by Natalya Gibbs

 

Ben Jackson was mad. Instead of the familiar, yet annoying, beeping from his alarm clock an energetic male voice came blaring through the speakers, awakening him from yet another nightmare.  It must have been my mother, he thought to himself recalling the conversation they had had two days ago.

            “You’re so depressed lately. You need music. Without music, you have no life.”

            His whole argument had been that radio stations don’t play music in the morning, it was just stupid disc jockey’s running their mouths. In fact, he was pretty sure that this moron just finished telling listeners what cereal he had that morning.

            “Well, guys; although my Raisin Bran was great this morning; I’m more excited to share with ya’ll…drum roll please… the new Michael Jackson! This is Blood on the Dance Floor everyone, enjoy.”

            As the music started, Ben Jackson bolted upright in his bed. Trying to remain calm, reassuring himself that this could mean nothing, that not all Michael Jackson songs contained women’s names. That everything would be all right. Then suddenly it hit him: “Susie got your number.” Shit Shit Shit.

Sixteen Months Earlier

            Ben Jackson made his way through the crowded streets toward the police station. After being on vacation for two weeks he had hoped that he would come back to a quiet station, a good day perhaps.  Being a detective, there really was no such thing as a “good” day but the message he got from the chief ensured that today would definitely be bad.

            “All right chief lay it on me,” Ben Jackson said as he stepped into Chief Addison Sinclair’s office. On her desk lay an open folder. From where he stood, Ben Jackson could see photos. Bracing himself, he stepped closer.

            “Annie Jackson. Twenty-four years old. Waitress at Maggie’s over on Clearly Street. Wanted to be a country singer. Guess she didn’t have enough money to make it to Nashville. Had to make a pit stop in Raleigh. Found strangled in her apartment. No prints, no evidence, nothing.”

            “Jesus. No hairs, nothing?”

            “Nothing. Wanna head on over to Maggie’s, fish around for information?”

            “I’m on it Chief.”

            As Ben Jackson stepped into his unmarked car, he thought about the victim Annie Jackson. His restaurant of choice was Sam’s Diner clear across town, so he had never come across Annie Jackson. In a way that was better. Much better.

            Pulling into the parking lot at Maggie’s, Ben Jackson almost wished that the victim had enemies. That way it would be an open and shut case. Find the guy, because it was usually a guy, get a confession, and be done with it. That way it would be explainable, to the city at least. In his mind, there was never a reason for murder, but he would rather have the people of Raleigh able to rest easy at night.

            Stepping into Maggie’s, Ben went immediately for the counter.

“You hear bout Annie?” a female voice said. Confused, Ben Jackson wondered how she could tell he was a detective.

“Well, yes, but how did you know that?”

“You got cop written all over you. Plus I’ve never seen you in here before. Here at Maggie’s we got regulars.  You want anything or is this strictly business?”

“Strictly business this time, I’m afraid. And I’m a detective actually. Detective Benjamin Jackson.”

“Oh, well I’ll be,” the waitress said. Able to tell that the waitress wasn’t impressed, Ben Jackson decided to get right to the point.

“Do you have a minute to answer some questions?”

“Honey, I never have a minute. But, yeah, I can answer some questions. What is it you wanna know?”

“Well, first off what’s your name?” Ben asked, taking his notepad out of his pocket.

“Muriel Sanders.”

“Ok, Ms. Sande-"

“Honey, just call me Muriel. Ms. Sanders makes me sound old. I know I ain’t no spring chicken but last time I checked forty-five doesn’t require a Ms. attached to nothin. Now you may proceed with your questionin.”

“Why thank you, Muriel,” Ben said not able to ignore her condescending tone.

“So, Muriel, am I correct in assuming that you knew the victim only through work?”

“The victim? Jesus. She was a person ya know. Had a name. It was Annie. Had the same last name as you Detective, but I suppose you already know that. And yes, Annie and I only got to know each other when she came to work here. But she was a sweet girl. Had big dreams. Wanted to be a country singer.”

“Yes, Muriel we are aware of Ms. Jackson’s dreams. How close were you and Annie? Were you two always acquaintances or did she ever confide in you about things?”

“Well, no. Honestly, we ain’t got no time to be chattin it up in here. We’re too busy.”

            “Hmm. I see. So you wouldn’t know if she had a boyfriend, or an ex, someone who would want her dead?”

            “No. Well, yes. I mean she never out right told me, but I could assume that she was unattached. I never saw her leave with anyone, never heard her talkin’ bout her ‘Tommy’ or ‘Jimmy’. I mean this is just a guess, but I would say that she was the sweetest thing, she didn’t know too many people; let alone people who would want to hurt her. Now we almost done here? I do have to work ya know.”

            “I do know Muriel and I appreciate your help. Just one more thing, you mentioned that you have regulars here. Any particular customer who took an interest in Annie? Maybe always sat at her section or talked more than usual while she was serving them?”

            “How many times do I have to tell ya that we’re busy in here? I wouldn’t notice her customers; I’ve got my own to deal with. Speaking of which, I gotta go. There’s nothing more I can tell you,” Muriel said as she stood up.

            “Ok, well, thanks for your cooperation,” Ben Jackson said, standing up as well.

            “Now, if anything comes up, if you remember something; please call. Here’s my card.”

            “I doubt that’ll happen Mr. Jackson, but I’ll talk to the rest of the waitresses. If they’ve got more to tell you than I did…well, then I guess that means this card will serve an actual purpose.”

            “All right Muriel, thanks for your time,” Ben Jackson said, exiting the diner.

  ***

            He took off his cap and mustache and walked over to the dresser. Most of his wardrobe was black, but he had learned that all black made people nervous. People were way too concerned about murderers these days, he thought. Chuckling to himself, he picked out blue jeans and a red shirt, then switched it to green. Red equaled blood in people’s minds and he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Especially with her.

***

            “Detective Jackson,” Ben Jackson said, answering the phone.

            “Whoa, a big ego even on the phone.” The thick drawl and the sarcastic tone told Ben Jackson that he was speaking with Muriel Sanders.

            “Hello Muriel. Nice to hear from you again.”

            “I ain’t got no time for your pleasantries. I’m on my dinner break, which is only a half an hour and I still gotta eat.”

            “Ok Muriel. What can I do for you? Did you think of something that could be important?”

            “Well yes, I think so. Mary Jo is also on her break, and we were talkin bout it and she made me remember this one man who came in every day. Always sat at Annie’s station, like you said, and well; hasn’t been back since we got word of her death. Now, I don’t know if that means anythin', that’s your guy’s job as cops, excuse me detectives; but my guess would be that’s a bit suspicious. Someone who comes in here for two and a half weeks and then stops. Real fishy to me, it’s not like we switched cooks or nothin.”

            “Do you remember what he looks like?”

            “I didn’t, no. But Mary Jo, who took a liken to his looks, said he always wore a baseball hat and had a mustache.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Nope.”

            “Ok then Muriel, thanks for your help,” Ben Jackson said, trying not to let her know how much help she had just been. “Now if you think of anything else-”

            “Yeah, yeah I know. Give ya a call.”

            “That’s right Muriel. Have a good-,” Ben Jackson started before hearing the dial tone. Women, he thought to himself.

***

            As he looked down at her lifeless body, he couldn’t help but admire his work. Beautiful. Her hair arranged about the pillow, his hands; without any prints, visible on her neck. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts enough to leave. Stupid bitch. Oh well, he couldn’t dwell on the past. Michael would be proud. He was sure of it.

***

            “Hey, Ben! We’ve got another one.”

            “Another one?” Ben Jackson questioned.

            “Another body. Female. Diana Stevenson. Same MO as the first one. Exactly the same. No prints or DNA either.”

            “Shit. You think we got a serial?”

            “Looks like it. But let’s try to keep that away from the media for now. Any leads on the other victim?”

            “Nope. No one could tell me the name of the guy with the cap and the mustache and that’s all we had to go on.”

            “Well shit. Ok, I trust you’ve done the best you can do. We may have to put Annie on the backburner for now and focus on Diana. And pray that we don’t have a very careful serial killer on our hands.”

***

            “Yes, thank you for your time.”

            So far there were no leads. Diana had worked for a law firm as a secretary part time while going to night school. She had only worked there for a month. If we have a serial on our hands, Ben Jackson thought, the guy must have been stalking them at the same time. Which meant different characters. There was no guy with a cap and mustache in Diana Stevenson’s life. At least, not that anyone had known of. Ben Jackson had checked.

***

            “Late last night another female body was found dead in her house that she shared with her mother. So far, the police aren’t releasing a name or any information about whether the previous deaths are in any way connected to each other. Stay with us for live updates.”

            This is what he awoke to. He must have fallen asleep with the TV on. It seemed as if the police had no idea what they were doing, no idea who the “culprit” might be. This was a good thing. He needed to keep it that way. The only problem was they were doing a good job of keeping the media out of it. This was bad. Michael had to know. As nervous as this made him, he wasn’t worried. Once the media got a hold of the name, all would be good.

***

            “Billie Jean?” Ben Jackson repeated aloud in disbelief.

            “That’s right. Billie Jean Haymond. Found in her small cottage out back from her house. Lived with her mother while attending Raleigh City College. Had hopes of transferring to Raleigh University in the fall. Got all this from a neighbor. A Ms. Ella Foxgold. The mother was too beside herself at the time. Kept repeating something about BINGO. I say go down there now, talk to the mother but take it easy, ok?”

            “Of course Chief.”

            Ben Jackson got as far as reaching his hand out to touch the doorbell before the door swung open for him. There stood a woman, whom he presumed to be Mrs. Haymond. Her face was red and splotchy, her eyes tired and sad. Ben Jackson couldn’t help but think of his own mother and how upset she would be if anything ever happened to him.

            “Mrs. Haymond?”

            “Yes, that’s me. I’m Annabelle Haymond. And you’re Detective Jackson. I’ve seen you on TV giving press conferences. Please come in.”

            Although her hands and voice were shaky, her hospitality remained intact. After getting both tall glasses of lemonade, they sat down in what Ben Jackson thought, due to all the pictures, was the living room.

            “Mrs. Haymond, when Chief Skyler Bennet arrived on the scene he mentioned that you kept repeating something about BINGO. Was that where you were last night?”

            “Yes. Tuesday’s are BINGO night at the club. BJ used to come with me until her classes changed and a Comparative Religion class became her Tuesday night routine. I can’t help but think how different things would have played out if I hadn’t gone to…to BINGO,” Mrs. Haymond said, choking back a sob.

            “I see. Well, that’s only natural Mrs. Haymond but you can’t blame yourself. Did BJ have anyone in her life that may have wanted to hurt her? An ex-boyfriend or something like that?”

            “Not an ex-boyfriend, but a male friend. I don’t know if they had officially become boyfriend and girlfriend, but they were definitely seeing each other. Dating, I guess you could call it. His name was Gabriel, refused to be called Gabe, Smith.”

            “Gabriel Smith,” Ben Jackson repeated, writing it down. “What can you tell me about him?”

            “Well, he and I didn’t talk much. But I remember this one time he came over to pick BJ up. He was early and she wasn’t ready. Couldn’t decide between the yellow sun dress and the blue sailor one. So he and I sat on this very couch, sipping lemonade just like you and I. I remember he questioned me about her name. She went mostly by BJ due to the fact that he whole name embarrassed her a bit. But he wanted to know if I had intentionally named her from the song, Billie Jean. I told him that, yes, I had, that it was one of my favorites. And I remember him getting this strange look on his face; I can’t quite say what it meant. And, I don’t know, mother’s intuition, or something; but I just didn’t trust him.”

            “Hmm. I see. Did he show any signs of being capable of violence?”

            “Well, no. Not to my face. But when BJ came home that night, she said he had spent a lot of the evening talking about her name. And asking her position, and mine, on the rumor that Michael Jackson hates women. She laughed it off, I suppose she was quite taken with him by then, but it seemed odd to me.”

            “Yes. Well, we’ll keep that in mind. Thank you so much for your cooperation, I know this is a difficult time but you don’t know how much that information has helped us”.

            “Of course. Please find him.  Please find my daughters killer.”

            After that, Ben Jackson couldn’t help but go see his mother. It had been awhile and talking to Mrs. Haymond just made him feel guilty. As he eased himself into his favorite chair, he found himself talking about the case.

            “Billie Jean?” his mother questioned, just as he had.

            “That’s right. And, no, it’s not a southern thing; she is really named after the song.”

            “Oh, poor girl. If her mother likes Michael Jackson so much, there are better names she could have chosen from. But Billie Jean? That’s the worst.”

            “What do you mean, chosen from?”

            “Well there’s Diana from “Dirty Diana”. And then, what’s the other one? Oh yeah, Annie from “Smooth Criminal”, his mom said as she began to hum and dance a bit around the living room. “Jeez, boy, don’t you remember?”

            “Well, I do now.  I gotta go ma.”

            “Go? But you just got here.”

            “Yeah, I know but you made me think of something. I gotta talk to Chief. Love you.” And with a quick kiss on the cheek, Ben Jackson was gone.

            Checking the time on his car clock, he figured Chief would still be at the station. As he drove the short blocks, he tried to figure out how he was going to string his thoughts together.

            “Chief, I think I figured it out,” Ben Jackson exclaimed, bursting into his office.

            “Oh, so the mother was some help?”

            “Yes. More than one.”

            “More than one?”

            “Yeah. So Mrs. Haymond said that BJ, that’s what she went by, had a bit of a boyfriend. His name was Gabriel Smith and he was a lot obsessed with her name.”

            “Well, yeah, it is kinda weird.”

            “Yes, but he kept asking questions. Wanted to know if BJ and he mother agreed with the rumor that Michael Jackson hates women. That’s weird, right? I mean to talk about hating women with your girlfriend?”

            “I guess, but where are you going with this?”

            “So then, I was talking to my ma-”

            “Your mother helped you figure this out?”

            “Well, kinda. And she said that if Mrs. Haymond liked Michael Jackson so much she could have picked different names from different songs. And then she lists them: Diana from “Dirty Diana” and Annie from “Smooth Criminal”.  Don’t you see?”

            “See what? That you’re crazy?”

            “No, I’m not. All three women were killed the same way. That means the same guy. So it’s not like this Gabriel Smith person had a grudge against BJ, there has to be a connection. See?”

            “No.”

            “Ok, well the first victim’s name was-”

            “Annie.”

            “And the second-”

            “Diana.”

            “See? All names from Michael Jackson songs. This guy, this Gabriel Smith; who probably has more than one alias; is like a sick Michael Jackson fan who thinks that by killing these women with the same names, he’s doing him a favor. Or something like that. I haven’t worked out all the details.”

            “Worked out all the details?! There is nothing to work out! Yes, we’re probably gonna have to admit that we have a lose serial killer running around, but it has nothing to do with Michael Jackson! That’s just crazy talk.”

            “But Chief-”

            “But Chief, nothing. I’d appreciate it if you used that smart brain of yours to actually find our killer, without even thinking about Michael Jackson. Do so or you’re off the case.”

            “Off the case? But I’m-”

            “Jesus, Jackson. I don’t want to have to do this, but you’re putting me in a tough spot. First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to give all your information on the three women, excluding The King of Pop, to Detective Benson. A prostitute was found dead this morning, that’s now your case. I’ll put the folder on your desk.”

            “But you can’t just dismiss the Michael Jackson connection. Benson has to know that. That’s how we’re gonna catch the guy.”

            “No, it’s not. That is ridiculous. You know what’s real? What’s the truth? The fact that this guy is good.  And, honestly, we may not get ‘em. And you can’t make this coincidence fact.  Well, unless he comes after you.”

            “Me?”

            “Well, yeah, Ben was Michael Jackson’s fucking pet rat or monkey or some shit. And if we’re following your theory, it’s the names not the gender. I disagree. This guy hates women; it has nothing to do with Michael Jackson.”

            “But-”

“No, no buts. I can’t even believe I’m continuing this conversation. Good night Detective Jackson, please leave my office.”

Sixteen Months Later       

            He awoke to music, like he did every morning. Whatever song it was, was in the middle when his alarm went off. It took him a second to recognize the voice of the singer, but once he did he was wide awake. Sitting up to listen better, he reached over to turn up the volume. And then it was the chorus and the words “Susie got your number and Susie ain’t your friend” poured from the speakers. Smiling to himself, he got out of bed. It was time to find him a Susie.