THE
EYES HAVE IT
By
Daniel Skye
Tom Brooks was a reporter for the Daily Buzz. And as Tom would tell you,
the word truth had no value in his line of work. He wasn’t paid to write the
truth. He was paid to hunt down the truth and exploit it. And that’s how Tom
saw the news. He saw it for what it really was: Mass exploitation.
On this rainy September day, Brooks’
editor had shipped him off to Braxton to interview a man named Ben Loomis.
Loomis claimed to have new information on the Dwayne Urig case. Information he
was more than willing to share… for a price.
And if this business had taught Tom Brooks
anything, it’s that everyone has a price. The truth can bought just as easily
as it can be molded or adjusted to sell a few extra copies.
His editor had sent Brooks along with
a blank check, as Loomis had not bothered to list an official price. He just
made it clear that he did indeed have one. But what that price was remained a
mystery to the staff of the Daily Buzz.
Brooks’ editor instructed him to pay
no more than twelve-hundred for whatever information Loomis was offering. But
when Brooks arrived, Loomis avoided the conversation of money and shifted to
something else.
He invited Brooks into the living
room, which reminded him of something has grandmother threw together once
Alzheimer’s set in. The plaid couch was sealed in a plastic slipcover. The wool
carpet was purple and made Brooks ponder if Loomis was colorblind. So did the
mustard yellow wallpaper, which proved to be an instant eyesore to Brooks.
There was an antique armoire in one corner and an antique credenza in the
other. Even the lamp that sat atop the credenza appeared ancient. Brooks
couldn’t help but wonder if Loomis arranged this place himself. But he didn’t
dare ask. He didn’t want to offend a potential news source.
The fragrance of stale cigarette smoke
hung heavy in the air. The whole place reeked like the bottom of an ashtray.
“You know I was once premed?” Loomis
said in a dry, raspy voice. His poor throat had been ravaged from years of
smoking and health negligence. “I got booted out. Hand tremors. I don’t have
that problem anymore. My hands are steady as a board. But none of that makes a
difference. I’ve got the Big C.”
“The Big C?”
“Cancer. It started in my lungs.
Spread through the rest of my body. It’s rotting me from the inside as we
speak. That’s why you’re here. I need to clear my conscience before I’m dead
and buried. I need to tell you the truth about Dwayne Urig’s murder.”
“Dwayne Urig hasn’t been declared dead
yet. Just missing.”
“He’s dead. I can assure you of that.”
“How could you know for sure? Did you
kill Dwayne Urig?” Brooks scoffed just at the thought of this old man harming a
hair on someone’s head.
“I most certainly did not. But that
doesn’t mean he isn’t dead.”
“Prove it.”
“You want me to show you the body? I
can’t. But I can tell you things nobody but the local police are aware of.”
“So please tell me. That’s what I’m
here for. To tell your story.”
“Save your patronizing attitude for
the next schmuck. You’re here to do your job and make your bosses rich in the
process. That’s all you’re here for. Now, as you’re aware of, Dwayne Urig isn’t
the first resident of Braxton to be declared missing. Several residents have
either vanished or died under questionable circumstances in the past six
months.”
“Yes, I’m aware of this,” Brooks
nodded his head.
“What you’re not aware of, because the
police have been trying to keep a lid on it, is the fact that this is all the
work of one person. They don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, but they’re
leaning towards a man due to the vicious nature of the crimes.”
“Are you saying there’s a serial
killer on the loose in Braxton?”
“That’s precisely what I’m trying to
convey. And that’s how I know Dwayne Urig isn’t missing. He’s dead. Nobody goes
missing for three weeks in Braxton and turns up alive. Not these days.”
“Why haven’t the police notified the
press?”
“They’re trying to keep it under
wraps. Plus I hear there’s some internal dissention in the department about
what to call the killer. You know how all these psychos have a nickname? Half
the department wants to call them the Surgeon and the other half is pushing for
the Optometrist.”
“The Optometrist?”
“Yes, it’s a doctor who examines
people’s eyes.”
“Where’d they get that name from?”
“This killer… apparently uses a
scalpel to remove his victims eyeballs. Plucks them right out of the skull with
the skill of a professional surgeon.”
“Again, how could you possibly know
all this?”
“Get your notepad ready… A month ago,
I was walking down Braxton Boulevard. It was late, after dark. If I hadn’t
almost tripped over her, I might’ve never seen her. She was sprawled out on the
sidewalk, eight months pregnant. I screamed for help, but it was too late. Her
throat had been slashed, eyes ripped from her skull. Should I continue?”
“Yes,” Brooks said, gulping. He was
parched, his throat dried up. He could feel his muscles growing tense. “Please
continue.” Though he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear the conclusion of this grim
story.
“The miraculous thing was that the
baby survived. The paramedics rushed her to the hospital and they performed an
emergency C-section. It was a boy. They named him Ben, after me.”
“You’re shitting me,” Brooks said in
disbelief.
“Damned
if I am. They hooked the baby up to an incubator. Tubes and machines nourished
the baby and pumped air in and out of its tiny frame. It was only four pounds
and four ounces. It fit in the palm of your hand, like a miniature stuffed
animal or something. I’ll tell you, it was adorable though. Precious. It had
the lightest shade of blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Ben
Loomis’ expression grew icy cold. Brooks saw the murderous glint in his eyes
just a second too late.
“Powder
blue eyes… just like his mother.”
