‘The Surrealist: Chapter Four, Part I’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly

The Surrealist

Chapter Four: The Farm

Part I

By the time Detective John McKinesy and the Chief of police were on the road, the death of Don De Luca’s secret daughter hit the newsstands all over town. McKinesy knew exactly how the newspapers found out about the victim’s true identity, from cops. Because sadly, in this town, if one has the money, one has the power to do whatever, whenever, wherever and control everyone. Right after leaving the crime scene, both men went to the police station to get the old case file and some old notes. McKinesy sat with the department’s sketch artist and described to him the facial features of the murderer nicknamed ‘The Surrealist’. The Chief ordered for this sketch to be distributed around town, to every single cop on the force, and knew that someone was bound to leak this sketch to the press, which was exactly what he desired. After finishing up at the station, the Chief and the detective got in the car and drove fast and hard. They passed that part of old town where everybody is either drunk, or working on it. All the scum, the bottom feeders, the junkies and women selling their bodies for a buck or less hung around that part. Just a long narrow streets, old and broken down in every-way. As they drove towards the De Luca family farm on the outskirts of town; Detective John McKinesy rolled himself a cigarette, stuck it between his lips and struck a match taking a drag.

“So what happened on that night five years ago?” The Chief sprang the question out of nowhere.

John blew the smoke in front of him. “How old is Don De Luca now?”

“John, don’t change the subject.”

“Come on, Frank, this is not the time.”

“John, it’s been five years,” The Chief said “Tell me what happened that night, tell me what happened to your girl.”

McKinesy shot a look at him, then rolled his eyes towards the road. He remembered everything, he never forgot a single detail.

‘Alright,’ said John with a sigh ‘I’ll tell you everything. Five years ago, when this whole thing started I was already a hotshot detective, you said that yourself.”

The Chief nodded his head with a faint smile as if John’s words stimulated past memories in his mind. John knew that look.

“After the first few murders,” John continued “I was devastated, their was not a single clue that could’ve led me to that bastard. I was filled with rage, challenging that killer, threatening him at that public press conference we did. The press of course printed every single word. On the day the papers printed my quotes from the conference; I went home and found that Daisy was gone. I looked for her everywhere, it drove me crazy not to know where she was, but I had to cut my search short for I received news that their was another murder. That watchmaker who was hung at his shop near 5th street, you remember that crime scene, yeah?”

“How can I forget?” The Chief answered.

“Remember what was written on the wall?”

The Chief thought for a moment then said “‘Crazy blue eyes’ all in capital letters, dark ink.”

“Exactly,” John said “I knew at that moment that he had my Daisy, I didn’t know what to do.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I knew things got personal, my arrogance took over me and I felt that I had to do it by myself. I searched the crime scene for two whole days, I found one clue, two actually.”

“Which were?” The Chief asked.

“Some ash behind the counter,” John said “Given that the old watchmaker did not smoke, and it was said that he did not allow smoking in the shop because he had lung problems, I figured the ash belonged to the killer. After thoroughly studying the ash, I deduced that it was Burley pipe tobacco which was sold in only one tobacco shop in town, that shop by the Jazz joint on 3rd street. I also found a boot imprint in the carpet behind the counter; it was a size ten, the imprint itself had grayish dust, which I figured to be cement. I did not make heads or tail of the footprint until I reached the tobacco shop, before I got in I noticed that there was a construction site near the shop, with sakes of cement on the pavement. I knew I was close. But when the shopkeeper told me that only on man had bought Burley tobacco from him earlier that night, a spiffy cat no more than thirty; I knew I had the bastard. I hid in the shop and told the keeper to give me a hint as soon as the man arrives in the shop or passes by it in the street —for the shop had a good view of the street. So there I was sittin’ behind the counter with the keeper castin’ an eye-ball all over when suddenly, he tugs at my threads. I look up and see this dark haired city slicker walkin’ past the shop. ‘That’s him.’ the shopkeeper whispered; I waited a minute then followed him. He walked inside an apartment building half a mile or less from the shop. I took out my gun and followed him; I opened the door, then bam! Something hit me right in the kisser.”

The Chief listened intently with his eyes on the road, John rolled himself another cigarette and continued his tale “I blacked out of course, but when I opened my eyes, I saw his face lookin’ right at me, I tried to move but I was all tied up. He had my Daisy tied up too, I cussed at him spit at him but he didn’t do nothin’ just stared at me with his dark eyes. I tried to move Chief, I tried to save her but I couldn’t do squat. I saw him wrapping his fingers around her neck, her glassy blue eyes starin’ at me. He walked towards me and I felt a blast of pain in my head. When I opened my eyes again, the room was empty. No Daisy, no Surrealist. I can’t begin to imagine the kind of sadistic acts he’s done to her. Those women’s cloths found a week later in the river under the bridge belonged to her.”

John Mckinesy felt his hands shaking, he touched his bottom lip where a small scare marked his failure to capture this murderer and save his loved one, but he did not need this reminder; every time he closed his eyes he saw those blue eyes looking at him. The Chief kept looking right in front of him, McKinesy did the same as the De Luca family farm appeared in the gloom of the night. John McKinesy rested his head back and felt the smoke roaming inside of his lungs.

Sweet Daisy; I will avenge your death. Oh, Daisy, how I miss you…

[End of Chapter 3 Part I.]

(To be continued…)


About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
This entry was posted in Fiction, Surreal, The Surrealist and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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