Johnithan Kellerman – Bad Love

The woman fell to the pavement as a rain of gunfire sounded -corn popping in an echo chamber. The man’s hair blew back. His chest burst, and the front of his face turned into something amoebic and rosy-a pink and white kaleidoscope that seemed to unfold as it imploded.

The hostage was facedown, fetal. Bloodspray showered down on her.

The man, now faceless, slumped and sagged, but he remained on his feet for one hellish second, a gore-topped scarecrow, still gripping the knife as red juice poured out of his head. He had to be dead but he continued to stand, bending at the knees, his ruined head shadowing the hostage’s shoulder.

Then all at once he let go of the knife and collapsed, falling on the woman, limp as a blanket. She twisted and struck out at him, finally freed herself and managed to rise to her knees, sobbing and covering her head with her hands.

Policemen ran to her.

One of the dead man’s bare feet was touching her leg. She didn’t notice it, but a cop did and kicked it away. Another officer, still ski-masked, stood over the faceless corpse, legs spread, gun pointed.

The screen went black. Then bright blue.

The dog was barking again, loud and insistent.

I made a shushing sound. He looked at me, cocked his head. Stared at me, confused. I went over to him and patted his back. His back muscles were jumping and drool trickled from his flews.

“It’s okay, fella.” My voice sounded false and my hands were cold.

The dog licked one of them and looked up at me.

“It’s okay,” I repeated.

Milo rewound the tape. His jaw was bunched.

How long had the scene lasted-a few minutes? I felt as if I’d aged watching it.

I stroked the dog some more. Milo stared at the numbers on the VCR’s counter.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” I said. “Hewitt. Screaming on my tape.”

“Him or a good imitation.”

“Who’s the poor woman?”

“Another social worker at the center. Adeline Potthurst. She just happened to be sitting at the wrong desk when he ran out after killing Becky.”

“How is she?”

“Physically, she’s okay-minor lacerations. Emotionally?” He shrugged.

“She took disability leave. Refused to talk to me or anyone else.”

He ran a hand along the edge of a bookshelf, grazing book spines and toys.

“How’d you figure it out?” I said. “Hewitt on the bad love’ tape?”

“I’m not sure what I figured, actually.”

He shrugged. His forelock cast a hat-brim shadow over his brow, and in the weak light of the library, his green eyes were drab.

The tape ejected. Milo put it on an end table and sat down.

The dog waddled over to him, and this time Milo looked pleased to see him.

Rubbing the animal’s thick neck, he said, “When I first heard your tape, something about it bugged me-reminded me of something. But I didn’t know what it was, so I didn’t say anything to you. I figured it was probably bad love’Hewitt’s using the phrase, my reading about it in the clinic director’s witness report.”

“Had you watched the video before?”

He nodded. “But at the station, with half an ear-a bunch of other detectives sitting around, cheering when Hewitt bit it. Splatter’s never been my thing. I was filling out forms, doing paperwork. ..

.

When you told me about the tape, it still didn’t trigger, but I wasn’t that bugged. I figured what you did-a bad joke.”

“The phone call and the fish make it more than a joke, don’t they?”

“The phone call, by itself, is stupidity-like you said, cowardly shit.

Someone coming on your property in the middle of the night and killing something is more. All of it put together is more. How much more I don’t know, but I’d rather be a little paranoid than get taken by surprise. After we spoke on the phone this afternoon I really wracked my brains about what was bothering me. Went back into the Basille files, found the video, and watched it. And realized it wasn’t the phrase that I remembered, it was the screams.

Someone had stuck Hewitt’s screams on your little gift.”

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