Obscure Blood (3 page)

“Freeze,” he said. He raised his weapon toward the man.

The intruder was kneeling before, came up from the floor, quickly grabbed the handle of a bag, rushed toward the window, and ducked down. Octa shot but he missed the intruder with all three shots. Why would Octa shoot at the perpetrator while he had no gun? Perhaps, the man was just someone who was looking for something valuable to pawn.
I just wanted to scare him with some bullets, but somehow he sensed I would never shoot him,
he thought.
That bag he took is full of albums and family letters.

Octa attempted to sprint toward the window, but his injuries prevented him from running. Though he saw the runner’s back, he was too late. The intruder jumped in a car and sped away.

What’s so great about this house, anyway?
he thought.
The case was wrapped ten years ago, and the clue I’m looking for is the reason my father resurfaced.
The house could no longer be of any use to him since everything concerned with the case had been wrapped up. He exited, jumped in the taxi that picked him up from the hospital to his childhood house and made his way to the office.

“Where have you been, Octa?” Chief Detective Albany asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said.

As he was making his way to his office, his boss said, “You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” she said, as she walked away. She did not say anything about the files that were missing on the children’s cases, which made Octa think she must have not known about them.
Damn, I have a lot to pay for taking those files in the first place,
he thought.
Now they’ve been shredded. Should I report them missing? Better than telling her I took them home.
A few minutes later, Albany called him to her office. When he entered, she handed him his badge.

“I know you took the evidence of the child murders,” she screamed at him for taking those files home and someone shredded them.

Octa froze.

“Are there any evidence left?”

Octa remained speechless.

“Don’t tell me you lost them.”

“They were stolen from me,” he answered.

“Huh, Octa, this is the last time I’m covering for you. I know you took them, because the teapot links to your family incident. You already know the FBI has control of the child murder cases.”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Just walk out of my office, please,” she said while pointing her right index finger toward the door. “Sometimes, you get on my nerves.”

He walked out of her office.

It was seven in the evening, and as Octa walked the length of the police ward room with a cup of coffee in hand, he requested updates on the investigations that his squad was working on and reviewed plans to solve the cases. He started a preschedule to decide who would be on duty over the weekend. They had over 66 murder cases opened. Still, many detectives were at the office on off hours to work on as many cases as they could.

“Did you ever know that the detective who investigated your mother’s case was assassinated three days after he was assigned to the case?” asked John Intel, the oldest of the department’s detectives, when he walked in Octa’s office. His hair was grayish-white and short. Octa made a quick motion with his hand for Intel to close the door, which he did, and then sat down in the chair near Octa’s desk. He took a chair and sat facing the other men in the room.

“No,” he answered. “What do you know about the case?”

“That it’s dangerous. In fact, all the detectives who investigated or had anything to do with that case; they’re all dead. Accidental death, car crushed, reckless driving, and no survivors.”

“One thing I noticed,” Intel continued, “is that the first detective died three days after being assigned to the case, then a new detective was assigned to replace the first detective. The second died after six days, the next one after nine days and this went on and on. The investigation stopped after twenty detectives had lost their lives. If the three days rule applies to you, ten years after your mother was killed, then you have sixty-three days to solve the case.”

Octa flipped the picture he had found across the desk to Intel. “Do you remember a Chelsea Cracker during the investigation?”

“Yes, this is your aunt. She died from cancer two years after your mother was murdered.”

“What do you think happen to my father? Was he a suspect?”

“According to the evidence found at the scene, your father was kidnapped and beaten on a chair. No one believed he was alive, because of the amount of blood that was found for him.”

“Was my father a corrupt man?”

“He was as clean as your mother. That incident might be a personal issue.”

“Someone didn’t want the case to be solved,” Intel said. “Since then, no one has wanted the case,” he said. “All of the evidence on your mother has been lost.” The silence deepened in the room.

“However, someone in this office destroyed the evidence, maybe to avoid some further damage or they were close to getting caught. There was a big fire in the evidence room and, according to the firefighters, the fire came from an evidence box, which we identified as one of your mother’s evidence boxes. It was a grenade. Someone put a grenade in it. Everyone who went to the room was a suspect, but no one was ever found guilty or of having had anything to do with it. However, we finally concluded that the perpetrator climbed between the ceilings all the way from the electrical room. A hole was found in the basement floor, so it had to have been someone from the outside.”

The phone rang and Octa answered it.

“Yes,” Octa said.

“I’ve got to go to a fire at 125th Street and 2
^nd
Avenue,” Bob said. “Octa, I think you might want to come, because it is around where you grew up.”

Octa rose to his feet, gulped down his coffee and tossed the cup in the trash as he left the office. “Catch you later, Intel. Something in the old neighborhood.”

They both jumped in the same car and Bob, who was driving, had his sirens on as they sped along the streets. Not long before they arrived, Octa realized they were returning to the house he grew up in.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is the house burning?”

They pulled to a stop as close as possible with firetrucks blocking the street.

“Sir, sir,” shouted an officer approaching the car. “A description was given. A male, with long, dark-gray hair, long coat. The man entered the house with multiple other men. About three to six. They were seen coming out with nothing in hand. The house burned once they left. They drove away in a red SUV.”

“Was anyone hurt or killed?” Octa asked.

“Here, no. But by coincidence, we have an ambulance a couple miles away that’s taking an old lady to the morgue.”

“What’s her name?”

The officer pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Hawoman Parish was the name found on her mail and confirmed by the neighbors. A robbery by the looks of it and killed, very probably, from fighting with the robber. Her head was smacked against the cement.”

After taking the address from the officer, Bob drove Octa to her house.

The men entered the house, which had been ravaged and many household items had been thrown to the floor, although nothing of great value seemed to have been taken. They assumed it because her big-screen TV was still there, and maybe some other expensive items. She was a victim.

Octa sighed as he looked around the room. “After many years of peace, now she’s been attacked and killed. I think I’m the cause of this… She probably told me too much. Or, my father fears that I might find him.”

“Detective Octa, there was a chair in the living room that was on its side and a rope was found one foot away from it,” the officer said.

She was tied
, Octa thought.
They needed something from her. I think she refused to give in. Then, the perpetrator decided to let her go, then kill her in the street.

What else you have? Octa asked.

“Somehow, she ended out in the street,” the officer added.

They wanted to make people think it was a robbery that went bad, but it is the opposite,
he thought.
I’m dealing with my father’s skill here. I might be wrong. I hope I’m not suspecting the wrong man.

“Thanks for the information.”

Before the ambulance left, Octa jumped in and examined her arms, which showed bruises that would be indicative of rope pressure. He went out and walked toward the police officers on the scene. Showing his badge, he said, “Do you have any more information?”

The officer said, “She had visitors about half an hour ago, and the car appeared to be red. They then left. The lights went off. That was it. But waking up in the morning and looking through the windows, the witness saw her lying in the street.”

“Were any unfamiliar characters reported?”

“The only unusual thing was a male who had long hair.”

“If anything unusual comes up while you’re investigating, contact me at this number. Do you have a business card, officer?”

“Yes,” the officer said, as he reached inside his coat to hand one to Octa.

Then, Bob walked to him and said “I’ve to go back to the office. Chief Detective Albany wants to talk to me about something.”

“Do you know what it is about?”

“No.”

“So, I’m gonna have to drop you.”

“No, I’ve someone picking me up.”

“Cool.”

Octa made his way to his car and parked it five hundred feet away from the house. He did not leave the scene.
She dies not too long after I spoke to her,
he thought
.
When the crime scene was secured and no one was left, Octa noticed Officer Outlaw Brinking, who was walking toward the old lady’s house. He must have left his car somewhere else.

Officer Brinking is always on every scene, since I stepped in to investigate these child murders,
Octa thought.

Octa stepped out of the car and made his way through the back door. No lights were shining inside. He did not hear any footsteps within. There was someone behind him. It was Officer Brinking. Octa must have entered the house before him.

“I should have known I’d find you here, Octa,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you, but I am not surprised,” Octa said.

Octa turned around and Officer Brinking turned on the light.

“I wonder what your family wants from you,” he said and pointed his 9 millimeter at Octa.

“What do you know about my family?”

“I wasn’t paid to tell you anything, but I should kill you even though they want you alive, since you might be worthless.”

He shot Octa in his left shoulder, which Octa clutched. Blood started trickling down Octa’s arm, and he pressed his left hand over his wounded shoulder.

As Brinking lowered his weapon, Octa kicked him in the groin, picked up a pan off the floor and struck him on the head.

“Tell me about my father.”

“I’ll never tell you.”

“Awesome.” Octa hit him harder until he lost consciousness.

Octa dragged Brinking out and put him in the trunk. Octa’s face was glistening with sweat. He held his left shoulder. Blood continued to spurt between his fingers, despite his efforts. He then drove to a hospital to take care of his wound. He had to make a police report. The doctor who took care of him was an old friend of his. After he put on a sling for Octa, he did not bother to get a report from him.

Octa left the hospital, drove home, pointed a gun at Officer Brinking and made him walk until they got to the basement. It was about ten in the evening. He turned on the light and descended the stairs.

“So what’re you gonna do with me?” Officer Brinking asked.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said.

“You’re no better than me, Octa.”

“Is that so? It seems that I have a lot of people coming after me.”

“So what?” Brinking said, when Octa stood in front of him. Octa kicked him in the face.

The chair tipped over and fell on its back. Brinking’s arms, tied behind the chair, were trapped. He managed to tilt from side to side, then he rolled onto his right side. Octa walked toward him.

“You won’t get anything out of me.”

“I don’t need anything from you.”

Octa took the handcuffs off and cut the rope.

“Help yourself out.”

Officer Brinking stood up, and something went crack in his right ankle. Trying to remain calm, he ground his teeth. He couldn’t walk on his right ankle without sharp pain. Seeing a knife on the floor, he grabbed it and headed in the direction of the stairs. Reaching the middle of the stairs, the lights went on and off, repeatedly, three or four times. He opened the door. It was dark in the kitchen. Feeling for a switch on the wall, he found none and took baby steps. He didn’t want to trip and fall as getting back up was too difficult.

When he found the switch, he turned on the lights. This time he didn’t have to worry about the light. Making a left, he saw the front door. He attempted to limp quickly toward it. Just as he reached out for the doorknob, Octa grabbed him by the neck and slammed his head against the wall.