CHAPTER 3 “UNCLE STEPHEN”
This was a sight I had not often seen. A dead man walking on two feet. He wasn’t even decomposed. He was a fully-alive, fully functional human being, who I had attended the funeral of the day before. What could this mean? Could this mean he faked his own death for some fucked up reason? He was a devious fellow, I wouldn’t put it past him. Come to think of it though, he looked dead the day before. I had no time to contemplate what the hell was going on, so I just shouted “UNCLE STEPHEN? HOW ARE YOU ALIVE?” He pulled a pistol out and pointed it at me. “IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, JUNIOR! YOU NEED TO SHIMMY ON OUT OF HERE, SEE?” He yelled in a stereotypical 20’s gangster fashion. His various suited henchman came in with automatic weapons and were about to grab hold of me. “WAIT!” Uncle Stephen blurted out. “Let me take care of him. Henchman, go make sure the Mayor and all the other assholes aren’t doing anything rash, see?” He instructed. The henchman shuffled out one by one, each muttering various obscenities to themselves. Uncle Stephen closed the vault door and locked it tight. He kept the gun pointed at me, however. He was a well-dressed gangster. His suit was exquisite, tailor-made even. Mine was equally as fancy, but only because of the inheritance. Before they were pretty average. As he inched over he started talking rather quietly. “Listen. I dismissed my henchman because I don’t want to look weak but, I do have a soft spot for you. But you better get the hell out of here.” “I thought you were dead. What the hell is going on?” I asked. He looked around and then said “I faked my death to wipe my criminal record clean. I was wanted for the murder of Joseph Andrews.” My heart stopped for a split second when he uttered that name. “WHAT?” I screamed. “SHUT UP AND LET ME FINISH!” He yelled. “I had murdered Joseph because his Cigar Business was getting the way of my plans. It was a front for a rival mob. I had to make him go away. I killed my identical twin and they buried him.” He explained. I suddenly remembered his identical twin. He was mentally retarded and had little to no relation with his family. He had been taken care of in a mental institution out of state. “How the hell did you manage to kill him?” I asked. “You think there’s actually security in those institutions? Listen, you need to go. You have no business here.” He said sternly. “Actually, I do. I’m a private eye.” I retorted. He looked at me and said “Nobody gives a damn about private eyes, they’re not real cops.” This made me very angry. I pulled out my pistol and pointed it at him. “Well we do have real guns.” I said. “PUT THAT DOWN OR I WILL SHOOT YOU-“Before he could even finish his sentence I shot him point blank in the leg My own uncle. Without a thought, right in the leg. It all made sense to me at that point. Every single victim ran some sort of shop. They were all fronts. Joseph Andrews and the cigar shop, Michael Shono and the convenience store, Chris Johnson and the pizza place. They all had records, and they were all fronts. Once Uncle Stephen murdered them, the supposed “copycat killer” paid Uncle Stephen to sleep with the corpses. This necrophiliac was Bartholomew Higgins. He was interested in the dead from the start, and he was interested in Joseph Andrews from the start. Once he found out he could screw Andrews’ dead body, he couldn’t get enough, and he paid Uncle Stephen to bang the rest of them. What a sick piece of dirt he was. Suddenly, the door opened, and there was the police. They came in, armed to the teeth. “JESUS CHRIST!!!” Uncle Stephen was shouting at the top of his lungs while he gripped his wound. He had dropped his pistol, and I had retrieved it. The police came in pointing a gun at both of us. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” He ordered. I put down the guns far enough so Uncle Stephen couldn’t get to them, and then I said “I’m a private eye! I caught this guy and took his weapon, the other weapon is mine!” I then opened my jacket to show my Private Eye badge. “It looks legit.” The cop said. He gestured for me to come over there, and that I did. Once I was safe, the cops arrested him and called an ambulance, which was a relatively new thing at the time. Once he was released from the hospital, he was charged with assault, trespassing and attempted robbery. While he was in jail, I spoke to the rest of the victims’ families, and they were much more cooperative than the Andrews family. I also spoke to witnesses and the sort, and I was able to track down Bartholomew Higgins. With all the evidence I gathered, I had been able to get Bartholomew Higgins charged with six counts of illegal necrophilia, and I got Uncle Stephen charged with six counts of murder, although god knows he probably committed much more. Higgins was sentenced to five years in state prison with no possibility of parole. He was released in 1931. Uncle Stephen was sentenced to one-hundred and twenty five years in prison, with a release date of December 15, 2051. He attempted to kill himself in 1945, and he died in prison in 1958. He was seventy-eight years old. Higgins was put into a mental facility in 1934 after he attempted to stab a homeless man to death in New York City, and he remained there until his death in 1973. He was eighty-seven. The day I solved the case, I arranged a meeting with the slut who gave me it. We went to the exact same coffee shop, and sat at the exact same table. I sat down and said “Why, hello.” And she looked up from the newspaper that had the headline “PRIVATE EYE NABS MAFIA MEMBER AND NECROPHELIAC” and said “Hello again. Congratulations.” I decided to rub it in. “So, he wasn’t much of a copycat killer, was he?” I said, smugly. “I for one never would’ve expected it to be two guys in conjunction. But I did expect for you to rub it in if the killer wasn’t a copycat.” She said with a smile. I chuckled. “Good job.” She complimented. “Here’s the money.” She said as she pushed over the envelope, which had a lipstick mark on it with a message that said “From Lisa, with Love” I took that as a sign that maybe she wasn’t a bitch-slut-whore-skank-tramp-broad after all. Maybe she was a friend, or better.