Crispy Critters (A Crime Thriller) Read online

  Crispy Critters

  Copyright © 2014 Russell Earl Smith

  Published by Shaylee Press Jan 18, 2014

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, companies and incidents are fully the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, establishments or events is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS BY THEO CAGE

  SPLICER (2012)

  BUZZWORM (2014)

  SATAN’S ROAD (2014)

  THRIFT SHOP (2014)

  ON THE BLACK (Fall 2014)

  DAREDEVIL’S CLUB (2015)

  EMERGENT (2015)

  When I was a teenager, I discovered a cache of well-thumbed paperbacks that a friend’s uncle kept stored in his basement. That summer was my first introduction to Robert Heinlein, Frederic Pohl, Isaac Asimov and HP Lovecraft.

  Up to this point, my only exposure to short stories was the anthologies – Amazing Stories, Weird Tales, etc. So I eagerly gobbled up that whole, musty library. But when I cracked the spine on my first Lovecraft horror story - it was like being infected by an addictive parasite. No one could create atmosphere like Lovecraft - or dwell on the gruesome details so lovingly. I still can’t get some of those images out of my head.

  Now I am no Lovecraft, but I’ve always wanted to write a short story that scored high on the creepy-crawly meter. But modernized. And what could be more revolting than a child molester? And two retired guys with too much time on their hands - and revenge etched across their sclerotic hearts.

  Theo Cage

  Crispy Critters

  Leo wound the monofilament line around the man’s neck with practiced hands, the shiny tether sparkling in the light of their high-powered flashlight. Gordon stood over their captive, holding both of the pedophile’s wrists as he struggled. Then he jerked the man’s arms back to quiet him for at least the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes. Leo was in his seventies, retired over twenty years, but his hands were as steady as a seamstress’s - his large meaty fingers working the fine line like a surgeon.

  The mono was Gordon’s idea. He had no idea where it came from. He had spent his working life as a firefighter, then a fire inspector - not the most creative career choice. But now, the project he and Leo were working on had lit a fire under them, no pun intended. Gordon loved the open-ended quality of their work together. No bosses. No routine. Every job, a fresh new adventure.

  The pedophile squeaked this time, his voice slowly but certainly being cut off by the thin line wrapped around his throat. And his eyes were wide now, big yellow saucers in the dim light of his filthy bungalow. Leo and Gordon had worked on this effect for some time and made a lot of mistakes. But they had it down pat now, and they relished the recipe as if it was the colonel’s special own. You don't want a man thrashing around and doing damage, but you also don't want him sedated so much that he misses the point. It's a fine line. And the point of this exercise is all about that fine line.

  The man they held, his chest bare and his arms covered in needle tracks, was Nelson Parrish. He was about forty, thin, no more than 120 pounds, which made this whole process a lot easier than it normally was. Plus the roofies they gave him made wrangling him easier.

  Parrish lived in a rented house on a broken down street in northern Phoenix called Cable Road. His neighbors hated him, avoided him assiduously. After all, he was a known child rapist just released from Clayton maximum in Minneapolis. The FBI now published the names and addresses of all known released sex offenders. You could look it up on the Internet with very little difficulty.

  A neighborhood group called Mothers for Sanity had pasted a poster on the light pole just down the block with a grainy picture that didn't really do Nelson justice. He had shaved the eighties mustache the day he was released. Gordon found that odd. Why would you want to spend one day more in prison than you had to looking like a cop from Hill Street Blues?

  Leo and Gordon were going to give Nelson what he deserved. Well, not exactly what he deserved. They didn't really have the stomach for that. Nelson’s record showed that he had abused at least five young boys all under the age of twelve over the past ten years. How do you pay someone back for that kind of atrocity? They had given it a lot of consideration and couldn't come up with a balanced response. Mostly they wanted him just gone. They weren't in this for kicks. They were doing a job no one else wanted to do or had the balls to talk about. They didn't really give a shit about what the bleeding hearts thought. They had worked hard their whole lives, raised families, paid their taxes. This piece of shit was only a turd in the yard no one else wanted to bury.

  Leo finished the fine detail on the monofilament. The line was now digging into the grey unshaven flesh of Nelson’s neck, fifty-pound test, the thickest they could find at a local sporting goods store. They used mono because it was plastic, would quickly melt away in the high heat of the fire and not leave a carbon trace. The idea was to make this look as much as possible like an accident. Nelson was just another lackadaisical smoker, drifting away on a cheap rayon couch that would soon be his funeral pyre.

  Nelson was having a hard time controlling his arms and his legs, but you could see in his eyes that he was wide-awake.

  Leo moved back to inspect his work. The pedophile looked like an insect trapped in a spider’s lair. Leo smiled. Then he knelt down and picked up a plastic cup from the floor. He had filled the small container with gasoline from a spigot he had installed himself under the right rear wheel well of his 1993 Ford F150.

  He held the yellow cup above Nelson’s face. Nelson tried to turn, but when he twisted, the nylon line cut deeply into the flesh of his face. Leo carefully let one-drop fall into Nelson’s open right eye.

  Nelson jerked like a bug that had fallen into an open flame. Then Leo put the cup down carefully on the floor again. He took his time, mindful of spilling anything on the carpet that could leave even the smallest trace. He knew time wasn’t a problem. Nelson had no friends - no lady callers. The only visitor might be his parole officer, but not likely at one in the morning.

  Gordon then took his cigarette lighter out of the pocket of his windbreaker and held it in front of Nelson's face.

  "Five boys you destroyed. Even a sick puppy like you knows that's not right. And you’re probably thinking to yourself right now, I just couldn't control myself, couldn't fight the urge. Yeah. I hear the urge is strong. But you should have tried harder. We should take a steel poker, heat her up real hot, and drive that thing right into you. That would be justice of some kind. But that might get the medical examiner interested. So we are going to try something else."

  With that, Gordon flicked the flint on the lighter. The gas in Nelson's eye burst into a small flare of light. It sizzled for a few seconds, burning off the salty moisture in the tear duct. Then the eye went opaque like a boiled egg white.

  :

  Gordon Cleary saw the two detectives walking up his front walk, from his upstairs bedroom window. Cheap suits and a Crown Vic sedan - that was all the information he really needed. Plus they walked like cops - like they deserved to be there.

  He closed the curtain, hoping they hadn't seen him, and took a deep breath. He had played this scenario over in his head many times. After all, he was a pro. He was just surprised they were on to him so quickly. He would have guessed it would have taken at least a half-dozen deaths before an investigator could put enough clues together to triangulate on him. Wha
t kind of mistake could he have made that put him on their radar? Then he realized his mistake. There had been six deaths. He had almost lost count.

  As Cleary made his way down the stairs, there were thoughts buzzing around in his head that surprised him. For a brief moment he actually considered taking out the two cops. Had it really come to that? He was going to transition from murdering perverts to police officers because they might get in the way of his master plan? He shook his head as if to toss the thoughts aside. As a fire inspector, he often thought of criminals as hopelessly unimaginative. You’re surprised we showed up? And here he was doing exactly the same thing. Six simple acts of revenge and someone was on to him already. Like spontaneous combustion - sometimes it just happens.

  The doorbell rang, echoing in the tiny hallway. Cleary cleared his throat. A doorbell chime can mean so many things. In this case, potentially, the end of everything he knew and loved.

  He opened the front door, wearing old blue jeans and a worn T-shirt; he fit the part of the retired fire fighter perfectly.

  The first cop on the stoop was about six feet tall, black, with a serious expression on her face. The second, standing behind her a few steps down, was younger, blond, probably at the bottom of regulation height for a cop. Or maybe it just looked like that since he was standing in the shadow of his partner.

  The blond looked bored, which caused Cleary to relax a bit. Or maybe that was the cop’s strategy - play it cool and get you to drop your guard. But right then, something in their faces told him they hadn't come to make an arrest. Not today anyway. Cleary guessed some old firefighter’s intuition had kicked in. Now he was feeling more curious.

  "Gordon Cleary?" said the woman. Cleary put on his most disarming smile - pushing all of his nervousness down where it couldn't be seen.

  "That's me," he said.

  "We're working on an investigation and wondered if we could ask you some questions."

  "Sure," said Cleary, stepping aside in the small hallway. "You want some coffee?"

  The tall cop looked at her partner, who shrugged. The coffee question was always a good one. If they were coming to slam your head against the living room wall and cuff you, caffeine wasn't necessary. The female cop told Cleary she probably had enough coffee to last her a week, but thanks anyway.

  Cleary led them into his kitchen - green linoleum floors, cupboards painted years ago in a pale green color his late wife used to call mint. They sat down at the kitchen table. Also mint.

  "How can I help?" offered Cleary, hands open, leaning forward slightly - the international symbol for I have nothing to hide. Meanwhile, his heart was winding up to warp factor five.

  "I’m detective Cyn Bathgate,” then she pointed at her partner. “This is detective Scott. We're working on a fire investigation we thought you might be able to help us with."

  "Always happy to help a fellow investigator."

  "The fact you worked with the Fire Department for so many years is the reason we're here actually. We have an arson case - at least we believe it’s arson - and wondered if you'd look at the file.”

  "This a cold case?" asked Cleary.

  “No. It's recent. Three days ago. On Cable Road. A small bungalow burnt to the ground."

  "Why do you think it's arson?" asked Cleary.

  She looked at her hands for a few seconds, folded together on the tabletop. Then she smiled, looking a bit embarrassed. "Nothing based on the scene. Just a suspicion. There have been three very similar fires in the past twelve months, all the homes of pedophiles. They all occurred while the owners were being reintroduced into society."

  Cleary almost laughed. Re-introduced? Is that what you call it when you invite a rabid dog into your backyard?

  "Somebody's burning pedophiles?" Cleary asked.

  "That's my guess. But I don't have any hard evidence. You worked on a lot of arson cases. Ever seen anything like this?"

  "You know, there are enough psychology books on fire starters to fill a small library."

  "I didn't know that," Bathgate answered.

  "Arsonists are fascinating. Some of them just love to burn things down. They have personality issues. Low self-esteem usually. Watching a fire makes them feel important; gives them power over others. Then there are the pros. Fire is just a means to an end for them. Which do you think it is?"

  The blond cop perked up. "We think it's revenge."

  Cleary thought about that for a moment. "Someone whose kid was abused you mean? Or a family member?" he asked.

  "Could be. But amateurs usually leave a lot of clues. Traces of extenders. Kindling. Unlocked doors. There's none of that,” said Bathgate.

  "You know your stuff, detective," said Cleary.

  "Not as much as you."

  "What do you need from me then?" asked Cleary.

  "We’d appreciate it if you would visit the site tomorrow. We'll be there at noon. We just want your opinion."

  Cleary looked up at a calendar hanging on the end wall of one of the kitchen cabinets - the only thing in the room less than ten years old.

  "You've got my curiosity up now. Sure I'll be there." Bathgate gave Cleary her card with the address of the destroyed home - what Cleary would call the fireground. "But don't forget. It's been six years since I've worked on a case. I'll be a bit rusty."

  The tall cop smiled and shook his hand. "I think you underestimate yourself, Mr. Cleary. From what I hear, you were ... uniquely suited to your work."

  :

  Bathgate and Scott got back in their unmarked sedan. Bathgate looked back at the house wondering if Cleary was watching them. She was sure of it.

  "He doesn't rattle easy," said Scott.

  "Are you surprised? He's probably interviewed hundreds of sociopaths in his career. I’m betting after a while you start thinking like them. But I was watching his wrist. His pulse was way up."

  "Still pretty cool for a guy out of action that long."

  "I wouldn't say he was totally out of action. I'm guessing he's doing a bit of freelancing," she said.

  "So what happens tomorrow?"

  "We bring him to the site of the fire. We watch him go through the wreckage. Ask him a lot of questions. See what we can learn."

  "Then make an arrest?" asked Scott.

  "I didn't say that. We don't have an open and shut. We need a lot more."

  "What about his truck?" Bathgate nodded. It was all they had. On the night of the fire, a neighbor two blocks over had called in a suspicious vehicle. An older Ford truck was parked in front of her house and since two families on her street were out of town, she was worried about a break and enter.

  When the Phoenix Police patrol car arrived, the truck was gone, but the woman had recorded the license number. When they checked the plates, they learned the F-150 belonged to Gordon Cleary who lived in Cold Canyon, about ten miles north of downtown Phoenix. An expert on arson parked two blocks away from a suspicious fire at two in the morning. Not enough for a grand jury, but a thought-provoking question for Cleary tomorrow, while he had his nose down in the charred timber, hoping he hadn't left any clues behind.

  :

  Cleary pulled up in front of the sidewalk that led to a blackened pile of lumber and a crooked chimney poking up into the Chinese elms, the remains of Parrish’s little bungalow. The firefighters had done a good job of containment. A faded picket fence belonging to the neighbor on the right showed some signs of bubbling paint and chars, but both adjoining houses went largely undamaged. That was all about proper water management and the right wind direction. But the fire department could never save Parrish’s little pre-war home once it ignited - too much old paint, dry paneling and wood chips in the attic. Cleary knew, after all. He had checked before they started the fire.

  The two cops were standing at the edge of the debris, careful not to get burnt charcoal on their clothes or hands.

  "Detectives," said Cleary.

  "Mr. Cleary," said Bathgate. "You know this area at all?" Cleary thought that was
a strange question to start things off.

  "I fought fires all over this city for thirty years, detective. Why do you ask?"

  "The Fire Department told us these houses were a problem, but didn't explain why."

  Cleary nodded. "Age mostly. These bungalows and two stories were built in the 40's and 50's. They used a wood construction method called balloon framing that isn't used anymore. Basically, the walls are like chimneys and the fire and heat shoot right up the insides. Creates a very fast burn. And in those days, they didn't use fiberglass or treated fibers for insulation - they used wood shavings. Lights up faster than kindling.

  "So this was just a fire waiting to happen?" asked Bathgate.

  "Unless people remediate these older homes, they are living in a fire trap."

  Cleary walked up to the edge of the foundation, which was now just a concrete pad piled high with charred timbers and the remains of appliances and a blackened furnace. He looked up at the tall detective. "I really don't know what I can help you with here. You must have a fire report from the inspector."

  "Yeah. They say the owner fell asleep on his couch while smoking. Cigarette burned a hole through the couch, which started the fire. Guy never woke up."

  "Did they say what kind of couch?"

  "Poly something."

  "Probably old. Before fire resistant chemicals were used. Highly flammable. And once they get started, they produce very high heat, which spreads the fire quickly. Also pumps out poisonous gas. Which is likely how your victim died. But an autopsy can confirm that. Burnt lungs - or not - will tell the story.”

  Bathgate just stared at Cleary for a moment, saying nothing. "The ME said death from asphyxiation. Chemicals released from the couch."