The Front Range Butcher Page 8

  Neil grabbed some water he had stowed away in the back, taking a long drink. The day was warm and even with the air conditioning running, the sun was keeping the temp inside at the sweat index.

  “Only if you’re paying them a visit, let me know where and when first. I can check to make sure we aren’t actively surveilling them. Don’t need you showing up on our video and logs as a possible suspect.”

  “Deal. Thanks.”

  “Are you seeing April tonight?” Neil asked.

  “We had plans for dinner and maybe relax some. Why?”

  “She is a huge calzone fan. Right over there is Mama Alvino’s. You’d score points with her if you brought her home a pepperoni, black olives and green peppers one. They are the best in town. I’m sure after feeding her that she’ll relax your pants off.” He winked.

  I smiled. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Neil knew his sister well, and I had to laugh to myself as I stopped by and put in an order to bring back with me to April’s place, along with one for me with beef and sausage. The smell on the ride home was heavenly.

  When I arrived, I let myself in and heard her in the bedroom. I went into the kitchen to warm up the food in the microwave.

  “Did you go shopping?” I yelled to her while grabbing a couple of plates, while the calzones were warming.

  “I did. Somehow without your help I found a great pair of boots. Would you like to see them?”

  “Sure.” I yelled back. Checking the fridge, I found a couple of beers to drink.

  Out she stepped. She had the boots on, but not anything else. They were long, and black with a heel. I didn’t know too much about boots and fashion, but she made them look incredible. She walked up to me and twirled around, as if at a fashion show, minus the clothes. I was surprised I didn’t drop my beer.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “They were on sale.”

  I stared with my mouth open, “Hard to see them with the rest of your ensemble.”

  “Good,” she replied, while rubbing up against me. Then suddenly she stopped, and sniffed the air dramatically, “What smells so good?”

  “Calzone,” I replied, finding it hard to keep my composure.

  April grabbed my belt and slowly began removing it, followed by my pants, underwear and shoes. I picked her up and sat her on the center island, her legs spread wide, her eyes telling me exactly what she wanted me to do. Dinner would have to wait, as I dived right in and started with her as an appetizer—her moans telling me I’d hit her sweet spot.

  Chapter 16

  April had to be to work early the next day, so after our kitchen lovemaking, followed by dinner, we crashed. I went back to my place the next morning and, after finishing reading through Neil’s folder a second time, I called and left Rocky a message. He called me back about forty-five minutes later and I gave him the rundown on what I’d learned.

  “Information reliable?” he asked.

  “Came from a vice cop I know. Couldn’t be any more solid.”

  “No definitive address?”

  “No. You probably need to pick one of the addresses they have and watch it. If he doesn’t show, then try another. Or you can try squeezing the women for information.”

  “I’m pretty charming when I need to be.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, since I’d never witnessed much in the way of charm from him.

  “Most of your charm I’ve learned has come from the end of a fist or gun.”

  “I at least say please before I shoot them. Not my fault they don’t find me courteous.”

  “I don’t think please lessens the pain of the bullet any. How do you plan to play this?” I asked.

  “I’m not certain yet. Send me the info and I’ll decide.”

  “Done. Do you need backup? Vicente often has a couple of men with him. And I doubt they are there to open doors.”

  It was Rocky’s turn to laugh. “I doubt I’ll need help on this phase, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I’m busy today but should be able to find time the next couple of days if you give me notice. Never hurts to have someone watch your backside.”

  This seemed to tickle his fancy too, as he said he would with a snort and hung up. I sent the addresses and the ladies names to his phone. I was completely certain he didn’t need my help but had to offer. If Vicente was as protected as Neil said he was, even Rocky might require a little help from his friends.

  Today was the day I planned on meeting Simon Lions, the main suspect in The Front Range Butcher murders. After a quick snack, since breakfast had been light, I made my way to the assisted living facility he was residing in on the West side of town in Littleton. The facility was called EverCare for Better Living. When I arrived, the place looked peaceful, with large trees sculpting the outer edge of the property line, pretty flowers in all colors in large clay pots and perfectly manicured green grass. The building was manufactured with brick, chrome and glass, with a winding driveway under a shingled archway with brick pillars to drop off patients or guests. I found open space in the lot, parked and walked in the entrance, where I was greeted by frigid, recirculated air and a smiling woman behind the front counter. She looked to be college age, with a joyful smile, decent figure, and a warm personality to show all who entered that this was the place to store away those we didn’t need or want to care for anymore.

  “May I help you?” she said so happily I thought she might start singing and dancing.

  “Are you wearing tap shoes?” I asked, with a grin.

  “Pardon?” She seemed confused by my question.

  “Sorry.” I was imagining a version of Fame in a retirement home. Because of her age I wasn’t sure she’d get the reference, so I kept it to myself. “I’m here to see Simon Lions.”

  Her confusion cleared up and she typed the name into her computer.

  “Yes, we have a Simon Lions here. Are you family?”

  “No. I’m here to interview him for a news report.”

  It was a small, half-lie, as I was here to interview him.

  “Your name?”

  “Jarvis Mann. I write for 5280. Denver’s Mile High magazine.” I sounded like a marketing slogan.

  “Let me contact his room and see what he has on his agenda. It is always possible he is doing physical therapy. Many of our patients do this after breakfast. You can have a seat, for it may take a while.” She gestured towards the waiting area.

  I went and sat down, finding the hazel fabric chair surprisingly cushiony, one of six in the room, the others unoccupied. Like many waiting areas I found the magazine choices poor and rather dated, laid out on a cheap brown wood central table and a couple of matching end tables. Thumbing through options I found the Time Magazine person of the year issue was two years old. And even then, I wasn’t sure if I remembered why they had been selected, as rarely had a politician done a whole lot for anyone other than themselves and the flock that blindly followed them. Maybe I should suggest the care facility get a subscription for 5280 because of its local stories.

  After leafing through several pages, skimming the content that didn’t arouse my interest in a couple of magazines, my name was called.

  “Mr. Lions is being wheeled down now,” she said. “He likes spending time in the sun, so you can walk out to the courtyard and find a seat.”

  She pointed in the direction for me to go and I navigated my way through some automatic glass doors, past several outdoor tables with umbrellas, onto nicely manicured green grass until I found a chair along a pathway. The cushions were older out here and a little weather worn, but still soft enough to relax in. I saw several other people outside meandering about; a few walking idly, some with carts or canes to help them move along. More males than females, almost two to one, I noted with passing interest. Most were older, probably sixty and up. I heard a few conversations, mostly about politics or sports. There was one older couple holding hands, spending what was likely their last days together, though not saying a word. It was
sad to think life came down to being stuck in a place like this, living out your last days. Many probably had full lives until some illness struck. Kids, grandchildren and even great grandchildren; generations to carry on the family name and values. Life often wasn’t fair on how it dealt a human’s fate. I hoped I went out with a bang instead of a whimper. Though, dammit, I better be at least sixty before my name was called.

  It wasn’t long before a tall Hispanic man in white medical clothes wheeled out an older gentleman. There was an oxygen tank tied to the back of the wheelchair, the clear tubes running up the back and around the man’s neck, the ends stuck in his nose. His hair was thinning, cut short, with a mix of black and gray. The face wrinkled, with sun spots which showed on every inch of skin that was exposed. His right hand tapped slowly on the arm of the wheelchair, his lips moving as if he was singing to himself. Red sweatpants covered his legs, a purple t-shirt with the Colorado state symbol adorning his top half. If this was Simon Lions, it would seem a long shot that he could be pulling off the current string of murders.

  “Are you Jarvis Mann?” asked the orderly.

  I nodded my head.

  “Simon was thrilled to have a visitor today. Weren’t you Simon?”

  His eyes looked my way, but he didn’t speak. His mouth still moving to whatever song he had playing in his head.

  “He can stay out here for maybe forty-five minutes. He loves the sun, but it doesn’t love him. But it’s hard to deny him his small pleasures.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on the time and then wheel him back in,” I said, while checking my phone. It was close to eleven.

  “Don’t get him too worked up. Too much excitement is not good for him. Isn’t that right, Simon?”

  Simon’s eyes looked up, but he still didn’t speak. I was beginning to wonder if it might be a one-way conversation between us.

  The orderly locked the wheels and walked away, checking on some other patients in the courtyard. Simon continued his song, his eyes looking off into the distance. I really wasn’t sure where to start. He wouldn’t know me, so I figured I’d go with that first and see what reaction I’d get.

  “Mr. Lions, my name is Jarvis Mann. I’m here to ask you some questions.”

  Still nothing from him.

  “I hope you can hear me. If I need to speak up, let me know.”

  A complete zero. A total blank expression.

  “I’m here because of some murders. Jonas Diaz sent me to talk with you.”

  This time the words got a reaction. His face changed, his eyes lit up and the mouthing of the song stopped. It was as if the mannequin had come to life. He looked around and saw the orderly was out of hearing range and leaned forward.

  “How is Jonas?” he asked, in a deep, gravelly voice.

  The reaction and the words shocked me. It seemed as if he had come out of his trance-like-state when hearing the name. Unlike with Jonas, he was able to speak clearly.

  “He is good. Sends his regards.” I said shortly.

  “I’ve enjoyed our visits though the years. He made life interesting and challenging with his persistence. He is a smart man.”

  “Almost as smart as you?”

  There was a slight smirk of cockiness on his face now. “Close. But of course, few people are.”

  “Maybe I can challenge you too. Match your intellect.”

  “Perhaps. What do you do, Jarvis Mann?”

  I felt like telling him I caught killers for a living but decided against it.

  “I’m a private detective.”

  He leaned back in his wheelchair. “Jonas hired you?”

  “He did.”

  He looked thoughtful. “I recall another from back in the day. He was no threat to me. Will you be?”

  “Time will tell.”

  I felt his eyes scanning me, a weak smile and slight nod from him. It was hard to understand what to make of it. If he perceived me as a threat, would he come after me as he had Waters?

  “I’m investigating The Front Range Butcher murders,” I said, deciding to stop beating around the bush. “Thought it would be best for me to talk with you. See what you know.”

  “I know much. But that doesn’t mean I’ll speak about it. Jonas knows this, as we’ve been discussing the topic for many years now. He never could shake the fact from his conscience that I wasn’t involved. I had to get my lawyers to finally get him off my case.” Simon was playing the innocent man card, as his first line of defense.

  “Was he wrong to suspect you?” I asked point blank.

  “What do you think? Do I look like a serial killer?” He laughed and coughed weakly.

  “I don’t know what a serial killer looks like. But from what I’ve read you certainly could have done it. There was no smoking gun, but enough to level suspicion.”

  The orderly strolled by and Simon went back into his shell. There certainly was an act going on here. But how much was he really capable of doing? Could he get out of the chair and slaughter an innocent woman in the detail the current killer had? Time would tell.

  “What are you hiding Simon?” I asked, once the orderly had moved on.

  He resumed his charming demeanor. “I don’t know. Are you smart enough to figure it out?”

  I was getting a little tired of him answering my question with a question. I had been warned he used such a trait when interviewed. I’d have slapped him, if it wouldn’t have looked like me pushing around an old, frail person.

  “I think I am. Are you up for the challenge?” It was my turn to answer a question with a question.

  He leaned forward again, trying to size me up. His right hand, which had been tapping earlier, gripped the arm of the wheelchair, the veins of his sun spotted wrist protruding out. His eyes darted up and down, absorbing me further, as if to read every inch. If his attempt was to reach me via telepathy, I didn’t sense it. The interaction was creepy to me, something I’d never experienced before. I did my best to hide feelings from him, giving him the notion I was immune to his powers. He soon leaned back in his seat, his hand now relaxed, the fingers flexing to regain blood flow.

  “Absolutely. Should be an interesting game of chess. I like to play with the black pieces. It fits my personality.”

  “No surprise there. And I’ll be the white knight that will save the damsel in distress.”

  “Apparently not. From what I understand another damsel has died. What does that make now, three so far this year?” Simon seemed to relish in the notion of another murder.

  “Interesting you know the details.” I was studying him for any visual clues but his face betrayed little.

  He sniffed. “I watch the news. It is fascinating how someone can commit such an act. Such detail with every victim and yet no suspects. They must be clever in their cunning.” Simon had the conviction of admiration in his voice.

  “There are suspects. You’re on the short list.”

  “Really? Look at me. Do I look like I could do such a thing in my current condition?” His head and upper body were animated with his statement.

  “When you first were wheeled up, you couldn’t talk. Now you won’t shut up! What is your true condition, Simon?” He was getting under my skin and I needed to be careful not to fall in the cesspool.

  He snickered under his breath so as not to call attention to himself to the others around us, his breathing a little more labored.

  “I had a stroke and can barely walk. I need oxygen as my lungs only work at half capacity. I’d say only a miracle from God or an out of body experience would allow me to get out of this chair and carve up those lovely ladies.”

  I took note of those last words, for there was joy in his voice when he stated, “carve up those lovely ladies.”

  “Jonas told me you could hardly speak and look at you now.”

  “Miracles can happen, even minor ones.” He smirked at me.

  “Were you capable about twenty-two plus years ago, when the Butcher first struck?”

  His eyes d
arted around again and even checked the time on his watch. “I was more than physically capable of most anything all those years ago. But was I the killer? I’ll let you conjure up an answer to that mystery. If you can deduce facts that point to me conclusively…who knows…”

  It wasn’t a confession, yet his brashness left little doubt he was involved, both then and now. But to prove it, that was another thing.

  “Now if you don’t mind,” said Simon. “It is almost lunch time and I like being first in line to get my pick of food. Would you be a pal and push me there?”

  I gawked at him and couldn’t think of anything else to say. I stood up, unlocked the wheels, grabbed the back of his wheelchair and pushed him, fighting the urge to run him into the wall. He had gone back into his blank stare, finger tapping and song lip syncing. He was in complete control of how he acted and when to show what he wanted. Could be part of his sociopathic behavior, though I was no expert. I found the cafeteria and thrust him to the front of the line. I was about to signal a nurse to take over, when his right hand grabbed my arm, with more strength than I expected and pulled me down, so he could whisper in my ear.

  “Be sure to stop by again real soon,” he said with an even raspier voice, that sent chills down my spine. “You only have a few more weeks before the next lovely turns up skinned alive. And I’d love to hear your thoughts and compare notes on the best course of action to take to catch our killer.”

  He released me, as a nurse came over and said hi. But I couldn’t answer back. I was still in shock. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard, and it cemented his role in my mind, though I couldn’t prove it, for there were no other witnesses. It was if I’d been challenged to catch him, or to catch his protégé.

  As I walked out in a daze, the name of the song he’d been humming came to me and my blood ran cold.

  And I wondered, despite the words in the song asking me not to, if I did ‘Fear the Reaper.’ For I think I just met him.

  Chapter 17

  After my meeting with Simon, the plan was to get together with Jonas and Doris. Feeling drained after the mind fucking I’d endured, I nearly wanted to cancel it, and think over what had happened. Still I dusted myself off, rubbed my eyes, and made the call to them both. Besides it was lunch time and I had hunger to douse.