Mike Faricy - Bite Me

There was a second story cedar deck across the entire rear of the house. A broad staircase with a ninety degree turn half way up led to the deck. As I climbed the steps I could smell the cedar.

I pulled on a pair of rubber surgical gloves as I surveyed the upper deck. On the railing side sat a large gas grill, with a grey plastic cover pulled over it. A large black metal table with an umbrella raised in the middle was just beyond the grill, seven matching metal chairs were arranged around the table. A crystal tumbler with maybe two inches of brownish liquid, a leaf and a dozen bugs floating on top sat on the far end of the table. I sniffed the glass, bourbon, lucky bugs.

The house looked dark, I could see through the windows inside to a kitchen, but other than a digital clock on the ovens it didn’t look like anything was on. The lights were off, even though it was late morning the rooms still seemed dark enough to warrant an overhead light. I walked the length of the deck, all the windows were locked, nothing seemed to be happening inside. There were two sets of sliding glass doors, the living room set was locked. I could look in through the living room and see my car parked in the circular drive out the front window. I walked back along the deck to the sliding kitchen door. The door was open about an inch, I listened carefully for a few more minutes, then slowly slid the door, half expecting an alarm. The only sound was my heart pounding like some base drum.

Once inside I quickly walked in the direction of the attached garage. In a hallway just off the kitchen was a solid metal door, I guessed it led to the garage. Next to the door was the control panel for the alarm system. It gave a digital read out of the date and time, next to that was a green light. The alarm was off. Attached to the wall below the control panel was a wooden cut out in the shape of a house with four brass hooks, a set of car keys hung from one of the hooks. There was something else, a smell. I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

As I walked through the house, I could feel the central air. The kitchen was clean, other than the crystal tumbler outside there was nothing to indicate human activity, nothing in the sink. Black granite counter tops reflected cherry wood cabinets and ceiling fixtures. I opened one of the cabinets, it was empty, so was the next one and the one after that, they were all empty. I opened the large brushed chrome refrigerator, it was turned off, spotless and empty as was the freezer.

The living and dining rooms held elegant, matching furnishings with nothing out of place. In the dining room there were three crystal glasses sitting on a long walnut cabinet the glasses matched the one out on the deck. The cabinet held nothing but a half-pint of Jack Daniels, maybe just a third full.

The front hallway felt larger than my entire first floor, at the far end a white carpeted staircase led upstairs. The smell was a bit stronger. As I climbed the stairs the carpeting felt thick and plush and ended about three feet beyond the top step. From there the floor was just dusty chipboard subflooring.

The smell on the second floor was approaching the gag point. There were six bedrooms on the second floor, five of which were empty, not so much as an IKEA chest of drawers, anywhere. The walls were sheet rocked, plastered, but not primed or painted. Capped electrical wires extended out from holes where outlets or ceiling fixtures should have been. All the shades were drawn. Although the door frames were installed and the bedroom doors were hung, none of the rooms, doorframes or the upper hallway for that matter had any trim attached.

The sixth bedroom, the one in the upper corner, held more than I bargained for. There was a thin mattress on the floor and a rumpled sleeping bag. A jumble of socks, t-shirts and boxers were piled against the wall. A table lamp with no shade sat on the floor. The light was on, plugged into an orange extension cord that came up through a hole in the floor. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand and ventured in.

A black metal chair, an exact match to the seven out on the deck sat in the far corner of the room. What was left of Carroll Kevork, Doctor Death, sat with his ankles and wrists taped to the chair and a six inch strip of duct tape over his mouth. I recognized him, or what was left of him, from the website photo. It looked like some nutcase had played tic-tac-toe on his body. Both ears, his nose, arms, chest, well, you get the picture, were carved and sliced. Blood was splattered across the walls. On the floor, small foot prints outlined in dried blood wandered around the chair then faded as they tracked out toward the door. Congealed blood was pooled beneath the chair.

A familiar looking knife had been tossed into the corner. I’d seen it once before. It was bigger than a steak knife, not quite a carving blade, but still capable of doing some very serious damage. The knife came with a bright red handle, the kind sculpted to fit your fingers and hold a blade that gleamed viciously. The blade was crusted with blood. Kiki.

I became aware of a noise, at first I thought it was radio static, then realized it was flies buzzing around. Lots of them all of a sudden. I backed out of the room, down the staircase, through the dining room and out the sliding kitchen door. I somehow had the foresight to slide the door almost closed behind me. Out on the deck I sucked in huge gulps of fresh air. Then made my way to the car as fast as I could hoping I didn’t attract any attention.

I looked in the rear view mirror as I pulled away and saw the puddle of oil that had dripped from my engine onto the circular brick drive. The oil left a large stain the size of a dinner plate. I was pretty sure Doctor Death wouldn’t care.

Driving back home on I-94, I could not seem to get the smell out of my nose. For the umpteenth time I ran through a check list in my mind. Had I closed the door? Left anything behind? Worn the gloves at all times? Fortunately, I’d called from the untraceable pay-as-you-go cell and disguised my voice when I left phone messages on Doctor Death’s office number. Still, I thought I should call the police, although try as I may, I couldn’t come up with how that would help me in any way.

I got home, pushed a chair up against the front door, wedged another chair under the back kitchen door knob. Then sat and thought, Kiki, Kiki, Kiki while I ate butter-brickle ice cream directly out of the carton with a spoon. My monitor call came through about nine-thirty that night and sort of snapped me back to reality. Other than the ice cream carton I must have been staring at nothing for the better part of the evening. I punched in my code, hit the pound sign and went to bed, not that I could get to sleep.

I must have drifted off because the ringing woke me. It was a phone, a phone close by, but I didn’t recognize the ring tone. It took a few moments to track it down, coming from my dresser, the pay-as-you-go phone. I let it ring, it stopped on the fifth ring. I hadn’t set up any voice mail on the thing so it must have disconnected. I checked after a couple of minutes, no message, caller unknown. It was three-forty in the morning. There was only one place I’d left that number, on Doctor Death’s recording to schedule an appointment. I had said I was from Wells Fargo, attempted to disguise my voice, sounding like some banking jerk. I spent the rest of the night awake, wondering how effective my attempt had been.

I woke to the sound of my cell-phone ringing, Sentinel Monitoring. I punched in the numbers, then pound, the thing was ringing again when I came out of the bathroom.

“Haskell Investigations.”

“Yeah Dev, Louie Laufen, I just signed off on everything and your packet is waiting to be messengered over to Manning in Homicide this morning.”