CEREAL KILLER

It's the most important meal of the day.

He sheds himself, a white birch mute in a maelstrom.

His own grindstone, he is a loyal liar, a thief, and a cheat.

The shuffle of the many murderous leaves whispers a honing truth.

By his own hand, a forest falls, and a tree remains.

And our story continues.

Jessie Greene and me.

___

A billowing wind.

The terminating night.

One bell tolling.

Alone.

And he goes.

___

Jessie, it’s time.

Yes, sir.

The rough hood, woven soot, still bleeds light. Shapes and sounds, shuffling feet. Tightening rope. Asphyxiation and escape. His mottled face is Vaseline smeared on spastic eyes, the preacher stutters solemn words and sprays Jessie with oil. Father, Son, and the…the…the holy ghost. The trapdoor hangs on for dear life. Outside over steep stone walls, crowds congregate. A sign for this and a sign for that. Let there be life, let there be death. Circling, singing, chanting. Everyone wears a watch, the governor in hiding, his phone on do not disturb.

Meanwhile, miles away.

I will never get my daughter back, a father says. A mother is a deep puddle, wet and brackish. She is barricaded in her bedroom. The door—and her door—is sealed shut by grieving nails. A tomb for two.

I do not want my son back, another father says. Another mother is suspended in mid-air. Gravity eventually drives her to the sink, but she can’t scrub away the stench of the day, the sound of the clanging phone at midnight, strangers hissing malice and hate. Demon fruit from a malignant orchard. Chop that tree.

All I did was birth him; she screams at the crown molding, the roof barely willing to stay another day.

Are you ready, son? The words strike through the thick air. How many breaths remain?

I’ve been ready my whole life, Jessie speaks, flat, contained.

The trapdoor devours its supper.

___

He took his time with her.

It was hours.

She was raped and burned with cigarettes.

The village cops never found her left thumb or her spleen.

She was buried in the basement of Jessie’s house.

He searched for her.

Dawn to dusk, part of a snaking line of flashlights.

He brought coffee most mornings for the boys in blue.

He petted vexed bloodhounds as they sniffed all the wrong places.

My name is Detective James Mooney, Jr. This is my first homicide. And it is all true. I lived it as a teen. As did our modest town. The murder still hangs gruesome in the trees, a pterodactyl-sized kite, constantly tugging against a crooked branch. No one ever bought the Greene place for obvious reasons. We lived next door. I’d watch the younger kids run up on the porch on Halloween and knock, shudder and skitter away. Occasionally they’d forget their candy. Was there still a faint light, movement in the basement, as the paint dried and the clapboards eroded outside? Some claimed to see it. Ghost Hunters came to town and shot an episode there. They camped out overnight and left with nothing in their cameras. I was an extra.

My Dad never really abandoned Greene’s dank basement, and now I stand in his cramped shoes. I have the blisters to show for it.

The house is gone. It’s a shiny Chevron now, gas pumps aplenty. I grab coffee there every morning. I chat with Cora. Her two kids are at our place all the time.

You, OK, Jimmy, she often asks. But, of course, I always say, nodding. I usually give her a bent thumbs up.

___

Jimmy come to bed. It’s late.

I’ll be up in a minute.

Minutes become hours, and I am my father. My wife, his wife, my Mom, threadlike voices at midnight tug. A crime file, thick as a slab of granite, tugs me as well—as it did him. It’s no contest. My Dad knew Jessie didn’t work alone. I read his notes again and again. It’s more a diary, a confession of a haunted, hunted man.

There were two bowls of cereal in that basement, half-eaten each. We couldn’t have been more than ten minutes behind the second one. They were eating Lucky Charms. She was rolled up in a sleeping bag. Behind the freezer for weeks. Can you imagine that? The evil…

___

My Dad’s handwriting looks worn out. I turn in for the night.

___

In the morning, I follow my necessary ritual.

Rise. Shower. Shave.

Breakfast with my wife and kids.

Lucky Charms for me.

Grab a coffee at Chevron.

Chat with Cora.

Thank Jessie for his silence.

___

It’s all I can do to contain myself most days.

I only say her name in my sleep.