A CASE OF HEARTS
A Short Story
Written by Cory Kutschker
In the black and white mystery pictures, the story usually opens on some dame or unfortunate bloke bled out on the pavement. It’s visceral sure, but in some way I much prefer it than those sap jobs on the lighter side of hollywood ya know? Maybe ya don’t, they have grit, true grit. It carries a true visceral feeling. What I mean by that is it portrayed city life and all the dirt, prostitution, drugs, homeless and all the hopeless situations a person can run into in street life and any walk of life. It showed the true underbelly to life, her dark secret, that under all the glamour she is no better than your average hooker out there moonlighting in a bar somewhere.
I suppose the scene for me opens in the midst of a bleak winter. large flakes of snow are falling around me to the ground. A small slurred trail of tracks follow me to a bus stop bench where I have dragged myself to sit down. I have in one hand a three quarters full bottle of Scotch enclosed in an overtly typical brown paper bag. In the other I have a .38 snub cradled in my palm.
It has been a four-month overhaul of small time punks before I met this spirit of a man, considering I hardly believed him to possess any humanity. His case overturned my stomach. I have lost a considerable amount of weight due to this fact. My previous case had been a pushover, the perpetrator a moron, the current one clearly intuitive.
The case, much like those films, opened with a dame, 5’8 and 160 pounds, not the worst size nor the best. She’d be a good wife but clearly not a model. This one was single though. She lived alone in her small apartment in the upper east section of town. The apartment is a one-bedroom suite. The doorway opened to a large living area with a small kitchen to the left. The dinner/activity table stood against the window, which faced the street. To the right of the kitchen was a television corner with a futon facing the opposing wall. The bedroom and bathroom were on opposing ends of the living space. The bathroom was just past the kitchen to the left and the doorway to the bedroom was to the right.
The surroundings were left untouched. She was sitting at the dinner table with her face in the seven day old chicken noodle soup she had made prior to time of death. The cause for her as well as the others would always be ligature marks at the throat, highly indicative of consistency and pre-meditation; not the worst of causes, considering what was done post-mortem. Ligature marks at the throat, however, does not overturn the stomach of a seasoned officer of the law. What we struggled with upon discovery of the body was the cavity in her head; it was the brain that was found to be missing. The head had been sawed off just above the brow line. According to the coroner’s office this was done post-mortem. Billy, the youngest in the squad, discovered the poor girl and still can’t purge the stench from his nostrils. Shirley, the precinct shrink, put him on a two week vacay while he had the chance to scrape his sanity back into his head.
Wasn’t long before we had five such cases looking us up and down like we were chumps. And those worthless feds couldn’t keep up. I knew this “thing” was collecting. And yet I knew not why. What was his motivation? Why did he need all that collected gray matter? The answers were not coming.
The motivation of a detective is not difficult. we put perps behind bars. Really, it is the motivation for any cop, unless it becomes personal. He, It, found my wife. And what a mess it made of her. This treatment of my wife also marked an addition to its m.o. Its crime scenes were even more sinister. My wife's upper head was found sawed off just above the brow line and the brain removed same as the others, but there was an addition to this m.o. The heart was surgically removed. The m.o. however, was not changed completely as the autopsy reports showed that there were still ligature marks on the throat; still the same signature, still our killer.
The captain then thought I would not be fit for duty given the "delicate condition I was in." He thought it best to suspend my duty, to remove me from the case. Since then, there has been 10 reported deaths all bearing the same signature, the same m.o. The last one was this past afternoon, it is now 2 am, as I sit here with my bottle now half empty lubricating the past half-page of narration. Rebellion, may seem more than cliche at this point. I would certainly hate to spoil the story and have you cast this aside. No, instead I would rather direct your attention to this creep that has taken a seat beside me. The collar of his raincoat has been raised and his wide brimmed hat lowered over his eyes. Laid across his lap is a small suitcase.
"Hello Caleb"
His voice seems to ring calmly and clearly through the air.
"What do you want?"
"Oh, what I want is not so important Caleb, in fact all I really want is your attention."
"You got it creep”
“Not very sporting of you Caleb, calling me a creep”
“But then I suppose the last 24 hours have not been very kind to you now have they Caleb?”
“Nasty bit about your wife and all”
“Perhaps it is better if I start off with a friendlier approach?”
“Hmm, how might I do that?”
“Ah, I know, how about an amicable gift from me to you?” From within his jacket he procured a 12 inch square, brown cardboard box with a red ribbon tied around it and a tag bearing my name written in a rich calligraphy in red ink. He presented this with a black leather gloved hand and placed it at my feet.
“My dear boy, I bet you want to see what I have inside this suitcase, hmm?”
“Let’s have a look shall we?” His hands are steady as he unzips the hard case. It is difficult at this point to ascribe anything, any word, that would remove the surreal sense of what I can see before me. There are 10 hearts inside the case, each strapped down by a pair of velcro bands. In addition, each of them were also held in place by a pin that was pushed through the bottom of the middle between the two ventricles. My .38 slides from my hand making not a sound as it falls into the blanket of snow.
“Quite something is it not?”
“Each one of them so easily tucked in and laid to sleep”
“So easy to steal what provides life.”
“The mind, the brain was the first step, and how so easy they folded to the plot.”
“How much value can you really put on a human life Caleb?”
“You see this case? I have at least 50 more that are empty.”
“But who could pay enough?”
“I will catch you.” I replied in a low growl.
“Oh Caleb, what dizzying heights you seem to live at.”
“You have a view from the penthouse don’t you, Caleb?”
“Yeees, you would revel at the magnificence of catching such a specimen as me, wouldn’t you?”
“To present me as a trophy in which to declare your mental superiority in criminal investigation.”
“Ohh how they would swoon over your capabilities and give you praise, giving you some kind of raise.”
“I can see it in your eyes now Caleb.”
“Take a look at the view, the kingdom which I represent.”
“the dazzling cityscape.”
“<sigh> try and catch me.”
“Goodbye Caleb.” He gets up slowly not before zipping up the hard case and then wheels it slowly down the street, not long until he disappears from sight amidst the now heavy falling flakes of snow. My breath blew out in thick clouds as I picked up the package laying at my feet. I carefully removed the ribbon and opened the box. Sitting atop a crimson silk cushion laid a human heart with a tag labelled simply: Eve. It belonged to my wife.
That’s it, time to ice this creep. I went over to my contact at the harbour, Douglas, a fisherman by trade. I ask him if he has anything that may give me a lead, anything that may give me some direction. I get some news of a spook that has been buying up a lot of ice from him. He has a shipping location, some abandoned warehouse on the east side. I decide to go check it out. I hail a cab. The drive seems to carry on hours on end as the box is burning my lap. The crimson color growing redder with each passing minute. Sure, taunt me why don't you, you creep. Handing over my wife's heart as a "gift", how is that amicable? maybe I'm glad my badge is not effectual at this time. Maybe I will hunt you down personally and perform a coup des gras on you and maybe I will even leave the death to the last. Nah, you would enjoy that too much wouldn't you? Yeeah, you are too twisted, too sadistic to be affected negatively by that; to you that would be pleasure.
"Y'alright mistah?" The cabbie interrupts. Man, he's a cliche.
"Yeah"
"Some piece o' work i'n't he"
"huh?"
"That killa on th' news"
"guy killed 10 in the pas' while"
"boy am I glad though tha' guy ain' gonna be harmin' anybody too soon, if ya know what I mean?" I give the cabbie an inquisitive look.
"Tabloids picked up a letta in his handwrit'n, says he wants to give us a couple o' weeks to figure him out, to try to buy him off in a way."
"great, how do you buy off a psychopath?"
"I dunno but he spoke on the radio 'bout 25 minutes ago, actually jus' before I picked you up. Says 10 were bought off today"
"huh"
"Here we are." We pulled up to the side of the warehouse. The snow was undisturbed, ensuring I was the first there inside these two hours, either that or the wind had blown away any prints. I carefully made my way to an entrance on the north side. The inside was musty. There was not a sign of activity, nor was there anything within that warehouse to suggest anything had been there for quite some time. I noticed that there happened to be an office on the second floor. Venturing upstairs, I crept over to the office. There was a single light on in the office that I could tell through the severely mottled glass. I had my revolver in hand and proceeded to slink around the corner to confront...Nothing. The room is bare, except for an envelope lying on the table, which... is addressed to me? I opened it.
Hello Caleb,
I realize that I was really quite rude for not introducing myself. You may call me John. How are you? You really do seem tired. I suppose you are considerably angry with me for the little gift I imparted to you. And while I am more than empathetic. I want to impart to you something else. I think it all depends on your attitude as to how you take this. Do you not know Caleb just how illusional people are? They place so much attention on something so absurd that they have no conception of how little their life really means. They have their hearts and minds stayed upon something so superfluous that they have invented something of a cycle for themselves. They are in effect lying to themselves. I am considerably bored with humanity Caleb. I am bored with life and yet here is the rub, here is the struggle, to gather myself and continue on in entertainment or to absolutely stop, to die. That is the comedy of life, the irony, the absurdity. Do I continue Caleb? or shall I illusion myself with a sense of entertainment? I must say that busying myself and continuing on with my work is attractive. But can I really fool myself so readily Caleb? Then again it has somewhat ceased to become entertainment and is instead becoming a method of squeezing out existence. It is much like teasing out toothpaste from an already flat tube. I feel much like that tube Caleb, flattened, used up. So what is left Caleb? What is there left to do? Waiting on you.
Sincerely,
John
The letter struck me so heavily that I stood there motionless for several moments. It now made sense, his actions, his motives, his m.o all rang with a kind of clandestine clarity. There was no connection between the victims because we were looking far too close and needed to broaden the perspective to the maximum position to grasp the breadth of this killer's reasoning. Unfortunately where the light was brightest also shone saliently enough to point out the other facts. This thing's trail had gone cold. Another thing I knew, he would kill again, and knew that we would not find him, it. Time to go home, Caleb, hopeless.
The flag was up on my mailbox. The letter was addressed to me and was lettered in red handwriting.
Caleb,
These circumstances are not wrapped up within your capabilities. His actions are indeed abhorrent and certain to cause a lurch in the stomach, but you, Caleb, must not obsess. Ergo the solution is not what you think.
There is a store on the corner of 9th and Bale. The shop owner has a large number of suitcases there. Perhaps you ought to go over and take a look?
Sincerely,
G
There was a cheque made out to me in the amount of $500,000. I caught a cab over to the mentioned address and walked into the shop. There were several suitcases matching the trim and overall appearance of the one that “John” had carried, in addition there were several other models. “How much?” I asked as I gestured towards all of the suitcases in the shop. The shopkeeper gave me a sly smile, “He shops here you know. But he never shows me his face.”
“How do you know who I am going after?”
“Oh, that is quite easy he ordered several suitcases from me as well sir!”
“But, if it would make you feel better, as I can see you are suspicious of me, I can provide alibis for anytime you wish. My wife will certainly vouch for me.”
“Nah, that’s alright, so how much then?”
“For all of it?” His voice croaked.
“Oh I venture the suitcases would land you at…$100,000 but if I might suggest something sir?”
“Sure”
“I wouldn’t stop there sir, in fact I-I-I would get the whole shop!”
“And how much would that cost?”
“Oh, not that much sir…$250,000. That would set me up nicely… a-a-and sir I would also buy out my brother’s shop on 5th. S-s-see that way he cannot buy from this town at least. He’s like me and will give you the same price.”
With the final price and a mental summation to 500,000, I knew what was required of me and from this I had but one sense, hope.
The next day I had walked by my mailbox and noticed the arm was raised. Inside was a red envelope. I opened it and read it.
Hello Caleb,
I see you have bought out the suitcase stores in your town and repurposed them. How quaint. Well I am afraid I will no longer be performing my business in your town. Please give my regards to the shop owners and the precinct. I will dearly miss their abject looks of mystification. So good-bye Caleb, I shall be going up north now. I hear Canada is a beautiful country.
Sincerely,
John
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