Monster: Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Day 9: The Early Evening News Broadcast in New York City, May 21, 2014
"We open our broadcast this evening with our first story – and we warn you, viewer discretion is advised. The hunt for missing New York mystery author Richard Castle has taken a decidedly dangerous and violent turn today, with the discovery of four heavily mutilated bodies in an alley between West 46th Street and West 45th Street, near Shubert Aly. Whether intentional or by ironic coincidence, the bodies were discovered just behind The Richard Rodgers Theatre off Broadway. Richard Rodgers, of course, is the given birth name of the missing novelist in question."
"According to unnamed NYPD sources, an anonymous tip called in to alert the police as to the location of the bodies, which were discovered in various stages of mutilation ranging from violent facial wounds to actual dismemberment of body parts. Each of the victims are members of the various known crime families in the city, and apparently no element of the underworld is being left unaffected."
"Tying them back to the missing novelist, one of the bodies had a large white posterboard literally stapled to his bare chest. Written on the posterboard were the words,
'Where is Richard Castle? Someone knows where he is.'"
"Police are asking for witnesses, and searching area surveillance cameras, but it is clear that the situation with one Richard Castle has now escalated. We go now to Mr. Castle's home here in the city, to Jennifer Saunders. Jennifer?"
The scene shifts to the street level view of Richard Castle's loft, where street reporter Jennifer Saunders stands with her cameraman, who has just given her the green light.
"Thank you, Karen. I'm standing outside the famous novelist home, which is just behind me on the upper floor as you can see. Now there has been no word from Mr. Castle, no ransom note, no communications whatsoever for the past ten days beyond two video tapes that sources tell us have been delivered to the NYPD. NYPD resources are not commenting on the existence of these videos. I spoke with his mother, Broadway actress Martha Rodgers a few minutes ago. Understandably, Ms. Rodgers did not want to appear live, but she did make this statement for the family."
The scene cuts to a pre-recorded session with Martha Rodgers, who speaks to Jennifer.
"We are saddened by the loss of my son, and frustrated that nothing new has been learned about his disappearance."
Martha then turns her gaze from the reporter to the camera lens.
"But if you can hear me, Richard, wherever you are, we love you, and we are praying for your safe return."
Jennifer looks up from her notes and her eyes find the camera once again, as she begins her closing statement.
"Impassioned words from the obviously despondent mother of the Richard Castle, but it is clear, Karen, that someone out there is doing far more than just praying for Mr. Castle's return. It does make you wonder if today's gruesome findings prove to be a one-time event, or if this is the beginning of a more pro-active and violent search effort for the missing author."
Day 9: Half an hour later, in a recently abandoned building in New York City, May 21, 2014
"I swear to you, I don't know nothing, man!" the Robbie Morris screams. The newly formed hole in in the terrified mobster's knee, courtesy of the silencer-equipped pistol has him shrieking in agony as he sits tied to the chair, his arms secured tightly behind him. He rocks back and forth from the pain, now realizing how little time he has left on the planet.
He glances next to him at the corpse of Vinnie Taliferio, lying on the floor, whose lifeless eyes stare back up at him. Poor Vinnie also didn't seem to have the answers the stranger was looking for. Unfortunately for Vinnie, their inquisitor seems to be no stranger to various weapons, and Vinnie was introduced to the tip of an insanely sharp sword, which relieved him of his arm below the elbow. Mercifully, Vinnie's screams ended with a whisper from the same pistol which now is pointed at the left eye of Mr. Morris.
"Please, man, if I knew something, I would tell you, but I don't know nothing. You gotta believe me, man, I just –"
"Robbie – that is your name, right? Robbie," the stranger replies softly. His low guttural tone helps Robbie relieve his bladder yet again. "Look, I don't gotta do anything. You, on the other hand, gotta do a lot more for me to keep you breathing. Do we understand each other now?"
"Yeah, yeah man, I swear, just don't . . ."
Robbie glances down again at the mutilated remains of his friend. He turns his gaze back to the frightening man in black.
"Where is my son, Robbie? That's all I want to know."
"I'm telling you, I don't know your son, and I don't know where he is," Robbie pleads, rocking back and forth again.
The stranger considers his answer for a moment. It's been a long day, and he is understandably tired. No matter, his son is likely far more tired. Just this simple realization makes his mind up for him.
"Wrong answer, son," he says softly, and his pistol spits silent death once more, drilling Robbie Morris with a through and through shot in his left eye. The man slumps over dead, and his assassin kicks the chair over, allowing the man to join his friend on the ground. He turns to the left, hearing the horrified, muffled screams of Jimmy Goodwin, the driver for the two mobsters lying dead below him. He takes a deep breath, and walks toward Jimmy, who is similarly bound, except his hands tied onto the arms of the chair that holds him. He stares down at the terrified man, who is sweating profusely. Both the smell – and the wet crotch in his pants, tells him that the man is already in the proper state for an interrogation. He brushes his wrist across his own forehead.
His disguise is holding well, as he knew it would. First, the sunglasses, which are actually high-resolution night glasses from the Agency, give him both the aura of terror – and the clear vision he needs in the dimly lit room. The fake mustache and the fake beard cover his face, providing the details that anyone he chooses to leave alive will remember. The New York Yankee baseball cap completes the disguise. His only problem, so far, has been remembering to hold his frustration, his temper, and leave someone alive. He promises himself that Jimmy will be that fortunate man.
It's not like him to lose his temper, to lose his vaunted and storied cool. But it's also not like him to lose a son, either. His return from the Middle East late last night had ushered in the news to him of Richard Castle's disappearance. He knew – he has his sources – that his son was getting married. He'd been out of country at the time, but was looking forward to getting back stateside to peruse through the society magazines and television programming that undoubtedly would have captured his son's happy moments.
To hear that not only did the wedding not occur, but that his son was missing? Well, covert case in the interest of national security or not, he had felt that his superiors should have gotten word to him about such a development. He considers how he will deal with Summers and Jenkins when he returns to Langley. For now, however, he returns his mind to the present.
"Now, Jimmy," he tells the frightened man as he rips the tape from his mouth, "first of all –"
Jimmy's screams could be heard by anyone on the same floor – if there were anyone on the floor. As it is, the building has been abandoned for two months now. He pops Jimmy across the face with his pistol, slicing the man's head open along the eyebrow.
"Now Jimmy, that's going to leave a scar," he tells the man as he sticks his silenced weapon into the unfortunate man's open mouth, muffling his screams.
"I need you to shut up for one minute," he tells him, but Jimmy's condition will not allow for quiet right now, so he jams the weapon further into the younger man's throat. Finally, blessed silence reigns in the room with the two men.
"Good, good, let's keep it quiet just like this, Jimmy," he tells him. "Now, first of all, as I was trying to say Jimmy, I am going to let you live. Do you hear me, Jimmy? Do you understand what I am telling you? I am going to let you live. If you understand, nod your head."
The man nods his head rapidly up and down, causing him to gag on the weapon stuffed down his mouth. His captor retrieves the weapon, slowly, cautiously and wipes the wetness from his mouth off his weapon along his pants leg.
"Good. Now, I'm taking this out now, Jimmy, but if you start screaming again, then . . . well, Jimmy, there are a lot of mob drivers in this town. I can always find another one to leave alive."
Jimmy's terrified eyes, now already as large as nickels, grow even larger as he shakes his head horizontally. The pistol is now out of his mouth, and he licks his lips and swallows hard, wondering if the killer in front of him is going to keep his word, or whether he will wind up like his bosses.
"Now Jimmy," Jackson Hunt continues, "I am going to go out on a limb here and assume that since your bosses didn't have the information I am looking for, you probably don't either."
Poor Jimmy, however, has watched his two bosses deliver a negative response and he has watched what happened to the two men who – until half an hour ago – were the scariest men he had ever encountered. This man, however, with his calm detachment and his low voice – this man scares the living shit out of Jimmy, and that is no small feat.
"I'm guessing you are struggling to decide how to answer my questions, so I am going to let you off the hook, Jimmy," Hunt tells him. "Well, let me correct myself. I am sort of going to let you off the hook. Because if you show up unhurt, unharmed with your two bosses in their state of . . . disrepair, well, let me just say that it would not look good for you, Jimmy. Not good at all."
The look on Jimmy's face tells him that his message has been received, understood and verified as accurate. Hunt smiles – actually the first smile he has managed this day, as he looks down at the mob driver.
"So, I am going to do you a favor, Jimmy. I'm going to leave you alive," he tells him, as he whips his pistol across the man's forehead, enlarging the gash above his eye that now leaks blood profusely down the man's face.
"I'm going to leave you alive so that you can give your people a message for me," Hunt says in a monotone voice as he quickly takes a small knife from a small belt wrapped around his leg. The knife slams its way into the man's hand, effectively nailing the hand to the chair. The man's screams echo throughout the empty room as Hunt puts the gun down and reaches into his pocket. He takes out his roll of gray duct tape and rips off a piece. He slaps it across the man's mouth, muffling his screams. He retracts the knife quickly, and tapes the man's hand in a circle with the tape, blunting the flow of blood. He rips open the man's shirt, and walks to the wall where he has dropped his 'bag' in the corner. He pulls out a folded white, posterboard and a black marker. He writes two sentences on the white board, and then grabs a stapler from the bag.
"This is going to sting," he tells Jimmy as he staples the large posterboard to the man's chest, putting one, two, three staples in place. The man's whimpering can be heard as Hunt walks away, returning to his bag again. This time he retrieves a small needle and syringe. Walking back toward his guest, he quickly, efficiently inserts the needle into the man's wrist and plunges its contents into the injured man who barely hovers around consciousness.
"Good nite, Jimmy," he tells the man as he walks back – again – to his bag, this time retrieving it and bringing it back to Jimmy. He drops the bag on the floor, and retrieves his pistol, knife and assorted other items, dropping them into the bag. He walks over to the deceased form of Vinnie Taliferio and bends to pick up the long sword that lies on the ground.
"Can't leave you here, old friend," he tells the weapon as he wipes it across the dead mobster's pants. He places it – almost reverently – into the long case that is its home, and closes it shut and slings it across his shoulder. Now, his bag in one hand and the case slung across his back, he glances back at his handiwork. Jimmy Goodwin is now – gratefully – unconscious. He will sleep for a half hour or so. That's more than enough time for the authorities to find him.
Dialing 911 as he talks toward the door, Hunt hums a tune, waiting for an answer. Two rings later, he is greeted with a response.
"911, what is the nature of your call?"
"Two dead men, one still alive but very sleepy. Follow this call," he tells the operator and places the phone next to the door on the floor. Opening the door, he walks outside, whistling a tune again. He takes off the black gloves and shoves him into his pant pocket. Within half a minute, he is on the street, looking for all the world like a throwback musician, carrying his weapons of music.