Slave Quarters

The Slave Quarters (FINAL CHAPTER): Chapter 22 – Back to Work

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Before Agent Cloud Beaudry can close the book on the Slave Quarter case, there’s one last objective, which brings him to the scenic city of Savannah, Georgia. You see…Cloud is one of those rare individuals who takes his vows very seriously. Even if it was a promise made to a ghost.

Chapter 22 - Back to Work

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 22 – Back to Work
By Rock Kitaro

The coastal city of Savannah should be called the City of Spanish moss. There are giant oak trees at every turn and the aged moss hangs like garland throughout the year. It’s the oldest city in Georgia, a history replete with tales of the Civil War, colonial pirates, and remnants of the grand Old South.

Its college town atmosphere reminds me of Athens, except it has more character reminiscent of antebellum class and sophistication. Horse-drawn carriages are one of the key stables for tourism. The many churches, statues, monuments, and Victorian age street lights…it makes the city a time capsule by which one could escape from the modern world. Liberal Arts is huge in the area. Even on a crisp Thursday afternoon, one could hear a distinct cello or some classical string arrangement carrying with the wind.

It’s not my first time to Savannah. To date, I’ve solved three cases here. The last one involved the disappearance of a teacher who was so fascinated with the pirate folklore that she managed to get herself trapped in an old dungeon. By the time I found her, the rats had stripped her to the bone. The graphic image has scarred my mind and ever since, I’ve dreaded the idea of coming back. Between Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans…the ghosts really are the worst.

Thankfully, I’m not here on official business. I moseyed on down after stopping by Augusta to testify at Det. Griffin’s Internal Affairs hearing. It’s been one whole week since I helped solve the Slave Quarter mystery. Det. Griffin was still a mess but my guilt no longer held me down. Griffin will probably spend the next three years in and out of the psych ward. And here I am indulging on a decadent dish of shrimp and grits at a highly recommended kitchen near Hutchinson Island.

It’s a satisfying meal. My belly is full and my schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon. So as per usual, I seek out aesthetic beauty in the form of quaint scenic parks where I’m least likely to find horrible humans beings. Notice how I said “horrible”. I don’t mind the company of other humans so long as they’re good and decent. It’s been my experience that horrible human beings don’t bask in nature’s glory. If they do, it’s rare and brief.

The golden sun glistens through the browning crowns of Reynolds Square. The blue jays and robins are tweeting their lovely tunes as they bathed in the jade waters of a trickling green fountain. I’m wearing khakis and a cream-colored sweater vest over my shirt and tie. The cool breeze and a soothing scent of jasmine makes me feel lighter than a feather.

Indie Rock plays in my earbuds as I stroll the park on a grass stained walkway of maroon colored bricks. My mood is so chill, so cool. That rare sensation of “be free” enters my bloodstream causing my hands to wave along with the groove of the guitar. My shoulders bounce along with the beat. I don’t care who sees me, it’s all good. It’s all gravy. Dog walkers and joggers smile as they pass by. Single mothers are checking me out. I smile and nod to everyone. These are good people. It’s a good day.

I should be heading back to Atlanta. I have to work in the morning. Apparently Jessica and Leanne picked up a gangland murder that threatens to break the stability of Atlanta’s most prominent mob family. It wasn’t my case, and yet, for some stupid reason I feel responsible for those women. Call me chauvinistic if you want, I don’t care. They are my women and I protect my women. Yes, it’s this old-fashion obligation that compels to make one final stop before getting back on I-16. When a man makes a promise, he follows through. It’s just one of those things.

So here I go.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights (Horror Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud Beaudry casts judgment on the Slave Quarter Killer. Maggie is unleashed. (warning, graphic content)

Chapter 19 - Flickering Lights 3

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights
By Rock Kitaro

There’s something about an individual who isn’t afraid to admit his mistakes that warrants my respect. I prefer someone like that over those who hide their flaws yet presume to openly criticize the faults others, forgetting that we are all imperfect. We are all marred by error. That is to be human. No one is without sin. Especially me.

I admit it.

Bigots beget bigots and the accusers of hypocrisy are often the biggest hypocrites. To accuse another man of being too judgmental would in turn make me judgmental. I’m aware of this. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one.

The thing about today’s society that drives me wild is the implied expression of what is and isn’t acceptable. If a man slips up and makes an offensive comment, it could spell the end of his career. One sentence is all it takes. Demons behind computer screens will dig into the wounds and rip it open all in the name of justice. They call it social justice.

I don’t condone racism. I deplore it. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ll never understand it. But in this day and age, what seems more prevalent than racism is the backwards ass standards by which other flaws are swept under the rug. The glorification of sex, rudeness, and riches runs rampant. Despicable bullies now use their self-proclaimed victimhood to silence those they disagree with. They walk about with their heads held high, as if hurt feelings aggrandized them moral authority. At some point…all of this has become acceptable.

Shameless is confidence. Ambition is blurred with greed. Protesters embark for the sake of bringing purpose to their own meaningless existence. And those who simply just want to live their lives on the fields of neutrality are guilted into wars they never wanted to fight.

It’s not out of hate that I mention these things. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t waste my breath. I love you but I have no place amongst you. That doesn’t make me cool. It doesn’t mean I’m better. In fact, it’s lonely. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to walk a mile in my shoes. But it is what it is. I am a man from the outside looking in. The guy on the hill overlooking the fog infested city, the one in the bell tower weeping over debauchery below.

That’s me. Cloud Beaudry, the walking contradiction. The man who sees the unseen, who hears secrets from grave. I know at some point I’ll be judged by the same measure. But quite frankly, if one were to peer into my soul right now they’d see over a hundred middle fingers raised in defiance.

This is my creed, my manifesto, if ever I’m caught and made to be held accountable for my actions on this day. Everyone remembers the killers. No one remembers the victims. I’m about to change all that. I’m sorry Det. Mark Griffin. I’m sure you think I’m like everyone else in assuming you’re cool or something to aspire to. But I’m not. I find you detestable. I’m here to hand down your sentence.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

They’ve caught their man. Cloud Beaudry risked his life and got his ass kicked in the process, but he isn’t the hero everyone’s propping up on their shoulders. Det. Griffin is taking credit. Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Det. Griffin needs to be dealt with.

Chapter 18 - This Isn't Over

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over
By Rock Kitaro

Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Dressed sharp in his black overcoat, Griffin is met by thunderous applause as he parades a traumatized Calvin Chalmers through the 3rd floor bullpen. Detectives, deputies, and sergeants alike stand with adulation, thankful and relieved that the storm battering their withered department will soon dissipate. And of course, perhaps no one is more grateful than the police chief himself.

“Breaking News” scrolled on the lower third of every major network. The police chief was preparing to make an official announcement at the eleven o’clock broadcast. No doubt, it must have been how Obama felt when Bin Laden was killed. Because at long last, the police chief was ready to announce that the “Slave Quarter Killer” has been captured.

Calvin Chalmers was severely beaten. His jaw was popped back into place, but other than that, the police didn’t bother with his broken ribs or the cuts and bruises swelling over that baby face of his. After Calvin refused to say another word without his attorney, Griffin locked him in a holding cell down in the basement. It was the same holding cell Jamar and O’Shea was kept in earlier in the day. Cell 1-A, the one closest to the entrance and directly in view of the camera so Calvin was supervised attentively.

Turns out, the paranoid Leanne logged into a computer to track the GPS on her phone, the phone she left in the rental car. Once they found out I was at the slave quarters, she, Jessica, and Griffin hauled ass. I guess I should be thank…No. I’m not thankful. If I wasn’t distracted by Griffin’s obnoxious LED headlights I would’ve seen Calvin scooping up the dirt that he threw in my face. I suppose the only thing I am thankful for is the confession recorded on my phone. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

Jessica and Leanne briefed the police chief with the details of the evening. Jason Hicks was taken as a material witness. Since I couldn’t give up how Miranda hacked the Halo-Star servers, it was Jason’s testimony and the confession from my phone that backed the warrants needed to search Calvin’s home. Hair fibers and blood samples were found on Calvin’s clothes, his bed, and in the car he owned. The victim’s wallets were kept in drawers. Their DNA was found in the sinks. All of it was incriminating, enough to condemn him.

The revelations were appalling but served as an eye-opener for the department and the community. Everyone was so focused on pointing fingers and casting blame. None of it was productive and if it hadn’t been for my rebellious determination to get to the bottom of it, more people could have been seriously hurt or killed.

The protesting mob that gathered outside eventually broke up and started planning vigils. The police chief would later face criticism from his own department for dropping the assault charges against Jacory. He did shoot three officers, after all. But I guess losing a leg and having to register as a sex offender was punishment enough. His face, distinguished by those orange contact lenses and his bald brazen build, made it difficult for him to fit in with any neighborhood. He’d eventually go on to leave the state and start a new life somewhere in the Southside of Chicago.

Jason Hicks would lose his job as a paramedic. In fact, the community would forever think twice every time they saw an ambulance parked near a school. It’s kind of sad actually, how a few bad eggs can tarnish an entire occupation.

Griffin was golden. His clean image and tall statuesque build made him the perfect poster child for the department. The chief credited him with Calvin’s apprehension and planned on giving him a promotion. Even on the news, it was Det. Griffin’s face beaming as the man who caught the Slave Quarter Killer. He was lead detective after all. Everyone praised him for staving off years of racial tension that threatened to proliferate throughout the state and possibly the entire nation. In every hallway and every bullpen, Griffin received a warm welcome and another round of applause. Yes, the police were proud to have him, a paragon of exemplary service.

As for me…I didn’t hear any applause. No one came to shake my hand and tell me, “good job.” I sat on the examination table of the 1st floor infirmary receiving medical attention from a nurse who was all too eager to go upstairs and meet the darling Griffin. She slaps on a cold methane pack where the butt of my own gun hit me. Even touching it with something as soft as gauze would cause half my face to flare up something fierce. I fear its an orbital fracture that would require surgery.

Nope. I’m just a wimp.

The nurse doesn’t make conversation. She doesn’t ask how I got the bruises or what I did during the night. She doesn’t care why I’m wearing a bulletproof vest or why my back’s covered in dirt. Even when she fetches a bottle of painkillers, she just puts it on the tray next to me and promptly leaves the room. She doesn’t return.

After a while, I slowly turn to look in the mirror. I’m like Quasimodo with this face. My left cheek looks like it’s about to give birth to a plum. If I took off my shirt, I’m sure it would look like the aftermath of a paintball fight. And as much as I needed to rest this body and let it heal…I can’t let things stand as is. I just can’t.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s a showdown in the cotton fields. Cloud confronts the Slave Quarter Killer and sets the perfect trap…but as per usual, other people keep getting in the way.

Chapter 17 - Don't Fear Me

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 17 – Don’t Fear Me
By Rock Kitaro

Calvin and Jason arrive under the auspices of a full moon. They can see their own breath in the frosty cold air. All is quiet on the cotton fields. The crickets aren’t chirping. There isn’t any gospel music. No wind. No humming. No croaks from the big house. Just the packing of soil beneath their feet and the occasional chirp from the radios strapped to their shoulders.

An unsettled agitation creeps to their core. They know they’ve been had. They came responding to an emergency but the plantation seems devoid of all life. Even so, they feel as though they’re being watched. They are. Jason is scared out his mind. I can see it.

“Hey, son! I’m saying though. Ain’t nobody here,” he says.

“HELLO! IS ANYONE OUT THERE?” Calvin calls.

“Yo! Let’s go!” Jason begs.

The paramedics are snug in their dark blue coveralls. The ambulance is parked on the side of the road with the engine still running. With his red medicinal bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Calvin embarks in the direction of the slave quarters. Jason is right behind him but he keeps throwing wild-eyed glances to the big house. Calvin remains fixated on the slave quarters as if he expected a Doberman to come running out.

They’re waist deep in the middle of the cotton shrubs when Jason flinches and shines his light on the big house.

“Yo! You see that?” Jason whispers.

“There’s nobody in there.” Calvin says.

“I’m telling you. I saw something up on the second floor. Let’s get the fuck out of here, man!” Jason shrieks.

Calvin sweeps the field with his flashlight once more before heaving a heavy sigh and starting for the ambulance.

…

“Quick question.”

My voice cuts through the silence, clean, crisp, and clear.

They’re dropping f-bombs as they fumble with their flashlights. They cast their lights on the slave quarters and there, they see a new and improved version of Cloud Beaudry, one exuding with the swagger of a champion. My blazer is in the rental, parked further down the road. I’m wearing a bulletproof vest and there’s a .380 on my hip.

The sleeves of my white collared shirt are rolled up and if you think I’m freezing, think again. I’ve been practicing Wing Chun drills for the past two minutes. My chain punches, front kicks, and Ton Saus are on point.

The paramedics emerge from the cotton fields to enter the soft patch of soil in front of these here slave quarters. They look pissed. Reasonably so.

“You would be the one to call us out here in the middle of the goddamn night!” Jason snarls.

“Let me ask you something.” I begin, pausing for a moment to stretch out my neck. “1896 Drew Street. Ring any bells?”

They ponder for a moment. Then a bewilder expression befalls Jason.

“That’s my girl’s house, homie. How the fuck you know Kyrah?” he snaps.

I’m snickering out loud. I never snicker. After unclasping my watch and sliding it into my pocket, I lock eyes with the Slave Quarter Killer. He has no fucking clue.

“Sup, Calvin. You want to tell him. Or should I?”

“Man, whatchu talkin about?” Calvin says, as if I’m wasting his time.

“Not bad. Yes, your performance was very convincing. When we first met, I never thought for a second you’d be capable of stalking six teenage girls. Abducting them. Raping and molesting them until you’ve reached the pinnacle of pleasure. And then…Well you couldn’t let them go, could you? So you killed them. And you didn’t just kill them softly. They all died brutally. You could have just shot them. You could’ve slit their throats. Hell, for someone in the medical field, it would have been easy. But no! You bludgeoned them. You choked them. You drowned them, you unimaginable piece of shit. And perhaps the worst came when a girl felt so hopeless, so utterly defeated that she’d rather bash her own brains out than see your face again.”

Jason turns to his partner. He doesn’t believe me at first, but Calvin…He just stares at me with an empty gaze of morbid denial. I’ve seen that look before. It’s one of the worst feelings in the world. The realization that everything is caving in and there’s nothing he can do about it, like a submarine filling up with water.

“Hey, fuck you!” Jason shouts. “There you go again, pointing fingers. I heard ya’ll already caught the motherfuckuh who did this so why you messin with us?”

Calvin drops his red medical bag. It hits the dirt and I hear something break, prompting me to whip out my Glock and aim it at the bridge of his nose, both hands holding it steady.

“Don’t move a muscle!” I warn.

“Whoa! What the hell are you doing? I don’t believe this!” Jason shouts.

“Calvin Chalmers. You’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Tiquasia Payne. Denedra Harrell. Samantha Fox. Ashley Hunt. And Alisha Collier.”

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” Jason screams.

“Tell him, Calvin! Tell him what you been up to every time you drop him off at his girl’s house. Go ahead. Ask him, Jason. I’ll wait.”

“Nigga…What is he talkin about?” Jason asks.

“He’s got nothing.” Calvin snarls. “Probably hit his head one too many times. Should have someone look at that, bruh.”

I’m smirking as I lower my weapon and take the finger off the trigger. “Just tell me one thing. What exactly did you say to KeNedra? If I’m not mistaken, once you boys picked her up, it was Jason doing the driving while you had her alone in the back cabin. She recognized you didn’t she. You must have told her something. So let’s hear it. I want to hear what the devil said to the angel. To get her to kill herself like that. SPEAK!”

Calvin shakes his head with a cocky grin. “Don’t know what you talking about. And to be honest, you starting to work my last nerve. Got us out here in the middle of the…”

“Look around! There’s no one out here but us. You don’t hear any sirens. No helicopters. No cops. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows you’re an ass-raping murderer. I don’t give a damn about the justice system. We all know there’s no right or wrong, only public opinion. All I care about is closure for KeNedra’s family. If a coward like you met them, you’d break down on the spot. I can tell just by looking. You don’t have the balls. All reserved and hiding behind your silence. To be honest, I respected you more when you throwing hands in the big house. That was a warrior. That was a beast. Frankly, I don’t know who this scared little shit is.”

My words…they sting. I know they do. He’s grinding his teeth. He doesn’t know what I know or if he should even believe me, but there’s one thing he took away from my little speech. Other than the three of us, not a single soul knows he’s the Slave Quarter Killer.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 16 – Assemble the Pieces (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 19, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Taking a haunted stroll down memory lane, Cloud and Miranda connect the dots, narrowing their list of suspects down to two. After being attacked, hated, and criticized for his relentless pursuit of the truth, Cloud’s lost confidence in the legal system. He’s tried it their way. Now, he intends to set a trap. Either way, the Slave Quarter Killer’s gonna get what’s coming to him.

Chapter 16 - Assemble the Pieces

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 16 – Assemble the Pieces
By Rock Kitaro

When I was a kid I used to hate coming to the Augusta Riverwalk. It’s been over a decade since my last visit. Looking at it now, I almost want to slap myself for having taking its beauty for granted. I now possess a greater form of respect, an acknowledgment of its history, its significance. The Augusta Riverwalk is Augusta, Georgia.

The terrain of this scenic park isn’t what you’d expect from most riverwalks. It’s better. A wide red brick promenade lines the edge of the river, winding half a mile from the Museum of History to the back entrance of the convention center. It’s at the base of a forty-foot high earthen levee of stones, grass, and giant oak trees covered in Spanish moss. A steep cement stairway connects the lower level to the upper level of this natural levee, a natural levee that more or less looks like a small hill or a bluff.

Looking down from the upper level gives you a breathtaking sensation of peering over a broad canyon in which the valley is mostly filled with freshwater. South Carolina is on the other side with waterfront townhomes.

It was common to indulge in a brisk Saturday morning jog while the kids exhausted themselves on the playground. Magnificent oaks with their outstretched branches separated the tiers, providing ample shade for all her visitors. Its natural beauty stimulates the imagination. Easy to lose yourself to the idea of a simpler life, one without car problems or taxes or moving up in the corporate world. The rich fragrance of healthy vegetation fills your lungs and suddenly you feel closer to God.

Also constructed on the upper level is a famous science museum called Fort Discovery. It was mostly catered to elementary students, children, and families looking for wholesome entertainment. The massive cream-colored building took up one fifth of the riverwalk. Many of its attractions, such as a helicopter, a human gyroscope, and a moonwalk replica, were parked right outside, free for passing pedestrians to observe.

Well…this was where Fort Discovery used to be. Due to a lack of funding and a drop in her attendance rate, the museum closed a couple of years back. The building itself remains but it’s completely empty. Its outdoor attractions are gone. Feels like I’ve come back to a childhood home to find all my toys sold or repossessed. A bit disheartening.

The upper level was also home to flags and monuments of the foreign nations that had a hand in shaping Augusta since its founding in 1735. It had plaques dedicated to the Creek, Yuchi, and Shawnee tribes that occupied the land long before the British. There was an Episcopal church with a small cemetery in the back. A towering Celtic cross keeps watch over this graveyard. Furthermore, erected stones with engraved messages educated visitors about historic battles and the city’s role in the Civil War.

Yes…this is why it used to give me the creeps.

The riverwalk was haunted by the souls of the dead, a river of animosity, a park of resentment. As a child, my mother would bring me here in a failed attempt to get me play with the other kids. And while she’d eventually wander off to make conversation with some single father, I’d spend hours slumped on the steps, curled in the fetal position. I’d pour out my eyes, crying on the most beautiful of days. Parents would pass by and wonder what’s wrong. They had no idea. The tears seemed unprovoked. They’d watch as I alternate between covering my ears and eyes as if I was hiding in the midst of a massacre. Needless to say, they kept their children away from me.

Who could I talk to? Who would believe me if I told them what I saw?

I’d hear the bellows of the dead, the racist slurs of lynch mobs and desperate pleas of mercy that fell on deaf ears. I’d hear the gargling sounds of men and women choking to death as they hung from strained ropes. The crackle of old rifles and blasting cannons echoed across the park and even the haunted oaks themselves whispered to me. I always assumed the whispers came from the souls of Native Americans speaking in tribal tongues. As the branches swayed in the wind with scraping leaves, the trees would whisper, “Look! Look! Look at the boy!”

The hollow whispers would get louder and louder as if the trees themselves were expanding to lean closer until abject horror compelled me to open my eyes.

What I saw was far worse than the horrid sounds. I saw an endless procession of dead scabby Confederate soldiers, the “Clinched Rifles,” trudging four men abreast on the promenade skirting the river. I’d cringe with nausea as I saw rotting flesh drop like globs of wet clay from the men’s disgruntled faces. Sometimes whole limbs would detach like brittle twigs left littering the walkway. I was the only one who could see it. People thought I was “retarded” the way I stepped over rotting forearms and toes that curled like maggots.

Worst of all, the soldiers would moan and groan and every once in a while, I’d get locked in a trance, honing in on one of them like a jack-in-a-box about to pop. My intense focus would zero in on a single soldier. And every time I honed in on that single soul, the Confederate soldier would lash like a snapping turtle and snarl at me with the vile, twisted grimace of a monster that wanted to eat the flesh from my face.

Slaves and Native Americans hung on the oaks like ornaments. Behind the Episcopal Church, there was always an orange glow of controlled fire like the burner from a stove that served as a perimeter around the entire cemetery. The Celtic cross itself blazed bright green, ever so often, erupting like a geyser. Within its emerald flames, I’d see a mask of agony lighting up the night sky. It was the death mask of a martyr burning at the stake.

Perhaps the only tolerable presence to a precocious child, such as I, were the soft orange wisps that floated about like tiny clouds of glowing smoke. I’d hear giggles in these dull orbs of light. The words they spoke were in a language I couldn’t understand but somehow I found them benevolent. As if they understood me. And isn’t that what all children want? To be understood?

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 12, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud is alone, alienated, and outnumbered. Jessica and Leanne are convinced they have their Slave Quarter Killer in custody but Cloud isn’t convinced and he’s called back to Atlanta. The ladies lay it on thick, scolding Cloud for striking out on his own and not being a team player. Considering the facts, he has no choice but to submit to their logic and starts to second-guess himself…that is until he runs into KeNedra’s ghost.

Chapter 15 - The Wrong Man

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 15 – The Wrong Man
By Rock Kitaro

Since 1:30, I’ve been sleeping in a hospital bed on the 3rd floor of Augusta Medical Center. I have the whole room to myself. The alarm on my phone is set for seven. A strip of light floods the floor from the base of the door, getting brighter in the darkness. It wakes me up fifteen minutes earlier than expected.

It’s cold. My blazer is resting on the back of a chair but I’m still too tired to get up and get it. Thus, goosebumps prick up and proliferate my arms, causing me to slip my frigid hands into my pockets.

I’m staring at the ceiling with brooding eyes, dissatisfied, annoyed, disheartened. Nothing seems to be going my way. Now here I am, laid up in a hospital bed with the bumps and bruises stiffening my joints.

Meanwhile, Griffin’s the celebrated hero. Thanks to his “hunch,” he located the bodies of five missing girls. He’s rallied behind the judgment of my colleagues to settle on the idea that Jacory Godchaux is the Slave Quarter Killer and thanks to his provocations, he backed the poor fool in between a rock and a hard place.

Jacory’s shootout caused a stampede of protestors that resulted in five more injured civilians. He then led the police in, I would say a “high speed pursuit” but in downtown Augusta with its old narrow roads and stop signs galore, it was more like a game of cat and mouse. Either way, a victorious Griffin and his sidekick Jessica captured him without a single civilian casualty. They have every right to believe Jacory is the Slave Quarter Killer after everything he’s done.

I shouldn’t blame them…but I do. Especially Griffin.

After Jacory smashed his father’s SUV, he was brought to this very same hospital for emergency surgery. His right leg had to amputated and due to heavy blood loss, he hasn’t been conscience since. Right now, there were two officers stationed outside his hospital room down the hall from me. He was cuffed to the bedpost…as if they figured he’d try and hobble away on one leg.

Jamar and O’Shea Thompson received a police escort back to Coventry where their mother Amarah laid into them real good. The Thompsons, something about that family pulls at my heartstrings. They’re a good family. If KeNedra was still alive, I imagine she would’ve fared well with the lot of them backing her. I wish I had a family like that…little brothers, a sister, a mother who preached forgiveness but had the resolve to use the rod when the situation calls.

“Your mom is dead right?”

Jamar’s question comes out of thin air as clear as when he first said it.

“Are you glad?”

It wasn’t out of malice, I’m sure. Jamar was just curious. But still, why on Earth would he ask me that? My brows furrow at the thought. It’s in times like this that I could usually count on Maggie turning up to get a rise out of me, but at present, she does not reveal herself. She’s letting me rest, letting me think.

…

…

Focus on Griffin. He’s my guy. My next move is to lure him into a trap. Make that oaf give himself away. He’s out in front of everything, which means all eyes are on him. So what are you worried about? This should be easy for you, Cloud. So think…How do you get him?

Someone’s calling my phone. It lights up the room. A fiery sting spreads across my neck as I reach over to pick it off the nightstand. It’s Miranda. She’s been blowing up my phone for the better part of the afternoon, eight calls and twelve text messages.

“Hey, missy.” I groan.

“Cloud, what happened? Why aren’t you answering your phone?!” Miranda stresses with touching concern.

“Dude, you’re not gonna believe…” I’m just about to get started when suddenly I’m blinding by the overheads. Leanne whipped open the door and flipped on the lights as if she’s trying to wake a suspect for questioning. Jessica is right behind her, carrying a bag of fast food and sodas in foam coasters. My eyes are squinting with a confused grimace. Comical, I’m sure.

“Mm-hmm! Who ya talking to? One of your lady friends?” Leanne asks.

“Could be a guy,” Jessica smirks.

“Nope. All of Cloud’s friends are women. Trust me, I know.” Leanne points out as they drag over screeching chairs to sit in front of me.

I wince to sit up with the phone still pressed to my cheek. “I’m gonna have to call you back. I’m fine, Miranda. I promise.”

“See. Girl!” Leanne brags.

I’m a little embarrassed for the ladies to see me so disheveled. My hair looks like a blond fire that’s been hit by a freeze ray. My wrinkled white shirt is unbuttoned halfway down my chest and I have pillow lines engraving my red cheeks. I’m sure I smell or at least my feet do. My shoes are off and I have to move like an old man to keep my feet from touching the women. Jessica’s laying out burgers but from the way she keeps her chin tucked, I can tell she wants to laugh.

“Just got off the phone with Chomsky. He wants us back in the office by tomorrow afternoon,” Leanne says.

“Afternoon? We haven’t closed the case yet.”

Leanne and Jessica shoot me the same scathing stare.

Leanne continues with, “The local authorities can take it from here, Cloud. Chomsky’s been briefed. It’s a done deal. You should be glad. And you should know that while it was tempting to tell him about your gallivanting off by yourself and getting beat to a pulp, I refrained. We’re partners, you see. I wouldn’t throw you under the bus. Contrary to popular belief.”

“Thank you, Leanne.”

I say that bluntly. Now I have a time limit to catch the real killer. The ladies just swept the rug out from underneath me and I’m struggling real hard to hide my frustration.

Leanne senses it. She bats her lashes and leans back to cross her legs. Once settled, she gives me a long hard stare as if I stole her money and she’s still waiting for me to fess up. I don’t react. I’m starving. After putting on my shoes and buttoning up my shirt, I dig into a platter of burger and fries.

“Cloud, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why exactly did you ask to join this case?” Leanne starts in.

I’m sipping on lime soda through a noisy straw.

She continues with, “Ever since we got here we’ve been carrying you on our backs. I mean, seriously. What exactly have you done? We told you to come with us to the other plantations. You didn’t want to do that. We asked you for a hand in profiling Jacory. You didn’t want to do that. It shouldn’t have been Griffin in their questioning Jacory. It should have been you. But no! You had to go off and get yourself damn near killed. Yet, I’m the one who needs the partner! See! This is why I can’t stand this, condescending, patriarchal society. Meritocracy, my ass! It’s sexism at its finest!”

I sigh as I stay chewing on my burger. Leanne…Don’t worry. For all your talk of misogyny, I certainly see you pair on you. That’s what I’d like to say. What I do say is:

“Leanne…I hate to keep coming back to this. Fuck it. I need to know what time Griffin left your hotel room last night.”

“Cloud!” Jessica snaps.

“Un-freaking-believable!” Leanne shouts at the same time.

“That’s none of your business, Cloud. It’s extremely rude!” Jessica says.

“Thank you! Geez!” Leanne adds.

The purpose of my question isn’t to shut her up and get her off my back. I really need to know. My stubborn brown eyes are locked on Leanne. She’s munching on a fry but she knows I’m waiting.

“It’s none of your business when he left my hotel room, Cloud. That’s just none of your business.”

“What if I told you it’s pertinent to solving this case?”

“Alright, you need stop right there!” Jessica objects as her hands coil into a clenched fist.

I’m suddenly gripped with suspense as Jessica removes the box of fries from her lap, gets up and paces around while massaging the back of her neck. I’ve never seen her like this. In my own fantasies, I always imagined her anger as a source of arousal…not terror.

“Don’t tell me you think Griffin did this. And before you answer, consider this. Your line of questioning is extremely disrespectful and unbecoming. You’re insulting our intelligence and demeaning all our efforts, the integrity of our investigation. Believe it or not, you can’t always be the smartest person in the room. Jacory confessed!”

“To statutory rape, Jessica. Not murder.”

“Yeah and it adds up! You’re not a certified behavioral specialist. I am. The first victim, Alisha Collier, the arrangement of her body was positioned in a congenial state. That’s postmortem. She’s on her back with one hand resting over the other, on top of the navel. That tells us the killer was either racked with guilt, remorse, grief, or regret. All emotions displayed by our suspect during interrogation. Maybe if you had enough sleep you would’ve seen it for yourself instead of sitting there all high and mighty as if wisdom speaks only to you. Seriously, it pisses me off more than I fucking can stand!”

Jesus…I can almost see the steam fuming from her shoulders, her cheeks quivering with rage. From the way she stood in the center of the room with that arch in her back and those glowering eyes, feels like I just poked and prodded a caged jaguar whose on the verge of snapping. Even Leanne was surprised. To her, Jessica was still a newbie to the GBI.

I contemplate telling them what I know about Griffin, the racism and how it makes more sense that the Slave Quarter Killer could be a cop. But even if I did, all they’d see is the color of jealousy. Because honestly, I am a little jealous. It’s pointless to deny it. Jessica thinks she has the right man and after her little tirade, I’m starting to believe she might be right.

“I think you owe us an apology, Cloud.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 14 – Interrogations (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 6, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

With their main suspect in custody, the entire department’s on pins and needles as Jessica and Det. Griffin grill him about the Slave Quarter Murders. Cloud, in particular, has his stomach in knots as he still thinks they have the wrong man. And as per his rotten luck, bad turns to worse when the suspect shoots his way out of the precinct. This is how the innocent dig their own graves. Because they’re idiots.

Chapter 14 - Interrogations

Chapter 14 – Interrogations
By Rock Kitaro

I’m really beginning to hate Augusta, Georgia.

Knowing that Jamar and O’Shea are locked up in a holding cell does very little to assuage my angst. And oh look! Here comes Jessica and Leanne. It’s five past nine so I guess I should’ve expected them. But still, I could’ve used another five minutes to come up with more plausible lies.

Again, I’m sitting at the vacant desk, this time with an ice pack to my face. My blazer is sprinkled with spots from being laid out in the middle of the road. O’Shea’s punch was strong, but he lacked power. He more so pushed me down, than hit me. If not for my previous injuries I could’ve taken it like a boss instead of getting carried off like a…

“Cloud! Oh my god! What were you thinking?” Leanne gawks.

The ladies lean in to examine the swelling. They’re upset, understandably so. I don’t know what they heard, so I’m not sure what exactly to apologize for. Jessica appears well rested while Leanne looks a couple years younger, more vibrant with color in her cheeks.

“Did you really go to the slave quarters by yourself? In the middle of the night?” Jessica asks.

I nod and for some reason smirk at the same time.

“You’re an idiot! You know that? I read the report. Someone threw you out of freaking window? You could have been killed!” Leanne snaps.

I’m still smiling.

“This is serious, Cloud,” Jessica tells me.

I’m just about to speak up but I see Griffin and Agent Dixon approaching.

“Don’t give him too much grief.” Griffin says in good cheer. “At least that gives us two alibis Jacory, aka J-Pooy now has to account for.”

“Yeah, Assuming he’s our guy.” I let slip.

“What?” Griffin asks.

“Nothin. But, hey! Thanks again for saving my ass back there. I appreciate it.”

“You got it, Cloud! You and I are like Shaq and Kobe. We got each others back!”

“Yeah, well Chomsky’s gonna throw a natural fit when he finds out about this. Honestly, what were you thinking? No back up!? No service weapon!? Freaking idiot!” Leanne says as she continues to lay in.

Agent Dixon gives me a suspicious look as if he could tell I’m holding something back. I resolve to say nothing in my defense. Whatever they’re thinking, it’s best to just let them run with it. I rather do that than mention something that could come back to bite me in the ass.

“It’s insane out there.” Jessica frets. “I think it’s going to get worse. Jacory just came in with his father and their attorney. They’re meeting with one of the captains.”

“Good! Just put me in a room with him and I’ll wrap this up,” says a determined Griffin before he strolls off toward the elevator lobby.

Dixon goes with him. I try to follow but Jessica yanks on my arm, sending a scorching pain down the left side of my body. She looks me square in the eye, casting a spell by which I’m left speechless under her control.

“Talk to me. What’s going on?” she whispers.

God…how can I deny those brown eyes? I look at Leanne. She too, is waiting.

“Leanne, was Griffin with you all night?” I ask as politely as I could.

Just like that, Leanne gushes with a haughty smile. It’s like she can’t wait to spill the beans, but of course, she wants me to work for it. “Cloud! That’s none of your business. Geez!”

“Talk to us! What’s going on?” Jessica urges.

“You guys…” I begin with a heavy sigh. “I don’t think Jacory is the man we’re looking for.”

Leanne claps. “I fucking knew it! I knew you were going to say that. Why? ‘Cause you didn’t figure it out first?”

My lips tighten. Why did I even bother?

Jessica adds, “Cloud, we got this guy on camera a few miles from where KeNedra was picked up by paramedics. He can’t account for the time of the abduction and he has a history of sexual abuse. Also, forensics found blood and dirt in his truck. They haven’t connected it to the victims yet but it’s only a matter of time. We’re just waiting on DNA results. So tell us, why don’t you think he’s our guy?”

Jessica…she’s not raising her voice or frowning, but I can tell she’s just as insulted as Leanne. Just then, the doors to the bullpen open up with a loud wooden creak. The clamor of conversations blare in. A stern Dixon and Griffin are leading an entourage of grim faces, all of them ready to stand trial.

The short, bald, and stocky Jacory “J-Poopy” Godchaux isn’t wearing handcuffs. He’s dressed in a respectable neutral tone suit behind his flashier father. The popular emcee preacher, Tavvy Godchaux is dressed in a loud purple three-piece suit with matching gator skin boots. Next to him is their estimable defense attorney/civil rights activist, Malachi Sanders Esq. Malachi is dark, lean, and deceptively young with a clean shave and thick-framed glasses. His tall frame and long dreadlocks make him standout, even amongst the grape looking Tavvy.

I’m sizing Jacory up. He lacks confidence, as if he’s already been sentenced to death.

“You want to know why I think he’s not our guy?” I tell the ladies. “Because there’s no way he could’ve taken me in a fight.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 13 – The World Media (Mystery Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud’s worst fear comes to fruition as the media flocks upon Augusta, Georgia, foaming at the mouth with cries of racism and police corruption. Families of the Slave Quarter Killer’s victims demand justice. They say, if the victims were white girls, the police would’ve had a greater response. Cloud confronts the whistle-blower for fanning the flames and, in the end, gets checked for all the world to see.

Chapter 13 - The Worldly Media

Chapter 13 – The Worldly Media
By Rock Kitaro

Whelp…After I got beat the fuck up, I had no choice but to file a report. The sergeant working the graveyard shift wasn’t too pleased about my going out without a service weapon. Thankfully, he was polite about it, keeping his skepticism and scolding to a minimum. Other than a description of my assailant, he couldn’t care less why I was there or what I was looking for. He suggested I visit a hospital but wasn’t persistent about it. I ignored the suggestion and opted to return to my motel room.

As the shower rinsed the sweat and dirt off of my battered body, I saw the messy blotches of black and blue swelling all over my chest and back. The area between my neck and shoulder was worse from the barstool. Never before had I been so thoroughly thrashed. I winced with every turn. The simple act of reaching sent a wave of inflammation through my shoulders like popping battery acid in my bones.

My face remained unblemished, thank God. However, a migraine persisted and no matter how many painkillers I took, this migraine would stay with me for next three days.

On top of all that, there was blood in my urine. I couldn’t remember if pissing blood was a good or bad thing in terms of the healing process. All I knew was that I definitely didn’t want to go to the hospital and get a catheter stuck up my urethra. Too much information? Good! Street fights aren’t cool, kids. They suck. And as an investigator who depends on his sharp senses and clever wit to outsmart criminals, a throbbing headache is the last thing I need.

I should have sprawled out on that inviting floral pattern comforter covering my queen size bed. I should have nestled my head in between those crisp and cool pillows and let my burning eyes recuperate from the strain of staring so much. Like an imbecile, I don’t do any of that. I don’t know what’s driving me. It doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid. I know.

With a disgruntled mug, I wrangled on a white collared shirt. I shoved my legs through black slacks and yanked my blazer off its hanger. My head dangled forward in a dazed stupor as I glared at myself in the mirror and fiddled with frustrated fingers to tie this stupid tie. I’m whispering f-bombs. Should’ve brought a friggin clip-on.

I had to stop, calm down, and breathe.

This time, before I left my motel room I made sure to bring my service weapon. It’d be a shame to have to shoot the suspect, but I’d rather put one in his back than watch him scurry off in the woods again.

As I made my way to the motel’s front office, my face gradually descends into the droop into a disheartening grimace. I passed by Leanne’s room and as much as I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, her nasally laughter couldn’t be ignored. She was still up but I don’t hear anyone else. I didn’t expect to. Because I know Griffin excused himself not too long ago to try and kill me.

I thought about kicking in Leanne’s door like riot police and interrogating his departure time out of her. I thought about it, but didn’t have the nerve. So I simply proceeded to the front office and dropped off the rental keys to the car. Leanne would pick them up in the morning and that would be that.

It was closing in on three in the morning when I hit the streets. Downtown Augusta is an eerie sight, not for the timid or fainthearted. The roads are barren and silent. Tungsten streetlamps cast a burnt orange tint over the sidewalks, but beyond the cracked cement and chained linked fences is a vast sea of darkness. I saw outlines of historic buildings with no electricity. Every once in a while I’d hear a random cough in the distance. I wondered how many squatters took up residence in those vacant buildings. I wondered how many were watching me.

Police HQ was only few blocks away, a thirty-minute hike. I take out Miranda’s pack of cigarettes and just as my lips snag one out, a strong pressure squeezes in my head so hard that my jaw clenches. That was my body’s way of telling me, “Nope!” and I listened. The pack is discarded in the next trashcan I pass.

Flipping up my collar, I replayed the last few hours in my head wondering if there’s anything I missed, anything I might have overlooked. Mr. Wayne said the killer drove in a vehicle with flashing lights. It has to be law enforcement! The desk sergeant knew where I was going. Anyone could’ve found out where I was from entry logs but I can’t just approach the sergeant and make inquiries. It would let the killer know I’m onto his trail. And when you’re trying to set a trap for someone the last thing you want is to let them know you’re baiting the hook. Not to mention, a hawk scooping up a venomous snake still runs the risk of getting bit in return.

So what should I do? Was it really Det. Griffin? For all I knew, Griffin could’ve still been in Leanne’s motel room when I heard her laughing. I don’t know for sure. And if Leanne was with Det. Griffin all night then his alibi is airtight. However, if he slipped out sometime around midnight, then yeah…he’s my guy.

After thirty minutes, the cold finally penetrated my defenses. It numbs the pain but my front teeth’s doing Morse code as I stopped under a lamppost on the corner of Moor and Hightower. Police headquarters was a stone’s throw away. I just stood there staring at the ghastly four-story building of Beaux-Arts architecture like a vindictive criminal coming for payback on the pigs who locked me up. My brooding eyes were fixated on the main entrance and the line of squad cars parked out front.

Migraines…they not only dull your senses, they reduce your common sense. I’m strutting down the middle of Moor Street like it’s nobody’s business. There wasn’t any traffic but even if there was, I doubt I’d get out of the way. I was in a mood unbecoming of an officer of the law, unbecoming of the authority vested in me.

Even as I passed City Hall on my left, I was squinting at it with disgust as if the entire building was sprinkled in bird shit. I never understood why people liked to put City Hall and police HQ within spitting distances of each other. It’s like having quarreling siblings grow up and deciding live next door to each other when there’s a whole world of space out there. So stupid. Like I said, I was in mood.

When I entered police HQ, I ignored the desk sergeant’s judgmental gaze and didn’t react when she called me a dumbass from afar. I simply found refuge in the mostly vacant 2rd floor bullpen. It was sad. The Chief just finished giving a press conference talking about how urgent this case was, but I only saw two detectives burning both ends of the candle. These two good detectives were following up Jessica’s suggestion to search J-Poopy’s sanitation truck. I could’ve walked over for an update but it was so quiet, so tranquil. I’ll ask them later.

Taking up a post at an empty desk, I spread out the case files, the pictures, the documented statements. I was ignoring the obvious in search for trivial details, any kind of discrepancy I could use to prove J-Poopy’s innocence. I was walking on eggshells because I knew my agenda undermined that of Jessica and Leanne’s. They’re not gonna want to hear that I think their primary suspect is innocent, so I’m determined to keep my suspicions to myself until I have concrete evidence.

My eyes jumped from page to page, timecode to timecode, dates to dates, addresses and their correlation to the points of interests. It’s…it’s all so very taxing. It’s never a good sign when you start seeing things in three, when your vision blurs the lines and causes the letters to come floating off paper like leaves on the surface of a rippling pond. My body finally seizes control. Fatigue grabbed me by the back of my neck and gently lowered my head to rest on the surface of the wooden desk, right next to Tiquasia Payne’s autopsy report.

Chapter 12 – Ghosts of the Old South (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 23, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Agent Cloud Beaudry ventures out to the crime scene in the middle of the night. As expected, he sees remnants of the Old South, ghosts of the slaves and slave owners tilling the fields and haunting the big house. He interrogates the most prominent Master of the house, seeking clues that could lead him to the Slave Quarter Killer. What he didn’t expect was to have a run-in with the killer himself.

Chapter 12 - Ghosts of the Old South

Chapter 12 – Ghosts of the Old South
By Rock Kitaro

When the crickets go on like this, I do wonder if it’s the middle of their mating season. I left my rental car on the side of Waynesboro Road and trekked through the field of crunchy branches. The beauty of the full moon is about the only thing that makes the crickets tolerable. It casts a dim light over the glistening field of white cotton, creating silhouettes out of the trees and the big house.

After the first two minutes, my eyes adjust and beyond the fields I see a massive wall of black that make up the towering woods reaching up to mesh with purple stardust.

I shouldn’t be here. I confess, I’m a little afraid. But there’s something about the suspense that’s making me a bit giddy. At any given moment someone could come up and stab me from behind and I’d just die laughing, thinking about Miranda’s advice and how she told me to wait till daylight. For all intents and purposes, she’s right. It’d be insane for anyone to come out looking to find a tiny silver barrette in the middle of the night.

However, I’m convinced KeNedra’s spirit is bound to the barrette. Which means if the barrette’s here, KeNedra’s here. I’ll ask my questions and solve this mystery. Case closed.

Each step I take is with caution, touching toes first before planting the rest of my sole. I keep looking over my shoulders. It’s a little after one on a weeknight so I don’t expect anyone to drive by, but you never know.

Approaching the slave quarters, I emerge from the dense thicket of brittle branches into a clearing of softer flat soil. A car hasn’t passed by in over fifteen minutes so I’m comfortable enough to take out my smartphone and activate the flashlight app. A small needlepoint bulb shines a beam, carving through the darkness and crawling along the soil. That’s when I hear it once more. Gospel music.

The chirping of the crickets fade out. It gives way to a soulful hymn that gradually picks up in volume. It’s the tune of people making the best of a bad situation. I hear footsteps in the bushes behind me but I’m not startled. Instead, something strange washes over me. A cool breeze penetrates my sweater and massages my chest like a refrigerated ointment.

Given in to some inexplicable compulsion, I’m brought to my knees. I close my eyes and let go if just for a moment. Gospel music is so therapeutic. Well…I say it’s gospel but for all I know it could be the blues.

More than twenty deep voices hum in blended harmony while ten tenors sang lyrics I couldn’t quite understand. So badly, I wish I could make out the words. Only one was discernible. God. The way they enunciated “God” with such passion, over multiple octaves. I never knew Gospel music could have such a psychological effect. It’s similar to the way metal helps me cope with the rage. Gospel seems to heal. I can’t remember the last time I felt so transported.

Slowly, I open my eyes and I’m awaken to a forgotten scene that obliterates the serenity. Around the slave quarters, I see dozens of dark billowy apparitions toiling in the fields. Their movements are drawn-out and perpetual, like seaweed swaying in a murky lake. There must have been thirty of them and that’s just what I saw in front of me.

Scanning my surroundings, I observe the length of three football fields teeming with paranormal activity. Hundreds of slaves continue to till but with no taskmaster. I heard no crack of the whip or racist taunts driving them on.

The closest to me is a large male raking a stretch of sand. Most of his form is that of dark smoke but his eyes are yellow. He can sense I’m staring and rewards my curiosity with a resentful scowl. His face gains solid definition with a hardened rough texture. I see the grooves of his nostrils snarl like a hostile Rottweiler about to lash out.

I avert my gaze, not out of fear, but sadness. I want him to know, I want them all to know that I’m not their enemy.

A spray of dirt scrapes over my shoes. I looked down to see dozens of small gray wisps, curious faces blended with animosity. High pitch laughter squeals out as the mischievous children realize they’ve been caught. As soon as I see them, they scurry off in all directions. Some disperse in thin air.

Even inside the slave quarters, I spot yellow eyes glowering at me, some with contempt and others with concern. They stare at me for close to three seconds and then fade back into the shadows of the roofed shelter.

“AYYYE!!!!”

A piercing scream sends shivers down my spine. There’s a scuffle, a struggle over life and death emanating from inside the slave quarters. My eyes gloss over with rage as I’m immediately reminded of what happened to Tiquasia Payne. Her pleas, her wailing, the vision of her being brutally manhandled and raped, it stokes the fire inside and snaps me out of this stupid melancholy.

KeNedra. Where are you? If your barrette is here, so should you. With that strong indomitable spirit, one would think you’d be the first to show yourself and steer me in the right direction. Were you really possessed by some evil spirit? Is that why you committed suicide? Were you driven mad? Demoralized?

I sit down on the frame of the doorway facing outward towards the cotton fields. Amidst the whimpers and bludgeoning thuds, the whacks of Tiquasia getting hit over and over again, my eyes stay open. I’m glowering at the fields and any resenting ghost that’s staring my way.

Screw that! I refuse to believe KeNedra was possessed. No! I won’t have it. KeNedra was strong. She stood up against injustices fully aware of the consequences. So what happened? Where the freak are you?

“Kill Crystianne!”

Great… Just what this situation needs, an entitled little schoolgirl from the 1950s showing her pale face for all to see. Maggie steps out of the other doorway ten paces to my right. Her arms are crossed and she’s wearing that signature squinty-eyed scowl of a rich girl who wants to play with the poor girl’s toys. We lock eyes. Both defiant. I bounce my eyebrows as if to say, “Problem?”

“GO KILL CRYSTIANNE!!!” she screams.

A wave of frightened wisps scurries off into the cotton fields. Even the larger slave kept his eyes down and suddenly timid as if he had a drunk Andrew Jackson bearing down his back. Maggie starts in an angry approach. Her face convulses and glistens as sweat and black mucous oozes from her pores.

“Why are we here?! Crystianne is still out there! She’s still alive!!!” She screams, adding monstrous bass in her voice like the growl of a mastiff.

“Damn it, Maggie! For craps sake, quit your hollerin. For the past few days you’ve gone on and on about wanting me to kill Crystianne. You know I will, so hold your fucking horses!”

“NO! SHE’S THE WORST!”

“Then why didn’t we kill her first? Hmm? I made you a promise, didn’t I? When have I ever let you down? When have I ever gone back on my word? Against my better judgment I’ve done every-goddamn-thing I said I was going to do for the sake of keeping my vow! So how about you get off my back and try helping someone else for a change! The sooner I solve this case, the sooner you can go back to hoarding all my undivided attention for yourself. Alright? ALL RIGHT?!”

It’s explosion of frustration and fury that takes her by surprise. She backs up and literally clean up her act. At once, her sweat ashes up and returns to the chalky complexion that was her default. I stand up. Everything I told her was exactly how I felt, save for one minor detail. I honestly don’t want to kill Crystianne so soon after the death of Florence Leach. If anyone picks up on the fact that these two senior citizens were in the same sorority, it could make things a bit difficult. A little patience could go a long way but it looks like Maggie’s fresh out of all that.

 

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 11 – Thin Air (Paranormal Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 16, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud gets to work. The six victims aren’t going to find their own killer, but usually, they point him in the right direction. He needs to find KeNedra’s ghost, but where is she? Miranda suggests investigating the paramedics who discovered KeNedra limping down the road. It’s a start…

Chapter 11 - Thin Air

Chapter 11 – Thin Air
By Rock Kitaro

This is where she died. KeNedra Thompson, age 15, of Cedar Creek High School. She planted her hands against the yellow brick walls and proceeded to bash her head in.

I’m sitting on the floor of the interrogation room with my back against the wall, staring up at the spot where flesh met cement. It’s a blotchy spot, lighter than the surrounding surface area, suggesting the walls haven’t been scrubbed for years and it was just the blood that the janitor focused on cleaning.

I’ve been staring at this same spot for over fifteen minutes, nearing the eleven o’clock hour. A single lamp lights the room. There are overheads, but I left them off on purpose. I wanted the shadows, not out of some dramatic flair but it was the shadows that spoke to me.

However, at the moment, it’s only Maggie’s apparition standing in the corner to my left. As ever, she’s scowling with those squinty dark eyes, her Betty Paige bangs, her sooty school dress. Even in a calm state, her presence is unnerving. She has a cruel tendency to charge at me, without warning and quicker than a bolt of lightning. It’s like being in a room with coiled rattlesnake, primed strike at any moment. That I haven’t developed PTSD or some kind twitch is a miracle in of itself.

KeNedra…where are you? Why won’t you show yourself to me? I’m here to help.

The cameras are recording, so I have to be careful about what I say out loud. Scattered before me is my computer tablet and the photos and dossiers of all six victims, the deceased majorettes. I have statements collected by detectives. Maps highlighting the distance between the plantations and the victims’ homes. Only two conclusive autopsies. KeNedra Thompson’s and Tiquasia Payne’s.

Let’s see… If I was in KeNedra’s shoes what would I be thinking?

KeNedra just finished telling the detectives about how she woke up in the slave quarters when she heard the screaming, Tiquasia’s screaming. She saw the killer jump on Tiquasia and drag her back into the other compartment. I’m assuming it’s through the hole in the wall that got me dirty. KeNedra recalled how the killer beat Tiquasia to death with a rock or a brick. It was then that desperation kicked in and KeNedra broke free from the chains and ran off into the cotton fields. After that, paramedics found her staggering along Peach Orchard. This was what KeNedra told the first detective.

I remember the video. I’ve replayed it over a dozen times and it’s always the same. As she recounts what happened, KeNedra appears cooperative, coherent. Yes, she’s despondent but there’s sliver of hope. It isn’t until the detective asks KeNedra if she recognized the killer that all hope goes up in smoke. I’ve seen that look before. Any guard patrolling death row would recognize it. When an individual acknowledges their inevitable death, they resign themselves. The light goes out of their eyes and they simply let go of everything attached to the living world.

That’s what’s bugging me. According to her friends and family, KeNedra wasn’t the type to give up so easily. I went to her MeBook page and downloaded photos from her profile to my phone. I saw videos of her protests against police brutality, a calling for an end of black-on-black violence. KeNedra was strong and courageous. If history’s taught me anything, people like this only commit suicide for martyrdom or to protect someone they love. Either way, why would she kill herself in such a brutal fashion? Was it haste or impulse? Did she recognize the killer and would rather die than give him up? Was it her brothers?

The light bulb goes off as I begin to settle on the idea that it just could very well be her brothers, Jamar or O’Shea. Both were tall and strong enough. But at the same time, their familial bond was solid. If one of them was a rapist and a killer, I can’t see them harming their own sister. The passion at the Thompson residence wasn’t fake.

Great…Then, why else would KeNedra commit suicide? Why isn’t her spirit in this room? Was she truly possessed?

A frustrated groan vibrates from the back of my throat.

“She’s not here! The girl, you’re looking for,” Maggie says with crossed arms.

My eyes lock with Maggie’s. She’s not lying, or at least it didn’t seem like she was. Where would KeNedra’s ghost be if not in the place of her death? Is there a difference between suicide victims and murdered victims?

I’m focusing too much on the paranormal. I’m missing something and my brain is about to burst. After picking myself up with stiffness in my joints, I step out into the hall to call my good friend, Miranda Burnette. It’s pretty late but I know she’s still up. If she went out with her girlfriends after that spin class, chances are they hit up the bar to treat themselves.

The phone rings as I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone. There isn’t a soul in sight, save for Maggie’s silhouette standing in the dark end of the hallway under a red exit sign. So cliché…