by Jennifer Harris
I exited the vehicle, and strolled across Publix parking lot, as the radio announcer said, “Speaking of a date, it’s May month, and that means two things, Floridians, hot and hotter!” The #21 bus stopped at the shed nearby and two elderly people slowly got off. A young guy, with his green employee shirt tucked into cream-colored pants, was listening to headphones while collecting carts to carry back inside the supermarket. It was 8:30 am on Tuesday in the retirement community of Melbourne. I entered the store and headed to the Hot Buffalo wings section in the back.
Mark saw me and said, “Good morning, Colleen. Here to pick up?”
“Good morning, Mark,” I replied. “Yes.”
He gave me my order in a box, and I got some juice on my way to the cashiers at checkout. I joined the back of the line, just when the guy in front of me took a Snicker bar off the stand and stuffed it in his right pants pocket. He had reddish brown, shaggy, out-of-control hair on his head and face, looked about 6ft tall, and maybe in his thirties. He was covered in layers of dirty clothes and weighed down by an overstuffed backpack. Surprised, I started to say something, but just then, Lisa, the cashier, spoke up.
“Next, please!”
It was his turn. He gave her a bottle of chocolate milk and two small donuts in a packet, and she told him, “Four dollars and thirty-nine cents.”
He opened the smudgy palm of his right hand and started counting until he got to two dollars and twenty-five cents, then ran out of change, and began to make a whimpering sound.
I said, “Hey, Lisa, I got this one.”
She looked past him, noticed me, smiled, and said, “Okay, Colleen.”
And gave him his milk and donuts. He rocked back and forth, then walked away. I paid, got my stuff, and met him outside devouring everything. Despite the matted, scruffy beard on his face, all the food found its way inside his mouth. When he was done, he licked the plastic wrapper, and threw his garbage in the bin.
“Hungry,” he said. “Thank you.” He took the candy out of his pocket and held it towards me, mumbling, “Sorry, I give back.”
“You keep it,” I told him. “It’s yours.” I watched as he unwrapped the Snickers, before asking, “What’s your name?”
He put half in his mouth, and without looking at me, replied, “Simple Jesus.” And started chewing, rocking back and forth, and humming.
I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Simple Jesus. Be safe out there.” I left him and walked back to my vehicle with the bag of goodies.
Officer Jerry Madison and I used a black pickup truck whenever we were out on surveillance. I’m Colleen Archer, an average 5 feet 2 inches tall, acceptable to the eye-looking female, weighing 130 lbs. He’s in his 60s, 5ft 8 inches tall, balding, slightly overweight, and near retirement. We’re private investigators with a company called Militant. It does undercover work alongside Homeland Security. I started with them about five years ago. Recently, a rash of dead homeless people began appearing in the Southeastern region of America, and we got hired to provide surveillance. Jerry came to Melbourne one month ago from headquarters in South Carolina, and we teamed up to keep an eye on the homeless in city. The murders, a knife wound through the heart with hardly a spill of blood, started in his home state. The first two appeared random, but the third was the MO. There was the body, lying as if asleep, covered with a blanket, and on a park bench. It was exactly like the other two scenes. Then last year, in the state of Georgia, there were three more. A pattern was developing. You might say that we were the early team trying to prevent a disease called murder from spreading to Florida. I’m a rookie compared to him. He’s got 24 years with the company. If anyone knew how to tell a killer, it was Officer Jerry Madison.
The truck door swung open when I approached, and he reached for the bag of goodies while I climbed into the passenger seat. When I sat down, I looked at him and said, “He calls himself Simple Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he responded. “I heard.”
We always wore wires when working to keep in contact with each other. He eagerly pulled out the snacks as I continued speaking. “Seems a bit on the mental side. I’ve seen him around before.”
Jerry bit into a wing, leaned back, and said, “We’ll keep following him.”
Meanwhile, Simple Jesus felt good. He shuffled along Hibiscus Street to the middle of the block, and crossed over, looking for a bench in Soldier’s Park. He found one by the duck pond, plopped down, and immediately started giggling as the ducks flopped over each other. With all the Florida heat, you’d think that he was uncomfortable in the garments that he wore, but he was oblivious, and happy as a child.
In the distance, on the opposite side, a woman in her twenties sat on a sleeping bag surrounded by mounds of loose clothing, while a man of the same age held a fishing rod in the water. About 30 minutes passed with hardly a movement before he stopped and went to the woman. He bent and whispered in her ear, and she got up and walked over to Simple Jesus. She chewed gum while asking him, “Hey man, you got a light?”
“No,” he replied hesitantly with an I-don’t-know-what-you-mean silly smile on his face.
“So . . .” She stopped chewing and asked rudely, “Why you smilin’? You stupid or something?”
He started whimpering, and rocking, and the girl immediately exclaimed, “Oh, you stupid. Well, F you then!”
And she ran back to her young man. Simple Jesus felt an uneasiness creeping over him and immediately got up and started walking. He kept going from one street to the next with no agenda in mind. When he needed to eat, he took out a small piece of cardboard on which was scrawled, “Please help—Hungry.” And stood on a street corner. With his change, he’d go to a store, get a candy or soda, use the bathroom, then keep going. After 5pm, he returned to the park bench and used his backpack for a pillow, and clothing as a blanket, and laid down.
Jerry and I watched him for at least an hour after the sun faded before we returned to the office. He said in parting, “See you at 7 in the morning. Be safe out there.”
By the time I drove to my condo in Palm Bay, it was dark. The radio announcer said, “Folks, it’s bug season! Close the windows and cut the bushes. Your survival, and your pet’s survival, may depend on it.”
I parked, walked to the front door and unlocked it, and heard my landline phone ringing. Not many people knew this house number; even so, I had a good idea who was calling. I closed the door and answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, Officer Archer. How did it go today?”
It was Lieutenant Glover, the main boss. He oversaw the entire Southeast Region. He was a retired Marine Colonel: a man who flew Blackhawks, scrimmaged with Navy SEALS, and had breakfast at the Pentagon. When he was on a case, it was because the President of the United States wanted it shut down . . . immediately.
I replied, “Fine, sir,” and added, “the subject’s unaware that he’s under surveillance.”
“Good,” Glover said. “Remember, he could be a killer. Consider him to be dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
We both hung up. I went to the bedroom and removed my gun and put it in the bedside table drawer. Gingerly, I peeled off the wire taped to my chest and placed it on the nightstand with my cellphone. I took a shower, ate the left-over wings, watched some news, saw the time was 11pm, and went to bed. Shortly after, a loud buzzing startled my sleep. I realized it was coming from the cellphone, so I grabbed it and answered.
“Hello?”
“The target’s moving,” Lieutenant Glover said. “I’ll meet you at the park.”
“Yes, sir,” I groggily replied.
“Oh, and Archer,” he added. “No wires.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I left my mic on the table, got my weapon and keys, and headed out the door. It was midnight.
It seems that the killer left some unexpected clues on a dead body in Georgia. The victim, a homeless woman, body marks showed that she woke up and started fighting back. She must have bitten him, because when autopsy checked, they found fresh human DNA on her teeth. It was more than speculation now. We were closing in on the killer. At times like this, upper echelons got very secretive, and only those who “needed to know“ heard any of the next plans. People like me and Jerry became expendable parts of a team that were moved around to make “the catch.“ Once department gets a hold of solid evidence, everything typically goes hush. No leaks to the press and no conversations in the squad bays. Nothing must happen to jeopardize the next steps. This was being called the Palmetto Operation because it looked like it would wrap up in Florida. At least, those in the know hoped it would end soon. From this point on, to avoid confusion, the team got instructions from one source, Lieutenant Glover.
I got in my car and drove to Soldier’s Park. It was slightly muggy, streets and store lights were on, while a handful of people moved around. As instructed, I parked a block away from the entrance and headed in the direction towards the position by the statue closest to the water fountain. The street gradually narrowed to trees, bushes, and two columns to the entrance. Off in the distance by the duck pond, I saw a figure moving, and realized it was Jerry. He was walking towards the bench that Simple Jesus was lying on. I turned in his direction, when a hushed voice said from the bushes, “Hold your position.”
Startled, I dropped to my right knee and held my hands out to my side, away from my gun. I looked to the right and vaguely saw at least three uniformed bodies with weapons pointing on me. I looked to the left and saw more. A light, the size of a firefly, flashed quickly twice, and, bending from the waist, I crawled towards it. Lieutenant Glover had the park surrounded.
Officer Jerry Madison was 62 years old and a changed man. Something psychological happened to him when Barbara, his wife of twenty years, died. They met in college and got married after graduation. They had no kids, and if it didn’t bother her, it didn’t bother him. Her bubbly personality made everything in his life bearable. When she was gone, Jerry felt his mind slowly falling apart. He spent hours crying over her tomb. It became unbearable, so he put the house on the market, stopped driving through the neighborhood, and moved into a studio at Marigold Motel. In the room, every night Jerry drank until he blacked out, woke up the next day, and went to work at Militant. He was an outstanding investigator, thorough and dependable, the type whose work was so good that no one noticed how bad his behavior was becoming. After a few months, with all the grief and alcohol in him, he finally had no purpose to live.
When Jerry started killing the homeless folks in his home state of South Carolina, he wanted to be noticed and get put away from society. He didn’t plan for this many people, but after the second murder, when they didn’t even notice, Jerry returned to his room, a man reborn with a purpose. He decided to rid homeless people of their pain. He did one more killing before driving across the border to Georgia to continue with his mission. When he got the word that Homeland hired Militant to do surveillance in Florida, and they wanted him for the job, he immediately accepted. Not just because it was new territory from Georgia, but maybe . . . maybe this time . . . someone would stop him.
When Jerry saw Simple Jesus at Publix, he knew that was his next victim. There in the dark Soldier’s Park, he planned to stab him, wait a few seconds to make certain that he’s dead, then cover him up to look like he’s sleeping. He knew the young people left because he followed them to the Super 8 two blocks over. As far as he was concerned, the park was empty except for himself and Simple Jesus. Cautiously, Jerry let the knife slip down from his right jacket sleeve until he felt the metal handle in his palm. As he approached the form, he slipped it out and held the blade slightly cocked with a firm hand on the grip, ready for the kill.
I watched, along with Glover and the team, as Jerry crept closer to the bench, and just as he pulled back the knife, and it glinted in the moonlight, Glover yelled, “Now! Move in!”
To my surprise, floodlights turned the dark pond area into day, and Simple Jesus threw his blanket of clothes at Jerry and leaped off the bench. Jerry was caught off-guard, and dropped the knife, and tried to dodge away from the blanket, but it hit him in the face. Simple Jesus grabbed him in a bear hug from behind as officers rushed out from the bushes in every direction. Jerry saw us approaching, and started yelling, “Help, he’s attacking me! Someone, help me!”
But when he saw Lieutenant Glover, a realization seemed to come over him, and he froze, before slowly sinking to the ground. That’s when we witnessed Jerry’s breakdown as he started laughing, crying, and screaming hysterically, “You came for me! You came for me!”
We surrounded him, but not everyone. I turned away, unable to look at a broken man who once was my hero.
Homeland and Militant knew in Georgia that it was one of ours doing the killing. They deliberately put Jerry in charge of surveillance in Florida and waited on him to make his move. All the while, I thought we were observing Simple Jesus. I didn’t know that it was my partner. It also never occurred to me that Simple Jesus was an undercover cop and part of the sting. Before leaving he said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Archer. Be safe out there.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Simple Jesus,” I replied. “Be safe out there.”
In the end, Jerry got life in prison. This was a case too close to home.
Category: Featured, Fiction, SNHU Student