Chapter 2
Trotley opened his car door, sat on the seat and set his legs outside of the car. He couldn’t get the image of the little girl out of his head. It has been a nightmare of his ever since he first saw her and now it follows him like his shadow at the suns herald of the evening.
**
Ricter sat in his chair and stared at the wall, construing its many shapes and forms.
“Hmmmm,” he said. “Perhaps a nice…no…never mind.” He sighed and put his legs up on the chair, grabbing them with his arms. “Green would just be dreadful. Maybe a nice yellow tint?” He stared at the wall again, trying to imagine a light yellow wall for the kitchen of his new home.
Ricter has always been fascinated with painting the first day he laid his hands on watercolor. A tutor home schooled him for 11 years of his life in Germany. Then for 7 years he taught himself the tricks of the trade, and how magnificently it worked out for him. His parents died when he was 19 so he did not acquire much help from them. Their deaths seemed to heighten his sturdy senses of life. Then he turned 20 and moved to the United States, or rather he fled to the United States. The Polizei were never able to catch him, for he left only tiny clues behind, and he never suspected that they even suspected him—yet he felt the urge to move to a more gullible country.
Seeing through the police in the United States is quite simple. A woman raped and murdered leaves room for only the thought of a sexual madman, never leaving room for the killer with the blank stare and the wit to match his success of evading the police. They’re under the impression that you can profile every killer—that you can fit them into a neat little box whether it’s under maternal abuse, drunken father or simply a man or woman that lost their temper.
Ricter thinks often of the subject and just as often laughs. The officer that was here earlier—Barnes—will probably think only twice about Ricter’s attitude towards the situation, but thinking only twice is the plague of the mind.
“Raspberry!” he shouted. “That’s the perfect color!” He smiled and danced as if in a ballroom. Dancing his way down the stairs he entered into a small hallway and then into a large basement. He stopped dancing and pondered, but quickly snapped his fingers as if a light bulb had appeared above his head. “My honored guests can paint this room for me. It may look a little tacky, but use what you’ve got Ricter!” he smiled again and laughed.
**
Trotley arrived at the police station on Main Street, which would serve as a headquarters as they get the nonsense worked out. He believes he’s working with a full-blown serial killer. The attention to detail to leave only simple clues behind leads him to also believe that this is a killer with a mind for a well-founded game of draught. At some point though, even if assumed the analogy of a chess game, one side must win, lose or come to a draw, and this particular killer doesn’t strike Trotley as a man that simply ends it at a draw.
While lost in thought, Trotley suddenly heard a familiar ringing noise: his cell-phone. He flipped the phone open and greeted.
“Hello, this is Detective Trot—“ he was interrupted by the medical examiner, Foler.
“Trotley, I have the two bodies—or what remains of either of them—on separate slabs here. I’ve been examining the young man and…” he paused for a moment. “I’m not certain just yet, but one of his eyes doesn’t look to be his.”
“What do you mean?” Trotley was anxious.
“Well the pupil isn’t affixed like the other pupil…it’s acting like a fake eye and seems to be roaming around like it isn’t connected to the optic nerve. Like it was cut out.”
Trotley stroked his chin and thought. Then he remembered the eye that he saw in the duffle bag. “Whose eye was in the duffle bag?”
“Well if the eye in his head isn’t his, then the eye in the duffle bag could be…and the eye currently in his head could be the young ladies. I’ll call you when I get more information, but I think we’ve something here.” Trotley heard a click on the other line and hung up on his phone.
“Sick b******…” Trotley stared at the undecorated tiles of the station floor. Noises began flowing through the station as the media flocked in for their scoop on the story. Officer Barnes walked up to Trotley.
“Uhh…sir…the press wants something on this.” His tone was hesitant.
Trotley looked up at Barnes then back down to the floor before hurling himself out of his position on the bench. He walked to the doors and slowly walked outside standing in front of a crowd of cameras, microphones and silly reporters with clipboards and pens.
**
Ricter watched with slight pleasure as the news covered a story on an alleged double-homicide. The cameras flocked in front of a police station, a station he recognized from a later passing on Main Street. A man walked outside of the station with a familiar face: Officer Barnes. Ricter smiled and laughed.
“Oh Barnes…who is your friend?” he said as he watched the unfamiliar face take a stand in front of the cameras. A tall man, 6 foot 2 inches, black curly hair, baggy eyes, a overall wrinkled face with a well built façade under a four-thousand dollar suit.
“You’re an interesting fellow.” Ricter was delighted to meet someone more interesting than Barnes.
“Detective, are you able to confirm the report of two alleged homicides?” one of the reporters asked.
“I am able to confirm that report. Yes, there was a discovery earlier this morning of a double-homicide.” Ricter watched with integral interest on the detective.
The man on the TV pointed at another reporter.
“Are you allowed to disclose any details on the double-homicide? I was tipped earlier that one of the bodies was found in a duffle bag…in fact the body was not whole. And the other body was found duct taped to the bottom of a bridge. Can you confirm that?”
“I cannot release details at this time and we ask that any sources of information be revealed to the police. Someone that found and sooner fled the scene made the call that tipped off the police. We are still searching for that person. I will say this much, details will most assuredly be leaked and some of them are quite gruesome. I ask the media’s discretion, but I do understand the pressure for some hot news in a glacial environment. Thank you.”
The detective turned and was replaced by a taller man that looked to be the sheriff. “Detective Trotley is the leading investigator into—Detective Trotley—Trotley—Trotley—“
The name echoed in Ricters head and he smiled a most wonderful smile. “Detective…Trotley.” He laughed as he turned the TV off. “Most interesting…” his thoughts veered off as he yawned. Ricter lay down on the only couch that he had moved into the basement and shut his eyes. Dreaming dreams of Detective Trotley.