Tears of Blood, Ch. 7

Ben spent most of the afternoon walking through the downtown antique shops and other stores, though spending most of the time at the Charleston Museum of Local Art and found a Spirit Jug for Ray. Most of the art consisted of water colors depicting local birds and wildlife, or paintings of the famous Rainbow Row: a street of houses built together, only distinguished as separate buildings by a different architectural style or pastel colored paint. He selected a painting of the houses along The Battery being hard hit by rain in a dark storm.

Ray, as usual, was on his laptop or in a book. He had purchased a thriller along with his research material, but could not keep his mind off how the case had turned now that he had figured out where the killer had gotten the ideas for his acts. Around four he decided he would take Ben’s prescription for great afternoon: a hot bath and a nap. When the phone rang he was glad there was such a thing as the portable type he had set by the tub.

“Hello…no it isn’t, this is Detective Lanier, his partner, may I help you or take a message?”

“This is Manuel Castillo, we met at a couple nights ago and the two of you said to call I thought of anything, and I may have.”

“Right. I remember you, and the information you gave us helped a great deal. What else do you think might be of use?”

“Every afternoon my best friend calls me to see if I want to go out to dinner or anything, and he hasn’t called in two. Detective Lanier, I know he was a friend of Justin Ross, the guy from The Battery.”

“Manuel,” Ray began as he was getting out of the tub and trying to hold the phone to his ear by the use of his shoulder while he dried of his body, “do you have a picture of him?”

“Yes, in fact I have one from last week taken at a frat party.”

“I know this sounds awful, and probably premature, but there have been other murders, and all around the same age as Justin. Do you want to come to the morgue to look at them?”

“I knew you were going to ask that so I waited all day till I had the nerve to say yes.”

“So you will?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Great. And thank you so much. I have about three hours till I have to pick Ben up for dinner. He’s roaming around downtown. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes to pick you up.”

“Thirty minutes. Got it. I’ll call down to the front desk guard and give him your name and expected time so he will let you up. See you then, Detective. Thanks.”

“No, thank you.”

Ray hurried into a pair of 501’s and his new Harley shirt. He passed himself in the mirror and thought he looked pretty good. He didn’t want to cheat behind Ben’s back, but like everybody he wanted to impress and show what he had to offer. He stopped by the front desk and asked Darryl, the owner, for directions to the Citadel, and got them along with a smile as if he were going there for fun.

“Oh, and Mister Lanier, this letter came for you,” Darryl said on Ray’s way out.

Ray found the school with no problem at all. It looked like a huge, working fort, complete with checkerboard courtyard that Ray crossed, enjoying the clomping noise that his boots made as each foot hit the paved surface. As soon as he noticed another set of shoes, he heard his name being called from behind. Turning around he saw the usually smiling face of Aubrey Vaughn disguised by a worried expression.

“Where are you going, Ray?”

“Over to building number…what’s going on?” Ben asked, seeing more police rounding the corner and sensing tenseness in Aubrey’s voice. “What the hell is going on!” he repeated nervously loud.

“Are you going to see a Cadet Manuel Castillo?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“The was a note left in his room for you. It said ‘Tell Detective Lanier ‘hi’ for me.’ It was Scotch taped to Manuel’s forehead. His telephone was duct taped across his mouth and all the way up to his hairline. The tape covered his mouth and nose, Ray. He suffocated. There was a large magazine cut-out of a clown’s mouth over the phone and his own mouth.”

“He was our anonymous source, Sergeant Vaughn. I got a call about thirty minutes ago that he had more information. Our Marquis reincarnate must have been listening in on another line.”

“Ray, this guy was fully clothed and no torture.”

“Exactly. In Sade’s time, the punishment fit the crime: if you stole, you lost your hands. Manuel talked, so his mouth was sealed, and the phone was just a little twist sick enough to be his work. The duct tape covering his face was a forced symbol that he was ashamed for squealing and was hiding his face. Damn.”

“Do you have any idea what this information he had was?”

“Something about his best friend that he hasn’t seen in a couple days. We need to go to his room and look for a picture. He said he had one of him and his best friend, a recent picture taken at a frat party. Just the two of them. I remember college, and I know there are frat parties all the time. He may have pictures from dozens of them, but it’s a start.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Two hours of searching, and no pictures of him with anyone, let alone at a frat party,” Sergeant Vaughn exclaimed.

“I’m thinking of two reasons. Reason Number 1: Whomever overheard him knew he had the pic and Manuel had it here on his desk, where the killer saw and took it, or Reason Number 2: There never was a picture, the guy that called wasn’t Manuel but he was the killer luring me here to find the body and think of Reason Number 1.”

“But Ray, why would he do Reason Number 2?”

“From my research yesterday I remember another quote of the Marquis- ‘Happiness is a god of our own construction, He who would seize it finds only an illusion’. If the killer constructed happiness with that clown’s mouth, maybe we found an illusion.”