Only Baloney

A Holiday incident leads a detective and psychiatrist on a harrowing journey into the mind of a disturbed young man.

Chapter I

 

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” The woman asked.

“Tell you about what?”

“Why you think you’re here?”

“Some men brought me.”

“Do you know why they brought you here?”

The boy paused for a moment as if checking a list in his head.

“To see you?”

“Do you remember anything before coming to see me?”

”I was walking on the street and the police came up and grabbed me.”

“What street were you walking on?”

“I don’t know. They all look the same to me.”

“I see.”

 

The woman rose from her chair and walked to the window behind her desk and gazed out. She scanned the vast jumble of concrete, steel, glass and asphalt half-expecting the view this day from her tenth-floor office to differ from the hundreds of times she had scanned it before.

“A woman was murdered last night. Audrey Ames. Do you know anything about that?”

“I don’t know any woman.”

“You were wearing a bathrobe with the initials AA embroidered on it.”

“I found that on the street. I was cold so I put it on.”

“Where on the street?”

“Just on the street.”

“Can you see how some might find that hard to believe?”

 

He said nothing.

 

“Let’s put that aside for a moment.”

“What does that mean?” the boy asked, genuinely confused.

“That means let’s talk about something else.”

 

He stared at the woman�"into her soul, it seemed. He was silent, but his piercing gaze urged her to continue. When she didn’t, he shifted in his chair. The chair had a thin cushion and the hard maple seat beneath it flattened his flesh to nothingness. He glanced around the room. His eyes darted over a wall of framed documents and diplomas to rest on a small picture of a silver-haired couple on the corner of the desk in front of him.

 

The woman noticed the young man’s fixation immediately.

“Does that picture remind you of someone?”

“Mr. Gabe and Ms. Flo looked like that.”

“Really? And who are they?”

“They let me live with them.”

“Would you like to tell me about them?”

“I guess so.”

“Are they still living?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” He spoke with rising alarm. “How do you know they’re dead!”

 

“I don’t.” The woman explained. “It’s just that you said they ‘looked like that’ rather than look. So I assumed”… Her justification started to sound defensive. She stopped and laid a reassuring hand on the young man’s arm. Her touch repelled the boy like fire.

 

The boy shrank back to such an extreme into the chair on which he sat, he hardly seemed there at all.

He rubbed his arm vigorously to erase the disturbing sensation. “I don’t like to be touched by strangers.” He explained.

 

“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Is Ms. Flo a good cook?” She said, changing the subject at hand without really changing it.

 

“I guess so. Not like my real mom. Mama used to make a dinner I really liked. Baloney and mashed ‘tatoes with an egg on top.”

“Sounds delicious.” The woman mused, leaning closer.

“She fried it up…the baloney, I mean, until it curled up like a bowl. Then she put a big helpin’ of mashed ‘tatoes inside it and devil eggs on top.”

“Devilled egg, you mean?”

“That’s what I said.”

 

“Ok. That does sound good.” She agreed. “What else do you remember?”

“I remember eating it.”

“I bet you do!”

“I tried to make it once myself, but the baloney wouldn’t curl. I don’t know what Mama did to get it to do that.”

“Must’ve been a mother’s love.” The good doctor suggested. “What about your real dad?”

“He liked it too. ‘cept with a lot of black pepper on it.”

“No.” The woman chuckled. “I meant what do you remember about your real dad?”

“Not much.” The boy’s eyes turned inward. “Cigarettes and whiskey mostly…and a wide black belt he would wop me with.” He fidgeted in his seat again and fell into a blank well.

 

She searched the boy’s face for a moment then let her own gaze align with the boy’s and melt into the swirling fibers of the Persian-patterned rug beneath their feet. Her features reflected her compassion and genuine concern. The boy appeared lost in the fog of thought.

 

 After an extended silence, the doctor concluded. “That’s enough for today. Would it be alright if we spoke again?”

“I guess so.” The boy replied softly, still staring at the rug.

 

The woman rose from her seat and walked to the door, opened it and leaned out. “Detective? We’re done here, for now.”

 

A smart-suited gentleman entered the room accompanied by two uniformed patrol officers. “Escort this man back to the station.” The detective said, addressing the patrolmen.

“Young man.” The woman corrected. “He’s barely sixteen.”

 

“Whatever.” The detective shrugged. He turned to leave as the officers lead the suspect into the hallway and beyond.

 

“Detective, can we talk for a moment?”

“Sure, Doc. What’s up?”

“I appreciate you bringing the boy here for his first interview. I have been terribly swamped for weeks.”

 

“That’s ok, Doc. We had to drop by the courthouse anyway.”

 

“The boy suggested he lived with foster parents. He called them ‘Mr. Gabe and Ms. Flo.’ I’d like someone to check on them, if they can be found. He seemed anxious when I asked if they were still living, and he referred to them in the past tense. It’s probably nothing. Just a feeling I have.”

 

“Doc, I’ve noticed these ‘feelings’ you get are usually spot on. I’ll reach out to Social Services and send a car to check on them as soon as we figure out who this kid is and where they live. He had nothing on him when we picked him up, and I do mean nothing. Claimed he didn’t know who he was or why he was wandering the streets naked as a jaybird under that robe he says he ‘found’. What was he wearing before he found it? And don’t forget Ms. Audrey Ames, the poor woman killed for her bathrobe and trussed up with bailing twine and a kitchen apron like a Virginia ham. A fiver will get you a Benny, he’s our guy. Anyway, I’ll fill you in as soon as we know something.”

 

“I haven’t forgotten and I don’t gamble, Detective, but thank you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter II

 

The following day, Detective Jan Rapolo stopped by the office of Dr. Louise Shreveport with the information gathered since their last meeting. He paused, like he always did, to admire the silver-leaf lettering tastefully arranged on the door’s frosted window glass before he knocked and entered.

 

“Hi, Doc.”

“Detective.”

 

“Seems our boy is quite a handful. Rapolo began. “A certain Sean Messer. In and out of foster homes since his parents abandoned him when he was five. Left him at a fire station one night a week before Christmas and disappeared. Dropped off the map, apparently.”

“That’s terrible. How can anyone abandon a child like that?”

“Doc, if you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you’d… Never mind.”

 “What else did you learn?” She asked.

 

“Never been in any one place longer than six months. Complaints from the foster parents range from ‘overtly affectionate’ to ‘irrationally possessive’ to ‘infantile jealousy’. Basically, most couples grew fearful of the boy and felt he couldn’t be trusted. Trouble sleeping knowing he was just down the hall, I suppose. Seems he also had an affinity for knives. Although, as far as we know, the boy never did anyone any harm. His last known was with an elderly couple in Lawrence. A Gabriel and Florence Johnston, 2500 Belle Haven Drive. I have a car on the way there now.”

 

The doctor offered her considered opinion. “It’s hard for foster parents to adjust to a new presence in their home, even if they think they are prepared. No one can be totally sure how the change might affect them. And it’s tough for the foster children as well.”

 

Detective Rapolo dropped the boy’s yellow file jacket on the good doctor’s desk just as his cell phone chimed. “Rapolo here. Yes, I’m in her office now. What have you got? I see. Get forensics over there pronto. And don’t let the unis trample all over the place, ya hear. No one goes in till I get there.”

 

“Trouble, Detective?”

“I’ll say. Mr. and Mrs. Johnston were found wrapped up like presents under their own Christmas tree.”

“I’d like to come with you.” Dr. Shreveport announced.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

It took nearly an hour to get to the Johnston residence from Dr. Shreveport’s office in Kansas City. Uniformed and plainclothes agents swarmed the place like ants. Forensics in yellow and white hooded garb added daubs of contrast to the waves of indigo blue as they urgently entered and exited the premises with cartons of who knew what and deposited them in a waiting van. It was cold for mid-December, even by east Kansas standards. The wind was bitter and relentless.

 

They were met at the door by a Lieutenant Grimm from Homicide Division, City of Lawrence Police Department.

 

“What are you doing in here?” Rapolo barked. “I left orders no one in or out.”

 

“You don’t say? Well, how about that?” The lieutenant said sarcastically. “This is our jurisdiction, pal, in case you forgot? Play nice and maybe we’ll let you in.” The detective and the good doctor shared a terse glance but swallowed the reproval. After a pause for emphasis, Lieutenant Grimm led them into the den where the Johnston’s lay.

 

The victims were seated back to back and lashed together at the waist with belts from their respective robes. Their necks were slashed. Their denuded forms, carelessly draped with a festive holiday themed table cloth, emerged like an island of flesh from a surrounding burgundy sea of comingled blood. Both were sans slippers. Both had wreaths of cedar boughs on their heads and ovals of blood smeared on their faces like rouge. A small, white angel ornament hung from Mrs. Johnston’s pierced left ear. Mr. Johnston was festooned in silver garland and tinsel. A fragile, red glass bulb had been inserted in his open mouth. Small tea-cake candles were arranged in a semi-circle in front of a sadly decorated artificial Christmas tree. The candles had burned down to their aluminum bases. A paper plate with baloney rinds and egg shells lay between them. A bloody kitchen knife stuck upright in the middle of the paper plate.

 

“Looks like someone enjoyed the show.” The detective snarked.

“Looks like.” The lieutenant agreed.

 

“Oh, my god.” That was all Dr. Shreveport could muster. She had visited crime scenes before, but this one had a pronounced air of the sinister about it. It even smelled evil. After a moment, she excused herself from the room and made her way to the front porch. The icy wind felt welcome and cleansing. She leaned on the porch column and looked across the jumbled mass of patrol cars. Their flashing red and blue lights glittering in the wintery gloom seemed oddly appropriate for the season.

 

Detective Rapolo soon joined her. “You ok?”

“What now?” She shrugged, ignoring the question.

“Now, we charge Mr. Messer with two counts of first-degree murder.” The detective stated matter-of-factly.

“First degree murder? There is no way a sane person would or could do that!” she argued.

“Not for me to decide.” He said. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. Let’s go. I’ll drop you off at your office on my way back to the precinct.”

 

They were back by dinner time. Dr. Shreveport excused herself from the detective’s offer of a well-deserved meal. Another time, perhaps. How could anyone think of their stomach after seeing something like that? She took a cab home and fell asleep on the sofa, wineglass in hand.

 

It was late afternoon of the following day before Detective Rapolo entered the Division 2 precinct in Overland Park. He had spent the early part of the day coordinating with authorities in Lawrence and going over the particulars in the case. He had just informed them that Sean Messer would be arraigned that very day.

 

The desk sergeant spoke without looking up as the detective passed the front desk on his way to his cubicle. “Rapolo?”

“What is it, Sarge?” Rapolo answered a little annoyed.

 

“Looks like you pulled a live one. Yer boy, Messer, disappeared from a patrol car at one a.m. this morning en route to the ER. Seems he feigned a bellyache and a newbie recruit thought it wise to cart him off to the hospital without authorization. The captain tore the boot a new one already. Poor slob said he had appendicitis once and thought the perp might too. Don’t they train these guys?”

 

“Apparently, not well enough. Why didn’t someone call me last night?”

“We tried…a dozen times. Don’t you ever answer your phone? Went by your house, too. When you didn’t answer, we figured you were AWOL. We had to move fast to find this guy.”

“And yet, he’s still out there.”

 

That was all Rapolo could think to say. His mind whirled like a dervish. What to do? Where would the sonofabitch go? Geez, Louise. No sooner had he thought of her, something clicked. He drew his cell phone from his vest pocket and dialed Dr. Louise Shreveport’s office. No answer. He left a message to call back asap. He would meet her at University Hospital emergency room. The trail would start there.

 

 

Chapter III

 

The hospital ER staff were clueless. Apparently, Messer hadn’t even made it inside. He overpowered the patrolman outside the ER and escaped carrying the officer’s gun and shackle keys.

“He could be anywhere by now!” Rapolo bellowed at no one in particular.

“Don’t blame us, Detective!” The charge nurse bellowed back. “We didn’t lose him, you did!”

Rapolo clenched his teeth and stepped outside. He lit a cigarette near the canopied entrance just as a dark BMW sedan pulled up. Dr. Shreveport stepped out.

 

“Learn anything?” She asked nearly out of breath.

“Sure.” He snapped. “Not to trust green recruits with a lunch order.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He tossed the smoldering butt to the pavement and ground it out with his loafer.

“How’d you get here so fast?”

“Pager.” She answered.

“You guys still use those things?”

“Some of us do. I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up. What do we do now?”

“We’ll check hospital security tapes first, then back to the precinct, I guess. See if anything shakes. Where do you think he’d go?”

“What about Audrey Ames’ place?” The good doctor offered.

“We’ve been over it.” The detective answered sharply, as if such an obvious suggestion insulted his intelligence. “Place is taped off.”

“Well, what if you missed something? I mean, it is possible, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s possible, just not very likely.”

“It’s a place to start.” She argued. “If he’s responsible for her murder, he might feel an attachment there or pride, or a sense of unfinished business, or want to relive it somehow.”

Rapolo sighed as he walked to his car, irked at what he long considered yet another example of leftist psycho-babble. “All right. But you can’t leave your vehicle here. Better follow me.”

“I know where it is.” She replied. “Let’s go.”

 

They were half way there when a call squawked from the detective’s radio: Attention: All units, 211 at Storm’s Deli, corner of Marsh Street and Hargrove Avenue. Suspect armed. Shots fired. All units respond.

 

Rapolo responded. “This is Detective Jan Rapolo, Unit 416, CID Overland Park, in route Marsh and Hargrove. Hold down. Be advised. Detective in civilian dress on site.” He hit speed-dial on his cell phone.

Dr. Shreveport answered. “Hold off on the Ames’ place. Got word on a robbery at a deli nearby. Might be our guy. We can visit the Ames place later.” He hung up before the good doctor could speak.

 

“Arrogant prick.” She muttered aloud. She had no intention of waiting.

 

Rapolo hit the blue lights on his Crown Victoria, swerved into the left travel lane and made a tire-squealing turn onto Broad Street. From there it was a straight shot to Hargrove Avenue and Storm’s Deli. A man in a white butcher’s apron, who appeared to be the proprietor, was gesticulating wildly and shouting at a patrolman. They were both silhouetted in front of the store’s glaring plate glass window.

 

“What have we got? He asked the patrolman after a flash of his detective shield attached to his belt.

 

“Suspect is white male, mid to late teens, dressed in orange pants and a dark coat. Armed with a semi-automatic handgun. Arrived here about twenty minutes ago…” The patrolman began.

 

“He stuck the gun right in my face!” The proprietor interrupted. “Just as I turned around!”

 

Rapolo closed his eyes briefly as if doing so might attenuate the shop owner’s irritating frequencies. “Go on.” He said addressing the patrolman.

 

“That’s about it. Perp demanded three pounds of bologna and some eggs. Then high-tailed it.”

 

“But not before taking a shot at me! The aproned man interjected.

 

“One shot fired.” The patrolman continued.

 

“I could’ve been killed!” The agitated man blurted again. “If I had not ducked he would’ve killed me sure!”

 

“Sounds like my guy.” Rapolo stated blandly. “And it looks like he’s plenty hungry.”

 

Rapolo steadied the angry owner with a firm hand to the man’s upper arm and directed the patrolman to take the victim’s signed statement inside. He returned to his vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat.

He called the precinct dispatch.

 

“Things appear to be under control here. Heading to the Audrey Ames residence at 3112 Rockhill Road.

Requesting backup to same…possible armed suspect near the address, white male, orange pants and dark coat. Will advise when arrived. Rapolo out.”

 

He called Dr. Shreveport again. No answer. The call went straight to voice mail. “Doctor, this is Detective Rapolo. I’m headed to the Ames’ place now. Not safe for you to be there. I will contact you asap and let you know what I find.”

 

Fifteen minutes later he parked on Rockhill Road just shy of the driveway that serviced a small yellow house with white shutters flanked on either side by newer row houses under construction. The early dusk of winter was just setting in. He spotted Dr. Shreveport’s BMW right away. “S**t.” He said, grimacing as if he could smell it. He followed the sidewalk to where it intersected the driveway that led indirectly to the front door of the Ames’ residence. He zigged and zagged to each side of the drive scouring the ground along it’s concrete edge. Anything, no matter how small could be significant. He stopped alongside Dr. Shreveport’s BMW and carefully scoped the interior. An over-turned trash bin still lay where it was found when authorities first arrived on the scene. The yellow crime tape had been breached at the front door. Rapolo drew his Smith & Wesson from its shouldered holster beneath his jacket and approached the porch.

 

The front door was ajar. Inside the house was dark as night. Blinds were drawn over a smattering of small windows. Rapolo clicked the switch on a small desk lamp as he passed it. No go. He retrieved his service flashlight and set it to the red night-vision mode. The house appeared to have an open floor plan with a kitchen and integrated dining area on one end and bedrooms, bath and a den on the other, with a communal living space in the center. It was from the den side of the dwelling that a faint multi-colored glow flickered like a defective neon light. As he inched slowly through the living room, a soft rustle of voices could be heard near the back of the house. The voices grew louder as he advanced.

 

“Listen to me, Sean. You don’t want to do this. I know what happened to your foster parents. I can guarantee that no one is going to hurt you if you turn yourself in.”

 

Rapolo recognized Dr. Shreveport’s voice immediately. He took a firmer grip on his weapon and shut his flashlight off. He stopped at the egress to the room guarded by a sliding pocket door. He silently slid the door aside an inch and peered through the opening. The only illumination therein came from an oil lamp and a strand of lights pitifully displayed on a large, but forlorn, cedar tree.

 

A nude Sean Messer held the oil lamp in his left hand. In his right, he held a large kitchen knife. Dr. Shreveport was squatting side-saddle in front of the tree. Her hands appeared to be tied behind her back. Silver streams of holiday icicles sparkled in her hair like twinkling stars. A white under-tree covering lay draped about her shoulders like a mantle of snow. Her feet were bare. Several plates of treats were spread ceremoniously around her in a semi-circle.

 

The boy sat the lamp and knife down near his feet. He picked up a large stainless steel bowl, made stirring motions with his free hand, and crept ominously towards his captive.

 

“Please, Sean. Let me help you. I can speak to…” Her words were cut short mid-sentence when Messer grabbed her by the back of her head and stuffed something in her mouth with a large wooden spoon. The doctor gagged immediately and violently spat most of the substance out. She screamed, but the remaining matter in her mouth stifled her effort. In her struggle to right herself, she fell over on her right side.

 

At that moment, Detective Rapolo trained his weapon on the offender’s silhouette and shouted. “Kansas City PD. Freeze!”

 

The boy was obviously surprised by the interruption of his work, but showed remarkable clarity of purpose and sprang, without hesitation, for the butcher knife nearby. However, in his haste, he kicked the oil lamp into the dehydrated evergreen where the globe shattered. The tree was an inferno in seconds. He grasped the knife, swung it overhead, and lunged full force towards the intruder.

 

A .40 caliber slug met the lunatic halfway and slammed him backwards into the fiery blaze behind him. Rapolo froze in a defensive stance until he was certain the threat was neutralized. His attention quickly turned to the good doctor lying perilously close to the flames. He scooped her up in his arms and hurriedly removed her from the premises. As he placed her gently in the front seat of his vehicle, three squad cars, lights flashing, swarmed the premises.

 

Rapolo quickly called for an ambulance and fire rescue as the patrolman entered the dwelling. The burning tree had flashed intensely and fizzled out before igniting the adjacent walls. They were scorched to be sure and thick smoke made breathing difficult. Odd flames here and there searching for a foothold were quickly extinguished. The officers managed to retrieve Sean Messer’s blackened body and carried it outside. They laid him on the cold ground and draped his remains with the white under-tree covering Dr. Shreveport still had about her shoulders. He looked like a mound of snow.

 

Within minutes, an ambulance and the fire department arrived and secured the premises. One of the fire fighters stepped from the structure with a large stainless steel bowl cradled in his arms. He was happily eating from the bowl with a large wooden spoon.

 

Detective Rapolo approached the man in disbelief. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” He demanded.

“That’s evidence you’re eating!”

 

The fireman answered nonchalantly after he finished chewing. “Relax, Detective. It’s only baloney!”