DRAGONFLY: PART FIVE

Genre: Horror/Mystery

DRAGONFLY

By Daniel Skye

PART FIVE: THE OUTSIDER

            Tuesday, November 4^th, 2008.

            When Richie Carter woke that morning, the first thing he tasted was whiskey and cigarettes. His breath reeked like a pub ashtray. He rolled over in bed and found the culprit, an empty bottle of Maker’s Mark.

            He got out of bed and tried to shake it off. Bleary eyed and still a little drunk from the night before, he stumbled around as he tried to pull his cell phone from his pocket. It was one of those cheap prepaid phones you can buy in convenience stores and put minutes on. Drug dealers refer to them as burners. Richie Carter refers to it as being poor.

            He dialed his brother’s number and Anthony picked up after two rings.

            “You got something for me?” Anthony asked, not even wasting time with a hello.

            “Actually, I need you to get something for me. I need any and all information you have on Nico Cirico and Mac Wilson.”

            “Are we talking suspects?”

            “Potential suspects. Just get me what you can please, including an address on Wilson, if you can.”

            “What about Nico Cirico?”

            “Don’t need his address. Nico is dead. Drug overdose. His brother, Dominic, came to my office when he heard I was asking questions about his brother. But information on Nico could lead me to others. I also need anything you can find on a girl named Nadia Sanborn. She…I mean, I think she might be the girl on the tape. But I can’t be certain. Not yet at least.”

            “Christ on a cracker,” Anthony said. “This is big. Sit tight and I’ll get you what you need.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t sit tight. I’m heading out to Fairview today.”

            “For what?”

            “To look for Mac Wilson. I think that’s where he might be. Just try and get me an address and in the meantime, let me do my thing.”

***

            Zack Garton stopped in late at Joker’s Pub. He didn’t acknowledge the late crowd that had gathered for one last beer or game of pool. He didn’t approach the bar or order a drink. And he made sure to avoid eye contact with the bartender or any of the bar flies as he walked casually to the back.

            He knocked on the office door several times before Meeks reluctantly answered and Garton forced his way in. Closing and locking the door behind him, Zack grabbed Meeks by the throat and tossed him over his desk.

            Someone had put a few quarters in the internet jukebox and the music of The Rolling Stones drowned out any commotion that could be heard from the office. Garton walked around the desk and clasped his catcher’s mitt sized hand around Fenton’s throat, slamming him against the wall and delivering several crushing fists to his ribs. Then he pressed his trusty 9mm Luger to Fenton’s temple and cocked back the hammer with his thumb.

            “Kirk Warwick,” was all Garton said at first. Then he added, “Tell me everything you know about him and maybe I’ll let you live.”

            “I never heard of him, pal,” Meeks said, catching his breath. “I swear.”

            “That’s not what I heard. I understand you and Warwick had an arrangement of sorts. What was it?”

            “Warwick was a man just like any other. He had needs and desires. So I helped him fulfill those desires.”

            “You’d get girls for Warwick?”

            “Yes. Because of his relationship with the church, we had to keep it quiet.”

            “Is that all?”

            “He used to hang around with two younger guys. They had a nickname for him. Called him The Outsider.”

            “Who were they?”

            “Mac Wilson and Nico Cirico.”

            “Where can I find them?”

            “Nico is dead. Drug overdose. Mac is out in Fairview, I think. But I can’t be sure. Last I heard, he was in jail. But he’s probably out by now.”

            “What did Warwick do?”

            “What do you mean? You mean with the girls?”

            “No. He must’ve done something terribly wrong at one point in his life. The man fears hell more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s not just an act either. And I don’t think it has anything to do with his preacher gimmick. So whatever he did, it must’ve been bad.”

            “I don’t know, man. I swear. I just scored him girls. That’s it. Ask Mac if you can find him. That’s how I met Warwick. Through Mac and Nico.”

            “I will,” Garton assured him. “And if Mac tells me a different story, I’ll be back to collect your heart.”

***

            It took several cups of coffee for Richie Carter to sober up before he hit the road. His car, a gray 1987 Oldsmobile, smoked and the engine squealed and shrieked whenever he fired it up. But it still ran. The engine was in such bad shape that when the car was motionless, it would vibrate. Kids would pull up alongside him at red lights, point and snicker.

           But today, the ridicule didn’t faze him one bit. He was a man on a mission. He didn’t know how he was going to find Mac Wilson when he arrived in Fairview. He didn’t even know if Mac was in Fairview to begin with. But it was a start. And judging by what he had heard of Mac, this guy wasn’t the type to frequent five star establishments. So his plan was to check some of the local dive bars and seedier establishments and ask around.

Somebody was bound to know something about Mac. If he had a past in Fairview, a criminal record, people would probably be familiar with the name.

First things first, Richie thought as he saw signs for Fairview. You need to find a place to hang your hat for the night.

Fairview was a small Long Island fishing community with a rapidly declining population. As the state continued to change laws, add regulations, and raise prices for fishing licenses, many of the local fishermen had hauled up their anchors and set sail elsewhere.

Richie passed an independent gas station, a few bars, a bait and tackle shop, an abandoned strip mall, and a vacant hotel with a glowing neon sign that advertised low rates and cable TV. Richie was disappointed with the lack of a pool in their advertisement, but he supposed the place would do for the night.

He pulled the Oldsmobile into the empty lot of the White Lodge Hotel. The name reminded him of a show he had watched as a teenager. He couldn’t recall the name, but the main character was this clairvoyant detective who used to rave about coffee and cherry pie like it was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

The character, with his upbeat attitude and squeaky clean image, reminded him of his brother, Anthony. He was surprised that Anthony hadn’t gotten back to him yet, and so he phoned him from the parking lot.

“Hey, broski,” Anthony answered after two rings.

“Hey yourself,” Richie said. “What’s taking so long?”

“Sorry, been meaning to get back to you. It’s just been a zoo down here at the station. You got a pen and paper?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Richie said, taking out his notepad and a pen.

“Nico and Dominic were both born and raised in Dorchester. Mac Wilson’s real name is Charles. He was born and raised in Fairview. Did some time up in Riverhead for solicitation and battery. He and Nico were up there around the same time. Nico got popped for breaking and entering. He was robbing to support his drug habits. Nico is deceased, but you already know that. And Mac, or Charles I should say, got out of jail a while ago.

The word on the street is he settled back down in Fairview. He also has a boat out there somewhere. Or he did at least. Don’t have a name for the boat though. No address for Charles Wilson either. He’s not on parole so he doesn’t have to check in with his parole officer. Last time he saw his P.O. he was living in a halfway house. We checked it out and he’s not there anymore. And Nico and Mac have no connections that I’m aware of outside of Fenton Meeks.”

“What about Nadia Sanborn?”

“Nothing on the girl. No criminal record, no family history, not even dental records. Whoever she was, someone knew she wouldn’t be missed, that her disappearance wouldn’t bring about many questions or leave a trail.”

            “Thanks, Anthony. I’ll let you know what I find out here. I’m checking into the White Lodge Hotel as we speak.”

            “Oh, man. That place is a dump.”

            “I know. It’s perfect for me. Talk to you later.”

            “Later, broski.”

            Richie hung up the phone and walked into the front office. The clerk was a young man in a Pink Floyd T-shirt. His bloodshot eyes, sticky fingers, and malformed grin all indicted that he was stoned. Richie could smell it on his clothes.

            He approached the counter and asked, “How much for a room?”

            “How long you plan on staying?” the clerk asked in a daze.

            “Just the night,” Richie answered.

            “That’ll be sixty bucks,” the clerk said, dragging his words.

            Richie opened his wallet and dropped three twenties on the counter. The clerk took the cash and gave Richie a key in exchange. With all those plastic sliding cards hotels have nowadays, Richie thought the key was a nice tough. It felt nostalgic. He accepted the key and the clerk told him it was room four.

            “I gave you the suite,” the clerk grinned. “We had a fire here not too long ago. It was a meth lab explosion. All the rooms had to be redone and painted again. Room four is the only one that doesn’t smell like paint or chemicals.”

            “Why thanks,” Richie nodded.

            “Yeah, it actually smells like cat piss. Don’t know why. We’ve tried everything to get the scent out. It’s the strangest thing.”

            “Wonderful,” Richie rolled his eyes. “Before I retire to the litter box suite, I have a couple of questions I need to ask you.”

            “I have a question too…Are you a cop?”

            “I’m not a cop. I’m a private detective.” He almost slipped and said private dick instead and silently cursed Anthony in his head. “And I’m working a case that has no relation to you. Have you ever heard of Mac Wilson? His real name is Charles.”

            “Yeah I’ve heard of him. Never hung out with the guy or anything. Mac was a rebel, always getting into trouble, starting fights. I heard a lot of stories about him from my brother.”

            “Your brother knew him?”

            “He knew of him.”

            “What about Nadia Sanborn? That name mean anything to you?”

            The clerk chuckled. “Oh yeah, I remember Nadia. She was the old town bicycle, if you will. Hell, everyone had a turn with her. Even me.”

            “Uh huh,” Richie said, unimpressed. “Where can I find her?”

            “Beats me. She left Fairview a while back. Haven’t heard her name uttered since then Not until this moment.”

            “Was Nadia turning tricks?”

            “Nah, she just couldn’t stick with one guy. That was her thing. She never stayed with one guy for too long.”

            “Thanks for the help,” Richie said and dropped another twenty on the counter. “Buy yourself a gram.”

            As Richie left the front office and walked to room four, he remembered the name of the show this place reminded him of. “Twin Peaks,” he whispered.

            Richie dropped his bag off in the room and got settled in. Then he hit the town, visiting a few of the local bars he had passed on the way in. Everyone he talked with seemed to know the name Mac Wilson, but they had little to share about him and no one claimed to know him personally. Until he stopped in at the bait and tackle shop as they were closing up.

            The owner knew Mac, said he used to come in to buy bait. Anthony said Mac owned a boat, and the owner confirmed that Mac had, or used to have, a houseboat docked at Bennett’s Marina. He even knew the name of the boat: The 4-Play.

            Yeah, sounds like Mac to me, Richie thought as he thanked the owner for his time. It was getting late and Richie figured he could stake Bennett’s Marina out in the morning. Better to do it in daylight. So he left the bait and tackle shop and returned to the hotel.

            When he turned the key in the door and opened it, he saw a lone shadow cast over the floor. Someone was sitting on the edge of bed, waiting for him to enter.

            As a private detective, Richie was permitted to carry a firearm. He drew his pistol when he saw the shadow of the gun and kicked the door open. He marched in, Colt. 45 aimed towards the bed, his finger wrapped around the trigger.

            It was the desk clerk, clutching a semi-automatic pistol. His Pink Floyd shirt was stained from profuse sweating. His hands were trembling. Richie assessed the kid had never fired a gun before in his life. He wasn’t even accustomed to the weight. He had to use both hands just to hold the thing up.

            Richie let the silence fill the room. He stood his ground, finger still on the trigger, but he didn’t make a move.

            Neither did the clerk, unless you count his involuntary tremors. His didn’t even have his finger around the trigger, but it was close enough. Too close for comfort.

            “Easy, kid,” Richie finally broke a long and bitter silence. “You don’t want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. Somebody put you up to this. Was it Mac? Fenton Meeks?”

            “I can’t turn back,” the clerk said. “It’s too late.”

            The clerk’s index finger reached the trigger just as Richie fired two shots. One to the chest, one to the face. The hotel was deserted and nobody had heard the shots.

            Richie examined the semi-automatic pistol as best as he could without touching it. He noticed the serial number had been filed off. He had a feeling if the cops dusted it for prints, they’d all belong to the clerk. They wouldn’t find an additional set of prints. Whoever set this up, they made sure to cover their tracks.

            Richie fished the clerk’s wallet from his pocket and checked his ID. Jacob Price.

            Richie had two options; cover his own tracks and run, or call it in to his brother. It was self-defense after all. Fairview was still a part of Dorchester County and fell under its jurisdiction.

            So he called it in.

***

            Anthony made the drive down to Fairview to meet with the local police and speak on Richie’s behalf. The cops didn’t charge him with anything. They wrote it off as a clear cut case of self-defense.

            In the parking lot, Richie asked Anthony to run Jacob Price’s name when he got back home. “He knew Nadia Sanborn,” Richie added. “He might have been one of the four men on that tape. But I seriously doubt it. You should have seen the fear in his eyes. I don’t think he ever fired a gun before in his life. Someone paid him off and gave him the gun.”

            “But who?”

            “Mac Wilson, maybe. He’s out here. Has a boat docked at Bennett’s Marina. The 4-Play.”

            “That mother fudger,” Anthony said. He refused to curse other than when he referred to Richie as a private dick, so he used substitutes. “I got to call this one in.”

            “No, hold off on that. Let me check it out first.”

            “After everything that’s happened tonight?”

            “I can take care of myself. Trust me on this one. It’ll be better if I go alone. A bunch of cops all swarming in at once is a dead giveaway. And if he put Jacob Price up to this, that’s what he’ll be expecting when he hears the news about Price’s death. He won’t be expecting me to come alone.”

            “Alright, if that’s how you want to play this out, I’ll trust you. But watch your back.”

            “Hey, after tonight’s episode, what’s the worst that could happen?”

***

            Zack Garton knew something Richie Carter didn’t know. He knew the secret identity of The Outsider. Kirk Warwick. A dying preacher with a soiled, checkered past. And a man who unnerved the usually cool and collected Garton to no end.

            Before he did the job Warwick had paid him to do, he was going to find out everything there was to know about the old man. Starting with Mac Wilson.

            It was around midnight when his headlights beamed off a road sign that welcomed him to the town of Fairview.

To be continued…

DRAGONFLY: PART FOUR

Genre: Horror/Mystery

DRAGONFLY

By Daniel Skye

PART FOUR: NADIA

            Monday, November 3^rd, 2008.

            It wasn’t hard for Richie Carter to track down Dominic Cirico. In fact, Dominic was the one who tracked him down. He visited Richie’s office that very morning.

            “I understand you’ve been inquiring about my brother,” Dominic said before he introduced himself.

            “Who told you?”

            “Dolph Hendricks. All it cost me was ten bucks and a bottle of whiskey.”

            “Damn that Dolph,” Richie muttered. “Never trust a snitch.”

            “Never mind Dolph,” Dominic said. “I’m not here about him. I’m here about Nico.”

            “That’s funny, because I have a few questions for your brother.”

            “Well you’ll have to ask me. My brother passed away a few months ago. It was an overdose. It was a tragedy, but one that I saw coming. My brother lived a reckless, carefree life.”

            “Did your brother ever mention a girl named Nadia?”

            “My brother had many girlfriends. I couldn’t keep track of them all. But Nadia doesn’t sound like one of them.”

            “Did your brother like to hit women?”

            Dominic lowered his head to the floor, appearing ashamed, embarrassed. “I can’t condone my brother’s actions or his temper, but he was my brother. I can’t speak ill of him.”

            “That’s all I needed to hear.”

            “May I ask what this is about?”

            “The girl I’m referring to, she wasn’t just beaten. She was tortured. They mutilated her. Carved a fucking tic-tac-toe board into her back. Put cigarettes out on her tummy. Violated her. Then slit her throat from ear to fucking ear.”

            “I don’t even want to think of such a thing,” Dominic said, wincing, shaking his head.

            “Well, I have it all on tape.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “The girl’s murder, it’s all on tape. Some sicko filmed it. And Dolph was the one who pointed me in the direction of your brother. He mentioned his name and Mac Wilson.”

            “Mac Wilson,” Dominic laughed. “I’d be surprised if he’s even still alive. He was a major speed freak with a total death wish.”

            “That won’t stop me from looking for him or identifying the men on that tape.”

            “Look, you obviously have a job to do here. And as repulsed as I am by my brother’s choice of lifestyle, I can’t bear to see his name tarnished. I need verification. For my own peace of mind. If what you’re saying is true, I want to know my brother wasn’t one of men on that tape you speak of. Whoever is paying you, I’ll double it if you can prove my brother’s innocence.”

            “If your brother is truly innocent, I’ll find out,” Richie assured him.

            “I understand you operate without a license and you don’t ask too many questions.”

            “People who operate without a license usually don’t. They tend to accept the money and just shut the hell up about it. So without asking too many questions, where do I start looking?”

            “If Mac Wilson is still kicking, you can try his old stomping grounds, Fairview. But before you look there, why don’t you try Fenton Meeks? He lives right here in Dorchester.”

            “Fenton Meeks,” Richie repeated the name, jotting it down in his notepad. “What’s his deal? How does he figure into this?”

            “Fenton is a pimp and a wannabe gangster. He even used to pimp out his old girlfriend. If I remember correctly, her name was Nadia. Can’t remember her last name. But it could be the Nadia you were referring to. I understand your fee is two hundred dollars a day plus expenses?”

            Dominic removed five crisp hundred dollar bills from his wallet and crumpled them in Richie’s palm. “That should get you started.”

            “Thanks,” Richie said, accepting the money with no qualms. “By the way, did you ever hear your brother mention someone named The Outsider?”

            “The Outsider?” Dominic chuckled. “Nah, I’d definitely remember that. Sounds like the name of a professional wrestler. Good luck, detective. I hope when your investigation concludes, you’ll see my brother is clear of any wrongdoings.”

           “We’ll see what I turn up,” Richie said, showing Dominic to the door. “Maybe we’ll both learn a few things about your brother that he didn’t want the world to know. But let’s hope that’s not the case.”

***

To find Fenton Meeks, Richie Carter visited the crummiest waterhole in Dorchester. Joker’s Pub.

The pub was a front for Meeks’ illicit activities, though the bartenders usually remained clueless to these events. Or at least they did a first-rate job of pretending.

The place had dim lighting and reeked of stale smoke. Dorchester was the only county in NY that hadn’t outlawed smoking in bars. The bartenders name was Mackenzie and Richie was her first customer of the day.

She was a young girl, just over twenty-one and she looked pretty as far as Richie could tell under those dim lights. Pretty enough that she didn’t need to be wasting her life away in a dump like this. She had sandy blonde hair and a trim, hourglass figure. She wore sparkling earrings in the shape of crescent moons and she had a tongue stud.

“What are you having?” she asked as Richie took a Lucky Strike from his pack and lit it.

“You got any Guinness?”

“Only in bottles.”

“Bottles are fine,” Richie assured her.

He paid for his beer and drank it slowly, finished his cigarette and then lit another. Then he did it smoothly, casually, removing twenty dollars from his pocket and sliding it to her end of the bar.

The girl looked at the money, genuinely confused. She was clearly not accustomed to getting tips of any magnitude. Not in this dump. For a second, she thought he had left it there by mistake.

“That’s for you,” Richie told her. “And there’s more where that came from. If you can tell me where to find Fenton Meeks.”

The girl paused momentarily. Then she cleared her throat and put on her best poker face. “I’m afraid Mr. Meeks is out of town. If you have a complaint, you could come back later and speak with the manager. He should be in around five or six o’clock.”

“I don’t want to talk to the manager. I want to talk to the owner. Now where is that gangster wannabe hiding?”

“I’m afraid Mr. Meeks is out of town,” the girl repeated, trying not to crack.

“You seem like a really nice girl, but you’re testing my patience. Where the fuck is Meeks?”

“He’s in the back office,” Mackenzie whispered.

“Thank you,” he said, leaving another thirty dollars on top of the bar. He barged into the back office and almost caught Meeks with his hand down his pants as he was browsing porn on his laptop.

“Who the fuck are you?” Meeks barked, slamming the screen of his laptop down. But the volume was still on and Richie could hear the panting and moaning of an unknown porn actress as the video continued to play on Meeks’ computer. It took Meeks a few embarrassing seconds to get the volume turned off and give Richie his full attention.

“I’m Richie Carter. Private detective. I’m currently working for the police. But they don’t know I’m here right now. And we can keep it that way. I just need to pick your brain for a couple of minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you. The no good, chain-smoking, coke snorting, alcoholic with a failing detective agency.”

“Yup, that’s me in a nutshell. Except I don’t do cocaine anymore.”

“Oh, well whoopee for you.”

“In addition to working for the police, I’m also on the payroll of one Dominic Cirico. I believe you were acquainted with his brother.”

“Nico, that bastard,” Meeks muttered.

“So you did know Nico?”

“That son of a bitch was running girls behind my back. I trusted him. Brought him into my circle. And he stabbed me in the fucking back and tried to run me out of business. Not to mention the damage he did to Destiny. She’s my top shelf girl.”

“Damage?”

“He beat the crap out of her. Fucked up her nose, her eyes. They were swollen shut. I had to cut him loose. He was a liability.”

“What about Nadia? Was she one of your top shelf girls?”

“Nadia?” Meeks acted surprised. “Never heard of her.”

“Meeks, you can spill it to me or you can spill it to the police. You want to know what I’ve seen? I’ve seen a video of a girl being tortured, maimed, and defiled. I watched them slice her throat to ribbons with a knife after they were done with her. I watched every sick, twisted, horrifying second of it and now I can’t get it out of my mind. I have reason to believe the girl on the tape might be Nadia. I need to find the men responsible for this. I need to put this case to rest. Now help me or you can explain this all to the cops.”

“Nadia Sanborn was my girl for a while. And yeah, I lent her out on occasion. She liked it. Hell, she’d do anything you asked her without thinking twice about it. That was Nadia. She was rashly impulsive.”

“How old was this girl?”

“When I knew her, she was twenty. But she always looked younger than she actually was. Looked like she was about fifteen or sixteen years old.”

“Christ, man…When was the last time you saw her?”

“A few years ago.”

“Was Nico in jail around that time?”

“He probably was. Nico was always in and out. But come to think of it, I remember him being around when Nadia was. And after she left me, he still used to hang around the bar or run girls for me, until I gave him the boot.”

“How long was that after Nadia left?”

“I don’t know, six, eight months maybe.”

“Do you know where I’d find Nadia Sanborn today if she were still alive? You know how to find her parents, get in touch with her family?”

“Nadia never talked about her parents. And when she eighty-sixed herself, I lost all contact with her. Never saw or heard from her again.”

“So she could in fact be dead?”

“Dead, alive, fuck if I know.”

“You don’t seem too broken up about the fact she might be dead.”

“Hey, she left me, man. Girls come and go. Nadia wasn’t a keeper. She wasn’t the kind of girl who could stay with one man for too long. Nadia enjoyed variety.”

“All right, that’s enough about Nadia. How about Mac Wilson?”

“I knew of him. Might have met him once or twice. We never exchanged any Valentine’s if that’s what you’re asking. Anything else, detective?”

“Yeah, what does The Outsider mean to you?”

“The Outsider? Isn’t that the name of a wrestler?”

Carter sighed. “That’ll be all for today, Meeks. You can get back to waxing your bishop now. But don’t even think about skipping town. I might just be back to see you again.”

***

            Tuesday, November 4^th, 2008.

The words of the preacher echoed through Garton’s mind, playing like an ominous melody stuck on a perpetual loop. Satan appears in many unassuming forms.

What had he meant by that? What was he implying? And why pay Garton thirty grand just to murder a harmless dragonfly?

Before he completed this task, he needed to know what he was truly getting himself into. It’s not every day that a pious man of God acquires the services of a notorious hit-man.

Using his limited available connections, Garton learned of the preacher’s full name: Kirk Warwick. Joined the church in 1978. Was arrested in 1968 for driving while intoxicated. Again in 1972 for disorderly conduct. And again in 1973 for assault and battery. He slapped an ex-girlfriend around and she decided to press charges.

Garton obtained all this information through Dolph Hendricks, a loquacious snitch whose preferred method of payment was booze. A case of tequila bought Zack all the information he needed. Dolph sang like a canary. He knew all about the preacher and his wicked ways. Kirk and Dolph’s father were close friends back in the 70’s and Dolph had heard all the stories.

Warwick partied, dabbled in drugs and alcohol, and was constantly in and out of trouble with the law. Then 1978 came around…and nothing. Warwick seemed to change his troubled ways overnight when he joined the church. But there was something about Warwick’s cold demeanor, something about his disconcerting speech that truly disturbed Garton.

And needless to say, Zack Garton was not a man who was easily disturbed.

           Garton’s exchange with Dolph did lead to one potential source of information on the enigmatic preacher. Fenton Meeks.

            “From what I heard, the preacher did a little business from time to time with Meeks. Don’t ask me what kind of business. They were both very hush-hush about it. But Meeks has his hands in everything. He runs drugs, guns, and girls. He owns Joker’s Pub, the Last Chance Saloon, and a nightclub called the Wild Horse. If you’re going to start somewhere, start at the pub. He has an office there, usually conducts business in the back.”

            Garton thanked Dolph for the information and told him to enjoy the booze. He also assured him that if he ever snitched to the police about Garton or his profession, it would be “last call” for Dolph.

DRAGONFLY: PART THREE

Genre: Horror/Mystery

DRAGONFLY

By Daniel Skye

  

PART THREE: NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION

            Anthony stopped by after four o’clock as he promised, toting a VCR he’d commandeered from the station. Dorchester PD were in over their heads on this one and Anthony Carter was hoping his brother Richie and his unsavory connections could turn something up. They were looking for any information that could lead to potential suspects. But most of all, they were hoping to identify the girl on the tape.

            Anthony gave his brother the tape and Richie invited him to stay for a while. It had been months since he’d seen his brother and he figured Anthony would be able to guide him through the tape. “I’ve seen it already,” Anthony said, shuddering at the very thought of the tape and its contents. “Once is enough to last me a lifetime.”

            Anthony left, insisting it was best if Richie viewed the tape privately. And he soon understood why Anthony opted not to stick around.

            Richie did have a television in his office, an old Sony from the nineties. It still worked, though it only picked up four or five channels. He hooked up the VCR, popped in the tape, and sat back in his desk chair, not knowing what to expect. Even if Anthony had braced him, it still wouldn’t have prepared him for what he was about to see.

            Richie forced himself to watch the tape from beginning to end, observing the ghastly horror that unfolded over the course of three solid hours. Though Richie was fairly certain the tape had been edited, and the events he had witnessed did not transpire over the course of a few hours, but it was most likely filmed in the span of a few days.

            The girl could’ve been eighteen. But she could’ve been fifteen or sixteen for all Carter knew. The footage was grainy and of poor quality, and Carter’s only conclusion was that the girl was young and clearly non-consenting.

            In the video, the girl’s wrists and ankles were shackled to four separate bedposts. The room was dark and the footage was gritty, but it looked like the girl was being held in someone’s private den, possibly an attic or basement.

            The tape cut in and out repeatedly, the girl appearing on her back in some shots, on her front in others. The girl had been stripped of her clothing and personal belongings, and was forced to lie there naked as the day she came into this world. This only augmented her state of vulnerability, and the sight of this helpless girl, humiliated and visibly terrified, made Carter’s stomach churn.

            She cried, whimpered, begged, and pleaded with her four masked tormenters, who refused to grant her mercy. They took turns savagely beating, flogging, burning and cutting, violating, and maiming this poor girl in every way imaginable.

            Richie’s job, and his time spent in state correctional facilities, helped him gain many shady, questionable connections throughout the years. Among these connections were known pornographers and purveyors of the underground fetish market. But Richie needed no consultation to verify the legitimacy of this tape.

          There wasn’t a shred of doubt that lingered. This was no simulation. You can’t fake something that brutal, that intense.

            This footage was clearly never intended for public consumption.           

     

            As for where the tape came from, that was a whole other story. And it was going to be a long few days for Richie Carter.

***

            Richie felt funny about taking money from his brother, but he realized they were in a recession and in the end, money was money, no matter whose pocket it came from. Besides, it wasn’t like he was accepting charity. He was getting paid to do a job. And the horrors he’d witnessed earlier had given him all the motivation he needed to solve this case.

The money Anthony had left him was going to come in handy. Information isn’t always free. But if you need the scoop on all the latest dirt in Dorchester, look no further than Dolph Hendricks. Dolph was a virtual sleaze magnet with tons of seedy connections, and he had his hands in everything from drugs to pornography to the sale of unregistered firearms. It was a wonder he was still on the street. Though Dolph had seen his share of prison cells.

Richie used some of the money to buy a bottle of top shelf bourbon for Dolph. Dolph was a jailhouse stoolie who’d sell his own mother down the river for a nickel. But Dolph wouldn’t just snitch for money, he’d snitch for booze too. In fact, booze was his preferred method of payment.

            As soon as his greasy fingers clasped that bottle of Kentucky bourbon, Dolph took a swig and started singing.

            “I don’t know anything about no snuff film like you asked on the phone, but if you’re looking for guys that like to beat up on girls, I’ve got two names that come to mind–Mac Wilson and Nico Cirico. I did some time with them up in Riverhead. Shared a cell with Mac. In fact, Mac was there for solicitation and battery. Beat up a hooker if memory serves me correct.”

            “So he’s got a track record of hitting women?”

            “Not just him. Nico too. They used to brag about it all the time. Trade stories. It’s like they got off on it or something. Sick fucks, I tell ya.”

            “Do you know where I could find either of them?”

            “Try a phonebook, I guess. Nico got out before I did and Mac was still there when I left, but he’s probably out by now. Nico had a brother, but I can’t remember his name. Dan or Don or Dean or something like that. Oh man, this is gonna drive me crazy. What was his name? Dom. That’s it. Nico called him Dom. I guess that’s short for Dominic.”

            “Excellent guess,” Richie said, jotting all the names down in his notepad.

            “If I’m not mistaken, I think I overheard Nico saying once that his brother lived in Dorchester. Could be worth checking out.”

            “Could be.”

            “Man, that Mac was a prick. Had a heart as cold as ice. Just being around him gave me the creeps.”

            “Is that all you can remember? Was there anything they told you specifically? Anything about a girl they might have harmed together?”

            “Like I said, the guy really hated women. That kind of talk was not uncommon. But like I also said, the guy was a prick. I only talked to him as much as I had to. Otherwise, I kept to myself.”

            “Thanks,” Richie said, pocketing his notepad. He started to walk away when Dolph called out to him.

            “Hey, I just remembered something.”

            Richie walked back and took ten dollars from his pocket. “Keep your money,” Dolph said, taking another swig of bourbon. “This one is on the house. I remember Mac and Nico bragging about this girl they ‘did’ one time out in Fairview. Nadia. I don’t know what they meant by that, but it didn’t sound like pillow talk to me. I think they really hurt this girl. Maybe even killed her.”

            “Nadia? You sure that was her name?”

            “I’m positive,” Dolph said, shaking his head yes.

            “You have a last name for the girl?”

            “Afraid not. They never mentioned it.”

            “It’s alright. You’ve given me more than enough to go on. Enjoy the hooch, Dolph. See you around.”

            “Hey, there’s something else. Someone Mac used to talk about all the time. Someone he used to speak highly of. He never told me the guy’s name though. All he said was that the guy saved him. Nico knew him too. They called him The Outsider.”