Cracker Jack
Cracker Jack
by Vasilie Crisan
12:07 a.m. October 17, 2013 - Briny Irish Pub, Pompano Beach, FL
I saw her walking to her car and immediately knew she was the one. Her pace was angelic, with long hair flowing in the wind in slow motion, like you'd see in a shampoo commercial. She wore a green satin short-sleeve blouse with black dress pants that hugged her athletic legs in the intimate manner you would expect from a pair of silk stockings. Her shoes did not have high heels but even so, her rear end perked up slightly - naturally - and with every step each side would lift and bounce. It seemed to beckon me, calling my name. Jack. Jack. Jack. Jack. She looked around, aware of her beauty, trying to catch a glimpse of the men who took notice. I looked at her hands - no ring. I had to make her mine, and I had a plan.
"Hi, can I bother you with a quick question about relationships?" I was nervous, but if I wanted her I had to make sure she only saw confidence. It was midnight and she was leaving the bar alone, meaning she had gone there to con men into buying her drinks all night, as women who look like her usually do.
"Sure, how can I help you?" She responded, followed by her beautiful smile. This was the type of woman who expected to be hit on by every man who approached her. Although it was obvious she didn't mind being approached and probably enjoyed the attention, I could feel she suspected my question was only a ruse.
"Do you think it's wrong to break up with someone while you're drunk?" I asked. Women love relationship questions.
She obviously had a very strong opinion on the topic, as she jumped at the opportunity to give me her two cents. "Of course! If you respect the person you should at least give them the common courtesy of being sober when you do it." I was in. Now all I had to do was be witty and funny to spark her interest. Once she put the wall down, it was smooth sailing from there.
After about 15 minutes of talking she was hooked. Now I just had to take away the fun to reel her in. "Oh man, 12:30. I have to go let Count Chocula out. I'm sorry, but it was nice meeting you."
"Count Chocula?" she responded with curiosity.
"Oh, yeah. That's my puppy. He's still potty training so I have to keep him on a strict schedule," I said apologetically.
"Oh, wow! I want to meet him. That is so cute! Did you want to go let him out for a bit and grab a cup of coffee somewhere after?"
"That's a great idea! If... you don't mind... I definitely want to pick your brain a bit more about the breakup issue."
"Of course. Sounds awesome."
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7:00 a.m. October 17, 2013 - Pompano Beach, FL
It was messier than the other two. Her entire face was mangled and swollen - probably from repeated blows - and the back of her skull had the familiar hole that had become this killer's signature. She would be unrecognizable if it weren't for the identification card and other personal belongings the killer left behind. This was no robbery. I could see the headlines now: "Skullcracker officially Pompano Beach's first serial killer." I hate how the media sensationalizes serial killers by giving them nicknames. It doesn't do anybody any good and brings out the weirdoes who idolize them.
The victim was left on the beach between 9th and 10th street. This was a quiet area that was almost completely dark at night this time of year because of a city ordinance that prohibits excessive light, to allow sea turtles to hatch and survive their trek to the ocean.
She was lying on one of the dunes, safe from the changing tides and sea life. Although she was naked, a green satin top, black shoes, green panties, and black dress pants were found nearby neatly folded - probably placed there by the killer. I was, as usual, very professional and very efficient. After photographing the body, I walked over to where the clothing was found and took general scene photos followed by more focused ones. I set up for the close-up shots - as a rule, when doing close-ups it is always ideal to use a tripod in order to get a perfect 90-degree angle and avoid camera shake - and then I began the tedious work involved in documenting the case.
The morning ocean breeze was strong and made us all cautious about evidence being disrupted. We set up a perimeter that was large enough to allow us to catch anything that may have been blown away. After photographing we began processing the crime scene.
Outdoor scenes were always more difficult - weather issues and tampering from passers-by were major concerns; disturbing of evidence and of the cadaver by animals was also a risk - not to mention the difficulty of determining the actual size of one's crime scene. It was also difficult to distinguish important evidence from random items. I found two important pieces of evidence, though; both which I noted in my personal notebook, but neither of which I took down on my official notes: a piece of snake skin scale that I found near the victim, probably from a snakeskin belt, hat, or wallet; and a box of matches with the logo for "Porthole Pub". I recognized the place. It was about six miles north of the crime scene, just west on Sample Road. The killer must've dropped it by mistake while moving the body.
We found a few footprints near the body, which made my work even more time-consuming. Because sand is easy to disrupt, we had to photograph them right away and then use hairspray to harden the footprint in the sand. Once it was more stable, we had to cast the impression using dental stone. Using dental stone to cast an impression is an art, mostly because it is so difficult to get the right consistency before pouring into the impression. It is far more unreliable than I would like, but I am an expert at most things I do, so I can usually get this done properly in a very efficient and timely manner.
Detective Bronson began his investigation by visiting local hardware and home improvement stores to determine which tool the killer used to crush the skull and mangle the face of the victim. Armed with some evidence collected by me and my team, Det. Bronson was optimistic about his search. Unfortunately for him, he didn't actually have any evidence that would give him a deeper understanding of who our suspect actually was. He did have a profile based on some behaviors, which could help, but still left hundreds of thousands of locals as suspects.
According to Det. Bronson, our suspect was probably a white male, late twenties to mid-thirties, somewhat tall with a slightly muscular build. He was good at making friends and the ladies were attracted to him. In addition to a full command of social interactions, our suspect was a very intelligent individual, probably a scholar or professor. He was very cocky; any person who brazenly leaves obvious evidence at a crime scene is defined by his overconfidence. It's amazing what a detective with a psychology degree can know about a suspect based on just a few pieces of evidence. What Det. Bronson didn't know is that I was just a few steps away from discovering our suspect's actual identity.
I put the snakeskin scale and matchbox in my pocket and finished jotting down notes. I headed back to Broward Sheriff's Office headquarters to submit my other pieces of evidence, photographs, sketches, and notes. I had everything packaged properly: biological evidence was in paper bags; DNA swabs were in ventilated boxes; hair was in envelopes; footprint impressions were in unused pizza boxes; I left wet and bloody clothing to air-dry and then placed it in a paper bag with butcher paper in between each article of clothing. I was very meticulous about my handling of evidence. After all, I am a professional.
When I finished my paperwork at BSO headquarters I grabbed my things and headed out. At about six in the evening and I still had a lot to take care of. I arrived at the Porthole Pub around 1845 hrs., still wearing my uniform in order to make the employees believe this was an official visit. I must say, I was pretty lucky that the BSO crime scene investigators were sworn officers. Most departments used civilians for crime scene, which meant they wore "crime scene" uniforms and didn't carry a weapon. Even my official title was "detective", which made people think I was a homicide detective and had a right to interrogate them.
Porthole Pub. Even though I knew of the place, I had never actually been there before. This was the type of seedy establishment that lured scum from dozens of miles away with promises of sexual favors that were never fulfilled. The staff was just as bad as the clientele: the bouncers were slimy, with bloated snakelike postures, plumped up by the steroids they oozed into themselves on a regular basis; the girls were sloppy and fat, and I could smell them the moment I walked in. Disgusting. But as a professional I must sometimes do some things that are unpleasant, even though I'd rather be smelling a corpse than those girls.
The bartender at the Porthole Pub told me she remembered meeting a guy with a snakeskin wallet. He stood out because he ordered a few drinks and didn't seem interested in the girls on stage. Instead, his entire focus was on her. She said he was very smooth and if she didn't have a boyfriend she might have taken him up on the offer to go out after work. When she wouldn't give him her phone number, he paid in cash and tipped her very well, then just walked out of the place. It's good she turned him down, else it might have been her we would sending to the morgue earlier this morning. I got a description of the suspect and turned to leave but stopped and turned for a second. "By the way, did you get the guy's name?"
"Yeah. I believe it was Jack."
************************************************************************************** 11:30 p.m. October 25, 2013 - Beach Bums Pub, Pompano Beach, FL
I was feeling a bit down for a couple of days. Maybe it was the weather, I don't know. But tonight I got a sudden rush of adrenaline and began to feel more optimistic. Iit was Friday night and the weather was finally nice, meaning people would be coming out to the bars to have a good time and a few drinks. I was going to wear my cool newsie hat because the women love it and always compliment me on it, but I decided I didn't want to bring too much attention to myself tonight. I wanted to spend some quality time with a special girl, not be the life of the party. I figured Beach Bums would be perfect since it's a small dive bar right by the beach. After meeting a good one, we could cross the street and walk on the beach or maybe even the pier.
I had been at Beach Bums for a couple of hours and almost went home disappointed when I saw her enter. She came in with two friends and I could tell they had been bar hopping all night. As they sat at their table, I took a sip of my drink and confidently walked over to them. It was my lucky night. Dealing with groups of three girls is always much easier than dealing with groups of two. You see, with two girls you have a unique problem because you can't isolate your chosen girl without making the other one feel jealous, lonely, and insecure. The friend will always start to get overly protective and then start pressuring your target to leave. It's a real pain in the ass, so I don't deal with those anymore.
Groups of three, though, are a completely different story. Once you have charmed them and gotten their attention, you can play little games where you tell the two friends things like, "you two are cool, but I'm not so sure about that one,” while making a whispering hand gesture while pointing at her with your thumb. That's exactly what I did tonight and she was eating it up.
"This one has a name, buddy. And it's Amy. You better remember that, mister, because you are going to be quizzed on it later."
As we all laughed and had a great time, I kept the drinks going for the three girls. After about 30 minutes I said to the two others, "would you mind if I borrow your friend for a few minutes?"
"Oh yeah, please take her for a bit. She needs to see there are still good guys out there."
"Awesome. I promise I'll give her back to you in a few days."
They all had good laugh and Amy and I walked off into the darkness.
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7:00 a.m, October 26, 2013 - Pompano Pier, Pompano Beach, FL
These early morning calls were really starting to bother me. Our little Jack seemed to be getting more confident and was now killing far more frequently. At the end of the Pompano Pier was a Gazebo where the fishermen could sit and relax while they waited for a bite. Our friend left his most recent victim sitting on one of the benches with a blanket over her body. She was brutally disfigured and it was tough to imagine that he did all this with people fishing just a few feet away.
The birds at the pier were starting to become a real nuisance, incessantly trying to get near anything they might deem edible. They had already taken the victim’s eyes, or so it seemed. Near her left eye I noticed what looked like a human bite mark. It seemed strange that the killer would bite her face and she wouldn’t be scared off. He must’ve done this after she was dead. What a sick bastard. I took pictures, but it was a long shot. Bite marks are not solid evidence. I swabbed the area for DNA, but I planned to send this bit of evidence to a private lab where my buddy Seth would analyze it for me. I was not about to let BSO catch this sick animal and screw everything up.
I know what you’re probably thinking. I was not trying to screw up this investigation. On the contrary, this being one of the most important cases in Pompano Beach history, I could not allow the incompetence of my department let this guy walk free.
It was four years ago that I lost them. I was so happy before then. I remember taking Stewart to the park and the many happy nights with Marilyn at the beach. Even staying at home and watching a movie, or cooking, or just having interesting conversations was so fulfilling. I missed them so much. On that horrible day, Marilyn took Stewart to the supermarket to buy some cookies and ice cream. As they crossed the street to get to the car, someone in a pickup truck was speeding away from the liquor store and killed them both instantly. The bastard didn’t stop and probably went straight home and chugged whatever bottle he had bought to try and forget what he had just done to my innocent wife and son.
It was an open and shut case – or at least it should’ve been. The department didn’t want me to handle the crime scene investigation because it was too personal and there would be too much room for error. They sent in some new guy and kept everything low-key to avoid media attention. The basic mistakes they made were so crucial to the investigation that the State Attorney wouldn’t even touch the case.
They found the guy dead a few months later, choked on his own vomit. I hope he suffered. But whatever suffering he experienced before his death could not ever compare to the agony I experienced every single day since my family’s death. I felt tortured every time I put on my uniform, knowing the department I worked for let my family’s killer walk free. Although he died eventually, he did so on his own terms - and that gnawed at my conscience like an incessant rat.
I gathered up the last of the evidence I was going to keep hidden from the department and quickly put it in my toolbox. I would soon have this case solved and my plan would be a success. I made sure to throw out or taint any relevant evidence I didn’t take with me and signaled for the first arriving officer to mark my exit time on the crime scene log. Soon the cleanup crew would arrive and unknowingly throw away anything important that remained on the scene.
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9:00 a.m, November 11, 2013 – Pompano Beach City Hall, Pompano Beach, FL
The media was beginning to put even more pressure on the department. Over a month of investigation and we were no closer to solving the case than we were on the first week. The frustration from the department was beginning to show and it was priceless. I entered the office of the State Attorney knowing we were all about to have our heads chewed off.
The investigation was falling apart and soon the BSO would be forced call in some favors in order to get assistance from the Feds. The pride and egos of local cops were always damaged when the Feds stepped in to take their glory, and to have to beg for help by admitting incompetence would be like swallowing a pill filled with needles. Add to that the unrelenting, exponentially increasing scrutiny from the media and this would surely guarantee a permanent embarrassment for the department.
Soon the politicians would begin to cave and the department would begin to lose large parts of its budget. Reassignments would be inevitable and our dear Sheriff would surely have an impossible reelection campaign on his hands. Just thinking of what lay ahead - just before the holidays no less - made me smile with malice.
In the past several days I had discovered much about our little “Jack the Skull Cracker” and I was ready to put an end to him. I had a solid plan for getting rid of him, and the BSO would never be able to solve the case – destroying both Jack and the BSO with one genius design. But enough self-gratification - I centered myself and prepared to feign disappointment and frustration for our dear State Attorney.
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11:45 p.m, November 11, 2013 – Mariott Beach Resort construction site, Pompano Beach, FL
I was thinking of going out for another night of fun when I received an anonymous phone call from someone who claimed to know all of my secrets. He knew my hunting grounds well and insisted I meet him at midnight at the construction site of the brand new Mariott Beach Resort on the beach in Pompano. It was a curious invitation and it was more than obvious he wanted me for himself. I thought it would be fun, and besides, it had been a while since I had a male.
I got ready early, around 10:00 pm. First, because I was a bit nervous – it had been a while and I wanted to make a good impression. Second, I figured he didn’t just randomly pick the meeting site. He had the night planned already and I would be wise to be prepared for him.
I gathered my confidence and rushed out the door wearing my best bright red button-down and my black Kenneth Cole slacks. I would be pulling out all the stops tonight, and decided to bring out my Salvatore Ferragamo Oxfords – a pair I wear only on the most special occasions. I would not be outdone tonight. He may have had a very special night planned for me, but he had no idea what wonderful experiences I had in store for him.
I arrived at the site around 10:40. My mystery caller had not yet arrived, but I could tell he had made up the place earlier in the day. The bottom floor was still under construction and I noticed a section with a perfect fit for a human, neatly adorned with some sort of plastic sheet - no doubt to wrap up later. What a curiously amateur plan. I couldn’t wait to meet him. It was now 11:45 p.m. and I finally heard the careful footsteps of a nervous man. He was here.
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Midnight, November 12, 2013 – Marriot Beach Resort construction site, Pompano Beach, FL
It was time to bring the villain to true justice. Not the kind that is blind, but the kind that is merciless. After tonight, it would be impossible for the BSO to find Jack the Skullcracker and solve the biggest case in their department’s history. My agony would finally find a sister to live with – wicked satisfaction.
I had set up an area with some plastic covers to avoid a mess and found the perfect spot to dump the body and cover it up. Once the building was finished, no one would be able to find his decayed corpse without first tearing down the entire building. It was a perfect plan. Well, of course it was, I came up with it.
As soon as I walked inside, I heard him speak. “So this is you. I was so curious after your phone call. Just couldn’t wait to meet you.”
“Let’s cut the crap, Jack. You are going to die tonight.” I pulled out my Glock and pointed it in his direction. He didn’t seem phased and slowly smiled. I blinked. For a brief moment I must’ve hallucinated. Jack’s face was that of a deformed, inhuman creature with lidless, piercing eyes and a black, sharp tongue. I blinked again, and his face was back to the handsome young Jack I came here to meet. My imagination was running wild, apparently.
Just then, my body began to get stiff. I tried to fire my weapon, but nothing happened. Jack the Skullcracker just stood there and smiled. He began to walk towards me slowly in a strange, lizardlike manner. I tried to move again, but couldn’t. Jack got closer and I got the impression he was toying with me. Breathing became excruciatingly difficult and I could hear my heart beat faster. I dropped to my knees and tried to speak, but no sound came out. I collapsed and closed my eyes, expecting the worst.
I lay helpless, waiting for the moment a hammer would come down on my skull. Instead, I felt a gentle caress through my hair. A debilitating pain then followed, as I started to drift into a state between conscious and unconscious. Memories began to fill my head: the loss of my true love and my son –oh god! Stewart! - agonizing memories carouseled through my mind; I couldn’t think of anything else.
I could feel Jack the Skullcracker over me, making disturbing sounds of pleasure. I couldn’t move and was left completely defenseless from my attacker. I could feel one of his fingers pressing on my brain – he must’ve struck me already – and the memories were getting worse, mixing together with the physical pain. Oh god, this was true horror! As my suffering reached its peak, my eyes grew in shock and agony, and the last thing I could see was the bastard‘s inhuman tongue moving toward my eyes, a cackling, choking sound coming from it.
I was helpless and could only wait in agony for my terrible fate. Jack’s black tongue pierced my eyeball and the cackling grew louder and louder, matched only by his heavy breathing. The sound grew painfully loud and the pressure on my eye was almost too much to bear. His breathing became furiously fast and I could hear a deep hum intermittently as I felt him begin to shake with pleasure.
This was no man, he was some sort of evil and he was feeding on my suffering! Suddenly, everything stopped. I could hear Jack moving away from me and suddenly I felt overwhelmingly ecstatic. All my life I have suffered unfairly, and this ‘thing’ has finally taken all my suffering away from me. I could hear the plastic wrapping around me, followed by a thud which could only be from my body dropping into the section I had set aside for Jack’s body. In my last moments of life, I could feel no pain, no grief, no regret. I was finally happy. My suffering was all gone, and what was left of my life was beautiful.
