James Grippando - Last to die

They caught the tail end of rush hour out of downtown Miami and didn’t reach the Ninety-fifth Street exit until almost seven, well after dark.

The business district for Miami Shores was built around a little hitch in the road that connected I-95 to U.S. 1, and most of the community had the same small-town feel-quiet residential streets, drugstore on the corner next to the local diner, white church steeples protruding through the broad green canopy of palm trees and sprawling live oaks. It was a neighborhood in transition, much of it updated with the influx of younger families, especially in areas away from the interstate. But Sally’s old place wasn’t just built in the sixties; it was trapped there, just two blocks away from I- 95, a two-bedroom, ranch-style house, still sporting the original jalousie windows, aluminum awnings, and terrazzo front porch that screamed “rental property.” Jack almost expected a pink plastic flamingo on the front lawn.

Jack parked his Mustang in the driveway. A potbellied man wearing blue jeans and a V-neck undershirt was waiting on the front steps, visible in the yellow glow from the porch light.

“Who’s that?” asked Jack, peering through the windshield.

“Property manager,” said Rene. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

“Your lead?”

“I didn’t tell him that my sister used to live here and that I just wanted to look around. I said I needed a place in a hurry and that I’d give him ten percent more than the going rate if I like it. That’s why he agreed to meet me on a Friday night.”

“Anybody live here now?”

“An old guy, lives alone. Ever since the murder, I’m told it rents month to month, if it rents at all.”

“With that kind of history, I guess you have to be pretty down on your luck to live here.”

“Yeah,” she said, and then her voice trailed off as she added, “Even more down than Sally was.”

They headed up the walkway, and the property manager greeted them at the steps. Rene said, “You must be Jimmy.”

“That’s right.” A toothpick wagged from his lips as he spoke, his thumbs hooked on his belt loops.

“I’m Rene, this is Jack,” she said, handshakes all around. “We’re here to see the house.”

He closed one eye, a nervous habit, and said, “Y’all know ’bout the li’l girl got kilt here, right?”

“Yes, we know.”

“Good. I want that out in the open. Cuz people comes here all the time, ya know. They look around, likes the place, then find out ’bout dat girl, and it changes their minds right quick. Jis wastes my time.”

“We’re okay with it.”

“No children, huh?”

“No,” she said. “No children.”

He pulled a big ring of keys from his pocket, found the right one, and turned the lock. He pushed the door open, then immediately took a step back. The pungent odor of old kitty litter hit Jack in the face like an ammonia-soaked rag.

“Cats,” said Jimmy. “Screwball who lives here now gots eleven of them.”

“Eleven?” said Jack.

“Yeah. Can’t stand them smelly bastards. Y’all go ahead. Look around. I’ll wait right here.”

Rene went first and switched on the light. Jack followed, and Jimmy stayed behind. The door closed just as soon as they were inside. Jimmy was apparently determined to contain the cat odor.

The living room was small and cluttered, with threadbare green carpet stretching wall to wall. A dingy white sheet was draped over the camelback sofa, and Jack counted five cats sleeping on it. Two armchairs, an ottoman, and even the coffee table were likewise covered with old sheets, and Jack accounted for three more cats.

“Man, it stinks in here.”

Rene simply shot him a look that said, Try living in Africa for three years, bucko.

Jack took a step forward, then jumped at the sound of a cat toy squeaking beneath his shoe. He let out a nervous chuckle, but Rene didn’t even flinch. She suddenly seemed oblivious to the sounds, the smells, the sights-to anything but the past she’d come here to uncover. Jack, too, could feel the mood shifting. No more little jokes, no more playful smiles, no more contrived distractions to keep them from breathing in and absorbing the tragedy that had occurred right here in this house, the horrible crime that had ended a child’s life and changed a young mother forever.

“She was twenty-four when it happened,” said Rene, her voice quaking.

Jack just stood there, as if he could feel his own blood coursing through his veins. Twenty-four. Could he remember what it was like to be twenty-four? Could he even fathom what it felt like to be a twenty-four-year-old woman with a four-year-old child, flat broke, working nights at Hooters, her husband working two jobs just to keep them out of bankruptcy? Was that the life of the princess Sally had dreamed about as a little girl, coming home at midnight six nights a week smelling of cigarettes and spilled beer, too much makeup on her pretty face, her nipples protruding from her too-tight tank top and her nylon shorts riding up her ass like a thong bikini, because looking like a slut would fetch her a few more bucks in tips? He wondered if there was a time in her entire adult life when Sally was ever truly happy. He wondered, too, if Sally could possibly have realized that her shitty little life wasn’t all that bad, that it could have been so much worse, that the real nightmare was only about to begin.

“I don’t think I can go back there by myself,” said Rene.

Instinctively, Jack went to her, took her arm, and together they started down the dark hallway. They walked slowly, their heels clicking on the cracked terrazzo floor, click-clock, click-clock, click-clock, as if to mark the reversal of time, their descent into an unspeakably dark past. Jack didn’t make her go any faster than she wanted, but they were barely moving, and finally she brought them to a stop at the open bathroom door.

Jack was right with her, so he switched on the hall light, which gave them enough illumination to see inside. A cat was perched on the lid of the toilet seat, as if waiting for a drink, then scurried away. The sink was stained with a broad streak of rust, and mildew had darkened the white ceramic tile. A deep crack arced across the medicine chest mirror. Directly opposite them was a cabana door that presumably led to the patio.

“That’s where he got in,” said Rene.

“The jalousie windows?”

She nodded once and said, “He slid his arm through, reached inside, and unlocked the deadbolt.”

Jack stared at the lock, imagined the knob turning, wondered what Sally and little Katherine were doing when the stranger had joined them, wondered what was going through that monster’s mind when he closed the door behind him, stepped inside, and started toward the bedroom. Was he all tingly and excited, sexually aroused, fearful of nothing? Or maybe he did have fear, a sociopath’s only fear, the sick fear that reality couldn’t possibly measure up to his endless hours of twisted fantasies, fear that all the planning and anticipation would be for naught because it simply wouldn’t be enough that the girl was all his, the hot mom too, and that he could do with them as he wished.

Rene stepped inside, past the sink, then stopped and gasped. Jack immediately understood why. The bathtub. It was gone. It had been ripped out and replaced with a stand-alone shower, but its footprint remained like a giant scar, a crude confirmation of what had happened there. Jack had seen many crime scenes and crime scene photos, but he never got used to it. Looking at it made you realize that it really had happened, that it could never be undone, that the awful bitterness would rise up in your throat until you could taste the pain, the screams, the utter horror of the victims. Right there, that very spot, was where he’d knelt on the tile floor, filled the tub with water, and rinsed Sally’s blood from his knife. Right there, that same spot, he’d wrung the blood from Sally’s blouse, dipping and squeezing until the water turned bright red. Then he carried Sally’s daughter-still alive, her feet and hands bound-and placed her in the tub, undoubtedly drawing one last moment of pleasure from the horror in her eyes. And then he slowly rolled her over, facedown in the water, and he watched, watched with delight. Jack knew he watched, because he’d spent four years of his life defending monsters like this on death row, he’d seen the gleam in their eyes as they recounted their conquests, killers who didn’t see the point in killing unless they could watch every fucking last minute of it. That son of a bitch just watched her body writhing, her head bobbing, her bound legs flopping like some vulgar abomination of the Little Mermaid, his own curiosity unsatisfied until he saw with his own two eyes how much of the bloody mixture her tiny lungs could hold.