Solomon Iron.

Part II - The Death of David Robert.

This is Part II of the limited series Solomon Iron.

Read Part I, here.

Read Part III, here.

Read Part IV, here.

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Time moves slowly as Solomon sits back in the booth and listens to the music of Julian Estrada, the man he means to kill. He’s not quite certain when the music business began to enrol the services of people like him, but he knows he isn’t the first hitman to be on the payroll of the record labels. Nor is he the only one. There are others like him. By his estimate, there are at least five others doing the bidding of the treacherous empire. He’s seen their work appear in the headlines. Although small and discreet, he has noticed their trademarks. After all, it is only natural for one tradesman to appreciate the work of another. 

From his understanding of this business, and by his studied estimation, the first official murder contract issued by the recording industry was for the rhinestone cowboy – Elvis Presley. To all the broken hearted fans and the casual eye, the fat king’s demise appears to be nothing more than the price paid for the man’s gluttony. His love for fried peanut butter, banana and bacon; and even though an assassin doesn’t ask any questions, it doesn’t take much for a professional eye to put the pieces together. Although the main culprit for the man’s death is heart stoppage and exasperated strain on the toilet, Solomon can only assume that something like fatal constipation is the imaginative concoction of rather talented lawyers and publicists. Never mind the conveniently thick smog of drugs coursing through the man capable of shrouding the presence of any malicious drug that most likely sent the king to his demise whilst siting on some Graceland porcelain. 

It all detracts from the reasons why the music industry would want the one and only Elvis dead - profits. A year before his death, the label could barely string together enough songs for a new studio album. The age of the King was passing, and revenue was waning. Just before the cowboy’s death, his last album Moody Blues was released, and it comprised mostly of previously recorded studio and tour songs. The record barely turned the balance sheets. Not a month later, the icon was dead and his misshapen album, his last offering, breaks all the records. Tragedy breeds profit. It was, and still is, the industry’s silver bullet. 

Murdering musicians is a lucrative business for the one doing the killing, and when the one doing the killing enjoys it, then what is there to complain about? That was how it used to be at least. But now, Solomon can barely bring himself to think about what he has been hired to do this night. Julian Estrada’s music fills his ears. A fresh sensation of nausea ripples through his empty stomach. Before the next sunrise, the man would be dead. Bitterness creeps up the back of his neck and he takes a sip from his cup to wash away the taste. The silk texture of the coffee coats his tongue and the respite is sweet. He looks around the café and watches the strangers that surround him go about with their uncomplicated, decent lives, and he reminds himself that another way is possible.   

The music of the doomed continues to play through the earphones, and Solomon finds himself tapping his fingers to the rhythm. He watches the appendage move up and down against the tabletop. For some reason, he can’t be sure of its decency. Enjoying the music of his soon-to-be victim feels unsettling. Is it a symptom of his growing condition? The music is moving and yet to listen to it, and to admire it, feels at odds within him. How could he be the admirer and the destroyer? He knows the song that plays. It’s a tune called ‘Pretty Lady, Ugly Soul’. 

It begins with a soft, jangling guitar. The introductory bars are slow and patient, building on each other, layer by layer. They latch onto the back of a temperamental drum line, and then, without warning, the Peter Pan-like crows of Estrada rapturously make their entry. The guitar grows louder and it echoes with the rattles of a wild skeleton. The music conjures an apocalyptic wasteland of tumbleweeds rolling on the breath of a gathering storm and Estrada is the lone pilgrim crossing the barren valley, yearning for his listeners to join him. Beneath the table, Solomon’s foot joins the tapping finger. 

Listening to the music of his victims is a new development. Much like his conflicting emotions, this too must be a symptom of his blossoming conscience. In many ways, it is his requiem to the unfortunate souls set along his path of murder and violence. A last remembrance of sorts, before he extinguishes their existence. There is something calming about listening to an artist’s creations, there’s something about being the only soul to know their final moments are approaching. The reverence of the act sets his growing instability at ease. It’s by no means enough to redeem him for what he is about to do, but, and this Solomon tells himself quietly, it is at least something. 

The music continues to build in his ears, and as it does, the lyrics transport him to the borderlands of Neverland. Estrada’s howls and whoops succumb to dark poetry. Soft, prophetic words float over the jagged pandemonium of Estrada’s reverberating guitar, and Solomon listens…

The lights are down in the room

The bed is soft and I’m ready for you.

My belly is empty and sore,

You gave me a taste, it’s not enough, I want more.

You’re a beauty, take me to your shrine

I’ll write a thousand lines for you,

But don’t trust my gentle and kind,

The hunger I have for you ain’t benign.

But there’s shadows in the darkest corner

Filled with the eyes of a mourner.

It’s darkness I can’t understand

Why do you have that pistol in your hand?

And now there’s needles in the mattress

You’re a canvas of sadness.

And now the barrel is against my temple

You’re clever for a devil.

The oiliness of the lyrics soothes the pain of underhand love, that type of love that unravels into madness and despair. A reeling guitar solo of fuzzy emotion unleashes the breaking of the storm and Estrada releases one last howling cry to end the song. Solomon does’t pause at all. He skips back to the beginning and lets the track start over. 

He can’t remember when he began listening to the music of his victims. Was it when he killed Amy Jade, the black-haired, tattooed gypsy songstress with a penchant for sticking needles in her arms? She had been easy prey, the black voice within snarls. He tries to push it away, but it remains in the back of his mind as it slowly claws its way out of its. 

What about the forefather of glam rock, David Robert? Did he start listening to the music of his victims before or after he murdered the adored fashionista? The timeline of his career murders no longer provide a coherent course for recollection. There have been too many. Solomon takes another sip of coffee. It is nearly cold when it touches his tongue. David Robert. The name echoes in his memory. That had been a particularly hideous incident. A pang of pleasure and revulsion runs through him as he recollects what happened in the singer’s New York apartment. 

Solomon had waited in ambush for Robert, and stood to witness the singer’s grisly last moments. 

***

He waits inside the closet at the top of the staircase. He’s been lurking in there since the early hours. Access to the apartment had been simple. The security guard stationed in the lobby of the upmarket Manhattan apartment building was already asleep by the time he slipped through the doors. A silent ascent via the elevator delivered him to the floor of David Robert’s penthouse, and a subtle manipulation of lock mechanics granted him access to the singer’s home. 

The smell of clean linen permeates the closet. On one shelf, a stack of bedsheets lay neatly folded, and on another there are towels rolled like parchments in an ancient library. The door stands ajar. The gap is just wide enough for Solomon to have a view of the landing. He watches the staircase, a minimalist construct of glass and metal. Plenty of hard, sharp edges to test the resistance of human engineering. 

Dawn comes. Solomon watches the morning light seep through the tall windows of the apartment. The warm glow slowly creeps up the stairs, adding a touch of life to the cold glass balustrades. The pool of light spreads over the landing and stops short of the closet door, leaving Solomon’s hiding place untouched. 

From down the passage, an alarm goes off and the muffled movement of life filters through the silence. A bolt of anticipation runs through Solomon. At the base of his neck, the excitement of what is to come begins to build, but the aspect of pleasure is not nearly as potent as it used to be. Something’s not right. 

The sound of water pouring from an open faucet reaches his ears. In the pit of his stomach, Solomon feels the gargling rise of nerves. It isn’t anxiety. Killing doesn’t frighten him. For him, it’s like lighting a cigarette - one doesn’t need to do it, they shouldn’t do it, but they do it because they have a desire to do so. They want to do it. They enjoy it. Yet, there is something inside him that makes him feel uneasy. A repulsion.

He hears footsteps falls against soft carpet. His predatory appetite sharpens and time narrows. Besides himself, Robert is the only other person in the apartment. He listens to his quarry’s approach. The footfalls grow louder and the anticipation mounts. He can already feel the catharsis of killing take affect. A slight tingling fills the ends of his fingers. A similar sensation assembles behind his knees and marches up the back of his thighs, finally nestling between his legs. The saliva in his mouth loosens and dilutes into a metallic liquid. 

A cough comes from the passage. It’s soft, and pops with a wet clap. Robert is sick. A chest infection, Solomon thinks. The cough comes again, and the footsteps pause. All the elements of surmounting pleasure are present. The satisfaction of what he is about to do is palpable, but he knows it’s wrong. For the first time, he knows what he is about to do is wrong. It will feel good. It will please him. He will enjoy it. And he will despise himself for it.

Robert clears his throat again and the froggy rumble of phlegm is closer than before. A shadow comes into view through the gap. Solomon tenses. Time narrows further. The trickle of morning sunlight pales and the moat of dust that drifts through the illuminated air pauses. The part of Solomon which thrives on the kill grows tense, and waits for the right moment. 

The shadow stretches across the floor. For a sliver of time Solomon observes the man known as David Robert. He looks different without make up. Dressed in his morning robe, the man looks nothing like the progenitor of glam rock. Tucked away in his home, ill and freshly awake, Robert looks like a frail man whose moon has waned. The only extraordinary thing about him is the thick crown of red hair that stands in all directions. The urge is too strong to hold back. 

Solomon waylays his mark. He moves through the closet door with force and speed, and before Robert is even aware of his presence, Solomon has both hands on the singer’s shoulders. There is a momentary pause before the death knoll is rung. Solomon feels the muscles in Robert’s shoulders tense beneath his palms. All it takes is one strong push. 

What follows is a series of discordant thuds and cracks. Bone against metal. Flesh against glass. Solomon stands at the head of the staircase. Below him, the stairs descend a dozen steps before veering left at a sharp right angle. His heart rolls behind his ribcage like a tidal wave breaking against the shoreline. A feathery lightness pervades his head. He waits and listens. There is nothing. No movement. No signs of life. No David Robert. Already, Solomon can feel the cold presence of death occupy the apartment. 

At the bottom of the staircase, out of sight, lies the lifeless body of David Robert. The thought of it brings little appeal. He cannot enjoy the image, because he can’t unwrap what he is feeling. It darts through his mind like a rabid bat. Fluttering this way and that, detracting from what he should be enjoying.

As he descends the stairs, the dawn seems different. The morning resumes its natural course but what sunlight touch his body are cold and void. The dawn does not accept him. It is only a witness to what he has done, and it carries the shame he is incapable of contemplating. 

Where the stairs veer to the left, he finds a web of cracks  and a crimson stamp of blood on the glass balustrade. Beams of sunlight turn the fresh smear bright orange. Solomon catches a glimpse of what looks like fiery dandelions hanging from the shattered glass, but they are nothing more than strands of red hair and slivers of scalp. The trail of blood continues along the balustrade, marking the trajectory of Robert’s head as he tumbled down the staircase. There are ribbons of skin and pieces of tissue clinging to the sharp edges of the stairs. The abstract line of carnage fascinates him. The stairs proved more industrious than he could have hoped. The thought disgusts him. 

At the bottom of the staircase lies a collapsed form of jumbled features. Solomon’s stomach lurches and he can’t be sure if the reaction is borne from excitement or repulsion. Limbs protrude at impossible angles and a dark halo encircles the contorted body. Solomon is careful not to step in the crimson pool. He circumnavigates the bizarre creature on the floor. Abyssal bruises pollute what pale skin is visible. Dark, wet stains slowly seep through the bathrobe. Solomon can smell blood and urine. Solomon can see where the head crashed into the glass balustrade. A crater, roughly the size of a Christmas bauble, lays waste to the forehead. A shattered face is turned upward. A pair of bright eyes - one green, the other brown - stare from a mask of gore - each frosted with confusion and fear. They shudder from side to side, peering into the netherworld, searching for answers. Looking for salvation. The first breath of air that escapes Robert’s crooked windpipe is flooded with blood. A splutter of red foam oozes out of the corner of his mouth. The next breath is clean and he gasps for air. There is a slow hiss, like a gas leak. He gasps again. This time the wheeze is louder. Solomon watches the realisation of doom dawn across the singer’s heterochromia eyes. Robert truly finds Solomon’s gaze for the first time. Tears escape down his cheeks. The laboured breaths are long and agonising. The small bit of pleasure Robert’s death brings fades before the man’s desperation. The thrill dissipates and what emerges in its place is something foreign. Pity. Robert’s breathing shortens. The movement in his eyes slow. What remaining light falters, and then disappears. Annihilation. 

There is no lasting satisfaction as Solomon looms over the lifeless singer. The exuberance is fleeting. The physical surge of killing abandons him. What remains is heavy and thick. It floats on the surface of his stomach like a sunken raft. Nausea rears its ugly head. Guilt. He looks down at the twisted figure of broken bones, tortured skin and leaking grey matter, and the urge to wretch is too much. Solomon retreats and rushes…

***

… for the restroom. He ignores the stares from the other people in the café. Solomon locks the door behind him, and kneels over the toilet and retches. A thick slug of coffee is ejected from his body. There is a second heave and bile, acidic and sour, follows. He hasn’t eaten all day, and the last heave is dry and course. Solomon spits out what awful remains float in his mouth and picks up his trailing headphones.

The toilet roars into action as Solomon pulls the handle. The stomach soup is sucked into oblivion and flushed away by a whirlpool of clean water. At the basin, Solomon rinses the tears from his face and washes the taste of illness from his mouth. In the mirror, two inflamed eyes stare back at him. Dark rings, signatures of fatigue, encompass them. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. He wipes the loose strands of hair from his forehead and grabs a paper towel to dry his face. Leaning on the the basin with both hands, Solomon gathers himself. The nausea has passed but he can still feel the heat of its scourge on the back of his throat. The vision of David Robert lingers in his mind. He remembers. Shortly after that murder, he remembers listening to the man’s music. The sudden shock of guilt compelled him to do so. 

For the first time, the victim departed from the crime scene with him. Robert David was the first one. Only through the music could he undo the terrible sense of guilt. Song after song, album by album, the broken body, disjointed and bloody, at the foot of the staircase faded. The colour and shade of the grotesque scene blurred. The cold eyes which gazed from beneath the bloody crown of a shattered forehead ceased to haunt him. Instead, Solomon came to know the lyrics - the poetry - and through that, the man. In the most bizarre way, Solomon formed a relationship with Robert. And now, he was doing the same with Julian Estrada. Once more, Solomon examines his appearance in the mirror. The man that stares back at him is a stranger.

On the other side of the restroom door, Solomon is met by those who remain in the café, and he realises the door is wafer thin. A poor barrier to the chorus of retching that has soiled the integrity of the place. Solomon steps away from the restroom and takes measured steps back to his booth. He falls onto the cushioned seat and takes a deep breath. A cold sweat has gathered in his lower back and he can feel it press against his skin as leans against the backrest. For the first time, he realises all the tables and chairs surrounding his booth are vacant. They form a moat of abandoned furniture, like a line of quarantine keeping the sick from the well. A barrier keeping the evil from the innocent. The cup of coffee is beyond salvation. It’s cold to the touch but Solomon pours the dregs of the thick sludge into his mouth and lathers his tongue with the grainy solution. The sour taste of stomach fluids loosens its hold and disappears with a difficult swallow. The café feels smaller now too. The welcoming glow of the lightbulbs have turned hideous, and again, Solomon notices the little swarms of insects hovering in the warm air like translucent, living clouds. He gestures to the waiter and asks for the cheque. 

The waiter springs into action and brings the bill, already printed and neatly placed in a leather folder. Solomon settles the bill with cash and leaves the change upon the table before leaving the café. 

Outside, the air is refreshing and its chill instills some presence of mind. He turns and walks down the sidewalk. A steady stream of traffic ambles by and the street is lined with a row of cars on either side. He catches a glimpse of himself in the black window of a car as he passes. A pale face, lined with stubble and shaggy hair, floats in the glass like some dishevelled apparition. He barely recognises the dead eyes looking back at him through the darkness. Street lamps illuminate the way through the night. Further up the street, Solomon can hear a group of people exit a bar. They remain unseen, but their laughter carries through the night like the nocturnal choir of jackals. Solomon consults his wristwatch. It is nearly time to go to work. He makes his way down the street towards Julian Estrada’s home, and with each step, he can feel a shadow gather over his shoulder.