Part III: George’s Story
(A sequel to Trust the Night)
By: Sara Saint John
George slammed the phone down. A string of profanities ran through his head, jumbled and whispered like the speech of Muttley the dog. He shrugged into his coat. “Crime scene,” he announced and rushed from the squad room.
The trip to the scene was short. No partner, no talk: just the way he liked it.
He parked at the ally entrance behind The Blue Dog Café, and felt no surprise at the location. In his experience, alcohol, drugs and sex made the perfect cocktail for murder. He removed the flashlight from the trunk. Approached the alley. A uniformed cop stood off to the side, guarding the perimeter until the Crime Scene Unit could arrive.
The smell hit him first, strong and metallic, somehow wet as it clung to his nostrils and the inside of his mouth. The taste of blood; he fought the urge to gag. The alley was dim, but flashes of red and blue provided the strobe-like effect of a disco. The flashlight would only be needed for detail.
George saw the body sprawled at the alley’s end. He approached slowly. Black painted the bricks and concrete. Gouts of it covered the victim: wet work poorly lit. Avoiding the gore, George knelt next to the body. He shined the light’s beam at the victim’s throat. From the back the flesh appeared shredded— as if something rabid had used it as a chew bone. It looked like nothing he had seen before. A god awful waste of blood…still, might be a tactic to throw suspicion in another direction.
The body shouldn’t be moved, but hell, he had to know. Tugging on one shoulder, he turned the poor guy over on his back.
Bile rose in his throat and threatened to spill on his shoes. The uniform wasn’t so lucky. The sound of retching echoed off the alley walls.
It wasn’t a mirror image of the Ripper murders – no neat dissection traced the chest sliced by a scalpel forged in hell. But it was close enough. This victim had a gaping hole in the middle of his chest, ragged and imprecise. Indifferent. The monster had torn out his heart.
His gut sank. Vampires, God he was sick of them.
* * * * *
Dawn painted the eastern sky when George finally made it home. Once inside, he went straight to the kitchen and removed a bottle from the refrigerator. He grabbed a glass and poured it three quarters full of clear liquid amnesia. Sunrays struggled to peek through the blinds. George frowned at the unwelcome invasion. Light was a revelator and he wanted things to stay hidden for as long as they could. He poured a shot of orange juice into his vodka, stirred in a raw egg. Taking a huge swallow, he managed not to grimace at the taste.
The breakfast of champions.
Ollie wound his way around his ankles, the cat version of that great old comedy actor: Oliver Norville Hardy. This Ollie wasn’t too proud to beg for a meal. George got a can of tuna from the cabinet and dumped it, fishy water and all, into a porcelain cereal bowl. Let him eat from the good stuff; Ollie was family now. The cat began to chow down.
George went to the living room to flop down on his blue leather sofa. He kicked off his shoes, put his feet on the coffee table and picked up the remote. Punched a button. Bat Out Of Hell II began to play. A motorcycle’s roar circled the room, riding a road paved in surround sound. Meat Loaf’s voice joined the commotion, attended by the thunder of drums and the din of good rock music.
A mirthless chuckle rose in George’s throat. Back Into Hell: appropriate title for this recent chapter of his life. “I Would Do Anything for Love” filled the living room. George didn’t think so. He punched another button. “Life is a Lemon and I Want My Money Back”. Much better.
He took a swig of his breakfast, and sang along with the dirge of self-pity. He’d told himself to slow down on his drinking. He’d told himself a lot of things since he lost Beth.
Too bad vodka was the only thing he had left to embrace.
Ollie watched with big golden eyes as George drank himself into forgetfulness.
The shrill insistence of a fire alarm broke his sleep and he damn near fell off the couch. No, no fire . . . George hurled a throw pillow at the offending phone. “Turn off those bells.”
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