Eleven
M A K O
“YOU WANT TO EXPLAIN to me how your hair ended up wrapped around Greg Barber’s finger?” I ask, my fingers threaded together tightly as I lean towards the woman sitting before me. ‘Woman’ is a generous word considering she looks like a half-dead wraith.
“Who?” she snarls, shooting me a dirty look.
“Froggy,” I supply. Recognition lights up in her dull brown eyes. It’s sad to say that there’s only a thin layer of life that separates her eyes from Greg’s.
“My hair wrapped arou… is he dead?” it takes her all of three seconds to conclude why I’m asking. I pull out the crime scene photos and lay them out in front of her as an answer. Her eyes widen and horror washes over her face. Slowly, her shaking hand picks up the picture showcasing Greg’s chest with the word ‘Ghost’ carved into it. The picture rattles in her pale fingers, while her other hand covers her open mouth. Red paint colors her nails, nearly chipped completely away.
“Do you know who would do this, Ms. Franklin?”
It seemingly takes considerable effort for her to drag her eyes away from the picture and back to
mine. The picture drops to the table.
“No.”
Just one word. Two letters. And a big fucking lie.
It’s normal for people to be shocked, horrified, even disgusted by some of the crime scene photos.
Linda Franklin is all of those. But she’s also scared.
It’s not normal to be scared of the boogeyman if you don’t think they’ll ever come after you.
Looks to me like the sex worker sitting across the table in our cozy little interrogation room has a reason to be scared.
Amar is standing behind me, his hands in his pockets as he observes Linda.
“Can you explain your hair, Ms. Franklin?” Amar prompts. Linda’s watery eyes glance up at Amar before settling back on the photos.
“Am I goin’ to get arrested if I tell you I slept with him?” she asks, a bitter edge to her voice.
“No,” I promise. We already know this woman is a sex worker, but we’re not here to arrest her for selling sex for money.
She sighs. “I slept with him about a month ago. He paid me. I left.”
“Do you remember the date and what location?”
“I don’t know,” she snaps. “I don’t write down in my calendar what day I fucked who.”
“A guess then?” I push. th She huffs. “Maybe the last weekend of last month. Around the 25or somethin’. At Harper’s Motel.”
That’d put her at a few days, give or take, before he died. We’ll have to make a stop at the seedy motel they had sex in and see if we can catch them on any cameras. Pinning down all of Greg’s
locations leading up to his murder is important. Anything in that timeframe could give us a clue as to who murdered him and why.
“That’s the last time you saw Froggy? Was he acting out of sorts? Seem nervous to you? Did he say anything?”
Linda starts shaking her head profusely halfway through my questioning.
“No, no, and no,” she gripes with irritation. “I don’t know nothin’ about him or what he does. He didn’t say nothin’ to me except what he wanted me to do to him. That’s all.”
“Ms. Franklin, your hair was wrapped around Froggy’s finger the day he was found dead. Based off what you just told me, you had sex with Froggy not too long before he died. Last time I checked, people don’t hold onto other people’s DNA. At least not without a reason.”
“You sayin’ I killed him?” she asks incredulously, looking at me like I’m a complete idiot. It takes everything in me not to snap back at her. I take a deep breath through my nose, reigning in my frustration.
“What I’m saying, Ms. Franklin, is you were either in contact with Froggy right before he died, or you were in contact with his murderer, who somehow got ahold of your DNA,” I explain slowly.
“Both scenarios don’t look very good for you.”
She crosses her arms defiantly and snipes, “I’d like a lawyer if you’re going to keep questioning
me Detective Fitzgerald.”
Yeah, saw that one coming.
“FITZGERALD!”
I turn my head from my computer to see Amar coming towards me, his face set in stone.
“Yeah?”
“Man’s here. Claims he witnessed Greg Barber’s murder.”
I stand so fast, the chair I was sitting in nearly topples to the ground. Disregarding it, Amar leads me to what could possibly be our biggest lead yet. If this man witnessed Greg’s murder, then there’s a good chance he’ll be able to identify the Ghost Killer.
The witness is standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets and an anxious look on his weathered face. Dude looks like he’s been through a war or two. Ragged, dirty clothes filled with holes and reek of stale piss and sewer water.
I note each feature on his face, my eyes lingering on his own. Something about them gives me pause. He’s shifting on his feet anxiously, glancing around the precinct like he’s waiting for Freddy Krueger to pop out. Usually the case when civilians find themselves in a building full of law enforcement officers.
When he sees me, he stills and slips a hand from of his pocket and holds it out to me for a handshake. I pause. Witnesses don’t usually try to shake my hand. Reluctantly, I slap my hand in his,
the motion sending chills down my spine as I stare into his eyes. His squeezes my hand once before letting go.
“Benedict Davis,” he introduces, his voice higher-pitched than I would’ve guessed.
“Detective Fitzgerald. Follow me,” I say, nodding towards one our interrogation rooms.
Benedict settles in across the table from me, linking his trembling fingers loosely. Amar resumes his position behind me, per usual. Something about sitting at the table makes him feel restless.
“Alright, Mr. Davis, I hear you witnessed a murder. Can you tell me about it?” rdHe clears his throat and shifts again. “I was on my way to the gas station for some cigs on 3 street when I heard a commotion. Now usually I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but the screams coming from a kid were hard to ignore. Four men were huddled together under the train tracks. Two men were holding him down while another hooded man stood before them with a gun in one hand, a bloody knife in the other. Looked like some type of hunting knife or something.
“I couldn’t see much, but I could see that the screaming man was covered in blood and pleading for mercy. The hooded man said something I couldn’t hear, raised his gun and shot the young male in the head. I ran after that, before they could spot me.”
His shaking hands run across his head nervously, much like my own tic when I’m frustrated. His body and arms are constantly shifting, and several times he lifts his ass off the chair like he’s getting up, but then just sits back down nervously. It’s physically impossible for this man to sit still.
“Why did you wait so long to report this, Mr. Davis?”
He scoffs, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his head. If he wasn’t wearing a light jacket, I bet I’d see pit stains on his t-shirt. “Because I was terrified, man. I ran back to my house and basically waited for someone to come find me and kill me next. I was so paranoid; I didn’t leave my house until now. I figured if they were coming for me, they would’ve already popped me. So, I came straight here.”
I mull over his story for a second. It’s consistent with where we found Greg’s body, and also how he was murdered. If the witness saw Greg’s body on the ground and bloodied, he must’ve caught them right after the Ghost Killer carved the word into Greg’s chest.
“Can you tell me anything about any of the men? Features, what they were wearing, tattoos, any of the sort?”
He swipes the back of his hand against his forehead, flinging off sweat in the process. “Uh… uh, yeah. The one guy holding down the… the victim was bald with some sort of tattoo on the back of his head,” he stumbles, his hands shaking. “I was too far away to see exactly what it was, but it looked like some sort of bird.”
I grab the pen and pad from the table and jot down notes.
“And the hooded man? Anything about him?”
“It looked like he was wearing a silver watch. But I can’t remember much else than that. He was dressed all in black and the hood covered his face.”
Frustration bubbles inside me. It can never be as easy as seeing the killer and being able to identify them in a line-up. Being able to identify his minions is at least a start, though. Better than nothing.
“Anything else about the other men?” I ask, glaring down at my notepad until the words blur.
“The other guy was blonde and had a heavy gold chain around his neck. Like something you’d see on a gang member. He was…” he trails off as nerves seem to overwhelm him. He squeeze his eyes shut tight and runs a hand back and forth on the top of his graying hair in a panicked gesture.
“Hey, hey, Mr. Davis. Relax and take your time. You’re safe here, nothing’s gonna happen to
you.”
He laughs without humor. “Yeah, that’s what all the cops say, man. Right before you get popped.”
I lean my head down further to try and catch his eyes. When I do, I look for any signs of drugs.
His eyes are slightly dilated, but that could be explained from the fear. It looks like he has a few sores on his face, but his face all-around looks like it’s been through the wringer. He’s not tweaking at the moment, but I’m not ruling out drug use completely.
“Mr. Davis, would you be willing to testify against the murderers when caught?”
He stops fidgeting and looks up at me, his eyes dilating further.
“What if they send someone after me?”
Likely to happen.
“We’ll make sure you’re safe. Put you in witness protection.”
The man looks down, seemingly to contemplate it. “There’s a serious killer on the loose, Mr.
Davis. Which means he could come after anyone next,” I say, emphasizing my point. If the Ghost Killer doesn’t get put away, the man before me could be killed, too. Especially if he is involved with drugs.
“Alright,” he concedes. “I’d feel more comfortable with a lawyer, though.”
As much as I want to recommend my father, I know whose hands this is going to inevitably end up in. “I know someone who can help you.”
That hurt coming out of my mouth.
THE GHOST KILLER’S VICTIMS primarily originate from Shallow Hill, though anybody could’ve fucking guessed that one. The worst of the worst reside in Shallow Hill. It’s an absolute miracle someone like River was born and raised there and came out the other side as a
decent human being.
Mind blowing shit right there.
Amar and I went over the footage of Greg Barker and Linda Franklin walking into the Harper Motel together, and then leaving separately about twenty minutes later.
Didn’t take them very long.
When Greg left, the outside camera caught a snippet of an old blue Ford Mustang with a missing side mirror picking up the kid, and then racing off. The license plate was just out of shot, but a missing side mirror on that type of car is pretty recognizable. If we can find it.
Even though it was pointless, we looked at any claims within the past twenty years for car accidents involving a Ford Mustang. Nothing matched. People from Shallow Hill don’t make claims with their car insurance when getting in a wreck.
It was Greg Barker’s mother, Cindy, who gave us a lead. It was the first time we could get her to help with the investigation since her son’s murder—too lost in grief and anger to give a shit about
finding justice for her son in the beginning. Now, when we had asked if she recognized a Ford Mustang with a missing mirror driving around, she was all too happy to give up information.
Snitching in Shallow Hill is a surefire way to end up dead, but I think the way she sees it, the drugs will kill her soon anyway now that she no longer has a child to live for.
Brian Gill, a forty-two-year-old man with an eagle tattoo covering the entire back of his shiny bald head. Asshole spent ten years locked up for burglary and second-degree murder. Got out early for good behavior.
Cindy also told us Brian’s favorite hangout spot was the bar in downtown Shallow Hill. It’s a seedy place with sex workers lining the street, ripe for the pickin’, and at least four drug deals within a block radius happening at any given time.
Amar and I park along the street opposite of the bar, in an Oldsmobile that smells like stale cigarette smoke. We borrowed the car from a friend of Amar’s considering anything newer than a ’05 car would be marked as suspicious. You don’t drive nice cars in this town unless you’re a visitor or you own the town. Last thing we need is anyone realizing we’re visitors.
A flicker of metal grinding against metal, a bright flame and then a burst of smoke steaming off a bright cherry. “You really gotta do that now?” I complain, looking over at Amar with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Figured you would’ve accepted the fact that you’re going home smelling like smoke.”
“Last time I checked, you’re the one going home to someone who hates it,” I grumble, mashing the control to roll down his window. I leave it cracked and watch all the smoke begin to filter out.
“She doesn’t mind so much when I’m staking out a suspect. I get stressed,” he says lightly before dragging in another mouthful of cancer.
My reply is interrupted by a commotion from the bar across the street. Our suspect is being roughly pushed out of the bar by another man, the latter screaming in the former’s face as if he’s deaf.
A scuffle breaks out, the two swinging punches like they’re in grade school.
I groan, my hand drifting towards the handle to break up the damn fight. Before I can even wrap my hand around the handle, the man pushing Brian whips out a gun from the back of his pants and aims it at Brian’s head.
Amar and I both spring forward simultaneously, scrambling to open our doors.
Pop. Pop.
My head snaps towards the scene, my body halfway out of the car. Amar and I both freeze, absolutely stunned from how quickly everything just went to shit.
“Did some asshole seriously just kill our biggest lead yet?” I ask breathlessly.
“Fuck. That’s exactly what just happened.”
I punch the steering wheel, eliciting a pathetic, airy beep from the car. It gets swallowed by the loud yelling going on now that a person was just murdered right there on a street.
Angrily swinging myself the rest of the way out of the car, Amar and I cross the street to assist with a very dead Brian. The top half of his head is gone, leaving bloody sightless eyes staring up at the night sky as another sex worker gets picked up for a quick blowjob.
I heave out another sigh. “Want to bet that he wasn’t just murdered by the Ghost Killer?” I ask, sarcasm coating my words.
Amar snorts humorlessly. “I’d rather bet on what time we’re going to be getting home tonight.”
“Midnight,” I bet.
Another snort. “One thirty A.M.”
“YOU DO REALIZE WITNESSES don’t actually need attorney’s, right?” Ryan asks condescendingly. It takes a lot of effort to keep my fist planted on my desk and not plunged deep into Ryan’s mouth.
“He requested one,” I answer shortly, ignoring his tone. I didn’t get to bed until late last night and fifty bucks lighter.
“It’s been a year. Maybe it’s time to pass this one onto someone with more skill,” he says. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my frustration mounting and patience depleting at alarming levels.
“Ryan. Just introduce yourself to your fucking client and get out of my sight,” I growl. Not that he’ll stay that way for long. My morning is going to be spent in that interrogation room with Mr. Davis and his shiny new lawyer going over every detail of that night and arranging witness protection.
With someone like the Ghost Killer, you can never be too safe.
Ryan storms away from me and for a few glorious seconds, I embrace the solitude. This is also a great time to pour coffee down my throat. I slept like shit last night—the little sleep I did get. With Brian being dead, the case has gone cold yet again.
A man dead because a jealous boyfriend went into a fit of rage when he saw his girlfriend grinding her ass on another man’s dick. Such a fucking stupid reason to die. Brian has done much worse things to people for a lot less. It’s not like he didn’t deserve what was coming to him, but I would’ve much rather he spend the rest of his life locked up than murdered on a street because of a frisky girl.
Later, Amar and I will be making another trip to see Greg’s mother, Cindy, to see if we can get any more information out of her. Maybe about the other man involved in Greg’s murder—the man with the gold chain around his neck. Now, that she’s talking, she probably has a lot more information up her sleeve that she didn’t divulge yet.
The police report from last night crinkles in my hand. This case isn’t a dead end. I’m getting closer. But the Ghost Killer still feels just out of reach, dancing across my fingertips, taunting me.
“You alright, man?” my partner asks, jolting me out of my thoughts. Didn’t even see him come up to me.
“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing my eyes with my pointer finger and thumb, hoping to wake myself up. All I succeed in doing is making my vision blurry and giving myself a headache.
Amar doesn’t look much better than I do. Dark circles under his eyes, drawn face and a perpetual frown. He’s as frustrated with this case as I am.
“I’m just ready for this shit to be over, man,” I sigh, taking another swig of lukewarm coffee. I grimace at the bitter taste.
“He’s right within our reach, I can feel it,” Amar says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring off into the distance.
“I do, too. I just wish I knew how close.”
