The Keystroke Killer Page 8

  Debra and Peterson looked at each other.

  “Well, are ya’ll going to just watch me work?” Matthew stood, seized his empty coffee cup and sauntered to the break room.

  Debra followed him. “You think there’s any truth to what Ima alerted you to?”

  Matthew poured a cup of coffee and leaned against the granite countertop. He crossed his arms against his chest. “In her mind, but it’s hard to tell. I’m dealing with two identities, who do I look for? A man or a woman?”

  “I can see how that complicates matters. If you need help, ask. I’d do anything to get out of the case I’m working on.”

  “What’s the case?” Matthew sipped his coffee.

  “A homeless vet. Somebody’s killing his friends. Be warned, I think he’s crazy.”

  “You think? Or, are you certain?”

  “Crazy. He informed me his homies disappear in front of his eyes. They’ll turn opaque and vanish. When they do, nobody but him remembers them. Sound familiar?”

  “I’ll take the case. You take Ima Star.”

  “Hell no. You can take the case, but you keep the drag queen too.”

  “Fine, put his case file on my desk.

  “I figured you’d want it because it’s like what you say about your sister.”

  “Leave my sister out of this.”

  “Sorry. Will you cover the phones for me this afternoon? I have a dental appointment. I’ll take your shift on the phones Monday in exchange.”

  “Fine, I’ll be doing research, anyway.”

  ***

  Blaze, Mag and Jenni sat in their favorite booth at Perks staring at the empty coffee cups. Mag picked hers up hoping for one last drop. “Sometimes he takes forever.”

  Roth carried a steaming coffee pot headed toward them. “Refills anyone?”

  Blaze raised her empty mug. “Why thank you. I thought that same thing and here you are.”

  “I’m Johnny on the spot.”

  Mag and Jenni darted their eyes.

  “Hey, I get off work in thirty minutes. Do you want to work on your homeless paper?”

  “Don’t you have a paper due too?”

  “Finished mine last night. It’s about the effects of grief on a family after their child is abducted.”

  “Sounds depressing. Sure, why not? I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Great.” Roth refilled the other two coffee cups and strode to the next caffeine addicted customer.

  Mag frowned and cocked her head. “I don’t get it. Why the sudden change of heart about the waiter?”

  “His name is Roth, and he’s a very nice guy. I judged him too quickly. Both of you need to give him a chance.”

  Jenni slumped her shoulders. “It’s just… he’s nothing like your last boyfriend.”

  “There will never be another Lorenzo. I can’t wait for him to get out of prison.”

  “Back to redhead.” Mag pointed her finger at Blaze. “You typically rebel against your father by choosing a guy with a bad boy mentality.”

  Jenni lifted an arched imperious brow at her words. “More like a thug.”

  “Speaking of thugs, when does your bad boy Latin lover get out of Angola?”

  “In three days.” Blaze’s tone cross ate away at her soul.

  “You sound angry about that.” Jenni scratched her head. “Maybe you should stay clear of thugs.”

  “I’m not angry he’s getting out.” Blaze’s voice intensified. “I’m angry they framed him, and my father put him there. I miss him, I like the bad boy image. It’s anti-Angela stereotyping.”

  Mag swallowed. “Well, a red haired, fair skin white boy with freckles is the exact opposite of anti-Angela. It’s pro-Angela.”

  “Give Roth a break. He’s a very nice guy; and so is Sam.”

  Jenni leaned forward. “For the love of God, who’s Sam?”

  “Oh, let me tell you. He gives the best kisses in the world.” Blaze giggled.

  Mag, puzzled, looked at Jenni. “I think she’s on drugs.”

  “I can hear you. I’m sitting right here.”

  “Well, are drugs involved?”

  “Seriously! Mag, you’re really going to ask me that?”

  “Just saying.”

  ***

  The harsh sun beamed on the backs of the prison workers who worked the sugar cane field at Angola prison farm. Lorenzo, Blaze’s Latin lover; Lil Russell, a Caucasian little person possessing the strength of a mule; Apollo, a power weight lifter; and Big Daddy, a barrel-chested African American having little tolerance for stupidity and responsible for the death of former Congressman Daniels, worked side by side as a mounted horse guard leered from above. Sweat dripped from Lorenzo’s forehead as he wiped it away using his soiled T-shirt.

  The guard sneered at Lorenzo. “Did I say you could stop you piece of shit or are you going to faint like a fag again?”

  Lorenzo held his defiant words as his eyes shot daggers toward the guard. He understood his pending release depended on it. His muscles tensed, and he clenched his jaw.

  “Stop digging for any reason, I’ll make sure they add six months to time not served.”

  Lorenzo dug harder, he didn’t have to like it; he only needed to comply. I’m going to kill you in your sleep.

  Big Daddy noticed Lorenzo’s venomous expression. “Keep your cool bro. You’re almost out of here. Only two more days of this bullshit.”

  Lorenzo nodded and shoveled harder than before to grate the guard’s nerves.

  A loud fog horn blew six times. “It’s trough time you piglets.” The guard kicked the side of his horse. “You know the drill.”

  The inmates threw their tools to the ground in one pile and formed a single line.

  chapter 7

  Tongue in Cheek

  The violet and orange sky over Lake Pontchartrain faded into the horizon. Dr. Frank Franklin drove up in his red Bugatti into the Lakeview Marina and parked in his reserved parking spot. He stepped from the sports car, flaunted a cutting grin and strode down the thirty-foot pier toward the Sweet Melissa, a Sea Ray forty foot Sundancer named after his mother and her favorite song recorded by the Allman Brothers.

  The amenities included the latest Dimension technology, elegant grandeur leather furnishings, a Picasso painting and an erotic sculpture. Its lavish décor confirmed Dr. Franklin’s exquisite taste and rich sophistication. The wine rack represented the most expensive in the world.

  In the master cabin, Kara, a rare beauty with long wavy brown hair, shapely legs that went on for miles and olive skin, waited for his arrival. She wore a lavender tank top and a pair of white jeans soaked in blood. Duct tape and dental floss bound her wrists and ankles cutting into her skin. Her eyes blind-folded by surgical gauze kept her in suspense. Dr. Franklin, why are you doing this?

  A thick strip of gauze lodged in her mouth secured between her chapped lips intensified her torment. The rough gauze rubbed her mouth raw each time she swallowed. Her body involuntarily juddered.

  Eager, Dr. Franklin boarded aft-side onto the Sweet Melissa. His smile framed his pearly white teeth. Every move demonstrated a master-class performance as he untied the mooring lines and wrapped them into a coil onto the deck.

  He whistled This Old Man; an old folk tune his socialite mother sang to him after his father deserted them for a twenty-six-year-old woman.

  That’s when his mother taught him to kill – at six. With a knick, knack, patty whack, give a dog a bone. This old man came rolling home. The tune served a purpose.

  As his mother’s next slut lay on the back deck of the family yacht, Tongue in Cheek, she clubbed her prey as she sang to her. With a knick – she rammed the end of the club against her victim’s cheek; knack - she slammed the club across the victim’s chest; patty whack – she hurled the club into her skull; give a dog a bone – she hammered the club down her throat; this old man came rolling home – she shoved the vixen over the side of the yacht.

  For some odd reason, she always prepared a spe
cial meal afterwards.

  Kara reminded him of the adulterer who took his father from them. He realized the coincidence the moment she interviewed for the job as his surgical assistant six months earlier.

  Topside, Dr. Franklin took the captain’s position and started the engine. The purr provided the relaxation he needed. The Sweet Melissa, underway, headed into the open waters of Lake Pontchartrain in time for a magnificent view of the final minutes of the sunset.

  “Deedra, play Phil Collins.”

  “Now playing In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins.”

  Below deck, Kara struggled in excruciating pain as she listened to the song. Just let me die, oh Lord. The deep bass beat of the song pelted the olive skinned beauty. I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord. And, I've been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord. The roof of her mouth stung from the rough, blood soaked gauze restraint against her tongue which made it feel as if rubbing alcohol splashed onto an open wound. Her heartbeat raced brisker than a Kentucky Derby jockey mounted on a thirteen hundred pound beast crossing the finish line as the winner.

  After forty minutes, the surgeon dropped anchor to Tracy Chapman’s Give me one More Reason. Dr. Franklin sang along to the song. “Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around. Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around. I don’t want to leave you lonely, you got to make me change my mind.”

  “Deedra, stop playing the music and dim the lights in the main cabin to something romantic.” He vigorously made his way to the master cabin.

  “Romantic ambience set. Is it to your specification?”

  Dr. Franklin changed from whistling the old folk tune to a more vocal approach. “This old man, he played one, he played knick knack on my thumb…” His tones flat as he approached the master cabin. “…This old man came rolling home.”

  Kara struggled to release her bound hands and feet. You’re a sick bastard. The closer his footsteps, the more she struggled to free herself. Her screams muffled by the bloody gauze secured around her mouth.

  To her, Dr. Franklin looked like a giant monster as he hovered at the end of the bed.

  “Don’t worry.” He tried to comfort the struggling beauty. “It won’t hurt. I’ll make sure.” Maybe just a little.

  Kara thrashed and screamed; her eyes darted around.

  “It’ll be over soon.” Dr. Franklin strode to the head, opened the door and grabbed a white monogrammed washcloth from the towel rack and danced back to his captive. He pulled open the nightstand’s top drawer and retrieved a bottle of chloroform and saturated the wash cloth. “Perfect! It shouldn’t take much to get you where I want you. Deedra, play me one of my favorite songs appropriate for my date.”

  “I recommend A Thousand Kisses Deep by Leonard Cohen. It seems appropriate for your night’s activity.”

  His captive jerked and rolled over to the center trying to distance herself from him.

  “No sense in fighting this. I always win.”

  Dr. Franklin replaced the lid on the bottle and approached the beauty. He sat beside her and rolled her over onto his lap. She flailed against his every move until he placed the saturated cloth over her nose and mouth; she no longer resisted his charm.

  “There you go. Take it in. Trust me, you will thank me in two minutes.” Kara fell limp in his arms. He retrieved a pre-filled syringe from the second drawer of the nightstand, removed the cap, tapped the syringe to remove the air bubbles, injected the needle into a vein and released the clear fluid. “That should keep you out. No more trouble from you. Well, not tonight at least.” As if she were a sleeping toddler, he cradled her in his arms and carried her onto the back deck. “Nothing like fresh air on a moonlight cruise.”

  Ready to use his glorious God given talent, he placed her in the fix-mounted fighting chair used to help land giant fish like a marlin. “I should replace my dental chairs with these.” He resisted the temptation not to give anyone the slightest hint he owned a boat.

  He mimicked what he does in his practice and reclined the chair. Kara’s hair glistened under the moonlight which flowed in the breeze. With his face inches from hers, he squeezed opened her right eyelid. Her dilated pupil suggested she was ready. He stepped to the live bait well and removed several oral surgeon dental tools from his tool box, including a piece to hold her mouth open, a pair of stainless steel tongs and several surgical blades.

  His mouth watered.

  “Now open wide. I need to check the status of your gums since extracting your teeth yesterday.” Dr. Franklin grasped a pair of surgical tweezers and removed the bloody gauze gag to reveal her red blood crusted swollen gums. He pressed her tongue using the side of the scalpel and turned her head left and right.

  “Perfect! Your gums are healing nicely. Absolutely, perfect!” He placed the mouth piece between her dry cracked lips, the force from it held it wide opened.

  A razor-sharp blade in his right hand and the pair of tongs in his left provided the tools he needed to perform the perfect surgery. He held the tongue up by the tongs as he slit the frenulum. The rest was easier. He removed her tongue which demonstrated his exact surgical precision without damaging the muscle. Her crimson blood flowed down her neck and drenched her lavender tank top.

  He took deep breaths to savor the smell and licked the blood that replaced the blush on her cheek. Not too salty.

  Dr. Franklin secured her tongue with the tongs and examined it. He used the blade to retrieve the bloody gauze that fell to the deck and stuffed it back into her mouth in one quick choreographed move.

  Blood dripped onto the deck and his men’s Sperry Sport Game left shoe as he examined the tongue again.

  “It’s perfect! There’s nothing like fresh tongue. Thank you, Kara, for your generous donation.”

  He carried the tongue to the galley cupping one hand beneath it to catch the dripping blood, removed a bowl from the top cabinet and placed the tongue in it. He glanced up, flashed a smile and returned to the aft-deck where the beauty awaited.

  “What shall we do now?” His laugh sinless, amused him. “I guess dancing is out of the question.” He lifted his date and stuffed her into the seventy-five gallon bait well used to keep the freshness of fish after reeling it into the boat. He slammed the lid, aerated it and returned to the galley while whistling his favorite childhood tune.

  After retrieving a copper frying pan, the oral surgeon turned chef, placed it on the stove, turned on the electrical coil and poured virgin olive oil into it to preheat.

  “Deedra, play Let the Good Times Roll by Ray Charles. I’m feeling spunky.”

  “Let the Good Times Roll by Ray Charles has commenced.”

  The bluesy upbeat tempo provided the perfect combination for his cooking demonstration. He strutted to the wine rack and pulled a bottle of 1961 Chateau La Mission Haut Brion Pessac Leognan.

  Is her tongue worth three thousand dollars a bottle? I must protest, it’s worth more than that. He returned the vintage bottle back into the slot.

  He pulled a bottle of 2000 Chateau Petrus Pormerol half way out of the rack. Maybe? But like the first, he pushed it back. He eyed a 1997 Diamond Creek Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “Perfect! A bold meal deserves a bold red wine.” He removed the bottle and kissed the label.

  After retrieving a fourteen carat gold cork angel, he uncorked the $6,000 bottle of rare wine. He sniffed the cork. “It’s bold, dark and dense.” This pairs perfectly with tongue and forest mushrooms on the side.

  He danced back to the galley. He did the Tom Cruise slide across the floor using the wine bottle for the broom air guitar. Once in the galley, he placed the expensive wine alongside the stove.

  The surgeon, turned chef, removed the tongue from the refrigerator and placed it into the copper frying pan. The raw tongue sizzled as a flash of smoke filled the area as his nose tilted up sniffing the aroma. He bobbed his head to the music, danced in place and sang the lyrics as he prepared his meal. I
deserve this.

  To enhance the irreplaceable flavor, he added salt, pepper, onion powder, a bay leaf and fresh parsley. He retrieved a fresh garlic clove and a white onion from a bowl on the counter and used his scalpel to peel and cut both. He added them to the pan, followed by a cup of the fine red wine. Satisfied, he retrieved a crystal wine glass and poured the cabernet sauvignon. He lifted the glass and toasted his upcoming meal. Bon appetite. He took a sip of the wine and gazed at the legs that flowed downwards inside the crystal wine glass.

  There is nothing like fresh human tongue, such a delicacy. He sniffed the aroma again. My mom would be proud, I cook it exactly like hers.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  Dr. Franklin set the table with twenty-four karat gold rimmed china and silverware. He carried his plate and his wine to the dining table carefully arranging them onto the table. His meal was ready. He sat and mumbled a small prayer. Sometimes it’s the refined things of life that make life worth living. He cut a morsel of the tongue, guided it into his mouth and chewed savoring the unusual taste. Delicious.

  ***

  Across town in Fat City, Matthew’s Taurus pulled into the parking lot of the Alley Cat bar known for its hamburgers and a stage for local musicians to perform. There were only four vehicles. Joints like these didn’t get busy until at least 11:00 PM. Matthew didn’t care. He needed a drink, a hamburger and a piece of ass.

  A woman straddled a Harley lip-locked with a biker.

  As Matthew stepped from his car, he glanced at the couple. A good stiff drink first. Then the whore.

  A yellow taxi cab stopped at the front entrance. Roxy Starlite, twenty-seven, blonde hair, wore a black mini dress and red platform heels, stepped from it. Everything about her reflected a stripper or a prostitute. She looks like her profile on the Pink Pussy Doll D-Net site. I’m glad I booked her.

  Matthew allowed the pre-arranged date time to settle in, not to appear too eager by entering moments after her arrival. I hope she’s as good in bed as she looks. His cell phone vibrated. He looked at the caller I.D. before answering. “Hey James. Thanks for the flyover yesterday.”