Scowling, he stared at the flickering screen. There was no TV in the communal room downstairs – a tenant disappeared with the last one – so Joseph White had bought a portable, second-hand one, hiding it at the back of his closet in his bedroom. He’d often enjoyed watching Late Night Live after a long shift at the Phone Shack, guzzling down a four-pack of Millers and a bag of Doritos, but what he saw now did not please him at all.
His own face stared back at him – his mugshot paraded on the evening news bulletins, as the excited newsreader gave out his name, details of his previous arrests, his family history. Briefly photos of his victims – Jones, Stevens, Baines, Varga – filled the screen, before once more being replaced with his own chubby, goateed face. The fact that he had shaved his beard off, that he had been living and working under false names for months, gave him little satisfaction now. The more people – colleagues, fellow tenants – came to look at the photo, the more they would notice the features that he couldn’t change – his piercing green eyes, the distinctive mole on his right cheek, and the thin scar on his neck, the legacy of a childhood accident. They would realize, they would know, and then they would contact the authorities. The generous reward being offered by the CPD for information leading to his arrest would ensure that.
Cursing, he switched off the TV and yanked open his closet. Pulling out a battered khaki duffelbag, he started stuffing clothes into it haphazardly. Satisfied, he threw a couple of cereal bars inside, a half-drunk bottle of vodka, a map of the city and, having removed it from his rucksack, the cleaver. He had destroyed everything else he’d taken to Jan’s flat and he was tempted to ditch the weapon too, given the potential DNA residue. But he didn’t fancy marching into a store and buying a new one, facing unwanted questions, so he’d wiped it clean and kept it. He had a feeling he would be needing it again soon.
Crossing the room, he teased up a loose floorboard. In the cavity below was a roll of ten-dollar bills. It wasn’t much – a few hundred bucks that he had squirrelled away for an emergency – but it would do for the time being. Shoving it roughly into his jacket pocket, he left the room and hurried down the stairs and out the front door, leaving his temporary home for the last time without farewells or fanfare.
As soon as he stepped out into the clean, crisp air, he heard them. Sirens, distant but getting louder. Probably some traffic fatality, he thought to himself, but he didn’t dawdle, hurrying from the house and away down the street. Remembering his Cubs cap, he removed it from his jacket pocket and slid it on to his head, pulling the peak down. Right now, he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.
The sirens were getting louder. White picked up his pace – he couldn’t break into a run, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the house as he could. He was right to be concerned because, as he reached the intersection, four police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, skidded around the corner, racing past him and away down the street. The sight made him stumble to a halt, instinctively following their progress. Thirty seconds later, they pulled up outside his house. Immediately a posse of officers jumped out, removing their guns from their holsters, and hurried towards it.
Joseph White didn’t linger to watch the show. A couple of the other tenants were at home and might have seen him leave. It was time to be elsewhere – and fast. Breaking into a trot he hurried away down South Ashland Avenue. His heart was thumping – the sweat crawling down his back, as his eyes examined the street for signs of danger. He knew he’d just had a very lucky escape.