Chapter 11
I woke to the room fully illuminated. For just a moment, I panicked, thinking I was late for work or school.
The storm the night before had brushed away all the clouds.
I squinted at the blue sky and golden illumination pouring in from the big windows.
It took me a moment to realize where I was—my friend, Camille’s.
It also took me a minute to grasp my situation—on the lam from a very bad boyfriend. Very bad? Try lethal.
Would I ever be free again? Or would I need to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life?
I pulled the scratchy wool blanket up close to my ears, snuggling down in hopes of reclaiming my sleep and the dream I was having, something escapist and pleasant involving Colin Farrell.
Futile. Not only the high-intensity sunshine staring me in the face prevented me from returning to oblivion, but also to my reality.
What fresh hell would today bring?
Something hard nudged against my back. I reached beneath me to pull out my phone. I held it in front of my face, squinting. The same impossibly large number of texts and calls, all from Josh, still remained. I dropped the phone, startled, as a text notification sounded. I picked the phone back up.
I couldn’t avoid it. It was right there on the home screen.
WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU AVOIDING ME???? I WON’T STAND FOR IT…
The text continued, but I’d need to open my iPhone to get to it. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Just seeing as much as I had made my breath come quicker, my gut to churn. Despite the sunshine, the day had turned darker, as though a bank of clouds had moved over the sun, blotting it out.
I breathed in deep, took my phone in hand and, looking only close enough to accomplish what I needed to, deleted all of Josh’s texts and calls, not just from recently, but from all time.
I also blocked him, so any future messages would not reach me.
There was nothing he could say or text that I wanted to hear.
I wished I could banish him from real life just as easily. Why does life not offer a block function?
I wanted nothing to do with him.
Still, it wasn’t as simple as me freeing myself from his clutches. I couldn’t be that selfish. I had a responsibility toward other men who might find themselves drawn into his orbit.
I not only needed freedom. I needed to know he couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Was Reggie the sole victim? Or had there been others?
Murder was beginning to seem easier than I thought.
I set the phone down, threw off the covers, and rose to move to the windows. The sight cheered me. Everything outside looked newly washed, sun-dappled, and cheerful. The lake was a bright aqua, shimmering, its waves gentle. If I just concentrate on this view, all is well. Nothing can harm me.
I could almost make myself believe that outside was a summer day, but I knew the warmth I could see wouldn’t be warmth I could feel if I ventured out. The leafless trees and the brownish grass made a lie of the summery-look of the day.
“Glad you could get some rest.” Camille’s voice behind me made me jump. “Sorry,” she said as I turned. “Did you know it’s almost eleven o’clock?”
“Oh gosh, I need to call in to work.”
“I already did it for you, hon. I told them I was your sister and there’d been a death in the family. Your boss was really nice, said you could take the rest of the week if you needed it.”
“Thank you.” I pulled the robe closer around me. “We should go get my stuff. Do you have time now?”
“We will. First, you need to eat a little something and take a shower. There are blueberry scones in the kitchen. I didn’t make them, but they’re from the bakery over on Sheridan, so close enough to coming out my own oven.
” She chuckled. “And I made a second French press. All yours. There’s even hazelnut creamer. I know you love that.”
I wasn’t hungry, but knew the fortification was important, so I headed toward the kitchen. “Don’t you have work?”
“I do. But did you forget? Since the pandemic, I’ve worked from home.
Exclusively.” She stretched. “I already put in six hours—been up since the crack. Now, go on.” She pointed toward the kitchen.
“I’m going to get cleaned up myself so we can head over and get Mrs. Davis and your stuff.
She will probably be a little disgruntled with you. ”
I waited for her to disappear into her bedroom and what I now assumed was her home office.
And then I headed into the kitchen. Eating a scone and sipping a cup of coffee with lots of sugar and creamer, I could almost imagine things were good and normal—that this was a weekend morning and I hadn’t a care in the world.
That lasted for all of ten minutes.
Camille hurried into the kitchen, frowning, her face lined with worry. “Come here.” She crooked her finger. “You need to hear something.”
I trailed her into the living room. She motioned for me to sit, and I plopped down on the sheets and blankets covering her couch.
She leaned over and positioned a slim, round Bluetooth speaker toward me.
“Listen.” She sat on the edge of the overstuffed chair by the windows and lit a cigarette. She brought out her phone and her fingers slide over its screen.
Karl/Bailey’s voice emerged.
Podcast transcript, “Meat Locker: Cold Cases” Episode No. 47
True Crime Audio Presents: The Case of the Unsolved Hate Crime
(Opening Credits and intro music)
Bailey Anderson: We’ve learned a lot in these past few weeks about Joshua Kade.
He’s once again become a person of interest with the Chicago Police Department.
Although, from what my anonymous sources inside the detectives unit tell me, he’s still a low priority.
Someone can look as guilty as sin and you and I may agree there’s no doubt they’re a predator, a culprit, a killer, but the system demands a lot of evidence, not hearsay and conjecture, to even arrest a person, let alone indict them.
But I’m bringing you this current bonus episode because, last night, I received a call from Josh Kade.
A call that came, like all horrifying ones do, in the middle of the night—or the early morning, depending on how you look at things.
I didn’t even hear it come in, along about 3:30 in the morning.
Like most sensible folks, I have my DO NOT DISTURB in place on my devices until seven o’clock.
No one can get through except Mom and God, and they’re the same person.
Anyway, I digress.
This was a chilling call and from what I heard, I suspect that the CPD will be interested in the words Mr. Kade uses, the threat he poses, and the overall insane tenor of the call.
Part of me wishes I’d never heard it. Part of me is glad and grateful I did. And the biggest part is glad you and everyone else will hear it.
Because of the size limitations of my voicemail box, Josh had to call several times, but he’s a persistent guy. I’ve pieced the recordings together as one, so you can hear.
So, here goes:
(There was a moment of silence, and then Josh’s voice came through, haltingly, but in no other way impaired. He hadn’t been drinking. I tensed up, unable to look up from Camille’s dusty hardwood floor.)
Bailey? Karl? Or whatever dumb-shit name you call yourself these days.
I don’t know how anyone trusts you. You’re the lowest of the low when it comes to media, when it comes to news. You make more shit up than Stephen King himself, but your listeners cling to your every word.
Or should I say every lie?
You have been disparaging me now for weeks on this lame podcast. First of all, I simply want to clear my name—and yes, I very much hope you’ll use this recorded call as part of your podcast. And I hope you’ll have the decency, if you do, to NOT edit my words.
The first thing I want to make clear is that I didn’t, and never would have, killed the great love of my life and your brother, Reggie.
He, as the police determined—ten fucking years ago—was the victim of a hate crime.
He was in a well-known gay part of town, late at night, in an alley.
For a basher, killing my Reggie was like fishing in a barrel.
This loss has haunted me for a decade. I’m sure it’s haunted you, too. And it’s the only way I can cut you a little slack, Karl, because I know you’ve grieved too.
Reggie had his problems, we both know it, but at heart, he was kind and lovable. A good man who’d never harm a soul.
He was also a Mr. Hyde when he used drugs and when that happened, no one or no thing got between him and his drug of choice. He was single-minded that way. A promiscuous whore.
(Pause, heavy breathing)
So, if you have solid evidence that I had something to do with his death, c’mon then, let’s hear it. All I’ve heard so far is a pack of lies. Wishful thinking. Conjecture unsupported by facts. Fake news.
And I’m free. No cops are knocking on my door.
I get it. You want someone to blame. It’s not enough your brother was a random victim of homophobia. You want a person you can point to to take the blame, one who will rot in a prison cell for the rest of his life.
I get it. Sometimes, the thirst for closure can be all-consuming.
But I’m not that person, much as you wish I was.
Who is? God I’d give anything to know. Then maybe I could get out there and kill him or her myself.
When all this went down, ten years ago, I barely escaped with my life. The two men who came upon us and saved me, Kirk Nizer and Tommy DeSarro, can tell you the truth. They can tell you what they saw—
(The recording stops abruptly here.)
Bailey: And here I’m going to put a stop to Mr. Kade’s ramblings because, without even realizing it, he’s trapped himself. I’ll be back in a minute to tell you why.
(Music out. Ads.)
Bailey: Welcome back to Meat Locker. If you’ve been following the case, the final words from Joshua Kade I played should give you pause. They did me.
Listen: When all this went down, ten years ago, I barely escaped with my life.
The two men who came upon us and saved me, Kirk Nizer and Tommy DeSarro, can tell you the truth.
They can tell you what they saw in that alley and it was not me harming my Reggie in any way.
They saw a man in shock, disoriented and confused, stabbed, barely aware of his surroundings due to shock and grief. They did not see the killer.
Kirk Nizer and Tommy DeSarro came upon the crime scene after it had occurred. Well after. Joshua Kade was long gone. All that remained in that alley was my brother’s body, bled out, and gone to wherever souls go when they shed their earthly suit of clothes.
I remembered that much without prompting. You probably recall that, with a little reminder. I talked about it on the first episode of this series. And the Chicago Police Department should certainly sit up and take notice, if they haven’t already.
Because how could Joshua Kade confuse such a simple point in this tragic timeline?
A wise woman once told me, “No murderer leaves a crime scene without leaving a clue. None. There’s always something—a drop of DNA, a loose hair, a carpet fiber—that the careful eye will eventually spot.
” I’d add to this that no murderer can keep all the details straight, not when he’s lying.
And there really is only one explanation—he’s lying. If he remembers being happened upon by two strangers that weren’t there until—I don’t know—at least an hour after Kade had departed the scene, something isn’t right.
And if there’s one thing I know about lying and liars is that once you catch them in one, there are more. Lies are like cockroaches or mice—there’s never only one.
This slip on his part is certainly enough to raise eyebrows, but it’s still not enough to convict. I know, I know. But I will continue to dig…and dig…and dig…under this rock until the real Joshua Kade scurries out and away from the light.
Despite his desire for me to play all his ramblings, unedited, I won’t. But I will leave you—and a special person out there—with this:
There’s someone in this crime-ridden excuse for a city, hiding from me, thinking that I killed someone I loved. They may believe it because of the podcast, but I’m here to say that you, honey, you can’t rely on everything you hear.
Is he telling this ‘special person’ something reassuring? That this podcast is nothing more than character assassination?
Or is he issuing a threat?
More next time on Meat Locker. I’m Bailey Anderson.