Soulburn - The Complete Edition (Frailty) Page 7

  “Maybe it was wife. Maybe it was doctor. Maybe it was police. Do not care to know,” Roofy responded frustrated.

  “My mom will send them,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I know.” Roofy sat his drink down and questioned her. “She has called you, yes?”

  The two had stood up and stacked their trash on the tray.

  “I turned my phone off when we left.”

  “Maybe she is worried.” Reaching the trashcan, Roofy dumped the tray and, now emptied, placed it in the tray return.

  “I'm not.” Constance walked through the first door, holding it open for Roofy. “You're not worried about the police?”

  Roofy returned the favor by holding the second door, which lead outside. “Niet. Not worried.”

  The two crossed the parking lot.

  “You don't care?”

  “Niet.”

  They stopped at the car, shadowed by a large sign read, “Ten Pound Burger”.

  Constance stood in front of Roofy, blocking him from entering the car. “You did care once. You should now. You will again,” she reassured.

  Not sure how to respond, Roofy shared a silent stare with her.

  26

  “Evening, Detective.” The officer at the front desk of the Richmond City Police Department greeted Laura as she entered.

  Laura grabbed a newspaper from a pile on the desk and headed down a hall. A few steps in, she was joined by a man coming from a connecting hallway.

  “Well, well. Those are the legs I was looking for.” The man's nameplate read “Dwayne – Forensics”. Smartly dressed, he was a black male in his mid-twenties, of average height, and had an athletic build.

  “Do any of your lines ever work, Dwayne?” Laura tucked the paper under her arm. Dwayne's grin and charm were infectious. As a rule, she avoided prolonged conversations with people, but he was the exception. Every rule had one, which was fine as long as it was a really good one. Dwayne was exceptional at what he did, and Laura knew it.

  “You know you love me, Detective. Judging by those marks, I'd say you like it rough.”

  “That obvious, even with the make-up, huh?” Laura asked, pausing briefly. As bad as they were, she thought she had done a make-up artists job at masking them.

  “I am in forensics.” Dwayne pointed at his nameplate. “Now, when are you going to let me show you how it's done?”

  “Dwayne,” Laura teased, “I would hurt you.” She kept it light, but when it came down to it, she would stand by the statement. He played a good game, but Laura was not playing. Her intentions were not to crush the feelings of the people she trusted, as few as they were.

  The two walked again.

  “Mmm – mmm. Naughty.”

  “Okay, playboy, let's get down to business.”

  The two passed various doors and offices as they continued.

  “Okay. The blood on the shirt you found was from the first victim, and the killer is sticking to his pattern,” Dwayne stated.

  The two had reached Laura's desk, and she put the paper and her cell phone down.

  Traffic was heavy in the office, with officers and detectives coming and going. Not far away, a custodial worker, with a large, rolling trashcan, was dumping waste baskets. He was wearing dark navy slacks and a windbreaker, with the word “Janitorial” on it. He had a navy baseball cap pulled way down on his head, with shoulder length, salt and pepper hair in a ponytail. He kept his head tilted down.

  “Second victim's pet, the dog, was found in the same condition as the first victim's cat. All the blood was drained from it. Also, second victim was killed in the same way as the first. Killer used a device similar to one used by a comic villain,” Dwayne relayed.

  Laura followed him through the maze of desks, as he headed toward the forensics department entrance. Passing the janitor, she was amazed at the strong, musky scent. It was not like any cologne she had ever smelled, but before she could put more thought into it, her concentration diverted back to Dwayne's information.

  “In this case, the Cimetron Audio Diffuser,” Dwayne said, finishing his line of thought.

  “Let me guess, it cripples the superheroine's voice.”

  “Correct. The Red Siren's power is a sonic voice. Supposedly, the device emits a nullifying wave.”

  The two stopped in front of the large glass, double-door entrance to the forensics lab.

  “The victim was gagged, though?” Laura adjusted her hair to help cover her neck.

  “Killer didn't use the mouth, in this case.” Dwayne gestured with his hands, as he continued describing the murder. “You know that pelvic contraption she was wearing? It was 'u' shaped, like the comic weapon. He had inserted an end into each genital orifice.”

  “So, he's sticking to sodomy.” Laura thought about the missed opportunity with the Red Siren outfit. She would let her injuries heal before revisiting the experience. Thinking of the costume, however, did spring a thought to the forefront of her mind; the killer could not have known it was in the house unless he already knew Kate Reiner had it in her possession. That meant the culprit had watched the Reiner's and their friends for some time, possibly even attending the Halloween party they went to. If the killer was that methodical, it was hard to tell just how elaborate a web he had built.

  “Yes. Thing emitted some sort of sonic pulse. Micky says it scrambled her insides.”

  “Any word on that supposed blood stain from the first crime scene?”

  Dwayne shook his head as he responded, “Still working on it.”

  Off in the distance, the janitorial worker had reached Laura's desk. He dumped her waste basket and put it back down. Quickly, he picked up the newspaper on her desk, rolling her cell phone up in it. Holding the paper over the large trashcan to give the appearance of disposing of something, he popped off the back of the phone. Working fast, he removed the battery, inserted a small computer chip, inserted the battery, replaced the cover, and cycled the phone back on. Rolling the trashcan towards the next area, he slipped the paper and phone back on Laura's desk.

  On the other side of the office, Laura finished up her conversation. “I've posted an APB. Luckily, the media hasn't blown it up yet.”

  “Would be much easier if you knew where he was going, though,” Dwayne said with a shrug.

  “Working on it.” Laura gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for the update.”

  Back at her desk, she flipped through the paper, stopping at an advertisement. “Well, I'll be damned. Speak and you shall receive.”

  27

  Rest stops, by definition, were not places that Roofy found desirable. Most were little more than brick bunkers that were poorly kept and reeked. The particular one that he and Constance found on this occasion was the exception to the rule. There was always one, Roofy thought.

  In a dining area, surrounded by a number of fast food restaurants, Roofy stared up at one of the many flat screen televisions.

  “All done,” Constance said, returning from the restroom.

  “Good. Am ready to leave,” the big Russian answered with determination.

  “Where we going?”

  “Your Las Vegas.”

  “Sin city? Nice.”

  Behind Roofy, on the flat screen he had watched, a commercial for a UWA event, called “The Reunion Rumble in Vegas,” played.

  28

  Detective Laura Stenks sat at her desk talking on her cell phone. In front of her, the newspaper was opened to a full-page ad for the UWA Reunion Rumble. “Yes, Las Vegas. I'm sure of it Chief. I think I can cut him off, though. The guys tagged his last credit card usage in Santa Fe, and that was just moments ago. I've already got my plane ticket.”

  Across the street from the building, standing in the dark, a figure listened to a Bluetooth device placed in his ear. He had on a windbreaker with the word “Janitorial” on it.

  “So do I.”

  END - PART TWO

  PART THREE – SUPERHEROINES & SLOT MACHINES

 
; 29

  The quaint motel was adorned with the typical motel motif: two double beds, an end table, a mini-fridge, dresser, television, and decorations indicative of the local culture. In this case, that art style included paintings of Native Americans, as well as drapes heavily saturated in turquoise, red, and other coordinating colors. The dresser, higher grade than one would normally expect to find in a roadside rest, contained a mirror and stool.

  “I am so happy you changed your mind about wrestling,” Constance said to Roofy, whose reflection she could see in the mirror as he stood behind her. Planted on the stool, she had insisted on putting in earrings, despite the big Russian’s eagerness to hit the road. Having the short haircut meant the ears had to be properly accessorized, which was not something she had expected him to appreciate.

  “Told you, I am not going to wrestle. I want to see old friends.”

  “Well, you did bring your gear with you,” Constance insisted, combing her hair.

  “It has special meaning to me.”

  “Or, you were planning on wrestling,” the teen countered, spinning the stool around so that she faced him.

  Outside, drenched in the early morning red and orange hues of the sunrise, a rental car had pulled up and parked near their room.

  “I would have to be, how you say, allowed. I was fired from company,” Roofy debated inside the room.

  “But, you were going to try anyway.” Constance was determined not to back down, no matter how much the Russian rolled his eyes.

  “You are very persistent, like flea on dog.” Roofy walked to the door, hoping the girl would take the hint that he wanted to leave.

  “I'm right,” Constance countered, following him.

  Roofy grunted in response, turning the doorknob and opening the door just enough to let a crack of sunshine in.

  “Are you whining?” Constance’s question stopped the big man in his tracks.

  “Niet. I am hungry.”

  “I've never seen a big man whine,” she continued to jab.

  Roofy pulled the door open, but his attention was still on Constance, as he was dogged about getting in the last word. “Maybe I learn from you, yes?” Proud of his response, Roofy opened the door and began to leave.

  Detective Laura Stenks was not sure what the interpretation was of the Russian word Roofy Reiner had just used, but judging from his expression, it was not pleasant. Of course, staring down the business end of her .44 caliber automatic pistol could bring responses like that from people.

  “Roofy Reiner, you are under arrest. Where is the girl?” Laura asked, badge and badge holder dangling from a chain around her neck.

  It was not the first time he had a gun pointed at him. A crazed fan, upset that Roofy had beaten his favorite wrestler, once accosted him after a match. The man had caught him by surprise by coming out of the crowd and jumping over the security rail as Roofy left the ring. The incident had come to a sudden and harmless conclusion, though, when Roofy’s opponent for the night tackled the assailant from behind. By the time security had arrived, the traumatized man was begging for them to help him. It was the first time, however, that he had been arrested. Being honest with himself, he had expected to get stopped much sooner, not that anything they did to him would matter. His main concern was the girl not getting harmed, so cooperating, the big Russian, hands raised, nodded back towards the room.

  Laura waived her gun in a motion indicating she wanted him to back up. “Let's go, big man,” she ordered, following him inside. Noticing he ducked entering the room, Laura was impressed by his size. It was one thing to see it on paper; it was entirely different to experience it firsthand.

  Constance had known something was wrong by the way Roofy had reacted when he left the room. Hearing the police officer’s orders had confirmed it. Everything she had hoped for was in jeopardy of falling apart. From where she had stood, the detective could not have seen her from the outside. Now that all three were in the room, however, she knew she had little time to come up with something.

  “This isn't necessary, officer,” Constance said, stalling.

  “It's Detective Laura Stenks. Are you okay?” Laura asked, keeping the gun fixed on the large Russian.

  “I'm fine, Detective.” The teen was courteous but firm, not backing down from the law enforcement woman's stern demeanor.

  “Good. I'm going to get you back home.”

  “That won't be needed, Detective.”

  “I'm afraid it is, young lady.” The comment had drawn a catty look from the girl, but Laura was getting impatient. She felt the circumstances at the motel confirmed her hunches. It was clear the girl was not being kept by force, but Laura knew that the longer the conversation dragged on, the more chance there was for things to get out of control.

  “Do you know how worried your mother is?” Laura asked sympathetically, trying a more personal tactic.

  “I'm sure she's more than fine, getting all that attention from all of those concerned people. As long as it's about her, life is good. The way I see it, I've done her a favor. I've brought her more attention than she ever could, in spite of all the creative drama she's managed to fabricate,” Constance dictated.

  Laura had underestimated the teen, and scolded herself for having made a rookie mistake. The girl's age, combined with a deceptively innocent appearance, caused her to draw a conclusion on how mature Constance would be, and it was obvious the error had allowed the teen enough reaction time to dig in solid with defiance. Frustrated, the detective switched gears. “Do you know what this man is accused of?”

  “The question, Detective, is,” Constance asked confidently, “do I care?” She gestured at the quiet Russian as she spoke, “Besides, Roofy did not kidnap me. I'm sure you have figured out by now that I came of my own free will.”

  “This isn't just about kidnapping. Mr. Reiner is a suspect in two murders,” Laura snapped bluntly, giving up on the psychological approach.

  “Chto?” Roofy asked, shocked. Impressed by Constance’s conviction, he had been content to keep his tongue as the stand-off between the two women played out like a tennis match, but the accusation rattled him.

  “Roofy would not do something like that.”

  “You don't know that, Ms. Kysta.” Laura could tell her comment had rattled them both, but instead of turning the girl against the Russian, it seemed to be galvanizing her resolve.

  “Yes, I do,” Constance refuted firmly.

  “I have not killed anyone,” Roofy interjected. As shocked and confused as he was, he held his hands in position on his head, not wanting to provoke the detective.

  Constance noticed a small trickle of blood appearing under one of Roofy’s nostrils.

  “We found your wife, Mr. Reiner.” Laura stated, wanting to see how he would react. When confronted with the truth, most criminal’s, no matter how cool they played it, would give themselves away with their movements or expressions.

  “What does this mean, you found her?”

  The amount of blood on Roofy's face was increasing, and it gave Constance an idea.

  “She's dead. We believe she was murdered.” Laura prided herself on being able to read people, and it certainly seemed like the suspect's response was genuine. Still, she knew the encounter had dragged on long enough. With one hand holding her firearm, she used the other one to take a set of handcuffs out of one of her duty belt pouches.

  “Don't you care that she's dead, Mr. Reiner?” the detective asked, trying to pry some knowledge out of him that might be useful to the case.

  “Niet. Life held nothing for her. She was miserable woman.”

  “What about the other victim, Sarah Whent?”

  “Sarah is dead? Who has done this to my friend?” Roofy asked. He was having a hard time concentrating, as his emotions became a jumbled mess. The taste of blood entered his mouth, causing him to spit. Full blown panic started setting in, and a sharp pain stabbed through his head, just behind his eye.

  “Are you okay, Roof
y?” Constance asked, looking on concerned as the big man squinted and wobbled. It looked similar to the episode he had at the last hotel, and she wondered if he would be physically able to carry out what she had in mind. It did distract the detective, though, so she decided to make her move.

  “Niet. My head hurts,” Roofy mumbled, moving one of his massive hands down to his forehead as if it would ease the throbbing. He could not escape the feeling that something was wrenching control of his body from him, and he struggled hard to keep the sensation at bay. He knew he should have both hands on his head, but if he moved the hand from the top of his face, he was sure his brain would explode outward.

  “What's wrong with him?” Laura asked Constance, experience and intuition screaming to her that something was about to go horribly wrong. The control she had achieved with the element of surprised was all but lost.

  This was her opportunity. Choosing to ignore the detective, Constance hurried to one of the luggage bags and began digging through it.

  “Ms. Kysta, wait until he's been cuffed,” Laura demanded urgently.

  The girl stepped in-between Detective Stenks and Roofy and held the towel she had found up to Roofy's nose. The big man's hands had dropped to his side, and he seemed lethargic to her; his head leaning against her rag covered hand like a dead weight.

  “Ms. Kysta!” Laura demanded again.

  “Are you okay?” Constance paid no attention, but the detective's escalated voice told her time was about to run out.

  “Da. The pain is going.” Roofy opened his eyes, and the strain on his face eased, as his faculties returned. He had won the battle, but he knew he was losing the war. Defeated, he readied himself for the inevitable police escort back to Richmond.

  “Mr. Reiner, get down on your knees and put your hands on your head. Now!” Laura yelled. Gun steadied on her target and handcuffs ready, she wanted to get the Russian restrained while he was still woozy.

  Hands back on his head, Roofy eased to the ground and rested on his knees, placing him at face level with the teen.