The Case Of A Head Collector. Adult. (standard:mystery, 3239 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 23 2020	Views/Reads: 1302/876	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A private eye aides a lost teenager and finds himself in deep doodoo.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

bastard-beater extended, the inch wide lead ball waving in a 
figure-eight pattern. Intimidating as hell but next to useless if his 
opponent was reaching for a firearm. 

"Hey, man. Hold on a minute," the other man said, spreading both arms
wide. Something in his hand flashed. It was a badge! A fucking badge?  
"Marshall Fields, security. Man. She's a shoplifter." 

"Frickin' rent-a-cop. Think you're big shi--" the captive started. 

"Can it, bit--" The guard looked back at Sam, that shifting lead ball
seeming to mesmerize him, changing the reply to. "girlie." With a 
smile, he turned to his companion, a hulking but grinning 
brutish-looking guy. At that early hour, the PI thought, he was 
probably a janitor. "Let's get her back to the security office and call 
the police." 

Feeling a relief of tension, Sam asked while replacing his weapon, "What
she steal?" 

"Joey, here, left the basement door open while he took out the trash.
She must'a seen it and come in that way. I saw her from the locker 
room. I was getting ready to put my uniform on." 

"Yeah. But what she steal?" 

"She looked scared when she saw me. Dressed like that, I knew she wasn't
a clerk." 

"But what, what did she steal?" 

He considered. "Well, prolly nothin' ... yet. But she would'a." 

"What you gonna tell the police?" Sam asked, gently. "A stranger
wandered in, didn't take anything? Let me tell you, I'm an ex-cop. You 
call me out at five in the morning on a cold fucking day. You know what 
I'd think? I'd be pissed, you know ... very pissed." Sam grinned at the 
kid. "I'd lose at least a half-cup'a coffee and maybe a donut." 

"I see. Better let'er go, Joey." 

"She one hell'a fighter, Mike. Gotta say that, man." 

"I should call'a cops myself, mister." She pulled her clothing together.
A long gray coat covered a torn blouse. "That big bastard was feeling 
me up, the fucking frea--" 

"No I weren't. I thought she had a kni--" 

"Cut it out, Joey. Let's get back in where it's warm." 

When the door slammed, Sam turned back to his mission -- coffee, then to
the office. Smiling at the girl, he turned to retrace his steps. 

"Mister. Mister? Thanks, mister." 

He ignored her, kept walking. 

The patter of feet came closer. 

"Mister. Thanks, mister. They would'a--" 

"They didn't." 

"I'm hungry. Ain't ate for days." 

"So? Turn a trick." 

"What's at? What kind of a trick? Like sing, maybe?" 

Shit! He stopped and turned around. She stood there, baby face, wide
eyes, waiting for an answer. With the people he dealt with, often the 
dregs of society, Sam tended to forget some people didn't know what a 
"trick" was, weren't streetwise. Fuck it. He sighed. It was near 
Christmas, after all. "Come on. I'll buy you breakfast." 

* 

Louie's diner was busy. The semi-retired detective had screwed around
too long. All the seats were taken. It was around six and night workers 
were leaving work, some stopping in for breakfast before going home.  
Day-shift people also came in, wanting a spot to eat before going on to 
work. 

"They're full," she observed. 

"No shit. Wait here. I'll get something to go. We can eat at my office."


He saw a shadow cross her face and could imagine what she was thinking.
That just because we was her savior didn't mean he wouldn't turn on her 
later. Tough. If she left, no big deal. He'd have leftovers for later. 

When he came back out with a sack of food, she was still there, waiting
just inside the double doors, where it was warm. 

"Come on. It's only a couple blocks." Dutifully, she followed closely,
probably using his sheer bulk as a moving windbreak. 

Sam's office was on the third floor of the Jablonski Building. Sometimes
the elevator worked, mostly not. Currently his rented space, "Samuel 
Musscosolvo, Private Investigations," on the door was the only one on 
that floor that was occupied. The others had been closed up to aid in 
gathering dust. Actually him not giving a damn about housecleaning, his 
office closely emulated the rest of them. 

With his right hand full, he jiggled the door hard rather than trying to
dig keys out. The lock was screwed up, a good shaking enough to open 
it. In a pinch, so would a credit card or skeleton key. Many of his 
past clients wouldn't have any problems entering a locked room. 

About the only things worth stealing inside would be his army .45 and
half a bottle of scotch in the desk. 

Routinely, Sam checked the light on an answering machine. Nothing, as
usual. 

Spreading the food out on a desk, he sorted and dispersed it fairly
evenly. 

"Help yourself," he told her, figuring such a small piece of fluff
couldn't eat too much. "I need a pick-me-up first." 

Pouring himself half a glass of scotch whiskey, he walked down the hall
for a pee and water to dilute the booze. In that old building, it was 
necessary to run the cold water until about five gallons went down the 
drain in order for it to clear enough to drink, giving him plenty of 
time to take a crap. 

What'a hell, he thought as he stepped back into the office. The only
food left on his desk was one egg sandwich out of four amid scattered 
wrappings. And she was reaching for that one. 

"Hold on. God dam'it. Hold it," Sam grabbed the sandwich from searching
fingers. "That's mine." He felt like growling but held back. 

She smiled, staring at his hand while licking her lips, hands clasping
and unclasping as though ready to fight him for the food. 

"Here. Take it. I'll make do with a liquid breakfast. It's not the first
time." 

"I told you I was hungry," she replied around a mouthful of egg and
roll. 

"What you doing down there this early in the morning? You ain't got any
home?" 

She shook her head while jamming the rest of the sandwich into a waiting
abyss. After swallowing the mass, she admitted, "I have a home, and 
money. On Turner Heights." 

"Pretty expensive there. So, what you doing here, slumming amongst we
poor humans?" 

"My brother." She sat back, eyes downcast. "Thanks. If you go with me to
a bank, I'll pay you back. Or maybe you can take me home?" 

"Don't worry 'bout it." 

"No, really. And ... maybe, like, maybe I could hire you to find him? My
brother." 

"What happened to him? That you need a detective for?" With a possible
job in view, he pushed the whiskey glass away and pried the top off a 
coffee. 

"He ran away from me," she said, wiping a single tear from her left eye.
"For no reason, he ran away." 

"There has to be a reason. How old is he, anyway? Old enough to take
care of himself, have a girlfriend?" 

"Twelve is all." 

Somewhat hesitantly, she told him her story. It seems her parents were
on vacation in Europe. Sandy, her name, was left at home with her 
brother, Tommy. They were being home-schooled by a qualified teacher 
named Jennie Thompson. 

She said that the teacher didn't show up a couple of days ago, leaving
the kids at home alone. All was fine with sixteen-year-old Sandy in 
charge -- until her brother ran away. The girl couldn't or wouldn't 
offer any reason for that action. 

Afraid and anxious, Sandy had, unthinkingly, stormed out of the house to
try to find him. Leaving her purse behind, all she'd had with her was 
the money in her pocket. Coming from a wealthy family, that in itself 
was a considerable amount. At least it was enough to last her for a 
couple of days, during which she'd gravitated to the downtown Loop area 
before running out. 

Broke and despondent, she'd finally wandered into the basement at the
Marshall Fields store to look for help. 

Something about the story felt fishy to Sam; a typical story a school
kid would make up. But, if she did have money and did have a problem?  
Well, that's why he was in business. It wasn't the first time a client 
had lied. 

Sam had a plenitude of questions but thought that if he waited they'd
sort themselves out on their own. 

"Okay, Sandy. We'll have to complete a little paperwork for the state
and my records. For one thing, you're too young to sign but we can work 
that out later." Yeah, he thought, including if you really have the 
money to pay me. So far, honey, I've been feeding YOU. 

*** 

Living and working in the heart of the windy city, Sam didn't keep a car
near his office. Driving in the Loop was exasperating as hell and 
parking costs too exorbitant. They took a taxi to her home. At least he 
hoped it was her home. 

Seemed to be, since she quickly found a key hidden between bricks near
the back door of a small mansion. 

Inside, Sam saw a normal upper-middle-class setting. No obvious
antiques, not that he'd recognize them anyway, but good fairly-new 
furniture. The kitchen alone was the size of his entire office, which 
didn't say much. 

He did notice drawers pulled out by several inches and kitchen cupboards
left partially open, too many to be normal. The place had been searched 
with what looked like a cursory attempt at correction. One drawer in a 
dresser or cupboard might not be closed entirely. On rare occasions, 
two. Never three. Nobody leaves a couch with one end six-inches farther 
out from a wall than the other. 

Sandy headed straight for an answering machine next to a telephone
stand, its light blinking furiously. 

Even from the kitchen, Sam could vaguely hear the police mentioned. Now,
that WAS strange. 

"Wait until I get my purse," she said as he came back to the living room
to ask about those calls. "I can write you a check." 

She hurried into another room, closing the door behind herself. While
she was gone, Sam hit the button on the answering machine. Not strictly 
kosher, he admitted to himself, but the recording might well have 
something to do with her brother. 

"Miss Evens," a man's voice, "this is Detective Johnson, Chicago police
department. I have to talk to you. It's important." 

He listened to three more such pleas, each one seemingly more urgent.
The last ended with, "We really need to talk. What your brother says is 
not nice. We've been to your house with a warrant and found nothing. 
It's probably his young imagination stretching the truth, but we have 
to know for certain. Please call back, Miss Evens. Ask for detective 
Johnson." 

"You've heard too much, Sam." 

Shocked, he turned around. Little Miss Muffet had changed to Annie
Oakley, as typified by a hand cannon held in her right fist. Common 
sense said differently, but impressions were of at least a one-inch 
bore. In any case, it seemed to dwarf the little .45 inch Colt in his 
desk drawer. 

Surprised, Sam's mouth opened and closed with no sound. Before he could
get his head together, someone knocked on the front door. 

"Miss Evens. Come on, ma'am. We saw you go in. Open the door ...
please." 

"Sandy. Let them in, Sandy," a child's voice in the distance. 

"Blam!" The sound virtually shook the room. Ears ringing, Sam could see
her cannon smoking and a fist-sized hole appear in a wall beside the 
door. 

"Th ... The.... NO! It can't end like this, so soon ... so soon." 

"Sandy. What's going on, honey? Put the gun down, Sandy." Sam took a
step toward her. Seeing that huge hole at the muzzle drift up, up 
toward his face, he stopped. 

"Sorry you're involved, Sam. Really I am." Tears in her eyes, she waved
the weapon. "Down, on your face. Now or I'll have to kill you." 

He had no choice. Slowly, he did as ordered. In moments, he could feel
his own handirons click onto both wrists. Although she fumbled the 
task, he felt no urge to help her, or even to struggle. Her cannon WAS 
extremely imposing. 

"Up, Sam. We gotta get out of here. The best way out is through the
basement." 

About the same time, just as she nudged him toward the back of the
house, the police called back. 

"You can't get away or fight us, Miss Evens. You might as well let that
man leave. You do that and we can talk, ma'am. I'm certain we can come 
to an understanding. All we need is a little give and take between us." 


Yeah, sure, Sam was thinking. 

"We don't want to hurt you, Miss Evens ... Sandra. We can find a way to
help." 

"Blam!" Not again. That time, he couldn't even hold or rub his ears.
Another hole in the wall. What's with this girl? All she can hit is a 
fuckin' wall. And he'd compared her to Annie Oakley. 

"Hurry up," she said, barely heard thorough ringing ears. 

Sandy shoved and pushed him over to a space under an upward staircase.
She did something to the underside of the stairs, causing a hidden door 
to open in front of them. "Hurry up," she repeated, forcing Sam to 
precede her down a long flight of wooden stairs. 

Something stunk. Really gave out a foul odor. A dead human stench.  And
that was with a door closed at the bottom of the stairwell. 

Sam was standing, nose pressed against the barrier, when she reached
around him to open it. A stifling eye-tearing odor hit him full in the 
face. The detective longed to get a hankie out of his pocket to at 
least cover his nose. 

They were standing in a small room, maybe 8” x 12”,  seemingly filled
with bodies although Sam only counted three heads -- one obviously male 
and another female. With the third, he couldn't tell. It was too 
incomplete, hardly any face at all. 

While he stood shivering, she came around to shove him aside. Picking up
the male head from behind, it looked like she was kissing it. "Hello, 
Daddy." She turned and, probably forgetting the detective, gently 
carried two of the heads through an open doorway. 

Seemingly forgotten, the detective looked around the bloody room.  
That's it. That's fucking it! Sam turned and clumped back up those 
stairs as quickly as he could manage in handcuffs. He fully expect to 
hear that cannon boom at any moment, realizing how unlikely it was to 
actually feel the bullet. It would no doubt kill him instantly, that 
very instant, in fact. 

Surprisingly, he make it to the landing. Frantically looking around for
a way to open the door, Sam saw nothing that appeared to be a clasp. 
Nothing. No fucking way. Tears flowing, old heart pumping wildly, he 
did the only thing possible -- except for falling back down the stairs 
-- and shoved, bulled his way forward. 

That's all it took. His heavy body slammed the hidden door open, causing
Sam to stumble and fall forward onto his face. Later, he wondered how 
he'd gotten through the locked front door of the house while still in 
handirons. He had no idea or memory of the event, but somehow managed 
to escape the house. 

The kicker was that when the front door jerked open with Sam stumbling
out to fall down the stairs on his face, the police entered to find 
Sandy long gone. So far, she hasn't been seen, anywhere. She's still 
out there, but not alone. She has Mommy and Daddy's heads with her. 

The End.


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