The Perfectionist

By Simon Duke

Iowa, 1988. An unidentified severed head is found rotting in a corn field. Confronted with this gruesome discovery, Gerry Stokes – an arrogant and obnoxious newspaper reporter – agrees to cover up the affair. But the truth can't be concealed forever.

More than twenty years later, Stokes must finally atone for his errors as the past returns with a vengeance. Forced into an investigation to discover what happened all those years ago, he stumbles upon a sordid truth: the victim is one of many; people seemingly chosen at random across America by a serial killer at large for more than two decades; a killer with a unique and horrific modus operandi who’s flown under the radar. Still at large the killer seeks to achieve artistic perfection in his methods of execution. He is "The Perfectionist".

While tracking the killer under the cloak of FBI suspicion, Stokes sets himself an ambitious target and potential path to fame: write a book that leads the police to the killer, a first in the history of publishing.

The stakes are high and the pressure is on. Stokes is in the race of his life to discover The Perfectionist's identity and publish his bestseller, while forced to bend the notion of what is ethically right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Duke
• Release date: Jan 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311594877

Simon Duke

SIMON DUKE was born in Stoke-on-Trent (UK) in 1979. He obtained a B.A. in French with Film Studies in 2001 and has been working in journalism ever since. He currently lives in France. Out of Bounds, his first novel, was published in 2014.To find out more visit http://simongduke.blogspot.com

Book preview

The fog came rolling in from the fields, closing in, and shutting out the world. Impenetrable and hostile like the eerie silence engulfing the town. An opaque layer of frost covered front lawns and rooftops, gutters bent under the weight of crystal daggers. Trees shimmered pale gray, and parked cars had turned into sculptures.

Cautiously breaking through the dense white mass of dawn fog, a noisy GMC Sierra pick-up drove slowly down Madison Avenue. The fog swirled in the light of the headlamps in a thick flow of white dust, and the truck’s windshield wipers painfully scratched away at the thin but stubbornly resistant sheet of ice. A minute later, the Sierra’s driver hit the brakes and pulled up to the curb beside the Wright County Sheriff’s Office, the only source of light in the deserted street.

Gerry Stokes cut the engine and stepped out of his vehicle. He looked around. Fog and silence. The merciless cold of the icy blasts hit him hard. Surprised by how cool it was, he shivered and zipped up his coat. Rubbing his hands, he walked energetically towards the sheriff’s office. Stokes knocked and entered without waiting for an answer. Despite the early hour he knew he was expected.

Two men he knew well were sitting in an office near the entrance. Both turned to look at him. They were clutching coffee mugs, inhaling the hot brew’s fumes as if their lives depended on it. They seemed nervous, preoccupied, stricken by some intangible menace.

The elder of the two, Sheriff Dwayne Clanton – a gray-haired and weary man, who was counting the days until his retirement - waved slowly at Stokes and pointed to a spare chair in the corner of the room. As Stokes grabbed the chair and placed it nearer the Sheriff’s desk, he couldn’t help noticing how tired the man looked. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles, surely nicotine-induced. He was badly-shaven and his uniform was creased and scruffy. Stokes was unaccustomed to seeing Clanton in such a neglected state.

‘Sheriff… Earl. Morning to you both… Can you tell me what’s going on?’ Stokes asked.

‘Take a seat!’ Earl DeVries, Stokes’s Editor-in-Chief, ordered.

‘Seriously, guys. You’re making me nervous.’

‘We got a situation here, Gerry. Dwayne’s going to give you the lowdown,’ DeVries said.

Dwayne Clanton glared at Stokes before gulping some more coffee.

‘It’s a fresh pot. You want some, Gerry?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with his shirt cuff.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I need your help.’ He turned to DeVries. ‘Both of you. I got a dead man. Found him a couple of days ago in one of Jim Hardy’s corn fields bordering Hancock Avenue, right near Eagle Grove. Coroner tells me he’s been dead for at least a week. There was no way to I.D. him at the scene and I still haven’t been able to put a name on the stiff. We reckon he could be in his sixties. Deputy Hobbs and I looked through all the Missing Persons reports. We cross-checked with the sheriff’s offices of Humboldt, Webster, Hamilton, Hardin, and Franklin counties. We got nobody matching the description.’

‘Well if he’s not a local, he could be from just about anywhere,’ Stokes said. ‘Have you considered casting the net to all counties or state-wide?’

‘Dwayne wants to keep this contained. He doesn’t want to spark a panic wave in Clarion,’ DeVries interjected, brushing off Stokes’s remark.

‘It’s the first stiff I’ve had for a long time,’ Clanton added. ‘I don’t want townsfolk going haywire, thinking we got a killer on the loose. I can’t imagine the shit-load of pressure I’d be under if this goes public.’

‘Then why request our help?’ Stokes asked.

‘Well, Earl and I go way back. Don’t we Earl?’

DeVries nodded.

‘I’ve been tipping the Wright County Monitor for years and I’ve never shunned away from making comments.’

‘Dwayne, you don’t need to justify yourself to Gerry,’ DeVries said. ‘He’s still junior and learning the tricks of the trade.’

DeVries stared at Stokes for a while; his dark eyes questioning his employee’s amateurism, suggesting he keep his mouth shut. Stokes remained unfazed.

Looking back at Clanton, he said, ‘Dwayne, if you need a favor, you know you can count on us.’

Clanton seemed relieved. ‘Thanks Earl. Appreciated.’

He pressed the coffee mug to his lips again and sipped some more.

‘I was telling Earl that I kept you guys out of the loop because I didn’t want any media coverage until I was sure about what I’d be dealing with. Now I’ve got to the point where I need some assistance from the public.’

Stokes nodded out of politeness, hiding his frustration that they were already a few days behind on a murder story.

‘Gerry, I need you to go see Blake Anderson,’ Clanton resumed. ‘He’s got the stiff in cold storage. He’s only going to keep our John Doe there until tomorrow. Afterwards we’re going to have to get the funeral home involved. He’s not going to need a full-sized casket, though.’

Stokes waited for the explanation. As it wasn’t coming he steered his gaze to DeVries, who wasn’t acting surprised. The Sheriff waited for his cue to continue.

‘What do you mean?’ Stokes asked.

‘Well Gerry, we ain’t got a body. All we got is a hacked-off head.’

Taken aback Stokes felt shivers down his spine. He finally realized why Clanton was so worked up and why DeVries was showing support for the old man. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘Just a head, you say. That’s fucking sick!’ Stokes said.

‘In my entire career in law enforcement, I’ve never seen anything so crazy. Clarion has had its fair share of homicides under my tenure. Mainly husbands beating up their wives too much or the occasional harvest accidents, but this is something else. This is cold-blooded fucked-up shit, young man!’ Clanton said, rubbing his chin anxiously. ‘Jim Hardy found the head when out checking the frost damage on his crop. First he thought it was some kind of sick prank. Then he realized it wasn’t and lost his balance, tripped over, crashed to the ground. That’s what he told me. Anyhows, Jim hurried home and called me. So I got off my ass and drove there like a bat out of hell. Jim was waiting for me, shaking and clutching his rifle. He led me to the head, right in the middle of the field. It was there on the ground. Eyes shut. Bruised and smashed up. The teeth had been jerked out. There was dirt all over. It seemed like the guy had been buried and only the head was above ground. I took Hardy’s rifle, pressed it against the earth right next to the head. Ground was solid. I then gently touched the head with the rifle’s butt. And it fucking rolled over.’

Clanton took a deep breath. He’d been through this only minutes before with DeVries, yet his tale seemed to frighten him as if he were physically reliving the experience.

‘I told Jim to go home, stay put and mention this to nobody. I surveyed the scene for a few more minutes. Then I returned to the car and radioed Deputy Hobbs for assistance. Franklin arrived with all the gear I’d asked him to bring. We sealed off the crime scene, looked around for the body or any trace of evidence, but found nothing. Later Hobbs returned to town, picked up Dr. Anderson, and brought him back for an expert opinion. After a preliminary inspection he told us it was likely that the head had been there for a few days and the cold weather had already inflicted a lot of damage. The only bright spot was that the cold had helped slow down the head’s deterioration. We decided to place the head in a bag and take it back to town. It’s been at Blake Anderson’s clinic since.’

‘Dwayne wants us to run a short article in tomorrow’s edition in which we’ll include a picture of the head,’ DeVries said.

‘What about the panic factor? I thought this needed to be contained,’ Stokes replied.

‘Well this is where we do a favor for Dwayne. Blake Anderson has cleaned the head. He’s camouflaged the bruises, used some make-up and whatnot. He’s also stitched the head temporarily to another corpse retrieved from the county morgue, and worked his magic again to hide the neck level stitches as much as possible,’ DeVries continued.

‘I’ve seen the end result. It’s real Dr. Frankenstein crazy shit!’ Clanton said.

‘Anyhow I need you to go see Blake Anderson, take the best headshots you can. No pun intended, Gerry. And we’ll make sure our dead guy looks as much alive as possible. Hopefully with the picture being black and white, the readers won’t notice what we did,’ DeVries said.

‘Don’t think I’ll manage anything better than a headshot,’ Stokes interjected.

DeVries seemed oblivious to the joke. ‘Just take care of the article. We’re just going to say that the Sheriff’s Office is looking for this man. The guy may be able to help in an ongoing investigation. We’ll add a phone number. Who knows? Maybe some good Samaritan might have some information to share.’

Sheriff Clanton nodded approvingly. ‘Yeah, maybe it’ll help us catch the sonofabitch who did this?’ he said, smiling for the first time.

Stokes struck back angrily, ‘Sheriff. With all due respect, I think the sonofabitch who did this is long gone by now. He’s got a week’s head-start and you’ve been wasting time by not involving the state police or the media. And all that for the sake of not frightening the people of Clarion… I don’t buy it Sheriff. It seems like this case if way above your head and you are too old and proud to admit it!’

‘Shut the fuck up, Gerry!’ DeVries hollered. ‘You’ve got no idea what’s at stake here. Covering a murder story, sure, it’ll sell a few papers. It’ll get us some attention from TV crews in Des Moines. We’ll be local heroes. We’ll get the spotlight for a day, maybe two. But when the dust settles, we’ll return to our normal state of anonymity. The people of Clarion will be insecure. They’ll hate us for not reporting the facts earlier. And Dwayne, well he might just end up becoming the laughing stock of Iowa. There’s no way in hell we’re going to let that happen.’

‘But Earl…’

‘No buts, you arrogant little prick! Just do what you’re told. I knew I’d made a mistake in hiring you. You simply don’t get it, do you? We run a tight ship here in Clarion, and we’ve got no room for recklessness. You’ve got ambition to report big murder stories? That’s fine, but you’re keeping your mouth shut on this one. Do I make myself clear?’

Stokes hesitated, before replying a feeble ‘Yes, Earl.’

‘Guys. Keep this bitchin’ for later. You got jobs to do,’ Clanton said. ‘Oh, and Earl, I want to see that article before you run it.’

‘Sure. Will do, Dwayne,’ DeVries answered, bobbing his head like an obedient dog.

Chapter 2

Clarion, Iowa - February 2, 1988.

Gerry Stokes had wanted to be a journalist for as long as he could remember. He was born and bred in Wright County. A pure product of Iowa. His father was a hog farmer. His Mom helped out on the farm. Joe, his older brother, a mechanic employed at the local feed mill, was simply waiting to take over Pop’s hog operation and make sure the farm would survive another generation. Gerry, like his mother, gave a helping hand from time to time, but his heart was elsewhere. It was hard work on the farm all day, feeding the pigs, cleaning the barns. The occasional rides to the slaughter facility on the other side of town were the only times Gerry, sitting next to his father, was able to rest and let his mind venture. Evenings were essentially TV dinners and uninspired small talk.

At the age of seven, one evening in late-November 1973, Stokes heard his father shout out loud at the TV as if it were a living person. His eyes were locked on the screen, scrutinizing the images scornfully. Mom and Joe joined in; hissing, booing at the man on screen. Pop ordered them to hush, when the man insisted that he was not a crook.

I have earned every cent. And in all of my years of public life I have never obstructed justice, the man on the screen said.

Mom and Pop both went hysterical. Stokes wondered what the fuss was all about.

It was only a few years later that he understood that President Richard Nixon was defending his record in the Watergate scandal and arguing the case that he’d never profited from his public service. Stokes was fascinated by the crowd of reporters. They were all taking notes in pocket books. Some were also taking pictures. Others were nudging their way to the front row to get a better glimpse of the hated President. He admired the courage and audacity of these men and women questioning the President, and making him look the lesser man in spite of him being the most powerful figure in America. They were in control. They were people to look up to. From that day onward, Stokes paid more attention to the TV dinners and devoured the news as if there were no tomorrow. He knew he’d found his vocation.

Those were Stokes’s thoughts while taking snapshots of John Doe’s head later that morning in the eerie silence of Blake Anderson’s clinic. The head was a mess. It was a sick sight. He hadn’t signed up to be a journalist for this. Sure this was the first time, at the age of twenty-two, that he’d seen a murder victim, and in such a gruesome display. He was excited about some of the prospects but he couldn’t shake off his frustration. He resented DeVries for wanting to hide the facts and doing his pal Sheriff Clanton a favor. This wasn’t real reporting. This was an outrage. He was piling up the anger. It helped him offset the urge to puke at the sight of the severed head.

He also had his thoughts geared towards the few paragraphs that would go along with the picture. He was tempted to use strong, unforgiving words to describe his Editor’s lack of professionalism and the town Sheriff’s incompetence. Instead he would have to settle for a have you seen this man? or something of that nature.

What Stokes wanted to create was sensation. He wanted to use the pictures to kick start his career in journalism, get him in on the cop beat of the Des Moines Register or why not the Chicago Tribune; places where his talent would be acknowledged and appreciated. He aspired to greatness, and this was an impossible target in small town Clarion.

Stokes took his final picture. He watched Dr. Anderson pathetically unsow the stitches linking John Doe’s head to his body. He felt detached, conscious that his time at The Monitor was over. He’d go along with the made-up story, check the end result in tomorrow’s edition, and hand in his resignation to DeVries. He needed to get the hell out of Clarion. He’d informed his father and Joe that he wasn’t made for the hog business a long time ago. He thought to himself that his departure wouldn’t affect them in the slightest way. Only Mom would be sad, but she would get over it, eventually. He suspected that deep down she somehow envied him and wished him the best with his journalistic ambitions.

He was twenty-two and destined for higher things. It certainly wasn’t going to be a boutique paper, a group of narrow-minded rednecks and their goddamn corn, or even a dirty farm and the pig squeals that were going to hold him back.

A whole new life lay ahead.

*

The February 3, 1988 edition of The Wright County Monitor contained the article written and bylined by Gerry Stokes. Any clue as to the John Doe’s whereabouts or any information regarding his identity would be much appreciated as the Sheriff’s Office had to locate and talk to this man as soon as possible. Law enforcement needed to gain further insight into an ongoing investigation.

On February 3, Dwayne Clanton sat at his desk all day. He got three calls with regard to the picture. None of which provided any serious leads. February 4 yielded two calls with little substance to them. On February 5, Sheriff Clanton received his last call about John Doe. It too was irrelevant. Then the weekend came and the people of Clarion and readers of The Monitor forgot about the story and moved on to other things.

On March 15, Gerry Stokes packed his belongings into a few battered suitcases and threw them onto the back seat of his Sierra. He waved goodbye to his mother, his father and his brother. In his rearview mirror he could see them standing at the edge of the pond next to their house; the farm’s weeping willow tree behind them. After that fleeting glimpse, Stokes drove eastbound for six hours, and in one stretch. He never stopped, never glanced back. He felt no regret, none whatsoever. He was looking forward to living the good life in Chicago and starting the search for a higher-profile job.

On January 31, 1989, Sheriff Dwayne Clanton officially closed the John Doe case – a year to the date the head had been discovered. During the year he’d interviewed selected townsfolk, including Jim Hardy, and called upon friendly co-workers throughout Iowa for help. He and Deputy Franklin Hobbs had even explored every corn field and farm in the entire county to find John Doe’s body. Their efforts bore no fruit.

The severed head would remain a mystery for those who knew of its existence. Clarion would remain free of atrocious crime under Sheriff Clanton’s tenure. And hopefully Deputy Hobbs, when appointed to replace him, would keep it that way.

Chapter 3

22 Years Later

The Loop, Chicago, Illinois - June 11, 2010.

Gerry Stokes waited for the phone to ring. He was a couple of hours away from a well-deserved weekend. He'd start slowly but surely. First, a stiff drink at that cozy dim-lit bar on the other side of W Washington Street. That would be followed by a Greek takeaway, a taxi ride back home, and a hot shower. Perhaps he'd settle down and watch a porno to finish the evening in style.

He was putting the final touches to a new article for Monday's business column of the Chicago Tribune. The article, which would feature news on the medical condition of a Chicago-based food giant's Chief Executive, was in need of some final comments before being handed over for proof-reading by the weekend staff. The call he was expecting would be from the food company itself, ending weeks of rumor and speculation about the severity of the CEO's health condition.

To kill time, Stokes surfed the web for movies being screened at the theater and concerts taking place downtown over the weekend. He gave thought to the specifics of the porno he’d watch. Something with big-titted blondes would do the trick. He began to feel aroused, and couldn't wait for his shift to be over. In the meantime he patted his crotch. The beauty of it all was that none of his co-workers could see him. He had an office to himself and could shut himself away from the non-stop hustle and bustle, and shut out the noise from the adjacent newsroom. The blinds were down and his door closed. He could maintain some finger pressure on his erection for a little longer without being hindered by the grunts in the newsroom. That was the one of the unspoken privileges of being a veteran business news reporter.

The phone finally rang. He picked up after the second ring. As expected, a company spokesman.

'Thank you for contacting us, Mr. Stokes. We won't be providing any further information on Mr. Taylor's condition. You're going to have to wait for an official company update on his health and future plans. We should be issuing a statement in time for our end-of-the-year earnings'.

'Not good enough!' Stokes replied angrily.

'I'm sorry?'

'You think the Chicagoland business community is going to be satisfied with such a lame comment, or should I say absence of comment? Well you're wrong. I got people who know exactly in which ward Mr. Taylor is resting, and I have several sources telling me he suffered a stroke a few weeks ago, and is now recuperating. You've got to confirm this information for me. It's going to be published on Monday with or without your blessing, my friend.'

'Mr. Stokes, I’m not in a position to confirm anything whatsoever with regard to Mr. Taylor's condition. We have to respect his privacy.'

'Well get somebody on the phone who can. Someone with a bit more authority and a lot more balls than you. How does that sound?'

'I'm not sure what else I can do!' the spokesman said in an offended tone. 'It's Mr. Taylor's and the Board's decision.'

'Find someone quick or I'm going to print what I have. There are some readers who have a whole load of questions, one of which is, will Mr. Taylor ever be able to return to the company in the same leadership capacity? I think your shareholders won't appreciate your lack of transparency here.'

'Please hold on.'

Stokes smiled to himself. He'd seen it all before and he knew the company well. It was expected to generate close to ten billion dollars in revenue for the year and would continue operating as normal, with or without Taylor. The current CEO had been instrumental in reshaping the company, but other members of the board could easily step in and take control now. Stokes could picture it already. His article would be published on Monday and probably end up being at the root of a small dive in the company's shares. They would be forced to issue an official statement in retaliation and hope for the best. The Sun-Times and all the business publications would eventually cover the company's version of the facts and come across as late with the news, trailing behind Gerry Stokes and the Tribune. He enjoyed this state of power so much. It gave him another erection.

The phone rang again. He picked up immediately.

'Good afternoon Mr. Stokes. It's Chandler Fitzgerald.'

Stokes smiled again. He was talking to the company's Vice-President.

'I hope what you got is worthwhile.'

Fitzgerald paused. 'Mr. Taylor did indeed suffer a stroke. It's hard to say how long the recovery period is going to last. We're just pleased he's doing a lot better.'

'You've got to be kidding me. Do you think I give a rat's ass about how Taylor is feeling? Give me something substantial, Fitzgerald. CEOs are public figures. So Taylor's health issues and their possible impacts on his ability to do his job have to be disclosed. Take it a step further. I want to know how many times he pisses a day, in what quantities, and in what color!"

He could hear Fitzgerald swallow his saliva on the other end of the line.

'Okay Stokes. Off-the-record, you are an arrogant sonofabitch. On-the-record, we think Mr. Taylor will be out of the hospital in a week's time. He'll stay at his home and only return to duty when he feels better and up to the task. He's unhappy about the situation and I’m sure he'll be back before we even realize he’s been away. Officially, I'm taking over as interim CEO for at least three months.'

'Well thank you for that, Chandler. You see it wasn’t that hard,' Stokes said triumphantly.

'Yeah, whatever.'

'I'll make sure I tune into the end-of-the-year earnings conference call. I'm sure it will be very informative,' Stokes said, laughing out loud.

Fitzgerald hung up.

Stokes pulled up his article on the computer screen and added in the final elements as well as a couple of quotes from Fitzgerald before sending off a final copy to the weekend business desk editor. He reckoned his article would feature high up in Monday's business column.

With less than an hour of his shift left, he began tidying his desk. He trashed countless used plastic coffee cups which had accumulated on his desk, several candy wrappers and a cardboard box which had contained six donuts earlier in the day. Only a few crumbs remained. Traces of his lunch, which had consisted of tacos and fries, were already rotting away in the trash basket. More advantages of having an office.

His phone rang again. In all likelihood it would be Fitzgerald. Perhaps the man had forgotten to mention something, or he just wanted to share a piece of his mind. Stokes picked the phone up from its cradle.

'Gerald Stokes. Chicago Tribune,' he answered.

'Gerry,' an elderly voice said. 'Gerry. It's Earl DeVries here. Hope all is fine with you.'

The surprise startled Stokes. He remained speechless for a moment.

‘Gerry. Don’t you remember me?’

‘I do,’ Stokes said after an awkward silence.

‘This is going to sound weird. Brace yourself.’

Stokes didn’t know what to expect, so he let DeVries pursue.

‘The Monitor is in the process of creating a huge digital archive. We’ve been scanning all the editions we’ve kept trace of. The archives go back to when I first started, back in 1977. It’s a helluva job. Anyhow, we’ve been putting all this information on the Monitor’s website for months now and we still haven’t finished.’

‘And in what way does this concern me, Earl?’

‘I’m getting there. We started scanning the 1977 editions and we’ve made our way to 1994. The other day I got a call from this nice-sounding woman. She told me she was doing some research on the disappearance of her grandfather and came across an article we published back in February 88. Remember John Doe?’

Stokes frowned. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Well she thinks John Doe may have been her grandpa.’

‘That’s all very good, Earl, but why should I care? I’m sure Sheriff Clanton would be interested in her case.’

‘I know, but I can’t contact him.’

‘Why not?’

‘He died, Gerry. He kicked the bucket back in 96.’

‘And what about Hobbs? He likely made it Sheriff after that, didn’t he? He’s surely the person to talk to.’

‘I already called him. He became Sheriff, but the guy moved on a couple of years later. He lives in California now. He told me it was no longer his problem and that he’s got his fair share of violence to put up with in his current location… Look, Gerry. I wouldn’t be contacting you if I didn’t have to. I ain’t got any other options. Naturally, the woman wanted all the details of what happened. My memory ain’t too good no-more and you know I couldn’t say anything about the severed head or the fact that he was dead. She kept on questioning me. I gave her lame-ass answers and hoped she’d attribute them to my old age and fatigue. She requested to talk to the author of the article and photographer. All I could say was that you weren’t at the Monitor anymore and I’d do my best to find you and tell you that she wants to hear from you.’

‘Who gave you my number?’ Stokes said. He was finding it difficult to cope with the blast from the past. It had been a while since he’d last given any thought to his previous life in Clarion.

‘I didn’t look too far, your brother, Joe.’

‘Does this woman know how to reach me?’

‘No, Gerry. Out of respect for you and for what we’ve been through, I wanted to give you a warning. I’ve got her details. It’s up to you if you want to contact her or not. Your call.’

Stokes said nothing. He resented the man in 1988. He sure as hell still resented him now.

‘Besides,’ DeVries continued. ‘I thought, with you being a hotshot business journalist and whatnot, you could come up with some convincing bullshit and serve it to her on a silver plate. Nothing good is going to come out of this if she keeps on looking in our direction. Maybe you could steer her away?’

‘Earl, if she reckons John Doe is her Grandpa, then it might take a lot of convincing. I’m not sure I’ve got time to deal with this.’

‘Think of it this way then. John Doe was at least sixty back in 88. That would mean he would be eighty-something if he were still alive today. There’s a good chance that he would be dead of natural causes anyway. So I guess the lady is kind of half-expecting to find out he’s already dead.’

‘You’ve always been a devious piece of shit, Earl. You know that?’ Stokes said, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘I’m just trying to soften the blow. That’s all.’

‘Yeah. Whatever.’

The conversation ended after Stokes took note of the woman’s contact details. DeVries wanted Stokes to keep him in the loop. Stokes made no promises. He just wanted to get off the phone and plan some more for his weekend.

Twenty minutes later he switched off his PC and stood up. He took another glance at the contact details he’d jotted down on a piece of paper, before crumpling it up and placing it in his shirt pocket. The name he’d written was Sarah Howard. He couldn’t stop thinking that the world was a small place. She lived in an apartment building in the South Side. She lived in Chicago.

Chapter 4

Lincoln Park, Chicago, Illinois - June 13, 2010.

Stokes woke up at eleven a.m. He was dealing with a violent headache and felt nauseous. He’d cruised into downtown the night before and finally made his way back home to his apartment at three a.m. He hadn’t bothered stripping his clothes off or removing his shoes. He’d crashed on the bed to get some long-deserved sleep. Rest for the party-warrior.

Friday night had been uneventful. He’d had that drink he’d promised himself, and a few more. He’d tried to blank out the resurging memories of Clarion. Uninvited and unwanted, they’d crept into his mind regardless. He could only drown them temporarily by knocking back the drinks. He’d hailed a cab back home and booted up his computer. He was looking forward to spending the rest of the evening streaming porn videos and the associated pleasures. His Wi-Fi connection, however, hadn’t worked and he’d been unable to fix it in his inebriated state. He gave up and promised himself a taste of the real thing for his next night out.

On Saturday, he spent most of the day lazing in bed. He had sushi delivered for lunch and pizza for dinner. In between he watched a few movies from his DVD stock and attempted to write a few more pages of his novel without really putting his heart into it. He’d been working on his story for about a year and was still stuck on chapter three, oftentimes wondering what the heck he was doing and why he was wasting his time. At this rate he’d never finish it. Boredom had kicked in and he was having more and more difficulty identifying with the narrative and characters he’d initially outlined. He ended up writing half a page but then deleted two thirds of it. Perhaps he’d trash the whole idea and look for alternative subject matter.

After nightfall he left his apartment building and headed east, down Lincoln Avenue and towards the zoo. At destination he walked up to a young black hooker wearing a short skirt and white stockings. She had long hair and big tits. Surely fake, he thought, but she kind of looked pretty in the dark. They agreed on an agenda and tariff, and walked back to his apartment to kick off the evening in style. The whore left a half hour later, leaving Gerry satisfied, and ready to cruise the city streets again for some after-hours joints and cheap booze.

Stokes staggered toward his bathroom and took a few painkillers from under the sink. He drank some water and swallowed the pills, looked at his reflection in the mirror and stuck his tongue out for no reason in particular, other than wanting to see how long it looked. The pills would take care of the headache in the short-term, but what he really needed was some more sleep. He removed his shoes and undressed, took a long hot shower. He opened the windows to get rid of the stink of the apartment – a subtle combination of spilt booze, sweat, and sexual intercourse. He spent the next few hours cleaning up, changing his filthy bed sheets and putting his used condoms in the trashcan. Once he was done, he treated himself to some leftover sushi and dry pizza stored in the refrigerator.

It was only mid-afternoon before he settled into work mode and started checking his Tribune e-mails on the laptop after making sure the Wi-Fi connection was up and running again. According to his channels of information, nothing important had happened since Friday in Chicago’s business community. He didn’t have any substantial leads to work on either. He checked his personal e-mails too and discovered there weren’t many developments on that front either.

He rose from the couch and retrieved the crunched up piece of paper on which he had written Sarah Howard’s details. She’d still be expecting his call, but he had no idea about what he could tell her. He began Googling for information on Sarah Howard of South Side, Chicago, until he was sure that he’d found the right person. He felt a rush of excitement as he enlarged a picture of her he’d found on a social media site.

She seemed to be in her early thirties. Very pretty face and such a wide smile, just like a sunset. Tanned, sensuous skin, and shoulder-length auburn hair. She wore a party dress and held a cocktail glass, brandishing it to whoever took the picture. Showing off that cleavage, she looked stunning. Nice piece of ass, he