching in the puddle of brackish water. He never heard the door open, but there he was, Larry Humphrey. “Welcome to Briarwood. Remember, y'all signed a lease. This is gonna stick with ya for spell. So, you might as well unpack and git settled.”

The old door creaked and the clicked shut behind him.

Pushing himself up out of the puddle of heaved and vomited water Mike went to the file he brought in earlier. He looked over the lease inside it. “Two years. I signed a lease for two years. Every time I go to sleep, I have to drown for the next two years.”

Descent, a poem

Fiery the angels fell

Forfeiting eternal souls

Answering the bells cold knell

About their shoulders thunder rolls

Descending each to their private hell

Paying each in blood their costly tolls

Ghastly, hollow howls with no hope to quell

On blood stained shores and obsidian shoals

Pain and agony they did foretell

Disbelieving eyes and still beating hearts in bowls

After TheMorning After, installment 5

12:21

Apartment lights were still on here and there. Through open windows the sounds of a few dinner parties wrapping up could be heard. Some were more cordial than others, but they were wrapping up in the unseasonably warm and moist night.

Condensation ran down the sides of the cold, smooth glass, both on its inner and outer surfaces, gently disturbing the surface of the vodka inside the glass and the growing puddle of moisture around the base of the glass on the aged and already stained small table under the lamp. Ring shaped stains set deep in the wooden surface showed that the use of coasters was not something that mattered here.

Across the small, dimly lit room a phone rang. It was the old bell chime ringing incessantly to be picked up from its cradle. While the ring did not change in its volume or tone, the hour of the call seemed to change either the urgency or the insistency of the call.

Finding the phone in spite of his being more than half asleep, Ernie sat up on the edge of his bed, looked at his phone, and then answered. He took a few heavy breathes before saying anything, “Yeah, I'm up. What is it?” Nobody called him during the day unless it was important. Now, calling in the middle of the night meant it was bad, the only question was how bad.

Ernie listened, he didn't say a word. His eyes narrowed, jaw tightened, and his skin prickled. After a minute of silence Ernie finally spoke, “Yeah. Got it.”

On his way through his apartment Ernie stops and picks up the glass of vodka that he left earlier. He considers the drink, he condensation and coolness of the glass against his fingers, “Just a sip,” he reassures himself as he puts the glass to his lips, he hesitated then emptied the glass into his mouth. There it was again, hesitation. Ernie turned to the window and spat the liquor out through screen, spraying it across the fire escape outside his ledge, dropped the glass on the stained table top, and quickly left his apartment. “She needs me to be on the ball,” he said to the door as he locked it behind him.

Ernie has to process the crime scene at Dorthy's

When Ernie arrived at the crime scene there were uniformed police putting up crime scene tape and a few crime scene technicians already there. He looked around for familiar faces, Ernie was looking for his team. Ducking under the crime scene tape, Ernie walked into the apartment.

“Hey, you can't just walk into a crime scene.” A uniformed officer stepped in front of Ernie. The rank on the uniform's shoulder showed him to be a low rank, the fresh and unwrinkled skin as well as his bright eyes that showed that flash of something that young troops always had right before their first real mission told Ernie that this officer was new on the force.

Producing his badge and ID Ernie introduced himself, “Detective Matthews.”

As he put his badge away he commented, “You'll get to know us detectives, we are few but, we are damn good at what we do.” He stopped and considered the young officer for another moment. He recalled his days as a young troop, the FNG – Fucking New Guy – on the team and looked the young man in the eyes. “What's your name?” Ernie didn't care about how long this kid had been out of the academy or if law enforcement was a family tradition. He was asking about the officer as a person.

“Roark, Detective. I'm … “ the patrolman started.

Ernie cut him off by shaking his head and looking down at the floor in disappointment. “No,” he said. “I really don't think that your mother named you 'Officer', did she?”

This knocked the officer off his mental balance. “Oh, yeah, Rich. My name is Rich.”

Looking at him again, Ernie smiled, “That's better. Rich, you'll have a good career here.” Someone waved at Ernie over Rich's shoulder, it was Amy, Ernie had to get to the scene. “If you're strong enough,” he added.

Ernie moved brusquely past Officer Rich Roark to Amy Love. He looked around at the CSI technicians and felt a pang, something was missing, there was an emptiness.

Amy had a pained look in her eyes more than on her face, but it was still there. “Ernie, I know that you had a special friendship with her. I get it, too, that big brother-little sister thing, and that's why I want you to take lead on the investigation into Dorothy's murder.” She was always up front and in your face about things and she knew that this called for tact, but that Ernie didn't always appreciate or enjoy tact. “There would appear to be two victims.”

Ernie stopped in his tracks. His brow wrinkled, “Dot never mentioned a guy or said that she was dating anyone.”

Amy looked uncomfortable, as if investigating the murder of one of her detectives wasn't disconcerting enough, there was another detail that put her at odds. “Did she have any girlfriends or a gal that she was particularly close to?”

That wrinkled brow on Ernie's forehead now skewed into a mask of incredulity. “Are you asking if she was lesbian?” He knew Dorothy very well. The two had talked on the phone and over coffees at a variety of diners around town for hours on end and she never mentioned any partner or love interest, guy or gal. Whenever he asked her about it she dodged the question and certainly never answered it. “That wouldn't have mattered if she were alive and it doesn't matter now. Why, is there another female victim here?”

She produced an evidence bag with a finger in it. “We found this, apparently a woman's finger, on the counter in the bathroom.”

Taking the bag from her, he studied the finger. While focusing on the finger he did not notice that Officer Roark had come up to Amy, “Detective Love, may I see you?”

Ernie was still considering the finger. It was petite, had a finely manicured nail, and what appeared to be soft and well cared for skin. This finger came from a lady that really took care of herself.

He stepped over to where the crumpled shower curtain partially covered the lifeless body of Dorothy Acevedo, Crime Scene technician , and his good friend. There had been something about her that just really endeared her to him. When she had been a patrol officer wanting to move into crime scene investigations someone had told her to find the old, gray dog in the pack and ask for advice. That lead her to him. He had followed similar advice years ago, a lifetime ago.

A lifetime ago he had been a young Airborne Ranger getting geared up and ready for his first operational deployment. He had wanted to make a name for himself in the SPECOPS community. Ernie was wondering exactly how to go about doing that. The advice he had gotten was manifold, varied, and useless.

“Be the baddest bad-ass in the valley of death.”

“Don't stop killing until everyone is dead.”

“Get some! Get Some! Leave None! Leave None!”

“Remember the Rules and achieve the objective even if you're the last surviving member.”

Wet behind the ears, fresh out of training, no time in grade Sargent Ernie Matthews had different ideas on how to climb the ranks and make a name for himself. He looked at the hardened troops who were giving him the advice, sage as it was, it just didn't answer what he needed. Ernie looked elsewhere.

Somewhere along the line he had picked up the advice to pick out the the old gray dog in the pack and team up with him as that would be the one to learn from. There the new pup could learn the ins and outs, the tricks as well as the skills and other treacherous acts that ensured the survival of the elder member. Master Sargent Bernard Gilligan was that man.

MSG Gilligan may have been the NCO in charge (NCOIC) by rank on Ernie's first mission, but MSG gave him the room to make all of the recommendations for each step of the way. For three months in the jungles in South America working off of a specific kill list and intelligence collection list Ernie made the recommendations and MSG Gilligan allowed the young Sargent to take the bit and lead.

“Are you drunk?”

The question had come out of left field. Ernie could hardly believe that the question had been asked. Somehow, he convinced himself that the question had not been asked and was simply a ghost, a figment of his imagination due to the late hour and the stress of investigating the crime scene of his friend.

But, the hand on his shoulder pulling him halfway around and out of his thoughts. “What?” Ernie glares into Detective Love's eyes, “I have a drink or two in my off time and it becomes a problem how?”

Amy Love steps back a step as two patrol officers step up on either side of her. “Ernie,” Amy said in a steady voice, “I am only asking because both Roark and I smelled something on your breath. I know that you had a drinking problem earlier in your career.”

She was referring to a period during Ernie's days early on patrol in uniform. There seemed to be certain issues that uniforms brought to a person. Something about the uniform, any uniform, brought up ghosts for him. Ghosts that he, like so many others, had tried to drown.

“What? I can't have a drink on my off time in case someone gets killed?” Ernie just stared into Amy, through her, was more like it. The way his eyes cut through her made her squirm inside. “That's a bullshit thing to say and you know it.” As he turned around to focus on Dorothy Ernie grumbled, “I'm busy, write me up later if wanna.”

Stewart Wausau was now bending over Dorothy's body, looking at her, shaking his head in disbelief. Ernie stepped up to take charge of the scene. This was his crime scene and he was going to run the investigation his way.

8:15 am

Main Briefing Room

Ernie Matthews looks like hell at this point in spite of having taken the time to get a shower and put on fresh clothes. This was part of what had to happen, it was his investigation, his show, his briefing and he had to look the part no matter what. Besides, in attendance were two representatives from the FBI. Ernie was readying the final pieces of his brief as Amy came in.

“Hey, you.”

“Morning, Amy,”

Looking around the room Amy scowled, “I haven't heard from Bolger or Wolffe since I sent them over to the condo earlier last night.” She paused expecting Ernie to answer. Nothing. “I guess you haven't heard from them, either.”

Looking up from his notes, papers, and prints Ernie looked at her, “You know that neither of those kids are the type to be late. You call them?” Immediately he kicked himself inside. Of course the senior detective called the two missing detectives. “Maybe their scene was more of a mess and they needed to sleep in.”

Amy shrugged, “Yeah, maybe.” She sighed. “I still don't like it. It's not like them to not call.”

As Amy turned to leave Ernie called out, “Hey, Chief!” Amy looked back over her shoulder at Ernie, he could see the worry on her face. “Let me know what hear, please.”

“Of course.” Amy replied and spun again then left the room to find out what happened to her other two detectives.

Taking note of the number of police in the briefing this morning Ernie Ernie identified the two FBI agents quickly. They had the best suits and he didn't know who they were. The rest of the detectives on the force and most of the uniformed officers he knew or at least had seen around.

Ernie began, “Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. Last night one of our crime scene technicians, Dorothy Acevedo, was murdered in her shower. Some of us conducted the initial investigation, these are our initial findings.”

Ernie flicked up a slide of the earlier killing of Craig Williams, “Based on the initial review of the scene and the evidence there, we believe that these murders were committed by the same perp.”

Another slide come up, it was Dorothy wrapped in the shower curtain on the floor of her shower. “This killer is violent and vicious. He has no problem with overkill. It seems that overkill is part and parcel of his act. He seems to get off on it.” Ernie paused for a moment to consider his choice of words. “There have been no signs of sexual gratification at either scene, so don't get wrapped around the axle on how I said that.”

The briefing room door opened up suddenly, Amy steps in. “Email it out.” She points at several CSI technicians and some of the other detectives. “We have to get to The Bradbury now, as in five minutes ago.” Amy looked at Ernie, swallowed hard, choking back something, “We found Jason and Joyce.”

“Detectives Love and Matthews! Can you wait a moment, please?”

Ernie looked, he noted that it was one of the two FBI agents calling out to him. Amy had already left the room but, he was stuck. “What can I do for the FBI this morning?”

The two agents got to within speaking range, “It's not what you can do for us so much as what we can do for you. We understand that you might be dealing with an interstate murderer.”

Ernie stood there, staring at them blankly, almost incredulously. “Okay.” Ernie was already on edge and this suit was pissing him off since he had to get to another scene.

The agent introduced himself, “I'm Special Agent David Miller and this is my partner, Special Agent Gloria Gentner. We will bring to this investigation every resource that we have available.”

Unimpressed, Ernie replied, “Great, welcome to the team. Follow me.” He lead the way out to the parking lot and to his car.

“Wait. Stop right there, Detective Matthews.”

“Special Agent Miller,” Ernie replied turning around slowly, “I have just begun the investigation into the murder of one of my team mates and I am on the way to open another investigation into the murder of two more! What, on God's green earth can I do for you this second?”

David met Ernie's gaze, “A name.”

“A what?”

“A name.”David repeated, “Who you think is responsible for the murders. The killer's name. What is it?”

“I got nothing.” Ernie's face was turning a shade red as his temper was coming to an end.

David shook his head.

“Is that a problem, fed?” Ernie stepped toward David. “I got one butchered civilian, some damnably gorey crime scene photos from Miami dated 'years ago', a CSI gal who now has more holes in her than Swiss cheese, and two dead detectives who are friends of mine.” He was nearly shouting now. “These last three were my family, you might say. Now,” Ernie walked into David's personal space, “this all happened within three days time and there has not even been so much as a single fingerprint found. And this isn't good enough? You want a name?”

David didn't move. In spite of Ernie getting face to face and overtly threatening him, David didn't flinch. “What about the business card?”

Ernie stood down. He asked himself, how did this fucker know about the card? “Who do you think it is?” Ernie asked David. He waited a few moments to let David answer. When no answer came Ernie asked again, “Who's the goddamn perp?”

Unlocking his car, David said, “There might be a couple who fit this profile, but I don't know off hand.” Leveling his gaze at Ernie, “Look, Airborne, I don't know right now, who it is. If I find out before you do, I will let you know first.”

S

There was something about the way that David said this, something about the way that David stood with his legs and feet in an open stance. The way he held his arms open, in spite of the car door being between him and Ernie, that said David was being honest or, at the very least, open about what he was saying. It put Ernie at ease, a little.

Once he had the car on the road, with David following, Ernie called Stewart.

“Wausau, here. What can I do for you?”

“Stewart, Ernie. I have to know, was it the same knife?”

Stewart was shocked at the question. “Ernie, I know this is important to you … “

“Yeah, it is, I have to know, was it the same knife? You've had her for a couple of hours now. That has to be long enough to tell if that was the same knife.”

“Ernie, please,” Stewart tried desperately to calm Ernie down. “I swear, you're like a bulldog at times. Listen, I've told you before, I can only say that the wounds look like they are from a similar knife.” He paused. “I can tell you that the case for overkill can be made; however, due to the lack of bruising around the stab wounds themselves, our killer was calm and in control. This was not overkill, in the traditional sense. The killer did it, I think, because it was, as hard as this is to say, fun to do.”

With that Ernie hung up. That information was going to digest for a little. This wasn't the first time he saw someone enjoy killing. His time with with Battalion had him serving with lots of people who enjoyed it. There were plenty of kills he made himself that were fun.

“Ernie, when you were in, you enjoyed it.” Amy knew it. Any adult would have to naïve, nuts, or just completely unaware to not recognize that you don't ask to be one of the top killers and not like doing the job.

He nodded slightly. “Of course, I did.” He sighed. “You know it, too. I told you.”

“What about the drinking?” She knew this wasn't a good and that it was the wrong question to ask. She asked it and almost immediately regretted it.

Ernie was considering the question and putting together a thought to answer. He wanted to respond to the question, Amy deserved an answer. She was, after all, both his boss and his friend. He wanted to respond to the question, but the phone rang, cutting off his thoughts before he could put his answer into words.

The call came out over the speakers, “Hello?” A woman's voice filled the car from the speakers.

Ernie answered in a professional manner in order to detach himself from being so angry with the current situation and Special Agent Miller. “Detective Matthews, what can I do for you?”

“Detective, I am Dr. Jennifer Kerr at the Rosewood Center in Baltimore. I'm glad to have reached you so quickly.” Dr. Kerr's voice sounded strained, not happy. Even though she said she was in Baltimore it sounded more like she had said 'Bawltimore', as if she had just moved in from New York. “Unfortunately, Detective, bad news travels fast these days.”

Without her saying he knew that the news outlets had already covered the Williams murder. How that got leaked he didn't know, he really give a damn, either. It was going to get out anyway, it had to, there were too many people that knew him and what happened. “Yeah,” he sighed, “we, uh, seem to have a bit of trouble here.” Ernie shifted uncomfortably as he drove, “why would that matter to you?”

It was her turn to shift uncomfortably, even though Ernie couldn't see or hear it. Jennifer got up from her seat and walked anxiously around her desk, “I might know who is committing these murders.”

Murders? Ernie thought to himself, who the hell said anything about murders? Dot's death has not been released to the media yet, the scene that I'm on the way to doesn't even have any press on hand for. She knows exactly who this killer is and what he can do. He motioned to Amy to stop her from saying anything. “Really? You think you know who might be doing this?” He paused to see if she would offer up any more information.

“There have been several … well, not several, but a few cases of mentally ill who have displayed the capacity to carry out such crimes.”

“Hmm, you don't say, Doctor … Williams was not a small guy. Are you telling me that there are a couple of patients you can track down that could have restrained him well enough to do all that?”

“By 'all that' I suppose you mean stab Craig 150 times, yes.” she responded with a tinge of impatience to her voice. “Didn't I make it clear that I am familiar with the crimes committed in your area which we are talking about?”

Ernie could picture a tall, gaunt woman with a severe look in her eyes tapping a meticulously manicured nail on the surface of a very impressive desk. “I suppose you did, yes. So,” he took a moment hoping that Jennifer would offer information, “ how many are there that you would have to choose from?”

Over the speaker system the sound of papers shuffling was clearly audible now. Jennifer was back on the business side of her desk flipping pictures over. “With the amount of carnage that you have already checked out in this week, there are really only 21 different profiles that could fit that kind of, ahh, violence.”

Ernie and Amy looked at each other in disbelief. 21 people that this doctor knew of who were capable of committing the kind of atrocities that they have seen in a few days, and they weren't even done looking at what was to be seen yet. “You have got to kidding me, Dr. Kerr, 21 people?” His voice was full of disbelief. “There is no way that there are 21 people walking the streets right now that can do this kinda thing. Uh-uh, no way. I am not buyin' it, Doctor.”

“That is not to say that all of them are free on the street right now.” There were several seconds of tense silence before she added, “That is, that I know of.”

“That you know of?”

“Yes. Not all of them are here Rosewood and, therefore, I can't account for them.”

“Of course not, they aren't in your program, then, are they? But, you can get a list from the other programs to see who has escaped, right?”

“Yes. I should be able to get that information fairly quickly.”

“Nice. It'll help to know what kind ofa psychopath it is we're dealing with here and how this guy's mind works, y'know?”

“Of course, that's why I called, to offer you that assistance.”

“Lemme ask you one thing, I thought mental hospitals were shut down back in the 1980's? Not to be rude, but Rosewood Center certainly doesn't sound like a prison to me. Weren't they all shut down in the 80s and 90s?”

“First, Detective, the group I'm thinking of are sociopaths not psychopaths and I think that you know the difference. Second, yes, mental hospitals, as they were, had been shut down in favor of more humane treatment centers that included a more community centered approach.” Her demeanor changed noticeably. “Out here that would have included the Henryton Hospital and the many others like that, yes, there were several hospitals like that shut down while some were … “ she suddenly stopped as if she caught herself.

“Yes, Doctor?” Ernie urged her. “It sounded like you were saying that some were kept open.” He waited for her to answer. When Dr. Kerr didn't respond immediately Ernie tried coaxing her again, “Are you implying that some such hospitals were not shut down or maybe kept going?”

Jennifer Kerr thought carefully about the question. Actually, she was thinking about how she was going to answer it. She already knew that some hospitals had been kept open, off the record, and out of the view of the public for very specific reasons. Reasons that included killers like Zachary Leach. She knew full well who it was out there and what he was capable of. She had overseen part of his captivity in this particular facility for several years. He was kept here quite safely. Safely, that is, until certain committees on Capitol Hill questioned the amount of funds going into various unnamed and tightly guarded medical projects.

Without saying anything Ernie pulled his car into the parking lot of a convenience store. Amy looked at him in surprise. “Alright, doc. I was going to let this slide, but I am gonna call you on it right here and right now and you had better have a good answer.” Ernie stopped talking long enough to take a deep breath. “How many crime scenes do I have right now?”

“What do you mean, Detective Matthews?”

“How many? How many crime scenes are there here? Right now, how many do I have? You have, more than once, told me that I have multiple scenes right now. Only one has been publicized.” Silence filled the car. “How many do I have?”

The sound of her breathing came over the speakers. “Alright, I know, well, I am pretty damn sure I know who it is that's out there killing right now. If I'm right, he doesn't sleep much and has been working for a few days now which means that you have two, three, maybe four crime scenes right now. Maybe even more, I can't tell you. I can tell you that this guy, if I'm right, is one sick and twisted bastard.”

“So, what's his name? That would be a start.”

“Leach, Zachary Leach. He's also the one who did the Miami job that you have the photos of.”

“Okay, and you're telling me that Leach doesn't sleep? Now, that's impossible.”

“No, he doesn't sleep much, maybe three or four hours a day at the most. At least, I have never seen him sleep more than that.” Jennifer thought about what the next points first. “He can stay up for days on end. It's in his record that he can go 6 days without sleeping. He also functions on a higher adrenal level than most people will ever see.”

“A higher adrenal level than most people will ever see, huh? What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“I mean that his adrenal system is operational at all times. He operates daily at a physical level many, many times higher than anything anybody will ever see even in the most dyer and dangerous of situations. That makes him easily ten times stronger than professionally trained athletes. He is also highly intelligent with an IQ of 171, is a social chameleon. He has already proven that he can easily blend into any social setting and situation. Languages come to him like second nature.”

Ernie's blood chilled at this news. “Is there anything else I should know? Does he have metal bones or something?”

“Well … “ Jennifer began.

“Oh, God help me,” Ernie groaned.

Jennifer chuckled a bit at Ernie's reaction, “It isn't that bad, but he is frighteningly patient. He has been known to stand stock still for up to 30 hours.”

Ernie's disbelief at this claim was more than he could contain. “30 hours? No. There's no way! No way that a man can stand still that long.”

“Detective, you have personally known snipers to do similar acts of physical patience and control.”

He thought back to his days in Battalion and the snipers he knew there and the crazy things that they did to make the shot. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Listen, Detectives, and I know that Ms. Love is there with you. While I personally hold the death penalty disgusting, this is one case that may make a strong argument in favor of capital punishment.”

“Tell me something. You said that Leach did the Miami killings that I have the pictures for, right? Did he just show up and do it or was he already on somebody's radar at that point?”

She decided that she would tell them about it, even though his was a painful memory for her. She was an intern working for the psychiatrist who had Zachary Leach medicated and, presumably under their control at that time.

“But, the loathing is still here. The disgust is here after all the pleasure.” Zachary thumped his open hand against the center of his chest. “It builds up so … tremendously, so wonderfully, so new, you know?” He looked at the his psychiatrist, “I hate new psychiatrists, I really do, and I go through so many, too”

“The thrill of the chase, yes?” Dr. Sisco asked him nervously.

“Yes, Dr. Sisco, the thrill of the chase has something to do with it. The moments of closing in. How it all comes to a tension filled crescendo of pleasure.”

“Sex is often that way.” Dr. Sisco said to him.

“With that, Ernie, Leach pushed the platform that Dr. Sisco was strapped on back into the pig pen. Killing is all thrill for Leach, at least it was when he was younger. As he grew older it became more of a driving need, like breathing for you and me.”

The Setting Sun, a poem

The setting sun, darkness comes

All the shadows are changing

Bright hues and vibrant colors it dumbs

And all the colors are draining

Warmth, life, and vibrance all drain away

One life for another exchanging

More than bats and owls and far distant howls

Strange and unseen beasts with eyes engaging

The setting sun, darkness comes, old things anew

Ancient eyes, timeless hunger are enraging

At The Roxx, flash fiction

11:34 at The Roxx, a local bar, a real dive. The victim, a female 28, pale complexion, straight red hair in a ponytail, brown eyes, short, thin, dressed to party. “Not a working girl, but ..”

The coroner, Jimmy, and I looked at the gaping hole that was her chest. “Death was caused by blunt force trauma?”

“No, this trauma was caused by something coming out.” The coroner was dead pan and serious.

“An exit wound?” I gingerly lifted her shoulders and Jimmy looked.

“No entrance wounds.” His eyes widened in shock “Something came out of her.”

Maybe it was the shock of what I was seeing or what my mind was trying to absorb was too much for me right then. I don't know, but something was watching. Something close by was moving, claws were scraping on concrete as it moved in the shadows. As it sniffed the wind and, as I would learn later, got our scents.

Shanghai'd part 2, a 100 word story

“Gideon shall be invisible for not more than 3 hours. Just your person. Do NOT be caught.”

As this was heretofore impossible to me, I thinly acknowledged, “Of course, Sir.” Shock filled me as I vanished. Immediately disrobing to begin my clandestine mission invading a rival vessel, ingest an uncomfortably large key, and return to my own crew of cutthroats to have said object removed.

Infiltrating said vessel and quarters was of little consequence. Finding the key became a pleasure in itself as it was nestledg in the silken bosom of Piratess Lydia Rondel Knoyll. Only 67 minutes left.

Arid Death, 100 word story

The relentless sun pounded against his limbs, scorching his exposed flesh. It was maddening to be left exposed to the elements. Granted, he could eat, but due to his dehydration he couldn't get enough strength from it.

“Why?” he cried out in anguish. “Why have I been left here? Am I to just die? Is that it?” No answer was forthcoming.

Lifeless and limp, he succumbed to his pains, death had finally come.

“Oh, damn!” Ching sighed after dropping her bags on the floor of her living room, “I've let another plant die. I give up … “

Shanghai'd, a 100 word story

Wet and wind, the two incessant, causing my bones to ache in ways I had only heretofore read about. I had never prepared for such adversities as the open seas. Even at night, below decks, amongst the cargo where crewmen lay in hammocks, the cold of the seas infiltrated my very being.

Who am I, you ask? I am Gideon Granville Vincent, a librarian and scholar by all accounts, a sailor, brigand, cutthroat by none. Somehow, as yet unbeknownst to me, I find myself amongst the latter, welcomed as their brethren, on a journey to what horizons I know not.

Time and Tides

How many times we walked along that shore, I couldn’t count

How many tides we watched come and go on that beach, I couldn’t fathom

But, each time we did, it was the two of us together.

Our footsteps have long been washed away.

There are no imprints on the rocks to show that we were there.

The memory of walking here with you is still fresh in my mind

And my heart, too

In there, in those places, the footprints and the reminders will

   always be, no matter how many tides

New Shadows, a 100 word story

Costs rose, shortcuts were made for progress in Agricultural Research. “Whaddaya mean we've been conducting 'observational research' here?” Maggie screamed.

Tyrone reacted defensively, “We've been observing the growth pattern of certain materials under different environments.”

Partiers moved noisily through the downtown harbor area near the Domino's Sugar plant, blissfully unaware of being watched.

In the shadows, someone relieves himself.

The shadows come alive at his feet, biting, tearing, pulling; his screams meld with other revelers in the night. Rats, the size of dogs, drag him into a dark hole, an access to the sewer.

Baltimore morbidly celebrates its rats.

Finagle a Family Trip, a short story

Finagle's Law is where Murphy must have gotten the idea, because Murphy has nothing on Finagle. Finagle's law is the one that says that when something can go wrong it will, at the worst possible moment and in the worst possible way.

That is exactly how the summer wound up.

So far as family reunions go, this one had been a lot of fun. It could have been far worse, this was the half of the in-paw family that I had not met yet. The part I had gotten to know, well, let's just say that our relationship hasn't been any better since they moved to the West coast and we moved to the East coast.
At any rate, meeting the other half of the wife's family, at least the prospect of it, had been extremely stressful, up to the point of actually meeting them. Leaving the event had been a sad thing. We tried to counter the sad with fun things along the trip home. Take three, maybe four days to drive from Wisconsin to Maryland and enjoy some sights along the way. That was the plan, at least. Nowhere in the plan was it written that anyone would get sick.

"Mom," came our younger son's little voice, "I don't feel good." When a 10 year old boy who had, up until that statement, been happily sucking down cherry slurpy type drink in a van says something like that you have to realize that there is one viable option. If you are driving, you must immediately cut across however many lanes of traffic there are between you and the widest shoulder, come to a screeching halt, undo your seat belt, climb to the middle row seat, to the child in the middle, unbuckle him, get him out of the van and onto the side of the shoulder nearest the grassy area. All in about a second. Other drivers be damned, they will recover; you, however, are sitting on a time bomb that is about to blow up.

24 ounces of cherry slurp went in, some 15 gallons of red stained, stinking, sticky, cheesy-clumped, unidentifiable, semi-plasticized; polymer-esque, partial liquid, watery, gelatinous, mucous streaked substance is about to erupt from that darling boy. Heaven have mercy on ya if you didn't hear him, because that plaintive little plea was your one and only warning.

That one second gone, it has ticked away, be you driving or in one of the other passengers in that vehicle there is something unidentifiable that brings your eyes to that one face. At that one moment, the instant that it happens. Oh boy, does it happen, when it does, it goes in slow motion at first and then picks up speed.
Whoever is driving, Mom or Dad, is inevitably going to say something like, "What is that smell?" or "Oh, God, are you alright?" as if that sweet innocent, 10 year old child who is puking all over the seat, and sibling sitting in front of him, is going to stop puking to say something poignant like, "I am quite fine, Mother, just warming up for our stop at the Vomitorium."

Before the adult passenger can blink, and the other children in the van can inhale to scream a second time, the can is at its required place on the shoulder and half of everything in it is on the roadside ... getting washed by hand and water bottle ... that was the start of would would became a five day ordeal in which all seven of us would have to stomach this virus.