Midnight Grinding (15 page)

The old man’s not really dead.

I turned around and screamed.

On the bare boards of the front porch, trailing a gory residue of fresh blood and slime, was Jess Hedgecomb’s
lungs
. They heaved and deflated like a pair of gruesome bellows, pulling themselves across the porch with a life of their own. Then they paused, as if my screaming had drawn their attention.

The gory windpipe, weaving like the head of a serpent, turned my way and regarded me blindly, the hollow of the gullet staring like a deep, eyeless socket. I pulled my own eyes away, hearing the wet
clump, clump, clump
of the thing making its way down the porch steps.

When I finally did gather the nerve to look, it was gone, leaving an ugly trail of crimson slime across the virgin snow. I could hear it thrashing through the dead tangle of thicket, huffing and puffing, could see plumes of frosty breath rise as it headed into the wooded hollow.

As far as I know, the thing never returned to the dilapidated shack beside Silver Creek again…and neither did I.

***

I mostly keep to myself these days, preferring not to involve myself in other people’s affairs. Every now and then, I can’t help it, though, especially where the old man’s childhood buddies are concerned. Lately there’s been a lot of talk going around about them and the grisly death of Jess Hedgecomb. Whenever some busybody asks me about those last days with Old Hacker, I politely tell them to mind their own damn business.

Lester Wills died the other day over in McMinnville. There was a big ruckus in the newspaper about it. Seems that a wild animal got into the nursing home somehow and tore out poor Lester’s throat and lungs right there on his deathbed. Of course, I know that ain’t what happened…and so does Charlie Gooch, the last remaining of the three. Charlie ain’t looking so hot these days, either. Every time I see him in town, his face is pale and worried. And when he has one of his bad coughing spells, I turn my head, afraid to look.

Sometimes when I’m out squirrel hunting in the West Piney Woods, I can hear something crawling through the honeysuckle. Something just a-puffing and a-wheezing as it makes its way through the shadowy hollows along Silver Creek. Sometimes it sounds as though there might be more than one.

My twelve-gauge is hanging in the window rack of my pickup truck, cleaned and loaded with double-aught buckshot. I hang around the general store and the courthouse in the evenings, waiting, listening for word that old Charlie has finally kicked the bucket.

And, when I do, I’ll take my gun and a pack of hounds, and I’ll go hunting.

THE WINDS

WITHIN

This was the first of two stories I wrote featuring the Atlanta detective team of Ken Lowery and Ed Taylor. Unlike other homicide detectives, this pair always seemed to come across particularly gruesome and macabre aspects to the murders they investigated. I always considered the Lowery-Taylor tales to be sort of a “Southern-fried
X-Files.”

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so goes the saying.

Particularly in my case.

During the day, they perform the menial tasks of the normal psyche. But at night, the cold comes. It snakes its way into my head, coating my brain with ice. My mind is trapped beneath the frigid surface, screaming, demanding relief. It is then that my hands grow uninhibited and become engines of mischief and destruction.

As the hour grows late and the temperature plunges, they take on a life of their own. They move through the frosty darkness like fleshen moths drawn to a flame. Searching for warmth.

And the winds within howl.

***

“Dammit!” grumbled Lieutenant Ken Lowery as the beeper on his belt went off. He washed down a mouthful of raspberry danish with strong black coffee, then reached down and snapped off the monotonous alarm of the portable pager. “I knew it was going to be a pain in the neck when the department passed these things out. Makes me feel like I’m a doctor instead of a cop.”

Lowery’s partner, Sergeant Ed Taylor, sat across from him in the coffee shop booth. He nibbled on a cream-filled donut, looking tanned and rested from his recent vacation to Florida. “I hope it’s not anything serious,” said Taylor. “I don’t think I could stomach bullet holes and brains my first day back on the job. Not after I’ve spent the last week in Disney World, rubbing elbows with Mickey Mouse and Goofy.”

Lowery stood up and stared at the man with mock pity. “Oh, the tragic and unfair woes of a homicide detective.”

“Okay, okay,” chuckled Taylor. “Just make the call, will you?”

The police lieutenant went to the front counter and asked to use the business phone. He talked to the police dispatcher for a moment, then returned to the booth, looking more than a little pale.

“What’s up?” asked Taylor. “Did they give us a bad one?”

Lowery nodded. “You know that case I was telling you about earlier? The one I was assigned to while you were on vacation?”

“The mutilation murder?”

“One and the same. Except that it’s
two
and the same now.”

Taylor felt his veneer of tranquility begin to melt away. The lingering effects of the Magic Kingdom faded in dreadful anticipation of blood and body bags. “Another one? Where?”

“The same apartment building,” said Lowery. “1145 Courtland Street.”

“Well, I’m finished,” said Taylor. He crammed the last bite of donut into his mouth. “Let’s go.”

“Welcome back to the real world, pal,” said Lowery as they climbed into their unmarked Chrysler and headed for the south side of the city.

***

The apartment building on 1145 Courtland Street was one of Atlanta’s older buildings, built around the turn of the century. It was unremarkable in many ways. It was five stories tall, constructed of red brick and concrete, and its lower walls were marred with four-letter graffiti and adolescent depictions of exaggerated genitalia. The one thing about the structure that did stand out were the twin fire escapes of rusty wrought-iron that zigzagged their way along the northern and southern walls from top to bottom. The outdated additions gave it the appearance of a New York tenement house, rather than anything traditionally Southern.

There were a couple of patrol cars parked out front, as well as the coroner’s maroon station wagon. “Looks like the gang is all here,” observed Lowery. He parked the car and the two got out. “The dispatcher said this one was on the ground floor. The first murder was on the fourth floor. The victim was an arc-welder by the name of Joe Killian. And, believe me, it was a hell of a mess.”

“I’ll check out the case photos when we get back to the office,” Taylor said. He followed his partner up the steps and past a few curious tenants in the drab hallway. The apartment building was nothing more than a low-rent dive; a place where people down on luck—but not enough to resort to the housing projects or homeless shelters—paid by the week to keep off of the cold streets. And it was plenty cold that month. It was only mid-December, but already the temperature had dipped below freezing several times.

They located the scene of the crime in one of the rear ground floor apartments. The detectives nodded to the patrolman at the door—who looked as if he had just puked up that morning’s breakfast—and then stepped into the cramped apartment. Tom Blakely from the forensic department was dusting for prints in the living room, which was furnished with only a threadbare couch, a La-Z-Boy recliner, and a 25-inch Magnavox.

“The ME is in the bedroom with the stiff,” Blakely told them, not bothering to look up from his work.

Lowery and Taylor walked into the back room. The coroner, Stuart Walsh, was standing next to the bloodstained bed, staring down at the body of the victim, while Jennifer Burke, the department’s crime photographer, was snapping the shutter with no apparent emotion on her pretty face.

“Morning, gentlemen,” said Walsh with a Georgia drawl. He eyed Taylor’s tanned but uneasy face. “So, how was the weather down in Orlando, Ed?”

“Warm and sunny,” the sergeant said absently. He felt the donuts and coffee boil in his stomach. “Who do we have here?”

“The landlord of this establishment,” said the medical examiner. “Mr. Phil Jarrett. White male, fifty-seven years of age.”

“Who found him?”

“According to the officer in the hallway, a tenant stopped by to pay his rent early this morning. He knocked repeatedly, but got no answer, and found the door securely locked. He then went around the side of the building, stepped onto the fire escape, and peeked in the bedroom window over yonder. That’s when he discovered Mr. Jarrett in his present state.

Lowery stared at the body of the middle-aged man. “Just like the other guy?”

“Yep. Exactly the same. The same organs were taken after the throat was slashed from ear to ear, just like Killian.”

“Organs?” asked Taylor.

The coroner bent down and, with a rubber-gloved hand, showed the detective the extent of the damage. “Pretty nasty, huh?”

“I’ll say,” said Taylor. He turned away for a moment. He felt nauseous at the sight of mutilation, even though he had been on Homicide detail for nearly ten years. “Why would someone do something like that?”

Walsh shrugged. “I reckon that’s what we’re here for.” The coroner turned to Lieutenant Lowery. “Did you ever find any leads after the Killian body was found?” he asked.

“Nope,” said the detective. “Haven’t had much of a chance. The Killian murder was only last Friday, you know. I interviewed the landlord here. He didn’t have anything useful to say. Looks like that’s still the case.”

Ed Taylor regained his composure and studied the body again. It was clad only in a V-necked undershirt and a pair of Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts, both saturated with gore. He stared at the ugly wounds, then glanced at his partner. “Did you interview any of the tenants, Ken?”

“Not yet,” said Lowery. “But that would be the best place to start.” The detective looked over at the lady photographer, who had finished taking the crime photos. “Could you have some prints for us later today, Jenny?”

Burke lit a cigarette and blew smoke through her nostrils. “I’ll have some glossy 8x10s on your desk by noon,” she promised, then glanced around the grungy bedroom with disgust. “This guy was a real scum-sucker. Look at what he put on his walls.”

The detectives had been so interested in Jarrett’s corpse that they had neglected to notice the obscene collage that papered the walls of the landlord’s bedroom. Pictures from hundreds of hardcore magazines had been clipped and pasted to the sheetrock. A collection of big-breasted and spread-eagled women of all sizes and races graced the walls from floor to ceiling, as well as a number of young boys and girls who were far under the legal age.

“Yeah,” agreed Lowery. He spotted a naked child that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to his own six-year-old daughter. “Looks like the pervert deserved what he got. Kind of makes it a shame to book this bastard’s killer. We ought to pin a freaking medal on his chest instead.”

“We’ve got to find the guilty party first,” said Taylor. “And we’re not going to do that standing around here chewing the fat.”

“Then let’s get to work.” Lieutenant Lowery clapped Walsh on the shoulder. “Send us your report when you get through with the post mortem, okay, Doc?”

“Will do,” said the coroner. “And good luck with the investigation.”

“Thanks,” said Taylor. He glanced at the mutilated body of Phil Jarrett and shook his head. “Hell of a contrast to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

“Like I said before,” Lowery told him, “welcome home.”

***

“Pardon me, ma’am, but we’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your former landlord, Mr. Jarrett,” Lowery said. He flipped open his wallet and displayed his shield.

The occupant of Apartment 2-B glared at them through the crack of the door for a moment, eyeing them with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. Then the door slammed, followed by the rattle of a chain being disengaged. “Come on in,” said the woman. “But let’s hurry this up, okay? I’ve gotta be at work in fifteen minutes.”

Lowery and Taylor stepped inside, first studying the tenant, Melba Cox, and then her apartment. The woman herself was husky and unattractive, sporting a butch haircut and a hard definition to her muscles that hinted of regular weight training. The furnishings of her apartment reflected her masculine frame of mind. There was no sign of femininity in the décor. An imitation leather couch and chairs sat around the front room, and the walls were covered with Harley-Davidson posters. The coffee table was littered with stray cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and militant feminist literature. Lowery and Taylor exchanged a knowing glance. Cox was either a devout women’s libber or a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian. A combination of both, more than likely.

“Really nothing much to say about the guy, is there?” asked the woman. “He’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Taylor. “We just wanted to know if you have any idea who would kill Mr. Jarrett? Did he have any enemies?”

“Oh, he had plenty of enemies,” declared Cox. “Me included. Jarrett was a real prick. Always hiking the rent, never fixing a damned thing around here, and always making lewd remarks to the women in the building. He tried to put the make on me once. I just about castrated the sonofabitch with a swift kick south of the belt buckle.”

“What about the other victim? Killian?”

Melba Cox frowned. “Didn’t know him very well, but he was a sexist pig, just like Jarrett was. Just like all men are.”

“Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary lately?” Taylor asked. “Arguments between Jarrett and a tenant, maybe? Any suspicious characters hanging around the building?”

“Nope. I try to keep my nose out of other people’s business, and hope that they’ll do the same.” She glanced at a Budweiser clock that hung over the sofa, then scowled at the two detectives. “I gotta go now. Unless the Atlanta PD wants to reimburse me for docked pay, that is.”

“We’ve got to be going ourselves,” said Lowery as they stepped into the hallway. He handed her one of his cards. “We would appreciate it if you would give us a call if you happen to think of anything else that might help us.”

Melba Cox glared at the card for a second, then stuffed it into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Don’t hold your breath,” she grumbled, then headed down the stairs, dressed in an insulated jacket and heavy, steel-toed work boots, and toting a large metal lunchbox.

“Wonderful woman,” said Taylor.

“Yeah,” replied Lowery. “She’d make a great den mother for the Hell’s Angels.” His lean face turned thoughtful. “She might just be the kind of bull dyke who would hold a grudge against a guy like Jarrett, too. And maybe even do something about it.”

***

“Won’t you gentlemen come in?” asked Dwight Rollins, the tenant of Apartment 3-D. “Don’t mind old Conrad there. He won’t bite you.”

Lowery and Taylor looked at each other, then entered the third floor apartment. The first thing that struck them about Rollins was that he was blind. The elderly, silver-haired man was dressed casually in slacks and wool sweater, giving him the appearance of a retired college professor. But the effect was altered by the black-lensed glasses and white cane. The dog that lay on the floor was the typical seeing-eye dog: a black and tan German Sheperd.