Elwood had been leaning over the kitchen counter for hours. His arms should’ve been exhausted from the weight pressed firmly through his palms, but he felt nothing. Not even the deep summer heat and humidity that would dissuade the most dedicated tourists seemed to faze him. His focus hadn’t moved from the evidence file splayed across the counter. Forensic photos, arrest records, and notes scribbled on scrap paper took him months to gather, and now he wondered if it was even worth it.
Finally shuffling through the pile, something buried under photos caught his attention. He pushed aside the evidence and grabbed a business card from the unkempt stack. It was his own. Detective Elwood Connelly it read. His name always stood out among his colleagues in south Tampa. They called him the Big City Wolf. The other detectives craved for the gift he possessed when it came to solving cases. Elwood always brushed it off and claimed his experience working the street in New York City gave him an advantage, but maybe there was something more. Whatever it might be, he wished it would help him now.
He flipped over the card and saw an address: 303 Sugar Cove. His brow shifted in confusion. He didn’t remember seeing this before.
“Where in the fuck did this come from?” He thought.
After taking a long look at the address, he flicked the card a few times and placed it in his pocket. He would check into the lead this afternoon.
Free from the trance that occupied his entire morning, he looked around the cramped apartment. They had never completely unpacked. For over two years, boxes remained stacked in more than one corner. The walls were mostly bare, with the exception of a few photos and the framed American flag given to him after his father’s death. Two more months and they would be out of this pig sty. The ocean-front dream home his wife always wanted was so close, but now it seemed all but lost.
Footsteps echoed from the concrete breezeway as high heels approached the door, keys jingled. Elwood watched from inside as the lock turned and the door opened. His wife stepped across the threshold and leaned her back against the door as it closed. She kept her head down for a moment, then with an abrupt inhale of snot and tears she tried to regain her composure.
She turned the fan knob to full blast on the window mounted AC unit and let the cool air dry away her grief. Elwood hung his head in shame while Mary moved to the kitchen and set her purse on the counter. She let out an audible sigh of frustration when the mess from the case file caught her eye. Her intense shuffling of the documents made Elwood take a step back in defeat as he watched her put away his hard work.
Although the crime scene photos were no longer visible, neither of them could remove the images from their memories. These images represented the most gruesome case Elwood had ever worked.
Relentless, yet precise, stab wounds from broken wine bottles had left seven victims nearly unrecognizable. The intensity of these crimes hinted at years of anger, yet there was likely no personal connection between the killer and the victims. As is inevitable with most serial killings, the media dubbed nickname “The South Tampa Terror” was now priority number one for the entire community.
Three of the subjects were listed as Jane Does, considered to be transient addicts pulled into the darkest depths of Florida’s abundant methamphetamine hell. It weighed heavy on Elwood. He had been determined to get them home, wherever that home may be. In his nearly twenty year career, he had always brought some relevance of closure to a grieving family.
“I never meant to get caught up in it like this, Mare,” Elwood confessed through choked words. “I am so sorry I let you down.”
Mary turned her attention to the rest of the kitchen, where dishes sat piled in the sink, flies hovered around the trash, and the stale aroma of week-old coffee tainted the air. Elwood watched from a distance as she attempted to clean and bring some sort of life back to the room. It reminded him of the studio apartment they first shared in Brooklyn all those years ago. The lack of personal space gave them doubts to the potential stability of their marriage, but somehow they managed not to kill each other before getting out of the city.
Elwood felt it necessary to stay here with Mary, but the address in his pocket had his gears turning. All he could think about was the case. He needed to get back out there.
I can’t let this slide. How did they get to me?
Elwood grabbed his button down shirt and tie, then moved towards the door. Mary was on her way to the bedroom when she stopped at his picture on the wall. It was his official NYPD photograph and detective certificate proudly framed and mounted. A daily reminder of their northern roots.
“It was always about the job, wasn’t it?” Mary stated begrudgingly.
Elwood froze in his tracks, nearly to the door.
“Mary…I promise I’m trying, but I don’t know how speak with you anymore. I have to go, I have to do this. For us. For you.”
He watched as Mary stood still, eyes fixed on the picture frame. She began to tremble. Suddenly, with both hands she grabbed the picture from the wall and began smashing it against the door frame. Slam after slam, she cried and screamed.
Elwood watched the expression of total frustration being carried out via his career accomplishment. He thought of all the mistakes and indiscretions their marriage had endured, but this was the final nail. He wanted to grab her, embrace her. He wanted to tell her it was all going to be OK, but he knew what needed to be done first.
The South Tampa Terror was on a three month murder spree, unchecked. Elwood’s marriage was gone, his career cut short. He needed to stop this. More importantly, he wanted revenge.
Elwood opened the door, and looked back to his wife. She had collapsed to her knees, shaking and crying amongst the broken glass.
“I’m going to make this right, Mare.”
Elwood left their home, uncertain if he’d ever return. He vowed long ago to never let a case go cold. Now, he found himself working the coldest case of all…his own. Six days had passed since Elwood was murdered by the Terror, but he had a new lead, something he missed before. The Big City Wolf was out for blood.
*Editor’s note: If you haven’t already, be sure to check out Cadbury’s other short fiction feature on SoBros Network: The Widow’s Mountain.
Cadbury Pringlebatch is the Operations Manager, Lead Motorcycle Guy, Investment Analyst, and Travel Blogger for The SoBros Network, but knows a little bit about everything. Known for frequenting Nashville YMCA steam rooms, he’s a firm believer that winning football is produced by moving the chains, and became a SoBro after mistaking one of our podcasts for an AA meeting. Follow on Twitter: @SoBroCadbury
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