Stroud,
I have two pieces of information for you. Try not to let your emotions cloud your analysis of either. The first is the reconstructed version of events the police believe. I visited a colleague in forensics for that info, but at this point, I’m near expending my remaining favor capital around this place. More on that later. Though the detail may seem gory to you, this is pretty tame compared to some of the cases forensics writes up. It is general enough that I still think it can mesh with your story, but do tell me if any of it jogs your memory. The second thing is a voicemail from the machine at your house. I went by to check on everything. I took the liberty of copying down the messages for you. I’m sure you won’t mind. Don’t worry, I didn’t break anything on the way in, I remembered where you left the hide-a-key. Dye your hair or something. The police have been instructed to look for a man matching your description.
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“At approx. 10 am, suspect entered victim’s apartment. Deadbolt lock destroyed by knocking key cylinder out of housing and prying out bolt apparatus. Once inside, suspect evidently moved by stealth to surprise victim in living room, grappling victim from behind and choking victim around the neck. Suspect then dragged subdued victim into kitchen, and proceeded to butcher torso and appendages. Face was left unrecognizable, except for eyes, which were purposefully closed. Blood was found on multiple knives from victim’s kitchen¸ and was tracked throughout the house by suspect, who apparently explored the rest of the apartment before phoning 911 at 10:43. Suspect departed through the front door immediately after calling.”
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9:35 am “Hey Steve, this is Mark… no other way to say it brother, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a whole host of things, and last night I was unable to express that. From one man to another, I beg you to meet with me sometime this weekend and accept another apology in person. If you can begin to forgive me, call me back. Goodbye Steve.
Keep your head down,
Mendoza
PS.I need to know more about your business dealings with Mark.
PPS. We may be in more similar situations than you realize. I may be asking you to do a favor for me quite soon. Stay in touch.
Carlos,
Reliving that morning is starting to fray my nerves. About the official reconstruction, it seems unlikely. I would have noticed blood on the carpet in the living room. To my knowledge there was none when I entered. Sure there was plenty around his body in the bedroom and it is possible that I may have tracked it into the kitchen but my instincts tell me that I didn’t.
I remember a sense of propriety that morning, as if trampling in his blood would be disrespectful. As for the door, I know it was open but I didn’t give its condition that much thought given the groggy state I was in. Perhaps the bolt was removed but that too seems unlikely, I would think that detail would have been noticeable.
Was the real murderer watching me the whole time I was there? That thought gives me the chills and so did reading about the message on my answering machine. The night before I hadn’t made it back to my place so I had no way of hearing it. I ended up sleeping at a motel. They should have my information. Would that make a difference in the case? What was the pronounced time of death?
I want to give you notice regarding Elizabeth. She is not as unassuming as she may seem. When Mark lost all of my money she went to confront him and shortly after we separated. It was her idea. I have suppressed the notion that they became involved but suspect they did….that last sentence is the most exposed version of me you will ever get. It pains me to even write my suspicions of an affair between my ex best friend and ex wife, who was supposed to be my best friend.
I have told you more than I care to already. If you are in a similar situation I should know details on that before I indulge you regarding the specifics of our business venture.
Hope all is well. I do want to help you out, but I have to hedge my bets.
Good luck,
Stroud
Stroud,
You aren’t in a position to hedge. Let me be clear—I’m through with you lying to me. When I asked you about your memory of the scene, I was testing your honesty. Please note:
- I have photographs of the crime scene. There isn’t a spot of blood there that escape the notice our friends at forensics. They didn’t miss your prints either.
- You’re refusing to acknowledge the obvious—the victim’s face was mutilated beyond recognition. I would’ve thought you’d realize the ways in which this could help your case.
- The murderer was nowhere near you. The time of death was unofficially 3am.
I know your innocence with certainty. The previous facts prove it. However, you understand why it’s expedient for the authorities to take you in as the obvious suspect. It would only take a couple payments to the owner of a seedy motel (The Super 8 on Vine, I’ve done my research) to erase the record of your stay and other alibis. There’s more to this murder than you or I realize, and the motive for covering it up is still unclear, but I have no doubt that if they find you, you’ll be gone without a trace. I hope you also understand why it’s important to be completely upfront with me. I’m still acting as your friend. As I’ve mentioned before, we have a common interest. I still need your help. Withholding it has never been one of your options.
Stroud, what I’m asking you to do is simple. I need you to kill Mark Campbell. This is more important that clearing your name or mine. So you know the position I’m in, I’m in hiding as well. 1800 Polk. Ave. I’m under the same death sentence as you. Make your anonymous call to the authorities. Tell them where I am. It’s a death sentence for me to be found the same way it is for you. This is your prerogative, but I don’t believe you’ll exercise it. You know that only together can we fight our way out of this labyrinth.
I don’t know exactly what your game is, Stroud, but soon you’ll know mine. While it may seem incredible after this message, know that I look forward to the day I explain fully my intentions. Also, whatever you do, don’t attempt to approach Elizabeth. She’s searching for you. Meticulously. Unlike the authorities, I worry that she knows where to find you.
Be well Stephen,
Mendoza
Carlos,
Don’t be coy and don’t take me for a rash being. You will agree that this correspondence is unique. I liken it to a game of chess where we have to choose which piece to move, how many spaces, in what direction, and most importantly when to move it. Don’t destroy all of your pawns and leave your queen exposed, not even to me. I may not be in a position to hedge, but I can strategize can’t I?
You have found my honesty to be elusive and I ask you to forgive me for that. I am sure you understand that I can’t show you all of my cards. Now that I know you rely on me just as much I as I do on you, I can afford to expose some more facts.
The previous description of my visit to Campbell’s apartment is accurate until I saw the body. When I arrived the victim was lifeless. His face was shredded just like the police report described it, and his torso was so mangled that there was nothing I could do. The real reason I closed his eyes was because I couldn’t stand the vacant stare from a half dead mutilated corpse. That sight still haunts me.
I knew it wasn’t Campbell almost immediately. The body type and hair color and eyes were all spot on but Mark had a small tattoo with his grandmothers initials above his rib cage just beneath his armpit. To my knowledge only a few people knew about it. I never really understood the symbolism myself so we didn’t touch on the subject often.
At any rate, the poor soul lying in his apartment on the verge of death was not Mark Campbell. After alerting 911, I hung around the apartment with the intention of following the procedures of a law abiding citizen but then the questions started swirling in my head. What were you doing in Mark Campbell’s apartment? Why are your prints on this dead man’s body, presumably Mark Campbell? Then I wondered who had done this awful crime and thought it was a setup of some nature, or at the very least a cover up so Mark could get away. But from what was he escaping? So I decided to run and search for more answers.
I don’t believe in coincidence. I feel like we are both connected to this murder and I suspect you are right, there is a lot more going on here than we realize…
Now tell me what you know and we can talk about killing Campbell. Make sure to have a set of eyes on Elizabeth at all times. She is a clever woman.
Best,
Stroud
Stroud,
In uncomfortable situations, people invariably discuss the weather. How is it where you are? The weather in Santorini has no equal. When you’re in Santorini, you’re drinking champagne air, strolling between white-walled villas, and hearing the sparkling Aegean lap against the jetties. Mark Campbell vacationed there once. Afterwards he spoke fondly of the weather in Santorini. I liked to hear him talk about it. It made me wonder what he did in Santorini that made the weather the only part of the trip he could mention.
“When did he tell you these things?” You wonder, “Campbell only knew you as a passing acquaintance.” You do recall that I was Elizabeth’s lawyer as well as yours after the two of you were married. Let me further jeopardize your good opinion of me by telling you now she independently retained my services two years after your wedding. Elizabeth asked me to monitor Mark. I had my investigator wire his phones, watch his house, the whole routine. I had a fat dossier on Mark’s social engagements to give her and she was paying me well, probably from an account she hid from you. She never admitted her reason for this, but I surmised it from the content of some of Mark’s calls. He spoke to many women, but had a relationship with one in particular that aroused your wife’s jealousy. He talked about bringing her to Santorini, a promise he’d previously made to Elizabeth. Little of this will surprise you.
Don’t liken our correspondence to chess. I hate the game. It reminds me of afternoons in Central Park with my grandfather. He would take me with him on afternoons to watch old immigrants sweat through their linen shirts. I remember each distinctive reek, from gefilte fish to fried plantain, a United Nations of burping as they scratched their bellies contemplatively. That miserable game inflected every one of my grandfather’s metaphors until his death, rest his soul.
Over the past few days, I’ve thought about Mark’s memories of Santorini so much that I’ve booked a flight there myself. You should come too. I honeymooned there once. Not sure if I told you about that one; it was quick, bitter, and full of silent mornings breakfasting on instant grits after the taste of Santorini’s lamb and hummus faded. Come to Santorini, young Stroud. I’ll make it worth your while. Our time for redemption flows away like cold-pressed olive oil.
Einai kala,
Mendoza
Carlos,
Santorini? I will think about that prospect and get back to you. What intrigues me is the fact that I never heard a single thing about Mark traveling half way around the world to what people regard as the lost island of Atlantis…Santorini. I have only seen pictures of the island.
As for Elizabeth hiring you for your services. The only way that would offend me is if you were a male escort. My love of Elizabeth was only surpassed by my love of pragmatism in the business arena, which you will recall had a large part in our separation and subsequent divorce. At least from my perspective, it sounds like Elizabeth had some other shady prerogatives. And that fact does hurt me, hell I have written her name three times in the last five sentences. But that you were her investigative pawn (chess pun intended) does not hurt my opinion of you in the slightest.
Do you have any leads as to who might have been slain in Campbell’s apartment that morning? I am spending a great deal of energy on the defensive, making sure I do not find myself in police custody, or worse, in Mark’s crosshairs.
I’m in a bit of hurry, but please tell me what you know and I will be working on a succinct way to bring you up to speed about how we came to be in this situation, or at least how I did.
I’ll be on the move, no promises about Santorini but our meeting is imminent.
Cheers,
Stroud
Stroud,
Our meeting isn’t meant to be. Unfortunately for you, I’ve decided to kill myself. Santorini is as good a place to depart from as any. By the time you read this, I’ll be a salt-bloated corpse bobbing with the waves. I don’t feel remotely sorry for myself, so don’t view this as a cry for help. For my side of the story, let me be brief:
I’ve run a legal practice on the fringe of legality. I’ve had a string of failed marriages that’ve halved my fortune roughly every five years. I leave behind countless enemies, no friends, and an estate so tangled in debt it’ll take years to probate. Again, I’m not wallowing in self-pity, merely illustrating some rational concerns that make my current choice to cut ties attractive. If my earlier letters were hopeful about our chances of beating this conspiracy, let me recognize them for delusions. I’m out, Stroud. You’ve got this one on your own.
The main reason I’m taking my death into my own hands is to avoid the slow one my enemies have planned for me. I killed the man in Mark’s apartment. There were multiple reasons I had to do it. The first reason was a million dollar payment Mark made to one of my creditors. Mark only asked that I help fake his death as a favor in return. The second reason was personal. The victim was client. He knew more about me than I cared for anyone to know.
I feel strangely now as I recall how I carved his face, simply because I felt strangely then. He was done screaming by then; he probably in shock, but I kept shushing him. I was reassuring myself really, focusing very hard on my breathing, trying to do everything perfectly and not hurry. That’s how I feel now as I make preparations to row out on the little boat I have until I’m tired and far from the shore. Then, I’ll secure a cinderblock to my feet and lean over the edge. In that position, the boat will tip when I shoot myself in the head and I’ll sink without feeling.
You weren’t supposed to go to Mark’s apartment. Now you’ve stumbled into a web of deception even more complicated and evil than you can imagine. Before I go, I have one clue to leave you with. On second thought, figure it out yourself…
Au Revoir,
Mendoza
Elliot J Nolan 