Falling Awake IV: Retribution

By Kristoffer Gair

“Some people are so low, they gotta look up to see Hell.”

The death of Thomas Reis continues to ripple through the lives of those connected to his case fourteen years later. Andrew O’Donnell and Lawrence Boggs have already fallen, but three more pick up where the others left off, and each for his own reason.

One believes in justice, the second loyalty, and the third desperately seeks a reason to live. All three, however, share the same final end game; Retribution.

The hunt begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristoffer Gair
• Release date: Jun 19, 2021

Kristoffer Gair

Kristoffer Gair grew up in Fraser, MI and is a graduate of Grand Valley State University. He currently lives with his husband in a suburb of Detroit.

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In memory of:

Irene Romanowski

and

Don Zomberg (1970-2020)

May you get to watch Escape From New York and The Thing on the biggest screen in the universe until I get there, too. Just don’t eat all the popcorn.

I’ll bring the cannolis.

Thank you: Martha Davis, Eden Winters, Brent D. Seth, James White, Susan Heydel, John Carpenter, Danielle and Drew McTaggart, Jerome Froese, Harry Gregson-Williams, and to all the officers my father worked alongside at the Fraser Police Department in Michigan (who, while I was growing up, treated me as part of their own family).

There's movement in the stillness

Our hearts will be the sound

So we're raising our voice together

No way we're standing down

(Black To Gold by Dear Rouge, lyrics by Danielle McTaggart)

Chapter 1

Mt. Calm, Texas

1972

Joe?

The former police captain lifted the bright yellow tape with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS in large black lettering. He stooped under the flimsy barricade and then stepped up onto the porch, opened the screen door, and entered the house.

There used to be a time he’d have stepped over the tape. Better days those, when he was much more nimble. If he lost his balance, as people his age were sometimes prone to do, there’d be no telling what kind of damage a fall would do to his body. A broken hip would certainly be the end of life as he'd come to know it. Always happened that way with folks over 70. There’d be no point in continuing on if he couldn’t do for himself as he’d used to. No way some young upstart getting paid $1.60 an hour minimum wage was going to feed him his strawberry Jell-O and help him into the bathroom.

One bullet. Hollow point. Goodbye aches and pains. Hello, oblivion!

Of course, then he’d have to contend with that whole eternal damnation bit for taking his own life. If, that was, he believed in that sort of thing. Even he wasn’t sure anymore. One thing was for certain: there weren’t any minimum wage workers in Hell. Probably no Jell-O either. Or, if there was, only God knew what it'd taste like.

Speaking of Hell...

The police sketches of the house he held in his hand along with the official report helped recreate the scene in terms of where bodies had been discovered, but nothing hit home quite like seeing a place in person. Feeling it. Smelling it. Sensing it. Getting to know and understand it. A real three-dimensional feel. Crime scenes talked. One just needed to possess the know-how to understand the language.

The house reeked of death, of decay, and of something once quite normal, twisted into an abomination much, much worse. Stank like sweat from a whorehouse mixed with dried blood and rotting souls.

The Jell-O in Hell will taste like this place smells. Something familiar about this, though.

Something about the place reminded Joe of… Naw, it couldn’t be. That was fourteen years ago, and several states north. There couldn’t be a connection between the two houses. Hold that thought. There shouldn’t be a connection.

Concentrate on the here and now. What do you see?

The place appeared to have been built for someone’s retirement. Nice cozy layout, practical, and not too many stairs for someone aging. Location-wise, far enough from the road for privacy, yet close enough to civilization in case something ever went wrong. Well, not as wrong as the scene that played out here, but certainly other things. Medical things. But not this. Not death. And why the hell had someone strung Christmas lights across the ceiling in the living room?

He wrote the word light.

Christmas lights tended to add a bit of magic and life to a room, especially during the holidays. No magic here, though. No, sir. Quite the opposite.

Rage. Rage and hatred.

A layer of dust and grime covered the walls and floor as far as the eye could see. The perps who’d occupied the place after murdering the owner had desecrated the house. Infected it might be a better description. A bit like a virus or something a parasite might do. And the Christmas lights? The lit bulbs added a surreal ambiance, as if someone attempted to use beauty to mask the ugliness, only the illusion never wound up complete. Very halfway, so Joe and anyone else who walked in continued to see the blight.

Dried blood covered the main living room window and wall, and a giant blood stain remained on the floor, creating a partial outline of who it had come from. Seemed, based on the height and pattern, that Andrew O’Donnell—former OSHA employee and the second of five bodies discovered on the premises—got clocked on the side of the head from someone behind. The young man had stood there, most likely blocked from going out the front door, and blocked from running straight ahead through the living room towards the door in the kitchen. That meant two aggressors in front, and one behind? Who the hell was behind Andrew?

Why didn't Andrew exit where he’d entered? Why not simply climb back out through the bedroom window along the far side of the house, and hightail his ass off the property? He might have had a fighting chance.

No. He didn't.

Someone located behind Andrew delivered a devastating blow. He hadn't heard the third person behind him? Or perhaps he hadn't suspect the third person might be working with the other two. And why would he? The report mentioned officers found rope in one of the bedrooms, the room Andrew had broken into. Someone tied to the bed? Plausible. So, Andrew untied who he thought might be another victim and then tried to escape through the front door instead back out the window? How did that make sense?

Stick with what you know, then come back to it.

Andrew and the presumed victim made their way down the hall, came across Lawrence Boggs’ body, and found themselves confronted by the two intruders who inhabited the house. But, before Andrew could work out another potential escape route, he was struck in the side of the head by a long, blunt object, possibly a tire iron or crowbar. Andrew fell. Only the perps weren’t content with what was either a fatal blow or would shortly be a fatal blow. They pulverized Andrew’s head and chest until… Until what? Until whatever drove them to the violence in the first place was satisfied?

That’s mighty fucked up.

Joe uncovered some answers so far, but additional questions, too. He jotted several more notes down in the worn, flip top black leather notebook. The first two pages of the notebook, now faded, listed his former department’s procedure for investigating and note taking, words he could recite by heart and had made others learn regardless of whether he felt the new folks would ever need them or not. Part of the discipline. Part of his discipline. They learned it, too. Always did, and never a single complaint.

Always be aware. Joe also made them memorize his own personal rule. The officers figured out quickly enough the words might be simple, but also common sense and could save lives, starting with their own.

Speaking of being aware, someone's here.

The low hum of a police cruiser sounded halfway up the long driveway coming slowly towards the house, its occupant most likely trying to assess the situation, if a situation even existed.

Joe chuckled.

Took them long enough.

The officer probably expected whoever was in the house to hide, or, at the very least, run out the back or side door. This meant backup might just be around the corner. He rolled his eyes and made no attempt to do anything of the sort. The house hadn’t given up all its secrets yet.

Joe stayed in full view of the front door so the approaching officer could see him, and continued jotting down notes. Details. Little details. And questions. He definitely wanted a look in the back bedrooms, at the windows, and outside at the back of the house. They'd let him. They damn well better let him. He didn't come all this way to be stopped by jurisdictional bureaucratic red tape bullshit. Better not be a goddamn rookie coming up the way, either. Just one more thing he didn’t want to deal with and probably the first of many folks who'd potentially muddy the waters today.

The wooden steps creaked much longer than they needed to as the officer stepped up, obviously trying to be cautious in case the man inside just happened to be revisiting a crime he committed, or was a looter.

Yeah, gotta get my hands on those dime store Christmas lights.

Another stair creak.

Seriously? If I'm revisiting my own crime scene or looking to steal something and I don't hear this guy coming up the stairs, then I deserve to be shot on sight.

Joe turned towards the officer standing in front of the screen door. "What?" he barked and the officer jumped.

What? The younger man stepped over the tape, opened the door and entered, hand resting on the butt of his pistol. You’re trespassing in a crime scene, that’s what. Want to tell me what you’re doing here?

Joe motioned around the room. Trying to observe and take this all in. Want to tell me what you’re doing here besides annoying me and filling up the room with a whole lotta unnecessary stupid?

The officer's face twitched, yet his demeanor remained professional. Okay, maybe the makings of a decent lawman after all.

Arresting you. That’s what I’m doing. The man’s head tilted to the side. Curiosity? Something else? You look a little famil—

Joe jotted down another note.

Mind telling me what you’re writing down?

How long before that backup arrived? It’d hopefully include a sergeant or someone else higher in rank than this guy. 

I’m writing down something called an observation. Lawrence Boggs was a professional acquaintance of mine, and the way I hear it, nobody in these parts can seem to find who murdered him.

The officer lowered his head. Seems Lawrence's reputation was known even out here. You knew Lawrence Boggs?

Joe sighed. Nothing gets by you, does it? I just told you that. Would you like me to write that down for you just in case?

And you think you can help find whoever killed him?

A better question. Not a great question, but a better one. Let’s just say I specialize in this sorta thing, and I’ve got a vested interest in the folks who may have done it.

Well, it’s nice a concerned citizen, especially an old timer like you, wants to help, but I think we’ve got the investigation under control.

You gotta be shittin' me with this. And you were starting to do better. Not great, but better.

Really? Joe flipped the notebook shut with a small snap. ’Cause based on what I’ve seen and read, I’m not convinced you can find your tallywacker without a map and ‘X Marks the Spot’ tattooed on it in large block letters.

The officer's posture stiffened. I think we have this pretty well under control. How do you think I knew you were here?

Okay,—Joe grinned—let’s talk about that. I know it’s under surveillance. Very official-looking deputy keeping an eye on it, too. Quite astute when he isn’t busy drinking from his red King Seeley thermos full of Sanka coffee you can smell half a mile away. Yeah, I walked right by him coming up here. Even gave him a little wave, only he appeared deep in thought reading about the latest Playmate of the Month. I imagine he’ll be trying to control his tallywacker in a little while and having more success with that than your investigation.

Would you please stop saying ‘tallywacker’?

Why? Can’t spell it for your report? This guy would never make it past the first week on the job back home. Speaking of which, how long did it take him before he saw me in his binoculars and call you for backup? Six minutes?

More like two, mister. The officer's hand still didn't move from the butt of his pistol. And why do I think I’ve seen you before?

More like seven and a half minutes. He twisted his body so the deputy could see the police radio on his hip and Radio Shack earpiece that ran to his ear. I’ve been listening in.

The officer adopted a stiffer posture. Just what the Sam Hill are you doing here?

Okay. Time to lay it all on the line.

I found out a couple days ago Lawrence is no longer walking amongst us listening to his favorite music, dancing with his beautiful wife, and bragging about his children. That annoys me some, especially because he was better than that and he deserved a better ending than this place. Me and Mildred here had the time, so we decided to drive down and take a look for ourselves.

Mildred? A look of uncertainty on the deputy’s face turned to one of faint recognition, as if his brain finally put two and two together and started to arrive at the correct answer. Wait…you’re that retired police captain? The one who just solved a cold case I saw on the news the other night? Mildred’s your gun?

Joe patted his side and felt her comforting bulge. That she is, and a whole lot more. I’ve come to think of her as a best friend who’s never let me down.

Me and the wife saw you on TV. So did some of the other guys. You found the guy who murdered that girl several years ago.

It's good to know some people still watched the news.

I did.

The officer arched his eyebrow. I don’t remember your name.

Murphy. Joe Murphy.

* * * * *

Cedar Rapids, Iowa

Three Days Earlier

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. The police flashers brought back so many memories. Not much of an adrenalin rush. Never a thrill, either. Usually memories of something silly, sometimes borderline annoying, and sometimes something horrific, but never a thrill. A night in the drunk tank for one, an accident and trip to the hospital for another. Sometimes a domestic disturbance. Sometimes a fight between friends, sometimes they weren’t friends, and sometimes the winner even resisted arrest. Not good for anyone. And then, maybe once or twice in a career, something truly devastating.

This, however…

An officer pushed the screen door open and nearly ripped it off its one remaining attached hinge. The rest of the ramshackle house didn’t fare much better. The eyesore came complete with torn window screens, cracked paint, rotting wood along the sides, and a stinking asshole for a tenant. The whole place screamed tetanus trap. Not even Fred Sanford from Sanford & Son would touch the sad excuse for a dwelling.

Several officers followed the one who held the door open, and escorted a six-foot-six adult male in handcuffs outside. The officers’ faces appeared flushed. The man must have resisted. Many did. And it seemed as though this particular suspect intimidated them. Continued to try intimidating them, too. An officer on either side of him held onto an arm, which he twisted and turned, snapping, Don’t touch me!. Typical intimidation technique. The officers flinched, then hesitantly grabbed hold again.

Intimidation was exactly how the man, Wayne Bell—such a common name for someone who performed an uncommon act—overpowered his eighteen-year-old female victim. Wayne hadn’t been pleasant to interview during the year and a half Joe spent on the cold case. Most other folks Joe had talked to over the years went out of their way to fake acting like a human being. Not Wayne. The man honestly didn’t give a fuck.

The officers lost their grip, then grabbed a hold of him again. Wayne glared at them, then turned his head and focused on the man responsible for his current predicament.

"You! Wayne snapped and easily dragged the deputies with him while he headed towards the waiting retired police captain. You’ve been on my ass for over a year now. You think you got me?"

Joe reached up, adjusted his white Bradford Beaver 25 Silver hat, glanced at the deputies on either side of the man, then down at the handcuffs.

Appears that way. Complete nonchalance. Maybe even a little smugness as icing on the cake. Not intimidated in the least, despite a whole lot of dangerous standing a good seven inches taller.

You’re can’t hold me. I got a good lawyer, and you know what I’m gonna do when I get out? Wayne grinned. Nothing pleasant about the expression either. Downright sinister, actually.

Joe sighed. Do tell.

I gotta gift for you, pig. I been learnin’. Something called Death by a Thousand Cuts. I slice a little piece of you off anywhere I want. All over your body. For days. You’ll beg me to kill you. I won’t. I’ll make it last as long as I can ‘cause I believe in an eye for an eye. You’re going to suffer more than a thousand cuts. This will be my special gift. Just for you.

Now who says you can’t have Christmas in September? Joe chuckled and returned the grin. The hell with it. Why don’t you just give it to me right now? He pulled the side of his vest back and let Wayne have a look at Mildred, his .38 Special. Her smooth carbon steel six-inch barrel, nickel-plated finish, and Positive Lock feature, which prevented the firing pin from striking a primer unless he pulled her trigger, were a sight to behold if there ever was one. She exemplified precision and beauty, had been with him all his years on the force, and never let him down. Not once. And certainly not now if called upon. Joe dropped his smile. We’re waiting.

Wayne’s face hardened, most likely for being called out in front of others he’d successfully intimidated. I’ll be seeing you.

No, you really won’t.

The only thing you’ll be seeing, you fuckmonkey, is a bird’s-eye view of your prison cell floor with your ass in the air, wondering when your cellmate, Nasty Booboo, is going to finish before your other cellmate, Strawberry Jam, wants his dessert, who then passes you over to your final cellmate, Sweet Tea, who enjoys sloppy thirds. Now, if you still have any stamina left and can walk after twenty years, then you come find us. Me and Mildred here—he patted his gun—will be waiting.

The two deputies struggled to drag the man away towards the patrol car.

A third man, the sergeant in charge of the scene, stood by watching. Death by a thousand cuts?

The shit people pick up watching Captain Kangaroo.

Joe and the sergeant kept a close eye on the officers while they situated Wayne in the back of the squad car, then closed the door.

The sergeant took a few steps closer to him. The boys and I were wondering how you finally caught him.

Easy—Joe turned and peered at the man—and I’m not entirely sure how you all missed him. The girl’s parents stated they saw someone hanging around the house several times for weeks leading up to her disappearance. They didn’t get a good look, but they described him as ‘big, mean, and ugly-looking.’ It’s not often you get handed an exact match.

Come on. The sergeant shifted on his feet. You’re describing half the people in the county. Level with me. How’d you do it?

Joe grunted. Started with patience. A whole lot of patience. I’m not hindered by punching a timecard or a being handed a large caseload. I can sit down, think things out, and puzzle over it one detail at a time at my leisure. And, if you’d seen even a quarter of the shit I have, you’d learn to trust your gut. Experience has helped me understand anger and desperation more than most. There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Be honest. I also wanted this one. I really, really wanted this one.

The officers climbed into the front seats of the squad car and drove off with Wayne staring out the back window at them…at Joe…the same sadistic grin on his face.

Why? the sergeant pressed.

Joe took his hat off and held it over his heart. That’s between me and a higher power, whatever that happens to be.

The other man sniggered. That’s a mighty big hat.

I’m a mighty big deal. Joe watched the sergeant roll his eyes. Kidding. I always wear it at the end of a case. It’s kinda my signature.

Another officer walked towards them from an area cordoned off near the street. There’s a crew here from one of the local television stations who would like to interview the man responsible for finding the suspect.

The sergeant waved his hand. I guess that’d be you. Maybe put in a good word for us if you can?

Happy to oblige.

Chapter 2

Joe piloted the red 1962 Ford Galaxie 2-door sedan into RJ’s parking lot. Some of the folks in the bar ribbed him about his vehicle for as long as he’d frequented the place. Let em’. He and Betsy spent many miles together and, damn it, if she wasn’t broke, why buy something new to fix what ain’t broken? Besides, he knew he and the old girl had a few more miles left in them together.

The place had to be packed since he had a devil of a time finding a space. Shit. That meant folks came in to wait for him. They wanted news. The old-timers wanted a win. Not a bad thing. A win made them feel good, made them remember the good old days when they’d had wins, and gave them pride in what they’d all contributed to over the years. Retired law enforcement. Gotta love em’, cause they’d give up a drooping left or equally drooping right testicle to get a shot at making a difference again.

Nobody needed glasses to see Lorraine’s eyes light up the moment he walked through the door. Best server ever! Not only did this woman know her customers, but she’d been around law enforcement types long enough to call out troublemakers before they made a peep, and God help a drunk patron who took to causing a ruckus. She’d not have it and put them out on their ass. Yes,