Tracking Evil, a Podcast Pt. 12a

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I have split this part into (a) and (b) as I wanted to get an update for this story online sooner rather than later and it was running long.

Tracking Evil, A Podcast: Part 12

Recap:

Erica has returned to her friends Arlene and Sondra, bearing with her information that had led to the death of the anonymous hacker who had been helping Erica with her enquiries. Her return, which should have been a cause for joy, was instead just in time to witness the aftermath of Destry's murder.

Another loved one taken, most likely by the same people that they had been hunting these last months. The cost of tracking this evil was becoming unbearable.

Prologue: "A man is ethical only when life, as such, is sacred to him - Albert Schweitzer"

Funerals were a happy time for Elvin. He had an abhorrence for what he viewed as ill manners and the rambunctious nature of those he considered his social inferiors.

Death however, not only stilled the tongues of the deceased, but the service and burial gave an air of solemnity to the attendees that made him literally giddy with pleasure. This particular funeral was especially pleasing as it wasn't often that he got to attend one for a victim. He knew of some killers who positively lived for the opportunity to feed off the pain and anguish they had caused their victims' loved ones, soaking it in by attending the church service and burial afterwards. Elvin however had always viewed that sort of behaviour as an unacceptable risk and a sign of weakness among his peers. He didn't seek exposure in that way, not when investigators would frequent the ceremony as well, all on the off chance that the perpetrator was present. However, in this case, for him to not attend would have been suspicious in the extreme.

He positioned himself in the second row of mourners as they thronged in a semi-circle around the grave. From his vantage point, Destry's family were blocked from sight by people heads and shoulders, all taller than himself. He couldn't get a clear view of those Destry had left behind, a mother, a brother, some cousins. Sondra however was almost directly opposite him, a fortuitous gap giving him an unobstructed view of the stunning black woman, clad in black, her head bowed in grief. On either side of her, also in black, stood Erica and Arlene, comforting hands laid on Sondra's shoulders. Those shoulders heaved and shook with the grief that overwhelmed the usually unflappable Sondra. Grief that Elvin had caused. He had to run a hand over his mouth, momentarily afraid a grin had somehow worked its way onto his face.

No, he was all good. Solemn and composed, the same old Elvin that everyone expected. He winced as the magic of the moment was broken, the pastor beginning to deliver his homily at the graveside.

"Destry was a good man, that's clear to everyone here from this wonderful turnout. And that, you can believe, is clear to our lord in heaven who has taken this young man into his ever-loving embrace."

'Yawn,' Elvin thought to himself. He let his mind drift as he looked at Erica. She'd cut her hair, probably when she was in hiding. She'd done a good job of that, keeping out of sight. He knew the Graffiti Killer had been in a rage when she'd disappeared, Butterman having developed a bit of an obsession over the young reporter. Elvin was still waiting to receive his due thanks and praise for drawing her out like this, killing Destry so she'd resurface. Typical that even his contemporaries didn't see his true value.

"...He sent Christ, who died and rose again and conquered death. God has spoken to the world through Christ, and told us that He wants to give us victory over death in and through Jesus Christ..."

Victory over death... good one! Elvin almost snorted aloud in distain. There was no victory to be found, not against him. He was too good, too smart, too organised. These fools had no chance.

"...How are we to respond in the face of evil? St Paul tells us, 'Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil by good'. Evil can never be overcome by evil; for if we do resort to evil ways to achieve our aim, does that not mean that we have been actually overcome by evil? But if we do respond by goodness, then evil has already been overcome..."

Elvin checked his face again. No smile but it was an effort not to laugh. This pastor could have made a living doing stand-up comedy.

"...So, we ask God for strength in this difficult time. Strength to do what is right. What is right is always hardest but from that, from that comes the greatest gift of all..."

He had lowered his eyes to his shoes, composing himself to stillness once again. Elvin raised his gaze and thought to let it settle on Sondra once more. Something had changed there though, her weeping seemed to be done with, for now at least, and the black woman was now staring straight ahead of her, her gaze focused and steady. Her eyes were tear filled and red eyed from crying but despite that, the look she delivered was implacable, cold as the grave over which she now stood and utterly pitiless. Elvin knew all that for a fact because her grim stare was delivered directly at him.

Flustered he looked to her left only to meet Arlene's eyes, eyes that promised retribution of the terminal kind. Another quaver on his part, his eyes flitting away to where Erica stood. He had seen her, full of life and laughing, full of cock and orgasming, she wasn't one given to violence, even Butterman had said so. It was her gaze, her terrible eyes that burned with an anger that was as pure as it was dreadful, that made him physically step back in fear, threading on the feet of the person behind him.

They knew.

It was impossible, there had been no witnesses.

But they knew.

He didn't need to look at their faces again, to check and see. Elvin had a talent for self-preservation, a sense that had kept him free from bullies in high school and the cops once he'd begun to kill. That warning system was blaring in his ears now, klaxons wailing out a premonition of destruction. Elvin didn't wait, he wasn't prepared to bluff things out. He turned on his heel, shoving his way free of the mourners, oblivious to the muttered shock of those closest to him. He fled across the clipped grass of the cemetery, steering clear of the main gates, vaulting a low wall instead, fear putting wings to his heels.

Clear of the cemetery, the young black man ducked into a random shop front, ignoring the shop assistant's offer of help, he went to the back, hiding behind a rack of clothing. His hands shook as he pulled his cell phone out, thumbing through the contact list till he reached one that read Wolf. It was a joke among his organisation, a subspecies of Wolf Spider being noted for its early warning ability. He pressed the dial button and waited for the call to be answered.

"This is Embassy," a voice said.

"Psalm 27:5," Elvin blurted out.

"Hold while I check location," the male at the other end of the call spoke in an unruffled casual manner. It grated on Elvin's frayed nerves. What right had they to be so calm, it was infuriating. It took almost two minutes before he heard the voice again.

"Five minutes on foot from your current location. Abandoned lot on Freedom Street. Number 11282. Contact will be a familiar face. Wait until then."

That was it, the call went dead. Elvin stuffed the phone back into his pocket and bolted back out of the store, the bemused clerk simply raising an eyebrow at the eccentric behaviour.

He had to pry the door open at the rear of the house, the windows all boarded up and secure. The structures to either side of this rundown home also looked to be abandoned but even so Elvin hadn't wanted to attract attention to himself by tackling the locked front door. Inside he had shuffled despondently across the dust carpeted bare floorboards to what once would have been the living room. There wasn't a stick of furniture left in the house but he found an old packing case in a corner, a cheap wooden box essentially, and that sufficed as a throne for the would be king to sit on, a chair to rest his body while his mind tried to make sense of where it had all gone wrong.

<0>

"I couldn't keep it bottled down any longer," Sondra said, no apology in her voice, a cold statement of facts.

"None of us could," Arlene said as a balm.

"Smug little fucker," Erica said, the only one of the three not bothering to keep the heat of emotion from her tone. "Standing there like he hadn't a care in the world but you could see the smile in his eyes. Sick freak was actually enjoying everyone's pain."

The three of them were stood in a corner of Sondra's front room, a sea of mourners moving about them. Some talking quietly, others eating from the buffet laid on, a few drifting from the morass to offer condolences to one or another of Destry's kin. Nobody approached Sondra however. Not that they felt her undeserving or unneedful of sympathy. It was the look of pure murder on her beautiful face that acted as a buffer to all and sundry. Except for Arlene and Erica.

"Still, I fucked up. He's on the run now." Sondra threw back the contents of her glass, her fourth since returning from the cemetery.

"We'll get him," Arlene said. "JP and Victor are already looking for him. We'll get him and then..."

"And then..." the other two echoed her.

Erica went to refill Sondra's glass. If it wasn't for the soul crushing sadness of the day, she might have found some joy in Elvin's face when he realised his secret life was a secret no more. He'd been so careful, so cunning. It was just chance, chance and a lovers fight that had led to his undoing.

When Sondra had gotten her door locks changed, when she still held Destry to blame for Erica's disappearance, she had also gotten an upgrade to her security. This included a motion sensor camera fitted to her front door. The video had recorded everything, from Destry's arrival up to the point of Elvin stabbing him in the back, the only way he'd ever have managed to beat the bigger, stronger man.

Sondra being Sondra, she hadn't shared the video with the cops. No, Elvin was going to meet his punishment Old Testament style.

She poured a generous measure of whiskey into the glass, threading her way back to where the others stood. She'd feared that Sondra would hold her to blame, reasoning that her fallout with Destry was because Erica had cut and run, severing all links to her friends. Thank God that Sondra was a better person, a better friend than that. She'd just been happy to have Erica back safe and sound, hushing the younger woman's sobbing apologies, clinging onto Erica like she'd never let her go again.

Arlene hadn't been as forgiving. She'd almost flayed the skin off Erica's back with a tongue lashing. Again, it was fear and not anger that had been the source of the recriminations, but Erica felt that somehow it was Arlene and not Sondra that was taking Destry's death the hardest, the deputy sheriff still to renew the easy friendship she had once shared with Erica. Time was the only true healer for this, so Erica wasn't going to push it. There were other stressors to manage anyway, Destry's murder, the information from the hacker, Sondra's pregnancy. First things first. Elvin had to die.

<0>

The thin shafts of light splitting through the boarded-up windows had dwindled in intensity as the day drew slowly to a close. It was on the cusp of dusk before a slight disturbance in the air warned Elvin that he was no longer alone.

He rose from his seat, a spike of wood in his hand, a splintered off plank from the packing case his only weapon. The college student and serial killer let out a huff of relief however as a familiar figure entered the room.

"Mister Butterman, I didn't expect you."

The thin figure of Gary Butterman, known now to the world as the Graffiti Killer thanks to Erica's podcast, gave Elvin the merest nod of acknowledgement. His eyes weaved about the room, never still, missing nothing. Satisfied, by what only he could say, he finally turned his unsettling gaze on the younger killer.

"You used the emergency number. What happened?"

Elvin was brief, well fairly brief. He couldn't restrain himself from adding scathing comments regarding his accusers and floral excuses regarding his own actions while killing Destry. He couldn't tell how convincing he was, Butterman's face might as well have been carved from stone for all the emotion it showed. Mindful that he was in need of this man's assistance he added belatedly, "I did it to draw her out, Erica Anderson, I knew it was important. Important to you."

"Quite," was all the reply he got. Butterman was silent for a minute, Elvin rocked back and forth, heel toe, heel toe, waiting for the older killer to speak.

"Your personal possessions; in your dorm, your home. Will anything be found, anything incriminating?" Butterman asked the question airily enough, as if the answer good or bad was of no matter.

"My knife. My knives. I have some stashed away in a ventilation duct. I clean them regularly but... maybe, maybe." Elvin knew lying would serve no purpose here, direct answers to direct question was his only salvation.

"Pity but as you say, you did everything right." Elin breathed a sigh of relief, happy now, waiting on the details of his escape. A new identity, a new location, a new beginning.

"Almost everything," Butterman said after the merest pause.

"Sir?" Elvin asked nonplussed.

Butterman went from being statue still to a rushing flow of movement quicker than Elvin could follow with his eye or his mind. He felt the impact on his chest as Butterman's foot connected with it in a leaping kick, the air exploding from his lungs in a pain filled whoosh. The young black man crashed back over the packing case, broken slats tangling his foot, hurrying his fall to the floor, the impact from which, forcing whatever breath he had left in him out of his mouth in an 'oof' of pain.

The tall killer stood over Elvin; his white face paler than usual save for a bloom of red that coloured his flesh high in his cheeks. Elvin recognised this as a telltale sign of the Graffiti Killer's murderous rage.

"Wha... what did I do?" Elvin's confusion preponderant to his self of self-survival, questioning when he should have been begging for his life.

"YOU TOUCHED HER!" Butterman yelled in fury, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed the three words into the prone man's face. Elvin's blank look didn't sooth Butterman's temper at all, stoking it instead. The Graffiti Killer brought a foot down on Elvin's heel, stomping on it with enough force to draw a scream from the young man's lips.

"SHE'S MINE! MINE!" Butterman yelled again, stomping twice more until a bone in Elvin's foot cracked audibly.

Elvin sobbed, hands scrambling down his body to cradle his injury, to ward off any further damage. He shook his head, snot bubbling from his nose as tears of pain and confusion poured down his face. He opened his mouth to deny any wrong doing, to plead for Butterman to see reason but all that came out was an anguished sob of pain.

"You touched her. Fucked her. You and all your little college friends. You knew Erica Anderson was mine and mine alone but still you did it. Worse. You instigated it!"

"I didn't!" Elvin wailed.

"Liar! You think we relied on you alone for information? We had it from another. The black one who craved her as well, the brother of one of her friends, this Sondra bitch. He was broken hearted, his friends betraying him, having sex with MY ERICA ANDERSON. He named you as the one who started it all."

"No, no, no its not true, you have to believe me," Elvin begged, one hand clawing piteously towards Butterman, seeking to grab onto his pants leg. Elvin's soon to be executioner simply stepped away, watching as the young man, now realising his fate, tried to drag himself across the floor. Butterman slowly walked behind him, fitting a silencer onto an automatic pistol as he did so. He trailed Elvin until the young killer had dragged himself into a corner, curling in upon himself in a picture of misery.

"Dogs often retreat to a corner when death approaches," Butterman noted in a now nonchalant tone. "You share that trait with them, along with their unfortunate habit of humping without care of consequence."

Butterman raised the gun, pointing it at Elvin's stomach.

"A shame the one trait they possess that I actually care for, loyalty, wasn't the one you could emulate." He pulled the trigger twice, two soft coughs emitting from the gun, the bullets striking Elvin in his gut, the second tearing into his spinal cord. He mewled in pain, clutching at the wounds while Butterman retrieved the shell casings from the ground.

"Someone will be along in a few minutes to dispose of your body. Your disappearance at least will serve a purpose. Those three women will spend all their energies trying to track you down. This way they won't be interfering with us for some time to come. Perhaps your last minutes of life will be enriched knowing that... perhaps not."

Butterman left then, as quietly as he had entered, the choking gasps of Elvin falling faint behind him. He passed two men as he crossed the front yard to the road, tall, nondescript save for the large wooden box they wheeled behind them on a hand truck. On the road a medium sized truck sat idling. The name on the side was obscured partially by a splash of mud that still gleamed wetly. The company logo was clear enough though, a yellow pentagram, its interior an intricate black web.

Chapter One: "It's not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters - Epictetus"

The bar was full. Proper, 'can't swing a cat without it slapping someone in the face', full. Full and it was a Tuesday night which was enough to tell you about the clientele in this particular bar.

Drunks, power drinkers, travelling businessmen, College freshmen hoping the barman was too busy to check their fake ID's, victims of divorce unwilling to return to an empty home or a depressing motel. The creme de la creme of society, and Arlene as well.

Her Irish blood had often left her susceptible to moroseness and a penchant for poetic melancholy. What she had managed to avoid for all these years, and despite all her hardships, was the use of alcohol as a crutch. Sadly, this last month that had ceased to be the case.

Arlene lifted the half-drunk glass of beer to her lips, holding it aloft as she traced the circle of condensation that had appeared on the beer mat before her. Her finger traced the outline of the bottom of the glass a number of times as she sat there comfortably numb. Then a spike of irritation flooded her brain as an image of Elvin's gloating face appeared in her minds eye, her finger now stabbing at the damp line, smearing it in a childlike display of temper. She drained the glass in one long swallow, refilling it from the pitcher that was now depressingly down to last dregs.

In the weeks since the funeral Elvin had managed to disappear without a trace. An 'anonymous tip', courtesy of Sondra, had led to a search of his dorm room. Evidence found within had linked Elvin to a number of murders including Destry's and a Mrs Hastings. This had been the murder that Izzak, one of Sondra's brother's friends, had been arrested for. The young man had now been released, with apology, to the embrace of his family. 'Score one for the good guys' Arlene thought sourly. She wasn't unhappy about the young man gaining his freedom, more that it was the last bit of good news they'd managed to wring from the whole sorry mess.