Nature of Evil Read online

  “You didn’t suspect the camper?” Dr. Bachman asked.

  “Of course we did. A lot of guilty people are the ones who report the crime. But I didn’t think he was the one.”

  “Why?”

  “We found vomit near the body. The guy puked when he saw the girl. He was scared out of his mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had shit his own pants, too.”

  Angela smirked.

  “Of course that didn’t last long,” she continued. “Within a few days he was on every news show that called him. He thought of himself as a celebrity, the guy who found the butchered girl. I wanted to track him down and knock his ass out. He was running his mouth nonstop when he should have been quiet.”

  “When did the next victim appear?” Dr. Bachman asked.

  “Just a few weeks after the first. She was found in a train yard. Same butchery as the first. It was horrible.”

  “Did you have any suspects?”

  “We had no one,” she said. “He wanted the bodies to be found. Everyone was left where someone would find them. Everyone was a prostitute with a record. He knew we’d ID them through their fingerprints. He gave us the pattern. But he also gave us nothing.”

  “So when did you get your break?”

  “After the funeral. I didn’t think things could possibly get worse. But they can, and they did. That’s one of the things I learned through this case. Things can always get worse.”

  “What was the significance of the funeral?”

  “What?”

  “The funeral, you said everything went to hell after it. What was the significance of that?”

  It was a different question. They had had this conversation a dozen times, and this was a new question.

  “There was no significance with the funeral, just an event I remember. The rest seems like a blur to me.”

  “So why do you remember the funeral so well?”

  “Because it was the first time I ever saw Marcus so hurt, and it made me wonder if that’s how he was at his wife’s funeral.”

  Angela looked to Dr. Bachman for a reaction, but he still displayed no emotion.

  “Everything really went to hell after the funeral,” Angela repeated.

  Angela turned and stared out the window. The sky was blue. It felt like months since she had seen the blue sky. The winter had been heartless. Now spring was finally here. The world was changing. The world was being reborn. The universe outside beckoned again. It was a safe place. No snakes. No missing faces. No pain.

  And certainly no Dr. Peter Bachman.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Death of David Carter

  Marcus turned onto the mile-long driveway that would take him to his grandfather’s house. The sky was a depressing curtain of gray clouds, and the heavy tree limbs that hung over the driveway on both sides made it feel like he was driving down a long, dark tunnel. Marcus could vividly remember helping his grandfather plant these trees when he was just a small boy. The trees were now thick and tall, and it was another reminder to Marcus he was getting older.

  Finally he came to the end of the driveway, and the old Victorian house came into view. His grandfather had purchased the house shortly after Marcus was born and had spent the last thirty-five years restoring it to its original glory. His grandfather had loved to work with his hands, and he always told Marcus that the restoration was not work at all. It was a chance for him to clear his mind and actually feel like he was accomplishing something of value. He had told Marcus the house was there before he was born and would probably still be long after he had died. His grandfather had been right.

  Marcus parked his car in front of the house and climbed out. He pulled his black coat tight against his body. The cold wind was unrelenting, and it seemed to easily find the gaps in the coat’s coverage to strike and sting at Marcus’s pale skin.

  He fished a key out of his pocket and let himself into the house. He shut the front door behind him, and immediately the sound of the wind vanished. It was replaced by the sudden lifelessness of the house, like a museum that no one wanted to tour. Only the steady ticking sound of the grandfather clock could be heard.

  Marcus walked up the wooden staircase and the creaking sounds of his footsteps on the old boards now also filled the air. He reached the top of the stairs and turned right. His grandfather’s bedroom was at the far end of the hallway. Another childhood memory came rushing back, Marcus running up and down the stairs and the hallway, his grandfather telling him to slow down, to walk, to take his time. That had always been his grandfather’s advice growing up. Slow down. Don’t rush through things. Soon enough you’ll wish you had all of that time back.

  Marcus dreaded seeing his grandfather in this state, but he knew it was something he must do. Still, he didn’t want the image of his dead grandfather in his brain. He wanted to remember him as he had been, full of life and energy, always smiling, always quick to tell a joke or better yet a story from his past. It didn’t matter that Marcus had been hearing the same stories for many years now. He loved them and would miss hearing them even though he already knew every twist and turn of their familiar plots.

  Marcus entered the large bedroom. His grandfather had knocked out a wall between the original master bedroom and the guest bedroom beside it. The result was a massive room with a wonderful view of the many acres of thick woods behind the house.

  His grandfather had been a voracious reader, and on one side of the bedroom was a bookcase that spanned the entire surface of the wall. It was so crammed with books that Marcus could scarcely believe the shelves had not collapsed years ago. He had no idea what he would do now with these books. Perhaps a local library could send someone out to get them. On the other side of the room was an antique writing desk his grandfather had found at a local flea market. It too had been painstakingly restored.

  Marcus looked across the room towards the window and saw Leah Grey standing beside the hospital-style bed that contained his grandfather’s body. There was already a king-size bed in the room, but his grandfather had wanted to be closer to the window so he could look out at the sky and the woods below. He had loved those woods, loved to walk through them and get lost with his daydreams. Marcus had ordered the smaller hospital bed and had it placed parallel to the window.

  Leah had her back to Marcus and was looking outside.

  “It was peaceful. Quiet,” she said.

  Leah turned and smiled warmly. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties. Her long dark hair contrasted with her porcelain skin.

  Leah looked down at Marcus’s grandfather.

  “There was no pain,” she continued. “He simply closed his eyes like he was going to dream.”

  Marcus walked over to his grandfather’s body. He looked down at the man who had been David Carter. Had been. It would be tough to start thinking of his grandfather in the past tense. The man had been his hero, his mentor. Things would never be the same without David Carter in this world.

  Marcus turned away and looked out the window. The world seemed as cold and lifeless outside as the dead body just a few feet from him.

  He turned back to Leah. He owed this woman so much for taking care of his loved one. She had been there when his grandfather had passed. It should have been him. Instead, he was off chasing some maniac who liked to chop up women. How much longer could he take this? There had to be a better life out there for him. His grandfather had been so right. He was already missing his wasted time.

  “Thank you for watching after him,” Marcus said.

  “It was no trouble. He was such a kind man,” Leah responded.

  Marcus looked out the window again and gazed at the woods. His grandfather would not walk through them again.

  “Those who knew David Carter described him as a courteous and confident man. He was quiet when he needed to be quiet. He was outspoken when he needed to be outspoken,” Father Moore said.

  The priest was no more than twenty-eight years old, and Marcus wondered what kind of w
isdom the young man could have attained that would make him qualified to counsel anyone. Nevertheless, Marcus appreciated the kind words from the priest. But the man had never met David Carter, never spoken to him on the phone, never even laid eyes on him from a distance. Yet here he was at David Carter’s funeral, offering a synopsis of his grandfather’s life. It all seemed ridiculous, even absurd. Was it all just a job for the priest? Did the priest secretly wish he was at home watching college football or some other form of mindless entertainment to distract him from all the bullshit in the world?

  Father Moore turned to Marcus in the front row of the small audience as if he could read Marcus’s thoughts.

  “I spoke to his grandson Marcus the other day, and he told me what a truly unique man his grandfather had been.”

  Angela reached over to Marcus and gently held his hand.

  Marcus looked down at his partner’s hand intertwined with his own. This was the first time they had ever touched each other let alone held hands. He wasn’t happy, surprised, or uncomfortable with the gesture. He simply took note of it, like a detective analyzing a piece of evidence. Did this mean something?

  “Marcus spoke of many dinners where he would listen to his grandfather describe his travels and adventures across the world. Yes, David Carter was a man who experienced life to the fullest,” Father Moore continued.

  Marcus tuned the priest out and looked around the cemetery. It was an old graveyard, and many of the faded and cracked tombstones had been there for over a hundred years. There were tiny stone angels standing over the gravesites of children who had died far too young. There was a large metal angel that towered over a grave marker. It had probably looked beautiful when it was first cast but now was stained and weathered by the years. The angel almost appeared demonic. In the distance Marcus could see a massive mausoleum. It had no doubt been built by someone who wished the world to know he had been a wealthy and important man. Even in death there was arrogance and pride.

  When Marcus turned back to the priest, he noticed Father Moore was no longer talking. People had stood up and were moving towards Marcus to offer their condolences. How long had he been day dreaming?

  After several minutes of nodding his head and saying “thank you for your concern and your prayers,” Marcus headed over to Angela’s sedan. She was waiting patiently for him. She was dressed all in black, and she looked truly sad. Odd, he thought, since she had never met his grandfather either. Maybe she was sad for him. That must have been it.

  “Did you get to see your grandfather much?” she asked.

  “Not as often as I would have liked,” Marcus replied.

  Angela opened her car door, but she didn’t climb inside. She seemed to be waiting for Marcus to do the same. Instead, he turned back to the gravesite and watched as three funeral workers lowered his grandfather’s casket into the ground.

  “I hope you don’t feel guilty,” Angela said.

  “How do you tell yourself not to feel guilty?” Marcus asked.

  It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He truly hoped she knew how.

  At that moment Marcus noticed a lone figure in the distance. She was standing in front of the mausoleum he had been staring at earlier. Marcus clearly recognized the person as his grandfather’s caretaker, Leah Grey. It was freezing outside, but Leah wasn’t wearing a coat, and yet she didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold at all. She just stared at Marcus.

  Angela followed Marcus’s gaze.

  “What are you looking at?” Angela asked.

  Marcus ignored her question and began to walk towards Leah. She continued to stare at him, not saying a word. The cold wind blew her hair across her face. She didn’t bother to push her hair away. She also didn’t shudder from the cold. How could she not? Marcus thought. He was wearing a heavy coat, and he was still shivering.

  With each step towards Leah, Marcus’s pace quickened.

  Angela began to head after Marcus. Where was he going in such a hurry?

  “Marcus!” Angela yelled.

  Marcus turned to Angela. Her voice was somewhat distressed. What was wrong?

  He turned back to the mausoleum, but Leah was now gone. He quickly scanned the cemetery, but she was nowhere to be found. Where could she have gone?

  Angela finally caught up with Marcus. He looked worried, shaken.

  “Where were you going?” she asked.

  Marcus continued to look for Leah, but all he saw was the tombstones.

  “Did you see where she went?” Marcus asked.

  He turned to Angela and could tell by the confused look on her face that she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “You didn’t see her?” he asked.

  “See who?”

  Marcus looked across the cemetery one last time. Leah had vanished.

  CHAPTER 4

  Nothing Has Changed

  Journal Entry: Rome, October 10, 1948

  It’s been almost a month since the incident with Bianca Rossi. Is it strange that I rarely think of her? I only thought of her today because I found myself walking past the alley where her life ended. It was quite an odd sensation. I was with Father Moretti, and suddenly I realized the significance of the alley we were standing in front of.

  I don’t think he noticed any change in my expression or demeanor for he never let up in his conversation. He spoke nonstop about how God had spoken to him recently. He’s so convinced he’s finally in the right place. It was difficult for me not to laugh at his hypocrisy. He had spent many years working in the orphanage. I know he had done good work, and I would never criticize his accomplishments there. But why was that not the right place for him? Does God not want us to take care of the smallest and weakest among his flock? Does Father Moretti think God wants him here among the columns of marble? Is that his reward for his obedience? But isn’t our reward not of this world? Moretti feels so confident he hears God’s voice. How? What does it sound like? Is the voice filled with clear words or is it a feeling? And if it’s a feeling, how does one know it isn’t just the flawed result of our own wants and desires?

  This past month has been filled with nothing but routines for me. Routine activities. Routine questions. Routine frustrations. There is no change in the way I feel, no alteration in the way people look at me.

  At first I was convinced they would see the difference in me. Surely they would realize what I had done to another person. But they didn’t then, and they haven’t still. My life hasn’t changed in any way. There has been no bad luck to befall me. He hasn’t seemed to notice either.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Corruption of Eva Parks

  Present Day.

  Marcus had entered Donnie’s at the right moment to snag an empty booth in the back. The bar was almost always packed. Good location. Good beer. Decent prices. Marcus came here often to lose himself in the crowds. He never talked to anyone. Just drank a few beers and thought about whatever was bothering him. Unfortunately, there was no shortage of bothers these days.

  Tonight he thought about Leah Grey. Where could she have disappeared to in the cemetery? She had looked distraught, and that concerned him. He owed Leah big. She had taken tremendous care of his grandfather. He knew it was a job for her, and she ultimately did it for the money. But he also knew that she truly liked his grandfather. If not, she did a damn good job of pretending that she did.

  The waitress delivered his third beer and her presence at the table snapped him out of his deep thought. He nodded a polite thank you and took a long pull from the bottle.

  He looked at his watch. It was nearing ten p.m. He had called Eva Parks a while ago and arranged a meeting at the motel. The hour before his meetings with Eva was always a mixture of excitement and regret.

  Before his wife died, he had never used a prostitute before, never even been tempted to. But this would be his seventh time with Eva. He had found her body easily aroused him. It was toned and long, and he knew exactly what to expect from her performance. Sometimes he even fo
und himself thinking of Eva the day or two before being with her. He only visited the prostitutes on Friday nights. He tended to not even think about them until late that afternoon. But with Eva it was getting different. This bothered him. Made him feel guilty, even worried.

  Marcus’s wife had been dead for over five years now. For the first four and a half years he had been with no one, never even been on a date.

  He had surprised himself, even shocked himself, when he first visited a prostitute. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. And he didn’t second guess it at all. It was as if his body needed the sex and was determined to get it, regardless of what his mind thought. True, he wouldn’t be the first man to be with a prostitute. But he never saw himself as that kind of guy. He wanted to be above that. But now it was obvious he wasn’t. And that shamed him.

  Marcus finished his beer and dropped cash on the table for the waitress. He made his way through the crowd towards the front door.

  Marcus stood naked at the foot of the bed in the motel. Eva was kneeling on the bed, and she had Marcus in her mouth. She moved slowly back and forth, applying pressure and then easing up as she stroked the base of his penis.

  Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He was temporarily lost in the pleasure. He gently pushed her away and turned her around so that she was facing away from him. He entered her from behind. The feeling was intense. This was the only position he would take with the prostitutes during sex. He didn’t want to look at their faces. He didn’t want to know their names. He had broken that rule by asking Eva’s name after their third time together. Why had he done that? He assumed she had given him a fake name. At least he didn’t know her real name.

  Marcus ran his eyes down Eva’s back, and rubbed his hands against the sides of her ass. He could feel himself grow even harder inside her. Eva moaned and arched her head back. It was not the robotic-sounding moan he had experienced with some of the other prostitutes. He knew Eva was faking it though. This was just a job to her, and he probably even disgusted her. But he appreciated the fact that she at least tried to act like she was enjoying it somewhat. Everyone is delusional, he thought. Everyone plays games. There is no truth. He was no different.