Leave A Whisper- Chapters 1-3

LEAVE A WHISPER:

There’s a serial killer on the loose terrorizing and mutilating women in Detective Brad Meadows’ city. He's vigorously trying to solve the case, has no leads, and is at his wit’s end.


Meadows recruits retired, but prominent forensic psychic, Toni Taft to help him catch the killer.


Together, they are a team to be reckoned with.


But what Toni hasn't anticipated is, she's traded in her serene retirement for unrelenting terror.


She has visions of what's going to happen next and she can hear the killer’s demented chants in her head.


She's connected to him somehow.

******

Chapter One - Entities Are Made

... to see is an option; to hear is benevolent ...

There was so much blood. But why wouldn't there be? Even though it had rained earlier, the ground was hardened by the cold. But he didn't care.


Squatting down, leaning back against the tree with his knees up, he looked over at her lying on the ground just a few feet away. Moonlight glimmered off her bare breasts covered with blood and residual sweat that he'd left behind like a dog that had cocked his leg and pissed, marking his territory. She belonged to him and he could do whatever he wanted. And he wanted to do more.


He fumbled with a crumpled pack of smokes and lit a crimped cigarette. Trying to breathe in a deep draw, he realized when nothing got inhaled that it was snapped almost in half. He carefully pieced the smoke back together as if it would magically mend itself, pinching and holding it closed with his fingers. He sucked in a pitiful excuse of a drag, zipped up his pants and buckled his worn leather belt while continuing to gaze at her loveliness and the art work he planned on finishing.


He relished how good she was. How really good. And how she put up a good go-round too-- better than most. He felt another erection coming on, stroked it through his pants with a bloody hand, and smiled exposing his rotten teeth that clinched the dangling cigarette like a vice.

... Beauty is art yet unfinished,
waiting impatiently to be blanketed
in the warmth of its delusion,
neatly woven from its own affliction.
Only the artist has eyes to see
his carefully crafted perfection ...

******
It was raining again for the third time in the past few hours, and Toni didn't think it would ever stop. The rain slicked streets, mirrored the headlights of the cars that drove into the paved lot. She pulled into a parking space barely big enough for her SUV, but managed to leave herself enough room to open her door. She was in a hurry and didn't have time for such inconveniences. It was already a quarter to eight and she was giving a speech at a charity dinner.

A woman's voice shrilled through the resounding down pour. “Toni! Toni Taft! Oh, my God-- is that really you?”

Startled, Toni dropped her purse, spilling the contents on the glassy pavement. She tried fruitlessly to open her umbrella, snagging it on her coat, but it finally burst open.

She briefly glanced toward the direction of the voice, but was hesitant to answer. She didn't recognize the woman, and clicked the keyless remote, locking the SUV’s doors. Instinctively, she positioned her finger on the trigger of the small pepper-spray canister that dangled from her keychain, a habit she’d developed for safety and had become second nature. She’d learned many in the self-defense and martial arts classes she'd taken. Her former line of work had its dangers.

Toni wasn't in the mood for interruptions. Her clothes were drenched now, her blond hair saturated, and the hair sprayed-tainted rain trickled from her scalp, traveling down her face creating blackened mascara-run eyes. She knew she must have looked like a wet raccoon, and had to abandon the hope of staying dry. Bending down, picking up a wet jeweled lipstick tube off the ground, she returned it to its rightful place and kept her finger on the pepper-spray trigger. She looked up at the woman again. “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. Who doesn't? You used to be in the news practically every day,” the woman answered.

Toni didn't respond while searching for a dry tissue in her purse, and heard the sounds of the woman‘s high heels echoing a sharp, click-clacking on the pavement as she approached, even in the resonant rain.

“I'd hoped I would eventually find you. I never dreamed I'd bump into you like this! I've tried finding your phone number and address, but it's like you're non-existent. My name is Erma-- Erma Bartlow. Maybe you've heard my name before. If I could just have a -- “

“Look, I really don't have time to talk, or for an autograph right now. Especially not in this rain," Toni interrupted. She didn't have patience for people who wanted psychic answers to their personal problems and love lives, or crazed paranormal fans, particularly ones that stalked her.

Thinking that was the end of it, she fumbled with her umbrella and walked away. She was thankful there was ample lighting in the parking lot and other people around. As she walked toward the store, she turned and looked at the woman. " I'm sorry."

“Wait a minute, please-- just a moment of your time,” the woman yelled. “Look, Ms. Taft, I don't want your autograph. I need to talk with you. It's about my daughter," she yelled in a higher-pitched voice. "I need answers about my what happened to her. I need closure.”

Something in the sound of the woman's voice induced an eerie feeling in her. She'd felt that before when she had talked to victims' families. Toni stopped, then turned around facing her. She could see the woman's eyes clearly in the parking lot's street light. Her eyes were a crystallized blue, like ice in its metamorphosing stage from liquid to solid. There was so much pain entrenched within the her eyes, and they were as pleading as the sound of her voice.

Toni broke her own rule of trusting strangers. “All right,” she blurted, “but not out here in this rain. We can get into my car to talk-- but only for a few minutes. That's the best I can do.”

Mrs. Bartlow willingly followed. Her facial expression and body posture more relaxed, as if content for any small amount of time granted her.

******
Toni made it to the charity dinner later than she'd wanted. She thought it'd be unbearable; instead it was surprisingly pleasant and it was nice seeing old friends and former associates again. All evening, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about her conversation she'd had with Mrs. Bartlow which made it difficult to concentrate on the charity.

It was late and felt good to finally be home. Even though she was tired, it was a perfect time to grab an opened bottle of wine and go outside and sit on the porch swing to relax in quiet solitude while absorbing the calmness of the night.

Willow trees bowed, tickling the ground with their leafy tips and moonlight danced over the dewy grass, sparkling in unison to the stars above. The rain had stopped leaving its mark like a signature on a masterpiece of the world. Adjacent rooftops puffed their ashen smoke, each forming unique clouds of its own design. The neighboring dogs barked their good nights throughout the darkened distance, closing the day's province.

She sat comfortably, swaying in rhythmic motion, taking a gulp from the wine bottle, instead of the usual polite sip of Chardonnay from a crystal glass. The familiar warmth soothed her inside, and she realized the indulgence had evolved into a nightly ritual over the past couple of years. She adjusted the rose-colored shawl her grandmother had knitted, and gazed at the beauty that surrounded her while listening to the peaceful chants of the night. Once the serenades of the dogs had subsided, it became calm, almost still.

Feeling more relaxed and peaceful, she thought how the chilly night's cleansing might offer a newness to the coming day. But the thought didn't bring her any comfort.

The story Mrs. Bartlow had told, had chilled Toni's blood in a way that the Chardonnay couldn't warm. One of the killer's victims had been Mrs. Bartlow's daughter. His sixth victim. She'd read about it in the newspaper, although it had been fragmented details. There were always particulars omitted that the police didn't allow the media to print. Why did I have to stop by that particular grocer, at that particular time, at precisely that moment? Any other time, I wouldn't have run into Ms. Bartlow, or would I?

She knew why all too well ...

Chapter Two - Mother

... Inside your world you do not choose to hide, trapped to face the horror of your miscue, you shall remain until your doom is decided ... by whom you choose to avoid ... or whom you choose to consume ...

The train shook his apartment. Reddick was used to it. The picture of the dogs playing poker fell, shattering glass haphazardly over the peeling linoleum floor. He hadn't liked the picture anyway. The stupid mongrels poised seated at a poker table with cigars hanging out of their mouths, always reminded him of his mother. It wasn't because it had been hers and hung in the dining room of the old, rickety house he'd grown up in-- it was because she sat with a damned cigarette hanging from her prune-like lips, wearing a tattered housecoat and slippers all day, while constantly bitching and complaining. A mother isn't supposed to have such nasty vices.

... Where's that place you dare to hide?
In your head or deeper inside?
Makes no difference one way or another,
you can't escape what was left there by mother ...

He lit a cigarette and laid down on the old Army cot used for a bed. Reaching down, he smashed a cockroach that had dared to crawl onto his leg. He smeared it into a gooey blotch then wiped his hand on his rank t-shirt and downed the backwash that was left in a nearby beer can. He threw it on the floor and watched it roll under a chair. He didn't care.

Reddick jumped up and walked barefoot across the floor, stepping on shards of glass feeling no pain, on the short journey to the television and switched it on. He got a cold beer from the small, rusty fridge and plopped himself down in a threadbare armchair, slouching with both legs dangling over the side of one arm.

There it is. I might become famous. So, the news anchorman said the police found a woman's body in the woods out in Holler Hills? Sweet. Then the anchorman continued with the national news.

No-- damn it! He didn't report any details-- no video, no pictures-- nothing! Well hell, of course not-- they wouldn't give credit to my handiwork-- my art. Shit no! What does a man have to do to get some recognition? Some acknowledgement for his craft? It's art in the most unadulterated form-- sheer genius! I should be named the artist of the friggin' year!

... And a man's work is never finished,
left undone, it seeks perfection.
As famous men have fallen high,
of much their own unsettling affliction.
And all the while, they must continue,
searching for their renown recognition ...

Chapter Three - Indecision

Hello?” she asked, answering the phone.

“Ms. Taft?”

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Meadows over at the 23rd Precinct,” the soft voice announced. “I’d like to speak with you if I may. Can I buy you a cup of
coffee? How 'bout at the Brew-A-Cup coffee shop over on the corner of 59th Avenue and Scenic Boulevard?”

“Can I ask what this is about, Detective?”

“I'd rather tell you over a cup of coffee, Ms. Taft. It's really too much to go into over the phone. Will you accept my invitation?”

“If this is about consulting, I'm retired,” she told him.

“I think this is something you'll want to hear. It's important, Ms. Taft. I'll even throw in a slice of their famous apple pie. A la mode, if you'd like. I know this is short notice, and I apologize. Can we say, in about an hour or so? Is that time enough?” he asked, knowing not to ask an open-ended question. “Please?”

“I guess I can manage it-- but my time is somewhat limited and I cherish it. So it better be important, Detective,” she told him, hanging up.

Something bothered her about his phone call. His voice and demeanor
induced an eerie compulsion to meet with him. She knew what it was about. It was obvious he was going to ask her to help on the serial killer case that was so prominent in the news. With Mrs. Bartlow and his phone call being in succession, she felt it was destined.

Toni made a call to the police chief and verified Detective Meadows was legitimate. She quickly changed clothes, dabbed on some make-up, and grabbed her purse and coat on her way out the door, then remembered she'd left her car keys on the foyer table. She ran back inside, snatched them up and dashed back out the door, in one full-circled swoop.

It was heavily misting out and the streets were wet, and a rainbow arched above the city as if it were a fantasy land full of fairies twittering about. Traffic was busier than normal with people running errands and stocking up on supplies due to the recent torrent rains.

The radio announcer reported another woman's body had been found earlier that morning. She turned the volume up and fumbled with the radio knob trying to tune the station in clearer, while keeping her eyes on the street and traffic ahead. The announcer continued to report that it was the eleventh body discovered in the past couple of months, and police didn't have any clues. My God!. This is the worst case ever, she thought, remembering the past cases she'd worked and wanted to forget

Toni parked her teal SUV, then walked inside the coffee shop removing her mahogany leather coat, carefully folding it over her arm. She didn't like crowed public places and went over to the jukebox to the right of the door and stood, searching the faces in the crowd while hoping Detective Meadows would approach her before she became conspicuous.

A handsome man with a slightly crooked smile, approached her while wiping his right hand on his trousers.

“Hello, Ms. Taft,” he greeted, politely extending his hand. He was slightly shocked. She looked different than he'd pictured her. He expected her to be a short, rounded little woman with dull eyes and glasses, or look matronly with hair up in a bun, a tight laced collar, wearing comfortable shoes.

Toni graciously shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I presume you're Detective Meadows,” she replied, discreetly sizing him up. Not that a person could judge the height of someone by the sound of their voice, she was surprised he was taller than she'd imagined. His eyes were a rich cherry wood brown, and his hair matched, complimenting his chiseled features. “May I see your badge please, Detective? Women have to be more cautious these days. I'm sure you're aware of that.”

He pulled his badge from his coat pocket, opened it for her to view, while she verified he was who he said he was, and flipped it shut, returning it to his pocket.

“I've got a table over in the corner where we can speak privately.” He nodded at the table and took her coat, escorting her across the room,
then pulled the chair out for her to be seated.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting and scooting the chair closer to the table with his help. “What's so important that you had to speak to me about, Detective?”

A young waitress politely interrupted, taking their coffee order and leaving two glasses of iced water with lemon twists.

He waited to answer, allowing the waitress to leave. “Please, call me Brad. I'm not very formal." He couldn't help being drawn to her greenish cat-eyes and noticed how gracefully she moved. She wasn't very tall, but slender and very proportioned for her height. She was strikingly pretty.

Toni felt uncomfortable with his stare, and didn't intend calling him by first name, informal or not.

“I suppose you've read the newspapers, Ms. Taft, and seen the television news like everyone else. It's about the serial killer that's headlined every national paper and news channel in the country. We're holding the FBI off on this case momentarily, but can't much longer. That's what this is about."

“Sure I've read and heard about it. It appalls me and scares me just like it does everyone else, Detective. But what does that have to do with me?”

“I'd like your help, Ms. Taft. You've solved a lot of crimes helping the police catch lunatics-- which helped saved lives. I don't have any leads yet to identify this maniac, let alone catch him. You might be able to give some insight with your psychic abilities. That's why I asked you here this afternoon-- to ask for your help on this case.”

I was right, she thought. “Look, Detective Meadows, I figured that's why you phoned me. But as I've already told you, I'm retired now.”

“I know that. And I know you've already talked with my chief, Ms. Taft. I understand. I really do. But this is different. It's not the usual case you've normally consulted on in the past,” he answered, taking a sip of coffee.

“What makes this any different from other serial killers? They're all insane-- all of them are sick, perverted, and indescribably demented. And that's exactly why I stopped consulting. I had to stop to stay sane and wash the evil from my mind-- my life."

Detective Meadows was prepared for her response. “He is different. He's more than the typical serial killer, more than demented and ruthless, and more than being just another sick psycho on the loose. He's beyond our profiler's abilities to classify him. His method is unique. Off the charts, they tell me.” He laid a couple of over-stuffed manila envelopes on the table, sliding them toward her reach.

She looked down at the bulging packets. “What're these?” she asked, not wanting to look inside them. She looked up at him, waiting for his answer.

“They’re my personal files on this sick guy. Some snapshots of his victims, locations, his M.O., our profiler's report, and copies of what clues we have. Which is almost zero, actually. We've got the original crime scene photos back at the precinct, boxed for each case. Open one, Ms. Taft," he told her, nudging them closer to her side of the table. "You'll better understand why I, no-- why we, need your help-- why their families need your help. Give them some closure. Help us catch this son-of-a-bitch before he kills another girl,” he said, pausing, catching his breathe, “your reputation is impeccable, and chances are you could be the only person to have the power to stop him. We still don‘t know how he picks them, so even you could be his next victim."

Toni reached for one of the folders and hesitated, retracting her hand. She looked up at Detective Meadows. His eyes were pleading and his facial expression solemn. She reached again, holding her hand inches above a folder. Her hand trembled, but she finally mustered the courage to touch it and closed her eyes.

There was a cold feeling. A feeling of anger and hatred. She felt a profound sense of sadness ... even stronger, she felt an unrelenting, torturous despair... there was blood. So very much blood ...

... she felt connected to the killer somehow ...