Anatomy of Evil Read online

  Carol walked to her own car and took a prop from the backseat: a near-empty bottle of vodka.

  She brought it to Cece’s car, spilled the remaining alcohol across the interior and wedged the bottle under the seat.

  Carol returned home in time to begin breakfast for Jake and the boys. As they woke up and staggered down the steps, she greeted them with a bright smile.

  She told them, “It’s going to be a wonderful day.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rodney ranted, peeling through the pages of the morning newspaper as Kelly prepared breakfast in silence. She had learned not to respond to his daily diatribes. He no longer sounded like himself—feverishly presenting views in direct opposition to his long-held beliefs like someone who had switched political parties overnight.

  She wondered if the pressures of his job had finally caused him to snap. So far, he had resisted all attempts to get him to see a psychiatrist or try mood enhancing meds. She asked questions about the strange storm he had described to her in a rare showing of tears and its possible effect on his health. He refused to discuss it.

  “Anarchy is the only true state,” he declared from the kitchen table. “We should just let it all go. Civilization is dying. You can see it in the news every day, across every continent. It’s in our history. It goes back to the beginning of time. Trying to impose right and wrong is pointless. It’s forever subjective. It is doomed to fail. All these people who think they can make a difference, they wind up dead or neutralized. We can’t create order from chaos. We shouldn’t even pretend.”

  “Then quit!” Kelly finally screamed at him, spinning away from the stove. “Walk away from your job on the police force and QUIT.”

  Rodney smiled. “No. I like the badge and the gun.”

  After a hearty meal of bacon, toast and scrambled eggs, Rodney headed to work.

  He followed his new morning routine, cutting a path across Rogers Park to pay a visit to his various partners.

  Rodney met with José de Leon in the back room of an electronics repair shop to collect his cut of recent gun sales in exchange for an unspoken exclusive license to do business in the surrounding area. After José, Rodney met with Vinnie, owner of a profitable liquor store, so Vinnie could share some of those profits with the police officer who ensured that the local gangs left him alone, because holdups and shattered storefront windows could get costly.

  Rodney saved his favorite for last, Sonny the Slouch, a perpetually nervous pimp who faithfully paid a regular fee to keep his product from being detained in jail. Sonny’s ladies loved Rodney and gave him free services to express their gratitude. Rodney also squeezed dollars out of the broken down hotel they regularly used as a home base for their illicit activities.

  Rodney often shacked up with Starr, a 17-year-old woman of declining good looks and increased inner arm bruising from drug addiction. “You used ta be squeaky clean,” she said to him. “You use ta bust me alla time. What happened?”

  Rodney buttoned his shirt, buckled his belt and told her, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  Occasionally Rodney’s routine was rudely interrupted by Danita on the police radio, requiring his presence somewhere to sort through another episode of people bothering people.

  Today’s party invitation took him to an apartment high-rise on Howard Street where a man was battering his wife into hamburger meat, much to the annoyance of a neighbor who was trying to nap.

  As Rodney stepped into the small apartment, a big man in a torn shirt immediately declared, “She started it!” He pointed to a dazed, petite woman on the floor. Her mouth was bleeding and her cheek was purple.

  “What did you do to this man?” Rodney asked her.

  “Nothing,” she insisted. After further interrogation, she admitted, “I told him to take a shower because it’s been four days and he smells bad.”

  “I’m tired of your fucking nagging,” said the man.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to hit me,” she said.

  “So what? You hit me too, bitch.”

  “He’s crazy,” said the woman, starting to cry. “Please arrest him, take him away from me. Please!”

  Rodney sighed. “I suppose I could lock him up for a few days, but then he’d be right back here to pound on you again. There’s no point, really.”

  “No point?” she cried out. “But you’re the law!”

  “Don’t kid yourself. There is no law.”

  “So it’s okay for him to hit me? It’s not right!”

  Rodney shrugged. “Life’s not that simple. Right, wrong. It’s not all black and white, baby. We live in a world of gray. You’re a bitch, he’s an asshole. So you cancel each other out and deserve each other at the same time.”

  The man spoke up. “Who you calling an asshole?”

  A television murmured across the room. Rodney strolled over to it. He watched for a minute and then sat down on the sofa.

  He proceeded to watch a cooking demonstration program.

  “I like this show, so if you’re going to continue fighting and screaming, just keep it down, okay?”

  Stunned, the couple stared at him, then at each other.

  Rodney stretched and put his feet on the coffee table.

  The man walked over to him. “I…I would like you to leave.”

  “Or what?” asked Rodney.

  The woman answered, “Or we’ll call the police!”

  Rodney broke out laughing. He laughed hard and long. Then he stood up from the couch.

  “I’ll let you two continue your boxing match,” he said. “Have a good day.”

  An hour later, Rodney received another alert from Danita. She relayed the report of a young man with a gun making threats against another man at a low-income housing development. “No shots have been fired, but proceed with caution. We do not know the nature of the dispute. Backup will be on the way.”

  Rodney headed over to the development, a long, flat series of barely livable apartments. He strolled the weed-infested grounds looking for unit 3-C, where the confrontation was taking place.

  Finding unit 3-C, he stepped slowly to the door and listened. He heard voices engaged in an argument. The window curtains were heavy and closed.

  It sounded like a classic “you ripped me off,” “no I didn’t” squabble.

  Rodney removed his gun from his holster. He raised it. He knew he should wait for reinforcement. He didn’t care. He knocked hard.

  The voices went silent.

  “Police,” shouted Rodney. “Open the door.”

  After a long stretch of silence, Rodney concluded that his request was being purposefully ignored.

  He placed his hand on the doorknob and gave it a twist—unlocked.

  Gun steady and ready for trouble, Rodney pushed open the door.

  Inside the messy, dark apartment, two men stared back at him. They stood very still in the center of the room.

  Both men appeared strung out, emaciated by drugs, filthy. One was older, bald with a mustache. The other was young, tall and thin.

  The young male held a gun on the bald man.

  Rodney recognized the youth.

  “Jamie,” he said.

  Jamie looked at Rodney through thin, bloodshot eyes. “Officer Martinez?”

  “How about you tell me what’s going on here?”

  “He’s got a gun on me, fool!” shouted the bald man, trembling hands raised in a “don’t shoot me!” surrender.

  “I didn’t ask you,” said Rodney. “I asked him.”

  “He robbed me,” said Jamie.

  “Bullshit,” said the bald man.

  “He wanted to score,” said Jamie. “I went to meet him last night at the park near Jarvis Street. Two guys in ski masks jumped me and took everything.”

  “I had nothing to do with
it,” said the bald man.

  “Then where were you?”

  “I was eating dinner with my grandma. She’s 87 years old. The service was slow. I couldn’t just leave her there. So I was late. I didn’t have your number on me.”

  “You sent two men to rob me! Why else would I get attacked?”

  “Because you’re an amateur. Everyone knows you’re selling, you’re carrying drugs and cash. You shouldn’t be walking the streets alone. You’re a fucking idiot!”

  Jamie continued to point the gun at him. “You set it up. Admit it!”

  “You’re so strung out on your own shit, you don’t know anything. You’re having delusions!”

  Jamie turned to face Rodney. “Officer Martinez, you gotta help me. I owe Red nine hundred dollars. I was going to pay him from my sales. Now I got no money, no drugs, I got nothing!”

  “Right, I bet you made this whole thing up,” said the bald man. “Maybe you took the drugs. You’re high all the time. Maybe you can’t keep your hands off the product. You shoot up, now you got nothing to sell, so you make up this bogus robbery!”

  “It’s a lie!” shouted Jamie. Then his arm fell to his side, no longer aiming the gun. He faced Rodney. “Officer Martinez, you gotta help me. You know Red. Talk to him. I’ll get him the money. Tell him how I was robbed.”

  The bald man turned to also face Rodney. “What… What the hell is this? Are you guys in this together?”

  “Please, Officer Martinez,” said Jamie. “You helped get me into this, you know what to do.”

  “Yes,” said Rodney. “I know what to do.”

  “Thank you,” said Jamie with an exhale of relief.

  Rodney aimed his gun at Jamie. He squeezed the trigger and fired a bullet into the boy’s chest.

  Jamie collapsed to the floor.

  “Holy shit!” shouted the bald man.

  Rodney walked over to Jamie who lay dying in a pool of blood. He put on leather gloves. He reached down and took the boy’s pistol.

  “You shot him… Oh my God, you shot him,” said the bald man.

  Rodney stood, clutching Jamie’s pistol. “I had to do it,” said Rodney. “I had to do it because he had just shot you.”

  “What?” said the bald man.

  Rodney aimed the pistol and shot the bald man, killing him. Then he bent down and placed the gun back in Jamie’s hand.

  When additional officers arrived, two men lay dead and Rodney shared the story of a drug deal gone bad. “The youth shot the resident and when he aimed the gun at me, I had no choice but to fire at him.”

  “Two dead cockroaches,” muttered one of the cops.

  Later that night, Rodney slept like a baby.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gary stopped at the florist on his way home from work to pick up twenty roses to present to Emma to mark their twentieth wedding anniversary. The relationship had become strained after returning from vacation, starting with his jaunt to the strip club and continuing through the recent weeks of bickering, insults and her discovery of his porn stash.

  “Are you having a midlife crisis?” she asked him after finding the magazines and DVDs shoved in a half-open drawer, barely an attempt to hide them. “I just don’t get this.”

  He promised to throw it all away and then bought some more.

  At the florist, the pretty young Asian woman behind the counter responded favorably to his flirting and inside of ten minutes he had her legs spread apart in the back room, pounding to a speedy climax before a jingling bell announced the next customer.

  To leave her with a souvenir, he gave her one of the twenty roses, tapping it lightly against her nose with a promise to return one day and “take you away from here.”

  She had her sights on other priorities. She asked, “Can you get me and my boyfriend tickets to a game?”

  Driving home, he felt liberated. He no longer lived inside a small box of narrow possibilities, confined by suffocating layers of self-restraint. His impulses ran wild, set free after years of captivity.

  His glory days were no longer behind him. They were happening right now.

  At home, he expected to greet Emma with a quick kiss, swap flowers for candy, exchange Hallmark cards and settle down for an argument over what to watch on TV. However, tonight Emma had prepared a more momentous occasion.

  Classical music played from speakers connected to her iPod. Rich aromas floated from the kitchen. Still walking gingerly from her hip surgery, she approached him wearing a provocative red dress she had not worn in years.

  She kissed him. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

  “Happy anniversary,” he mumbled. He handed her the flowers.

  She told him she had sent their daughter to a friend’s house for the evening. She led him to a candlelit dinner.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said with a smile.

  She found a vase for the roses and placed them at the center of the table. She admired them for a moment before turning puzzled.

  “It’s our twentieth anniversary,” she said.

  “I know,” said Gary.

  “Then why are there nineteen flowers?”

  Gary shook his head in disgust. “Stupid girl at the florist.”

  She poured two glasses of wine and initiated a toast to celebrate “the next twenty years.” She tried to engage him in more conversation than their typical dinner together. He obliged, a little.

  She presented Salisbury steak with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes and roasted parsnips with horseradish butter.

  After they cleared their plates and consumed a few glasses of wine, Emma stood up from the table. She cringed at a brief sting of pain in her hip and then moved delicately across the kitchen.

  “Care for some dessert?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Me too.”

  She returned with a large apple butter spice cake with cream cheese frosting. “Made this myself, this afternoon.”

  “Wow,” said Gary.

  She brought over plates and forks. She cut him a large piece and then sliced a large piece for herself.

  “Big piece,” said Gary.

  “Big piece for a big man.”

  “I meant yours.”

  She straightened up and stared him in the eye, still holding the knife. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “We just had a big dinner, now a big dessert. It’s a lot of food.”

  “For who?”

  “I burn it off. I’m active. I’m talking about you. It’s not good for you.”

  “I don’t believe this,” she said.

  “I’m just worried about your health, hon. You keep adding weight, it’ll mess up your hip. Why do you think you had this problem in the first place? How many women in their forties are getting hip replacements? You’re fat and you don’t care.”

  “It’s hereditary asshole!” she screamed at him, throwing the knife down on the table. “My father suffered from a degenerative hip and so did his brother…”

  “Good, then you should have been prepared!” said Gary, raising his own voice. “You should have been working out at the gym instead of sitting on the couch, watching TV and eating ice cream. You’re ruining yourself. What am I supposed to say? ‘You look great, you’re hot and sexy, your old red dress fits great, I can’t even tell that it’s splitting at the seams’?”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed and her words came out in a taut, bristling tone. “You’re getting old too. I’m not the only one here who is past their prime. I’m sorry if you hate it, but don’t project that onto me.”

  “I am fine with myself,” said Gary. “There’s nothing wrong with my body.”

  “Maybe not, but there’s a whole lot that’s wrong with your mind.” She grabbed the two plates of cake slices. “Happy fucking anniversary!” she said.


  She took the plates across the room and tossed them hard into the sink, where they shattered.

  She returned to the table, where he remained seated with a huge scowl. “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Then I’m going to bed. Do not come into the bedroom. I don’t care where you sleep tonight, but I do not want you in the bedroom.”

  She tried to storm off but quickly slowed to a hobble as her hip condition flared up, causing her to grimace with a sharp intake of breath.

  “You walk like an 80-year-old woman,” Gary called out after her. “You’re a joke!”

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  After she left his sight, he departed from the kitchen. He went into the den where he sat at his desk and popped open his laptop.

  He delved into a folder of video files drawn from hidden WebCams he had set up in the fitting rooms of his store. He scanned through the videos until he found choice moments, young women undressing to try on bathing suits, sports bras, tennis shorts and other sportswear. He froze the frame on an especially sexy shot of a teenage girl, full breasts and nice nipples, stretching to reach for a clothes hanger, perfectly toned everywhere, not a single ounce of fat.

  He remembered when Emma had a body in this league, a young football groupie with all the right assets to arouse him. Then he settled down with Emma…or rather, settled for Emma…and watched as the years stripped off her physical appeal.

  Gary stared at the freeze-frame some more, then unbuckled his pants, reaching for his erection…

  Thunk!

  Gary heard a loud, heavy crash upstairs, then Emma’s anguished shout.

  “Christ,” he muttered. He buckled up, folded the laptop shut and headed upstairs to see what had happened. He made slow, plodding footsteps of annoyance.

  He found Emma lying awkwardly in the bathtub, water spraying down on her from the shower head, crying.

  He observed her for a while, as if watching a big, sick animal at the zoo.

  “I fell,” she finally said. “I—I can’t get up.”

  “You’re like a turtle on its back,” he said, amused.

  “Help me,” she said. Her voice sounded pathetic in his ears.