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Authors: Chris Bradbury
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had a serial killer out there.
Wednesday
Chapter 6
The car, a shit brown Ford Pinto, lay on wasteland among the rampant weeds and dead-eyed foundations on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Tumbledown concrete hives gawped blankly across the lunar landscape and lent it an other-worldly character, as if the freeway wasn’t two minutes away, as if humanity had come and gone, unable any more to breathe the air or stand the place that had succumbed to the fallout, the detritus, of their lives. We had come and we had gone and we had left behind our very own version of hell.
A forensics team were busy at work when they arrived. They roamed the car like silent, ghostly bees, occasionally stopping to sup the nectar and then move on.
Frank and Steve, minus their jackets, even now it was hot, walked up to the burned out shell of the car, the paint blistered and peeled, the tyres flat, ruptured by the heat, the windows blackened and bubbled into thick foggy lenses, and peered in.
‘Help you?’
A uniformed officer stood behind them. He was big and Irish and frankly didn’t give a damn if he could help them or not.
Frank took out his badge. ‘Frank Matto. This is Steve Wayt. We took a call about this car.’
Frank held out his hand. The Irishman took it.
‘Excuse me, sir. John Buckley. Sorry. We get a lot of sightseers. Grisly bastards.’
‘I understand,’ said Frank. ‘Tell me about the car.’
Buckley took out his notebook. ‘Firefighters were called out last night at about one am. When they got here the car was burning fiercely.’ He recited from his notes. Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. ‘It took them about half an hour to get it under control. The fire had been reported to them by an anonymous caller who said that they had seen some boys set it alight.’ He closed the notebook and folded it away.
‘No name?’
‘No name,’ said Buckley.
‘Male?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Do people in this neighbourhood usually report fires on wasteland?’
‘No, they don’t. We usually stumble across them when we’re out on patrol and phone them in ourselves, otherwise they just burn out on their own. The fire department have better things to do and this place is far enough away from the population not to warrant any concern among the residents. It’s like New Year’s all the time round here.’
Frank peered through the fractured rear window. ‘So I’m guessing the large bloodstain on the back seat is why we’re here.’
‘And the fact that we just happen to be on the lookout for a vehicle with lots of blood in it,’ chipped in Steve.
‘Do you believe in coincidences, Steve?’ asked Frank.
‘Of course, Frank. Along with the Tooth Fairy and Bigfoot.’
Frank walked around the car. It stank. The air was rank with burned rubber and plastic. It lay in the nostrils and on the tongue. He felt like he could smell the years; the sweat that got buried deep in the spongy seats, the skin that built up on the steering wheel and the indicator and turned to dripping fat as the fire licked away at it, the dropped gum and fallen hairs, the spit, the semen, the waste. It all hit him with a ferocity that left him nauseated and dizzy and with the urge to run away.
Occasionally, the sun would spy something in the car unscarred by the fire and throw itself back at the world and Frank would have to turn away, unable to tolerate the brightness.
‘Do we know who owns it?’ he threw out to no one in particular.
He could feel sweat roll down his back. A moment of panic shrouded him, stopped his heart, as he thought it might be an insect, something that fed upon disaster, which picked at the bones in the hope of finding the juicy marrow within. He felt it slide down his spine, down each vertebra, to his coccyx and into the cleft of his buttocks. He shuddered and it disappeared.
‘Not yet,’ said Buckley.
Frank stood at the front of the
Wednesday
Chapter 6
The car, a shit brown Ford Pinto, lay on wasteland among the rampant weeds and dead-eyed foundations on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Tumbledown concrete hives gawped blankly across the lunar landscape and lent it an other-worldly character, as if the freeway wasn’t two minutes away, as if humanity had come and gone, unable any more to breathe the air or stand the place that had succumbed to the fallout, the detritus, of their lives. We had come and we had gone and we had left behind our very own version of hell.
A forensics team were busy at work when they arrived. They roamed the car like silent, ghostly bees, occasionally stopping to sup the nectar and then move on.
Frank and Steve, minus their jackets, even now it was hot, walked up to the burned out shell of the car, the paint blistered and peeled, the tyres flat, ruptured by the heat, the windows blackened and bubbled into thick foggy lenses, and peered in.
‘Help you?’
A uniformed officer stood behind them. He was big and Irish and frankly didn’t give a damn if he could help them or not.
Frank took out his badge. ‘Frank Matto. This is Steve Wayt. We took a call about this car.’
Frank held out his hand. The Irishman took it.
‘Excuse me, sir. John Buckley. Sorry. We get a lot of sightseers. Grisly bastards.’
‘I understand,’ said Frank. ‘Tell me about the car.’
Buckley took out his notebook. ‘Firefighters were called out last night at about one am. When they got here the car was burning fiercely.’ He recited from his notes. Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. ‘It took them about half an hour to get it under control. The fire had been reported to them by an anonymous caller who said that they had seen some boys set it alight.’ He closed the notebook and folded it away.
‘No name?’
‘No name,’ said Buckley.
‘Male?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Do people in this neighbourhood usually report fires on wasteland?’
‘No, they don’t. We usually stumble across them when we’re out on patrol and phone them in ourselves, otherwise they just burn out on their own. The fire department have better things to do and this place is far enough away from the population not to warrant any concern among the residents. It’s like New Year’s all the time round here.’
Frank peered through the fractured rear window. ‘So I’m guessing the large bloodstain on the back seat is why we’re here.’
‘And the fact that we just happen to be on the lookout for a vehicle with lots of blood in it,’ chipped in Steve.
‘Do you believe in coincidences, Steve?’ asked Frank.
‘Of course, Frank. Along with the Tooth Fairy and Bigfoot.’
Frank walked around the car. It stank. The air was rank with burned rubber and plastic. It lay in the nostrils and on the tongue. He felt like he could smell the years; the sweat that got buried deep in the spongy seats, the skin that built up on the steering wheel and the indicator and turned to dripping fat as the fire licked away at it, the dropped gum and fallen hairs, the spit, the semen, the waste. It all hit him with a ferocity that left him nauseated and dizzy and with the urge to run away.
Occasionally, the sun would spy something in the car unscarred by the fire and throw itself back at the world and Frank would have to turn away, unable to tolerate the brightness.
‘Do we know who owns it?’ he threw out to no one in particular.
He could feel sweat roll down his back. A moment of panic shrouded him, stopped his heart, as he thought it might be an insect, something that fed upon disaster, which picked at the bones in the hope of finding the juicy marrow within. He felt it slide down his spine, down each vertebra, to his coccyx and into the cleft of his buttocks. He shuddered and it disappeared.
‘Not yet,’ said Buckley.
Frank stood at the front of the
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