Mr. Snuff Page 2

  Scott sighed as he glanced around the room. The situation was more severe than he had originally imagined. He could not conjure the proper words to sympathize. He was not a man brimming with advice and compassion. In his world, emotions represented weakness. Yet, he was not a man with a frozen heart, either.

  Scott bit his bottom lip, then he said, “I wouldn't worry about that. No, no, no. She ain't rotting in no ditch. She probably ran off with some guy, you know. It's what girls her age do.” Russell scowled as the boorish implication stabbed his tender heart – words thrusting into him like honed blades. Scott shook his head and said, “Sorry. I'm sorry. That was stupid. You know, I'm trying to get this job done within a week. I'm rushing through it, I'm not thinking straight. I'm being insensitive, right? I don't want to lose my best contractor. Come on, tell me everything. What's happening?”

  Russell exhaled loudly as he walked through the living room. With his hands in his pockets, he stopped in front of the glass sliding doors leading into the balcony. He stared out the transparent barriers, lost in his thoughts. He ruminated on the unexpected disappearance of his daughter – where to begin?

  As he stared at the falling sun, Russell said, “Carrie's been missing for three days. She was going out with her friends the last time I saw her. Not showing up one night is normal. I can deal with that. She didn't show up the rest of the day, though. She didn't bring me a 'please forgive me, daddy' lunch. She didn't show up. I reported her missing, but I haven't heard anything. I haven't heard a word from anyone...”

  Scott walked to Russell's side and stared out the window. He said, “Okay, okay. I understand the situation now. I get it. I can help you out, too. We're partners, Russ. Just say the word and I'll help you find her. I'll release the hounds. I've got connections.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Scott, but I don't need gangsters tearing the streets apart in my name. I don't need the mob, I need my daughter.”

  Wide-eyed, Scott cocked his head back like a walking pigeon and placed his fingertips on his chest – a playfully surprised reaction. Russell chuckled and shook his head. His world was dark, but there was a spark of hope in the void.

  Scott said, “The mob? Who do you think I am, Russ? You think I'm some sort of wise-guy or something? You should know by now, I'm a legitimate businessman.”

  Russell sighed, then he said, “I don't want to get my hands dirty anymore. Not like that...”

  Scott gently patted Russell's shoulder and said, “Alright. That's fine. Go home, Russell. Go home and wait for your daughter or wait for a phone call. Then, you call me and I'll have another job for you. Don't worry about the money. I've got you covered. And, don't forget about my offer. I can help you out, pal, I really can.”

  Russell nodded as he stared at the sun and contemplated. Scott's offer was vague, but the proposal was appreciated. Russell considered all of his options. Carrie's safe return was his only priority. He adjusted his beanie, then he patted Scott's shoulder – a nonverbal token of gratitude.

  As Russell departed, Scott shouted, “Call me, Russ!”

  ***

  Russell stood on the cement stoop of the abandoned building and shuffled in his clothing. The cool breeze was refreshing. He stared up at the sky, pondering Carrie's unknown location and his inevitable course of action. He hurtled through a maze of horrifying ideas, finding wicked dead-ends around every corner. The terrifying possibilities clung to the back of his mind like lint in a wallet.

  Russell whispered, “Where are you, sweetie? Where did you go?”

  He dug his hands into his pockets and sauntered down the stairs. He strolled past the towering chain link fence, then he walked down the sidewalk. With a mind clouded with pessimism and anxiety, he did not feel compelled to rush home. Without his beloved daughter, his home was simply a desolate shelter – a shell without significance.

  As he walked through the bad side of town, Russell whispered, “What the hell has the world come to?”

  The distraught father sneered in disgust as he examined each passing building. The dismal buildings were vandalized by the raucous youth – shattered windows and spray paint stuck out like a sore thumb. Some of the abandoned buildings were converted to makeshift homes by the homeless. The repugnant trash littered at every corner was the worst offender – food wrappers, rotting food, contaminated syringes, used condoms, and feces. The grass was always greener on the other side as there was no grass to begin with on the bad side of town.

  Russell shook his head and scowled in blatant disappointment. The lack of self-respect filled his heart with revulsion and anger. The neighborhood he once loved was decomposing before his very eyes. His handy work could not repair the damage like a surgeon could not revive a rotting corpse. With the bad side of town, the broken window theory was proven.

  Russell murmured, “Jesus... Nothing but trash... Ungrateful or just unlucky... It's still a world of shit because no one gives a damn.”

  Russell stopped at the corner of Douglas Avenue and Birch Street. He furrowed his brow as he felt and heard the vibrations coming from his pants. A glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes – Carrie. He dug his right hand deeper into his pocket, then he yanked his touchscreen cellphone out of his jeans. To his utter disappointment, he did not recognize the number.

  Russell answered, “This is Russell Wheeler. How can I help you?”

  In a mellow voice, a man responded, “Hello, Mr. Wheeler. This is Detective Franklin Taylor with the OPD. I'm calling to request your urgent presence and assistance. I'm sure you know where we are located. If not, I can provide you with directions and...”

  Russell interrupted, “Is this about Carrie? Did you find her? Is she okay?”

  “Please, come to the police station as soon as possible. We're on the corner of South C Street and West 3rd Street. We recommend bringing someone with you for this matter. A loved one or a close friend...”

  Russell shut his eyes and sternly asked, “Did you find her? Is my daughter okay?”

  Taylor did not respond. Russell vigorously rubbed his eyes and shook his head, helplessly fighting the urge to sob and shout. Words were not required to explain the situation. Silence was often more powerful than the most meticulously-crafted sentence.

  Taylor said, “Listen, Mr. Wheeler, I'll explain everything when you arrive. I am more than happy to answer all of your questions, but I require your assistance before I proceed with my investigation. My hands are tied at the moment. There's nothing I can do for you now. I'm sorry.”

  Russell nodded and glanced around his bleak surroundings. The city was doused in an achromatic gloom. The world around him reflected his forlorn state. He could not find comfort in his dreary environment. He was surrounded by melancholy and choked by sorrow.

  Russell said, “I... I understand, detective. You have procedures, right? There are rules to your investigation, right? Just... Just tell me one thing. Answer one question for me. What kind of detective are you? Huh? What's your field? What do you investigate? Drugs? Kidnappings? Homicides?”

  After ten seconds of silence, Taylor responded, “Come to the police department, Mr. Wheeler. I'll be here to explain everything when you arrive.”

  Despondent and disappointed, Russell said, “Okay, okay. I understand. I'll be right there.”

  “Thank you. I'll see you soon.”

  Russell shoved his phone into his pocket and absently stared down the street. The sputtering engines and cawing birds could not shatter his dreadful contemplation. He muted the ruckus like muting a television. The call launched him into a tailspin – a vortex of madness swallowed his body and befuddled his psyche.

  Detective Taylor did not have to answer Russell's questions. The answers were sewn into the silence. The quiet disregard was enough to fill Russell's body with anxiety and fuel his imagination with dread. As his eyes swelled with tears, Russell sniffled and jogged down the cracked sidewalk. He didn't bother to call for a lift – the idea did not cross his mind. Run, run, run, he thought.


  Between his heavy breaths, he murmured, “I'll be... I'll be right there... I'm coming, Carrie, I'm coming...”

  Chapter Three

  Fatal Evidence

  Short of breath and drenched in sweat, Russell bolted into the lobby of the police station. His muddied boots stained the pristine white tile flooring with each hurried step. He marched towards the reception desk, then he knocked on the hardwood table.

  Between breaths, Russell said, “I'm here for... I'm here for...” He rolled his index finger and tightly shut his eyes as he browsed his mind for the missing name – it sat at the tip of his tongue. Russell nodded and said, “I'm here to–to talk to Detective Franklin Taylor. He's... He's expecting me. Where is he?”

  The police officer on the other side of the desk furrowed her brow and tilted her head, curious. She blatantly pondered Russell's simple explanation as she examined the man's exhausted appearance. The uncertain look on her face said: is this really the man we've been waiting for?

  Standing with a petite stature and figure, the police officer donned a standard police uniform – a baby blue long-sleeve shirt, navy trousers, black insulated boots, and a badge and tag on her chest. The embroidered name tag read: Kristine C. Moore. Moore twirled a strand of her beach blonde hair as she skimmed through a stack of papers.

  She glanced at Russell and asked, “So, you're Russell Wheeler?”

  Russell removed his black beanie, then he swiped at the beads of sweat glistening on his brow with his forearm. His grizzled hair was drenched in his cold sweat. His brown eyes were dull and gloomy. There was a twinkle of hope in his eyes, but the spark was slowly extinguishing. Moore's blatant doubt strangled his hope.

  Russell swallowed the lump in his throat, then he said, “Yes. I am Russell Wheeler. I received a call from... from a Detective Franklin Taylor. He told me to come here to discuss something important. Something about my daughter. Where is he? What's going on?”

  Moore glanced down at the stack of papers, then she calmly shoved the rustling pile into a drawer. She sighed, then she glanced towards a hallway to her right. Russell glanced at the hallway to his left, then he glared at Moore. Her blasé demeanor in the face of potential tragedy was a slap in the face – a stab at his ego.

  Russell shouted, “This is urgent, isn't it?! This is significant, right? Right?”

  Moore bit her bottom lip and nodded. She said, “Listen, Detective Taylor will be out in a moment. He was already supposed to be here to handle all of this. Let's just wait a minute...”

  “Wait a minute? You want me to wait a minute? I didn't come here to wait. I came here to talk. I'm here to... to find my daughter. That's all. You're acting like this is nothing. You're acting like this is just another day, but it isn't. Do you understand me, you disrespectful little...”

  A cough disrupted Russell's furious rant – a purposely loud bark. Russell breathed heavily as he turned towards his left and stared at his uninvited guest. Detective Franklin Taylor stood at the hall with his hands on his hips, like a disappointed parent catching a child in a deviant act. Taylor could see Russell was a rather pugnacious and hard-boiled man – perhaps a regular character under the circumstances. From his first glance, Russell could see Taylor held his job to a high standard.

  Taylor stood five-eleven with a sturdy physique. His black hair was boyishly combed over to the right, slick and moist. He had a clean-shaved face and a chiseled jawline. His gentle blue eyes were glum and hollow – joy was vanquished from his pupils and replaced with woe. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black slacks, and black dress shoes. His appearance was bland, but the man glowed with a respectful, gracious aura – he cared.

  Taylor grunted, clearing his throat of the clogged anxiety, then he said, “Mr. Wheeler, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. We had something to setup beforehand.” Taylor glanced around the room and asked, “Did you bring anyone with you?”

  Sulking, Russell responded, “No. No, I'm here alone.”

  Taylor gave a slight nod, then he said, “Okay. Well, please follow me.”

  Russell glanced at Moore and nodded – a tacit apology. With his beanie tightly clenched in his hand, Russell strolled down the hall, trailing the detective like a predator stalking its prey. The beige walls scrolled past him with each dawdling step, the doors mocked him with derisive creaks. The detective stopped at the fourth door to the right, then he beckoned to Russell.

  Taylor said, “In here, Mr. Wheeler.”

  Russell stopped at the doorway as examined the room. The room appeared to be a seemingly normal conference room. There was a large rectangular table towards the center. The eight chairs surrounding the table had thick leather cushioning and metal frames. At the farthest end of the table from the entrance, there was a metallic portable television stand; the tube television on top was turned off, but the DVD player was powered on.

  Taylor leaned on the wall beside the table and said, “Please, close the door behind you and have a seat.”

  Russell shut the door, then he strolled towards the closest chair – the seat directly across the television. Taylor sighed, then he sat on the seat to Russell's right. There was a moment of disquieting silence – dead silence. Taylor was planning his methodical explanation, Russell was fighting the urge to throw another temper tantrum.

  With unwavering eye contact, Taylor gazed at Russell and said, “We believe we've found something linked to your daughter, Mr. Wheeler. A potentially significant piece of evidence.” As Russell's eyes glowed with hope, Taylor frowned and said, “But, we can't proceed with the investigation until you identify your daughter.”

  Identify – in terms of police investigations, the word alone was practically a confirmation of death. Russell's eyes swelled with tears and his bottom lip quivered uncontrollably. Once again, Taylor did not have to spell out his explanation for Russell – words were not necessary to reveal the heinous truth. Yet, Russell required absolute certainty.

  Russell asked, “Are... Are you telling me she's dead? Are you saying my daughter is... is dead?”

  “I can't say for certain. Not yet, at least. We haven't found a body, but we found a significant piece of the puzzle. We have a very disturbing clue concerning your daughter's potential fate. But, in order to effectively proceed with the investigation, we require your cooperation. Now, we can delay this for another time, but... but leads can only last so long before they fizzle. There are deadlines in our line of work. You understand?”

  Russell rubbed his eyes and said, “It sounds like murder. It sounds like you think she's dead.”

  “It sounds like we think someone's dead. It could be nothing, it could be fake, it could be someone else. We need you to tell us if it's Carrie.”

  Russell stared at Taylor, trying to decipher the sincerity of his character. The detective was genuine – he meant no harm. The middle-aged contractor grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair. The emotional pain was too much to endure. The mere potential of his daughter's demise was enough to crush his tender heart.

  With bloodshot eyes, Russell sniffled and said, “Okay, okay. I'll help you. I'll help you as much as possible. If it's her, if it's my Carrie, I'll help you if... if you can really catch her murderer.”

  Taylor responded, “Murderers.” With the remote in hand, he turned on the television, then he turned in his seat. He explained, “This is the only evidence we have right now. You need to understand something before we proceed, Mr. Wheeler. I'm about to show you a violent death. It's more than likely a real murder. We'll find that out soon. I need you to identify the victim, if you can, and anything else you may recognize in the video. Everything is helpful.”

  Russell furrowed his brow, shocked and baffled by the revelation. He asked, “They... They recorded it? They recorded the murder?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Are you ready to proceed?”

  Russell stared at the blank screen, gazing at the warped reflection of the room. Watching his daughter's murder w
as a terrifying idea, but he needed absolute certainty. He inhaled deeply, then he slowly nodded. Taylor pressed the 'play' button, then he held the remote to his mouth. The video began with a black screen – darkness.

  Taylor said, “Whenever you need me to stop, just say the word.”

  ***

  Disrobed and weeping, Carrie writhed on the begrimed concrete floor. Her plaintive cries were muffled by a red rubber ball gag shoved into her mouth. Her mascara was smeared from her brackish tears and her hair was damp from her cold sweat. She was restrained by durable rope at the arms, wrists, thighs, and shins.

  As she squirmed, Carrie said in a muffled voice, “Please... Help... Help me...”

  The bulb above solely illuminated a ring with a six-foot diameter. She was surrounded by darkness. Childish snickering emerged from the ominous shadows. The laughter was derisive, brimming with hatred and deviancy. The raucous men were haughty and obnoxious. The show was delightful in their demented eyes.

  A tall man wearing a black robe and a black pointed mask stepped into the light. With teary eyes, Carrie glanced at the man's polished dress shoes, then up at the man's veiled face – she analyzed the threat. The mysterious man held a honed fillet knife with a 7-inch blade in his right hand. He planted the sharp tip on his right thumb, then he playfully twirled the knife around. He was not bothered by the minor stabbing.

  Carrie indistinctly muttered as she wiggled in reverse, helplessly trying to escape the menacing man. She stopped as the back of her head collided with another man's shins. The young woman stared up at the similarly-dressed man and sobbed. The man knelt behind Carrie, then he wrapped his arm around her neck – a vicious headlock.

  In a muffled voice, Carrie said, “Pl–Please... Help... Help... Do–Don't do this...”

  The man with the knife knelt down in front of Carrie, then he gently stabbed the blade into her stomach to the right of her belly button. Although the stabbing barely pierced into the skin, the wound stung and bled. Carrie flailed helplessly as the man stabbed her again. The man continued to stab her stomach, each prick penetrating her stomach deeper than the last.