Tell My Dad (13 page)

I
t was
four o’clock on Friday afternoon. It took them forty-five minutes to cross the Golden Gate Bridge with the traffic and to reach Novato, a town thirty miles north of San Francisco. Selena got out of the BMW and looked around. It was an old industrial neighborhood. The street was narrow and surrounded by grocery store warehouses and graffiti-splattered abandoned buildings.

“What is this place?” she asked. It certainly did not look like a place for studios.

“Looks can be deceiving! Don’t be fooled by the filthy-looking neighborhood. This place is good for creativity. I have almost no disturbance in this area. And I get to look at San Pablo Bay from my window. I have owned this place for more than seven years now. Don’t worry; you will love my studio. Come on!” George sounded enthusiastic.

Selena climbed the stairs slowly and followed George to the second level. “It does seem to be a quiet place.” Selena did not really mind the dirty stairs and filthy handrails. She was going to be a star in a year or so.

“Yeah. I love this place. Like I said, it gives me a lot of creativity to work with.”

She nodded. “All right. So, the awesome studio is right here?” She pointed at the door with the engraved sign
Evergreen Memories
and smiled like an innocent two-year-old.

“Yes, ma’am. Right behind this door!” He unlocked the door and let her in.

She could not tell whether it was an apartment or a studio or a hybrid. The place itself was quite large. It occupied the entire second level. On her left, she saw a big kitchen. The living room had apparently been converted into a studio with wall mirrors, tripods, vanity chairs, and multiple cameras. She suspected a bedroom behind the mirrored wall.

He bowed with a smile. “Welcome to the studio that is going to change your life!” Then, he pointed at the small red couch placed in the middle of the light reflectors, tripods, lens bags, and digital cameras. She smiled and sat down.

“What do you drink? Coke or juice?”

“No, thanks.” She looked around. “You have a nice studio here. I love Canon!” she said, pointing at the Canon Mark III mounted on an aluminum tripod.

“You know about cameras! That’s good,” he said as he opened the refrigerator and grabbed an orange juice bottle. He poured the juice into a plastic cup and walked to Selena who sat nervously on the edge of the couch.

“It’s just orange juice. Please take it.” He touched her shoulder gently and handed her the cup. “It will help with the dehydration from all these reflectors. We have a lot of work to do!”

She thanked him and sipped the juice as she watched him fiddling with a stereo system mounted on the wall. Katy Perry streamed through Bose speakers.

Halfway through the song, she felt dizzy and caught sight of George leaning against the kitchen wall, sipping Blue Moon beer and staring at her with a smirk on his face.

* * *

T
hree minutes later
, George stashed the beer bottle in the trash can and walked over to the girl crouched horizontally on the couch. Then, he knelt down, gently ran his fingers through her hair, and kissed her. She looked deeply asleep. The date-rape drug he had mixed with the orange juice would keep her that way for at least another hour.

He put one hand below her neck and another under her thighs and lifted her. He carried her over slowly without hitting the wall, pushed the bedroom door shut using his right leg, and laid her down neatly on the king-size bed.

Then, he started to undress her.

Tap, tap, tap.

Someone knocked on the front door. He shook his head.
Get lost.
He ignored the knock, removed his shirt, and started to explore Selena.

The knock on the door grew louder.

He jumped off the bed, walked quickly to the door, and violently opened it. A man stood tall, adjusted his hat, and smiled at him. He wore a weird long red gown and thin shoes.

“Don’t you have any manners?” George blurted out. “What the hell do you want?”

The man rubbed his chin. “Sorry to bother you, buddy. I was walking to that building over there…” He pointed at the back of the warehouse building across the street. “I heard a guy screaming for help. Did you scream for help?”

“What?” George’s eyes turned red. “Just get lost, okay? I am in the middle of something.” He turned to quickly close the door behind him and jumped when the man kicked the door open.

“Middle of raping a schoolgirl?” He slowly walked toward George.

A chill went down George’s spine. His mind went blank for a second. Then, he quickly ran toward the kitchen to grab the butcher knife. It was already too late.

As he ran, he felt a blow on his back just above his butt. He fell down, and his lips touched the carpet fiber. The man threw both his knees onto George’s sacrum, the triangular bone just below his spine, and pushed his gun into the back of George’s neck.

“Where is she? The girl you picked up from Saint John?”

George lifted his head off the carpet and turned to face the angry man. “What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?”

“Answer my question, asshole.” He kept the gun steady in his left hand and used his right hand to push George’s head into the carpet.

The carpet smelled like urine. George felt the carpet fiber in his nostrils. He quickly moved his hip up in an effort to destabilize the man. It didn’t work.

The man threw his right elbow onto George’s head to land a painful blow.

George screamed. He badly wanted to get up. The man’s knees kept him from moving his hips and legs. His hands were stretched out on the carpet, almost touching the kitchen counter. All he could see was the carpet and a distant view of the oven door.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. Let me get up.”

Silence. The gun stayed in position as if the man waited to hear more.

“Listen, the girl wanted a photo shoot, okay? She left already. She should be in San Francisco by now.”

The man removed his gun from George’s neck and shoved it inside his robe. His knees stayed in position. He quickly knelt down a little, let his right arm slide around George’s neck, and lifted his face up. “One more lie and I will snap your neck in a second. Got it?”

George’s heart raced. He choked when the grip on his neck was tightened. He pushed his hands into the carpet in an effort to get up.

“Don’t even try.”

“The girl is in the room.” George’s voice was garbled.

“Is she alive?” The grip was tightened further.

“Yes.”

* * *

H
arrison let
his grip loosen and used his left hand to keep George’s face on the carpet.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.

Then, he slowly lifted his knees off, extended both his legs quickly backward, brought his hands to the sides of George’s body, and pushed himself up swiftly. He stood a few inches behind George’s shoes and looked around quickly.

The kitchen area was filthy. The living room was a different story with neatly arranged cameras and tripods.

He pointed his gun at George. “Slowly roll over and face me. Don’t get up,” he said in a stern voice.

George rolled over, faced the ceiling, and let his arms stretch out. His fingers trembled. He tried to hide his fear and sniffled. “The girl wanted to be here, okay? I didn’t do anything. Trust me.”

He stared at him as if he were studying every word George muttered.

“Who the fuck are you?” George immediately realized it was not a good thing to say to a man with a gun.

Harrison quickly pressed his right shoe hard onto George’s left heel. The pain was unbearable. George flapped his hands on the carpet and tried to get up.

Harrison waved his gun to direct George to stay on the carpet.

“I ask the questions. You answer me. That’s how it works. Do you understand?”

George nodded.

Next, Harrison removed his foot from George and slowly moved back. “Get up slowly. But don’t stand up. I want you to crawl to the bedroom slowly.”

George lifted his body, knelt down, and started crawling toward the bedroom. Harrison followed him, keeping a safe distance, and caught a glimpse of the girl on the bed. She looked like she was sleeping. But he knew what had happened.

“Okay, enough crawling. Stop right there and don’t move.” Harrison scanned the room. There was a large king-sized bed surrounded by beer bottles and trash cans. The curtains were closed over the glass door on the left. To his right was a bathroom and a walk-in closet.

He kept an eye on George, who looked like a dog facing the wall, walked around the bed, and checked the girl’s pulse. “What did you give her?”

“Scopolamine.”

Date-rape drug.
He nodded and looked around. The bedroom smelled like a chemical laboratory.

George kept his crawling posture, turned his head to the left, and stared at Harrison. “Who are you, man? You have the girl. Take her and get out of here.”

Harrison didn’t say a word. He stood still as if he were thinking about what to do with George.

“You can’t treat me like a dog.” Infuriated, George pushed his hands off the carpet and stood. “If you want to kill me, go ahead.”

George quickly lurched toward Harrison and extended his right leg in an effort to kick Harrison in the groin.

Harrison remained calm and gently moved sideways, letting George’s leg pass by on his right. Before George realized what had happened, Harrison acted with lightning speed, grabbed his leg, and twisted it hard.

George screamed and fell on his hands. His face was a few inches away from the carpet. His right leg experienced excruciating pain as his left knee hit the floor hard. The man did not let go of the leg. George jerked like a fish thrown on hot sand. “Stop, stop, please stop!”

Harrison kept the pressure on as he watched George crying. “What is that smell? Chemical?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

George nodded. “It’s just the chemical to develop films,” he mumbled. “I am a photographer.”

“Oh really? What kind of chemical?” Harrison applied more pressure.

George screamed louder. “Okay, okay! It’s–It’s to melt the body.”

Melt the body.

“Where do you keep the chemical?”

“It’s in the closet there. Please stop!” he screamed.

Harrison twisted his leg and snapped it. He ignored his screams and went to the walk-in closet, which looked like a high school chemistry lab. Bottles were labeled and arranged neatly on multiple shelves. A full row of bottles carried the label “Sulfuric Acid.”
Bastard.

He emerged from the closet and stared at George, who leaned against the wall and sobbed.

“How many girls have you killed?” He tried hard to control his emotions.

“I don’t know.” George avoided his eyes. “I am not lying, man. I really don’t know. I don’t want to kill these girls. It’s just—I just can’t control it.”

“I can cure that disease.”

George looked up. “Who are you, man? Why are you here? How do you know about this girl?”

“You are a Curious George, aren’t you? Tell you what…Whatever goes around comes around. Do you know that?” Harrison paused. “You want to know who I am? I’m the guy who tracks assholes like you wandering around high schools. I have nothing else to do. I go around schools every day and watch for perverts like you. The moment I saw you outside Saint John, I knew you were trouble. I saw you sitting in your BMW, biting your nails constantly. You kept looking at the rearview mirror. I knew you were up to something.”

He waved his gun at George. “Get up slowly and walk to the bathroom. Don’t do anything stupid. I have no mercy for you.”

As instructed, George slowly got up and walked toward the bathroom. He slightly turned to his right and switched on the lights.

Harrison scanned the bathroom. It looked much bigger with all the lights on above the giant-sized mirror. The twelve-foot-long bathroom had three big sinks on the left. The white bathtub, turned into a charcoal color, looked deeper than normal. The blue-colored walls looked ugly with graffiti scattered all over.

“Okay, keep your right hand on the mirror. Use your left hand to open that cabinet.” Harrison pointed to the cabinet under the sink closer to the tub. George followed the order and looked up to meet Harrison’s gaze. “Pull that bin out.”