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Obsession, Chapter 1This story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Nathan Weaver | |
| Wednesday, 06 August 2008 | |
 Marty McCall was a sleaze and a no good mafia ringleader. Not that there really is any other kind of mafia ringleader, but he was the worst kind. He was cruel, brutal, cold and unrelenting. He was an aspiring and quickly rising crook. He seemed to sink to all sorts of new lows on a daily basis. Put frankly, Marty McCall was a nuisance to everyone he met.
On the second day of January, though, he wasn’t bothering a soul.
Forrest Cemetery was far from a forest and had ceased to be a cemetery some twenty-three years prior; it was a ruin and a mess. It was a great hangout for the local youth, the gothic type. Marty entered Forrest and made the usual path to the tombs of his parents. He stood there before their resting place and spoke softly, though bitterly, “Good morning, I miss both of you. Been thinking about you, can’t sleep much past a wink. Sorry, if I’m waking you, it’s mighty early. The light tain’t even come up yet,” he heard footfalls approaching, he continued to speak, “Been thinking of visiting, Sis, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her—”
He turned sharply and there stood a dark and masculine figure, coat blowing in the winter wind and face hidden by the brim of its hat. The barrel of the gun was raised quickly to eye level, Marty saw the flash of the gunshot, and that was followed by the pain—a headache unlike any other. The figure exited back into the darkness of the cemetery.
Emory Peck was late to his dinner date, as was his custom. He rushed in the doors, removing his brown overcoat and shaking loose raindrops to the door mat. He quickly took of his white fedora and tossed both the overcoat and hat on the counter, wiping his two-toned (black and white) shoes vigorously on the mat. He rushed to the host,
“Your reservation, Sir?”
“Emr’y Peck, for two—I’m late,” he spoke hastily; his voice was thick and was pronounced as much as his chin. He spoke with a southern accent.
“Indeed, Sir,” the host spoke without urgency, “Right this way, Mr. Peck.”
Emory stood a commanding six foot, two inches. His shoulders were broad, his torso firm as a board. All the women turned and noticed his presence as he whisked by. He wore a white zoot-suit, beneath it a deep red vest that sparkled—its buttons were gold. A thin, solid black tie started from the neck and disappeared under the vest. At his waist a belt that sported a holster at his right hip, within the holster was a six-shooter. The kinds of which you’d see in a western, only a hero would use one this fantastic. It seemed to be made of sterling silver, and my how it shined—the handle was of ivory. His hair was short, neatly cut with precision. While the women wondered what was beneath the suit, the men envied his barber. His hair was jet black and parted perfectly down the middle. He joined a woman, a redhead of about thirty.
“Sorry, someone decided to find some poor sap’s body in Forrest Cemetery,” he spoke hastily, he grabbed the cloth napkin and folded it neatly in his lap, “Just as I was about to retire for the evening. You been waiting long, dear?”
“Yes, Emory,” the redhead spoke, “I have.”
“Sorry, ‘bout that. As I was saying, I had to—”
“Frankly, Mr. Peck, I do not care for your excuses,” the redhead removed the napkin from her own lap, “This is most certainly not the first time I have waited on you, but it is most certainly the last,” she took one last sip of her wine, “Good riddance, Mr. Peck,” she rose, “Enjoy your duck, alone.”
For the sake of chivalry, Emory rose to bow his head but she was gone before he could do so. He sat down, sipped from her wine and whispered correction to himself, “I ordered lamb.”
“I read a few of the details regarding your case from last night, Peck,” the chief spoke,
“You’re gonna need to brush up on that old case.”
“What’s the case?” Emory asked, taking a seat across from the chief’s desk.
“You ever heard of the Clown Killer, Peck?”
“I followed it from Texas, only the newspapers, though,” Emory responded, “You believe there is a connection between last night’s victim and the Clown Killer?”
“Your victim was identified as Marty McCall by his driver’s license. If your victim is Marty McCall, he’s her brother,” the chief responded, “You ever met Tracy McCall?”
“Never had much desire to do so, no.”
“Well, you need to take Marty’s picture up to the State Prison and try to get a positive identification from her,” the chief added, “But not until after you read up on her case. Tracy is… well, she’s different. She ain’t normal. She don’t tick right. Not like most of the thugs we meet in this business. Everything you think you know about how they work, forget it. She don’t follow that. She breaks it,” the chief sighed, leaning back in his chair, “She’s a trip, Peck. Don’t get taken for a ride.”
Tracy McCall was kept in a padded room with white walls. There was a white bed, a white toilet, a white sink and a showerhead on the wall with knobs for cold and hot water beneath it—also, a drain was on the tiled floor in the middle of the room. The rooms next to hers were similar, only the faces were different. Emory Peck stopped at the first door and glanced in the small, square window. There sat a middle-aged man, alone. He looked calm, relaxed—translucent. Emory looked to the name card next to his door, it read, “JASON RICHARD WRIGHT—Serial rapist/murderer.” When he reached Tracy’s door, he watched her through the window for a few minutes. She was young, blond, skinny and pretty in a homely way without makeup. She sat on her bed, feet up on the bed so that her knees were level with her face. She tapped her knees with the palms of her hands, her lips moved as well. Emory could read lips; she was making noises but no words. She was obviously trying to rekindle some rhythm from outside these walls that she had grown accustomed to knowing. He looked to her name card, it read, “TRACY MCCALL—Serial murderer.” There was also some writing someone had done in pencil, though it had been erased it could still be read, “whoreny klown.”
After Emory was finished watching, he motioned and the Man in White opened the door, he entered. Tracy was resting her hands on her knees now, she looked upon him and she batted her eyes. She began to knock her knees together in an excited motion, arched her eyebrows and smiled,
“Howdy,” she spoke.
“Ms. McCall, do you remember your brother Marty?”
Her smile and eyebrows came down into a straight line; she spoke in a mockingly low voice, “Yes, Sir. I remember my brother. I recollect him well—Sir.”
“Do you recall what he looked like, Ms. McCall?”
She smiled again and shrugged her shoulders in towards one another, “Conrad Veidt!”
Emory removed the photo from the inside pocket of his trench coat, he held it in the air between them, “Is this your brother?”
“Ah, isn’t that special?” she turned her head sideways and smiled, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen death.”
“Is the man in the photo your brother, Ms. McCall?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure, Ms. McCall?”
“It’s not even close, Mister,” then she looked as if she was considering it, “But, maybe it’s the expression,” she jumped up from her bed and grabbed the photo. She held the photo next to her face and smiled big, showing her teeth, “Does this picture look like me?”
Emory Peck was feeling mocked, “No, Ms. McCall, it doesn’t.”
“Well,” she started, handing him the photo, “Then there you have it, that’s not my brother.”
He pocketed the photo once more and began to back out of the cell, as he had been instructed. He watched her closely, her smile faded as he backed away, “Sorry for the trouble, Ms. McCall.”
“You’re leaving so soon?” she asked.
“Yes, Ms. McCall,” Emory was outside the open door now.
“Next time you visit, Sir,” she smiled, “We’ll work on that personality of yours, eh? Tootles!”
The door shut. He watched her for five minutes and then left. In those five minutes, she pounced back on her bed, tapping her knees again. This time she sang the words, “Mister Sandman, bring me a dream. Bum, bum, bum, bum. Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen. Bum, bum, bum, bum.” That’s as far as Tracy got on that song, she then jumped up and walked over in the corner and faced the wall. She stood there for a few minutes, making various expressions on her face. Trying out new ones, perfecting old ones. After that exercise she turned the shower on, then stood in the middle of the room and faced the door. She grabbed her pajama top and ripped it open, some buttons fell to the ground and one hit the window through which he watched. Her head was erect with her nose in the air (like a statue), eyes closed and her two hands holding each side of her shirt open. Her bare feet were planted firmly on the tile floor. Emory walked away at this point, feeling it would be inappropriate to continue to watch her defile herself. It was as if she knew he was still there, watching her through the window—so thus, she performed.
During the cab ride home, Emory opened his notepad and penciled in something that he thought might be useful after all, “whoreny klown.” Copyright 2008 Nathan Weaver |
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| Last Updated ( Wednesday, 06 August 2008 ) |
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