IT LIVES IN THE BASEMENT (4 page)

DON’T SIT DOWN

December 15, 1989 Omaha, NE

Two Detectives sat shivering in an unmarked police car, impatiently waiting behind a city bus at a traffic light.  Although the engine on their big Ford had been running for over an hour, the air blowing from the heater/defroster was less than lukewarm.  Barely warm enough to cut the insistent ice for
ming on the inside and outside the windshield.  After receiving a phone call at the police station, the two Detectives were on their way to 1921 S. 18th Street.  Enroute they’d already slid and slipped by three bank signs displaying times and temperatures, none of which showed the same time or temperature.

Scraping the inside of the windshield, watching ice falling and accumulating on the frozen dashboard, forty-five-year-old, baby-faced Sergeant Larry Waltham grouched to his older partner Lieutenant John Carter, “John, don’t any of these damn bank signs have the right time?” Pointing with his scraper, he declared, “Look at
that.  My watch says its 6:43 am, but that sign says its 7:10.  The last two signs weren’t right either.  I wonder if the temperatures are even close.”

His partner, face buried in his heavy overcoat to help prevent the windshield from fogging, mumbled a response.

“What’s that, John?  I couldn’t hear you.”

A ruggedly handsome face, topped with thick, silver hair and icy-blue eyes, appeared over the coat’s top button. Blowing out a puff of steam he said, “I hope not.”

Thoughtfully, Sergeant Waltham said, “Yeah, I see what you mean.  Let’s find out.”  Leaning over, he switched the car radio to a local all-news station.

The traffic light turned green, but the city bus didn’t move.  As the bus’ hazard warning lights flashed on, Larry Waltham voice
d his favorite expletive, “Shit.”

In the predawn darkness, maneuvering around the stalled bus, the car started sliding sideways.  Turning the wheel to
compensate, the car obliged Waltham by sliding the other way.

“Shit
,” he exclaimed again, realizing he wasn’t able to control the car on the snow and ice-covered street. 

Sliding sideways in slow motion, the big Ford lurched to a stop
, resting against the curb on the opposite side of the street, facing the wrong direction.

“Shit.”  Then in disgust Waltham asked, “Where are all the goddamn salt and sand trucks?  These streets are slicker than snot on a brass doorknob
.”

Shifting into park, they sat listening to the radio,
recovering from their white-knuckled slide.  After a long string of school and business closings, the radio announcer said, “Our current news time is 6:50, on a very cold morning in the Metro area.  Our current temperature is minus twenty-one degrees, with a wind-chill factor of minus forty-three.  The air temperature is extremely cold folks, and by all reports, every major street in the metro area is ice-packed with treacherous driving conditions.  We just received an announcement that the Metro Area Transit bus system has been shut down as of 6:45 this morning.  The MAT bus officials state they will reevaluate every half-hour and an announcement will be made when they resume services.”

As the long string of school closings began again, Waltham turned off the radio.  He said, “Well, that explains what happened to the bus.  I guess when they decide to shut down, they stay wherever they are.  Maybe we should do that too, John.”  He glanced over at his bundled-up partner.

Lifting his head, with only his top lip showing over his coat, the older man asked, “Want me to drive, Larry?”

Shifting the car into gear, Waltham answered, “No, we’re almost there.  I’ll drive.”

John Carter was upset, not by the weather or roads, but the call he’d received.  Carter knew his partner had noticed his expression while taking the phone call.  That was the reason Waltham offered to drive to the residence in question.  The house wasn’t even in their assigned area.  But the Detective on the case had called Carter, because the murder scene was the same house where Carter’s former partner, Flynn, had disappeared from four years and one month ago.

Several hundred cops searched the neighborhood, inch by inch, never finding more than Flynn’s car and one black shoe
, which Carter later identified as Flynn’s.  They’d bought the identical shoes from the same catalog.  The weather was bitterly cold that day too, right before Thanksgiving.  Carter couldn’t understand the disappearance of his friend and partner.

The City of Omaha
was shaken by that event, partly because a young couple who lived in the house also disappeared.  Rumors abounded, the main one claiming the cop killed the boyfriend so he could run off with the young woman.  Then there was one outrageous rumor about a UFO kidnapping all three of them.  Carter didn’t believe the rumors, but he had to admit he didn’t know what to believe. 

And now, four years later, a body was discovered at the same location.  That’s why Captain Reames, at the scene, had involved Carter.

Carter and Waltham were heading for a part of Omaha that, back in the thirties and forties, used to be an affluent part of the city.  But since then, had fallen into what could be considered one step away from a ghetto.  The area was now a haven for illegal Mexicans, and the Omaha Housing Authority reports indicated most rental houses had as many as twenty-five illegals living together, sleeping on the floors. 

Carter always wondered why the illegal Mexicans wanted to come to Omaha anyway.   There weren’t enough jobs for people that already lived here.
  Carter had to agree with one of Waltham’s remarks he made over four years ago, that Americans should be moving to Mexico, because the country should be a giant ghost town by now.  Besides that, Mexico was warm.

Carter had his head pulled into his coat
in the manner of a turtle, eyes closed, but he popped them open at his partner’s usual remark, “Shit.”

Before them was a long
, steep hill, cars parked on each side, with barely enough room for the big Ford to pass through.  Halfway down the hill, Carter could see the street they had to turn onto and he understood Waltham’s consternation.  Would they be able to reduce speed, turn the corner and avoid sliding into any parked vehicles?

Realizing they were already sliding out of control, Carter closed his eyes again, not wanting to witness the inevitable crash. 
As Waltham fought to keep some control of the slide, Carter was thrown about, bouncing against his partner and then the passenger door. 

H
e heard his partner shout, “Shit.  Hold on, John.”

The car jumped the curb;
the impact so hard it lifted Carter off his seat, his head smacking the ceiling.  Throwing his arms toward the dashboard to brace himself, he heard a loud scraping sound as he caught a glimpse of a stop sign disappearing under the car.  The rear tires lifted, and they bounced once more, stopping solidly against someone’s chain-link fence-gate, squarely parked on the sidewalk.  Steam hissed angrily from the front of the big Ford.

“Shit
,” Waltham declared, smacking the steering wheel.

Heart racing,
leaning his head against the headrest, Carter took a deep, calming breath.  Looking up the street, he saw two cruisers and Captain Reames’ car.  With a shaky voice, Carter told his irate partner, “Larry, call in our accident.  I’ll walk up.  Come as soon as you can.”

Stepping out into the freezing blast of the subzero wind-chill, Carter shut his door, again hearing his partner say, “Shit
,” as he picked up the radio.

The house in question was half a block away, but walking into that thirty-five mile-per-hour wind, which kept the wind-chill factor at forty below, was almost too much for Carter.  By the time he reached the house, he was gasping for air and couldn’t feel his face, ears, hands or feet.  Even his kneecaps were numb
.

A
t the door, a uniformed female Officer pointed and said sarcastically, “Nice landing there, Lieutenant.”

Not answering, he hurried inside as fast as his frozen body would move.

In the dark, dingy living room, were three more Uniforms, along with Captain Reames, who held out a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee.  “Here, John.  Take the chill off first while I fill you in.  Don’t worry about touching anything, the lab boys were already here.  I’m just waiting for the coroner to come pick up the body.  I’m glad you got here first.  I wanted you to see this.”

Taking a sip, Carter noticed Captain Reames had added brandy to the coffee.  “Thanks, Ray
,” Carter said as they headed toward the rear of the house.  If the Captain’s doctoring the coffee, Carter thought, the crime-scene must be pretty bad.  Even though the Captain told him there was a mutilated body, it might be worse than he imagined.

At the bathroom door
way stood a pretty, female Officer, holding a notebook.  She began reading off her list as they approached.  “Male, Mexican, twenty to twenty-five years, dead at least four hours, no gunshot or knife wounds, at least that we could see, Lieutenant.”

Standing in the tiny bathroom doorway, John Carter studied the crime-scene.  The lid of th
e toilet was up, seat down, each covered with blood.  He could barely see the dirty porcelain for all the blood.  The dried blood was sprayed all over the floor and walls.  The small room reeked of blood and bodily fluids.  In the corner lay a body covered by a thick, plastic sheet.

Carter asked the woman O
fficer, “If there are no gunshot or knife wounds, what the hell killed him?  That’s a lot of blood for no wounds, kid.”

With a shark smile, she stepped around the toilet, bent and lifted the plastic sheet, saying, “This, sir.”

Carter froze, almost dropping his half-full coffee cup.  Stomach rolling, it felt as if he might upchuck the egg sandwich he’d eaten for breakfast.  As his stomach rolled again, then settled down, he thought maybe he wouldn’t puke.

On the bathroom floor laid a young Mexican man, wearing a blue shirt and jeans.  His jeans were drawn to his ank
les, covered with blood and bodily waste.  Carter had seen gruesome crime-scenes during his career.  But he’d never seen the condition of this young man’s genital area, or more precisely, what he wasn’t seeing.  All that remained was a large, gaping hole with slimy parts hanging out. 

Holy Moly, what happened here?
Carter thought as he own genitals twitched with sympathy pains.

The young, redheaded female cop, named Kaslowski, who everyone called Pepper, explained, “Not cut
off, Lieutenant, torn off.  Looks like it took one big yank to tear off his private parts.”  She gave a small yanking motion.  “Of course, without an autopsy we can’t be certain, but that’s what the cause of death appears to be for now.”

The air suddenly became hot and claustrophobic in the small bathroom, so Carter backed out in a few quick steps to wher
e Captain Reames and the other Officers waited.   He took a deep breath.  Reames took out a silver flask, adding a big shot of brandy to Carter’s cup, his own, then to the other cups on the filthy kitchen table.

Bustling through the front
door, Waltham exclaimed, “Shit.  This place really stinks.”

Pouring more coffee from the airpot and adding brandy, the Captain handed the laced cup to Waltham.  After seeing the look on John Carter’s face, Waltham figured something really bad had happened.  Walking to the bathroom, where Pepper was waiting, she began reading off her list again.  She then showed him the body.

Waltham, being one of the like-minded people who thought breakfast was the most important meal of the day, took off at a dead run for the front door, hand over his mouth, making gagging noises.  He never made it.  On hands and knees, right before the front entryway, he retched in uncontrollable spams. 

Hearing his partner’s retching made Carter’s stomach roll again.  He had to swallow several times before he calmed his stomach, the taste of bile strong in the back of his throat.  He feared taking another sip of his coffee.

In an emotional-laden, soft voice, Captain Reames said, “The person who called 911 couldn’t speak English.  He kept yelling “Carlos, muerte!” with the address, then hung up.  Kaslowski and Rickerman were the first Officers on the scene.  They found the house opened and abandoned, with the body where it lays.  Evidence indicates there were at least a dozen people living here, though we couldn’t locate any of them”

Stepping from the bathroom, Pepper took her cup of laced coffee.  “We searched everywhere, sir.  The toilet hasn’t been flushed, and I probed it using a coathanger.  Nothing was found.”

Waltham, carrying his overcoat, walked back in, looking pale and embarrassed.  “Shit.  I’m sorry, Captain.”

Reames gave him more coffee/brandy.  “That’s okay, Larry.  We’re all having trouble dealing with this case.”

Rickerman, a big, young blonde man declared, “All but Pepper.  She’s like a goddamn robot or something.”

The pretty, young woman smiled, wi
nked and retorted, “Oh this is bothering me, but I’m not going to let you big, macho boys see that.” She took a sip of her coffee.  “I wonder where they went to, sir.  Don’t you?”