The Letter

Day of Reckoning

With a sense of dread and trepidation, Rian drove onto the parking lot of the apartment complex. A swarm of police cars blocked the parking spot near the entrance forcing him to park his car around the corner. He counted about ten vehicles, the blue and red beacon strobe lights flashing, along with two coroner vans.

He'd overheard the APB broadcast in the cafeteria from a nearby officer's shoulder strap radio holster while waiting in line to pay for his cup of coffee. There was an invasion in progress at apartment B16.

He knew that apartment. It was where Carson Wallace, the drunk driver that killed Aaron Ignacio, lived. The same man who himself died under suspicious circumstances the day he would give them pertinent information.

He exited his car, clicking the doors lock. He couldn't let this opportunity pass. He may, at last, find the concrete proof he needed to tie Arnie Julius to the crime. The ongoing ordeal could finally end. He traipsed across the pavement.

Entering the lobby, he jogged up the steps past the onlookers and bystanders lingering in the atrium as officers and law enforcement officials trafficked in and out of the apartment.

He made his way to the door.

An officer blocked his way. "State your business," he said. Rian raised his hands slowly. "I'm Rian Astor," he replied. "I'm a private investigator. Carson Wallace, who lived in this apartment, is a case I am investigating."

A rookie officer, who looked as though he had just graduated from the academy, stepped up behind him. "I know him, Hank," he said. "I spoke to him occasionally about this case."

Nodding his head begrudgingly, the officer stepped aside, allowing Rian entry to the apartment. The rookie officer turned back answering an APB about a stolen Harley-Davidson motorcycle that came over the radio.

Entering the apartment, Rian stopped in his tracks, shocked at the carnage before him. The scene was a bloodbath. The rich smell of iron tinged blood filled the air. High-velocity blood splatter coated the walls and ceilings. Amid the carnage were two bodies on the floor. Rian felt nauseated.

The mutilated corpses looked as though a wild animal or rabid dog attacked them; severed limbs scattered on the other side of the room.

"What the hell happened here?" Rian said, trying to keep down the bile rising in his throat.

"That's what we are trying to figure out," the officer said. "We received a call about an invasion. This," he gestured at the grisly scene. "This was a massacre." 

Besides a severed arm, Rian saw a transfer form. "There," he said, pointing. "What is that?" A detective stooped down and picked it up with a gloved hand. "It's a money transfer," he said. He turned it over. It had a note attached to it.

Rian peered over the detective's shoulder to read it.

This is a down payment, the note read.  I will deposit another fifty grand when you complete the job. I don't care how you do it. Just exterminate the pest.   It had the initials, AJ. 

"AJ," Rian mumbled. "Arnie Julius?"

Laying in her hospital bed bored, Beth listened to Beth from rock band KISS on her iPod Touch, earplugs in her ears. Her mother, seated beside her, knitting the last few stitches on the baby outfit, cocked a curious eyebrow at her.

A knock at the door made both women jump.

A blond woman, her hair in a bun and wearing a navy blue business suit, stood at the partially opened door meekly. "Hi, my name is Tracy," she said.