Marcus Caravahlo (_caravahlo_) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-05-17 21:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | archer, complete, cycle002, marcus, rob |
Who: Robert York, Marcus Caravahlo, any witnesses (this is right in the parking lot of Regency Meadows Apartments, so public space), cops, etc.
When: January 17th, 11:35AM
Where: Regency Meadows Apartments, Crows Landing Police Station
What: Effectively taking Robert York out of the cycle.
Warning: Violent character death, ruined clothing.
The clean-up was going surprisingly well. Too well. Mother knew which strings to pull, and with the sudden loss of the mayor (in some sort of depraved, bisexual, incestuous orgy, at least going from what was being spread about town), Crows Landing needed leadership. Crows Landing needed Christine York. Not so much her son, Robert. He was superfluous. She’d been terribly disappointed about the mess in the apartment, more so due to the fact that he’d needed to be told how to clean it up than the presence of two more dead human beings. Human death had always been a trifling matter for the likes of her. Dutiful as ever, deep in shock, Rob swallowed the reprimands with what dignity he could muster and set about torching one of his own buildings. His mother had assured him that it wouldn’t be looked at too closely, and she’d been right. The charred remnants of the corpses were lost among the debris, and carefully removed alongside (often within) the charred remnants of the furniture by York-hired work crews when the place was gutted. It felt wrong, to dispose of that poor girl without even knowing who she’d been, but Rob was so far beyond wrong these days. He retreated into himself, desperate to avoid thinking about it. No longer stalwart, his was a shaken, broken silence, born of trauma. He physically stood on-site to oversee the cleanup, but he was barely there.
When the truck screeched to a halt nearby, it hardly registered. He thought it odd, that someone would slam on the brakes like that and jump out of a truck with the engine running. It became less odd when someone bellowed, “York!”, and he turned and saw Caravahlo barreling towards him. Marcus was the sort of person who would leave the engine running, so why not? The looming giant, one-time terror of the Crows Landing High School locker room, did not look good. Caravahlo was dressed in a very nice dress shirt, but the expression on his face was distraught. Like he’d been crying. Like he’d been screaming. Rob could empathize with that. He’d probably looked like that the day prior, himself, but he couldn’t imagine that the cause was the same. Marcus hadn’t been dealing with madness and body disposal. He hadn’t had to wash another man’s brain matter out of his hair. Hadn’t strangled an employee against his own will. Hadn’t been faced with the dismembered leg of a faceless girl. So it sounded more like fatigue than sympathy when Rob asked, “What is it? What now?”
Marcus was holding something odd in his hand, and Rob realized dully it was a tire iron. When Caravahlo growled heatedly, “You broke something of mine, you fucker,” Rob’s first thought was to look at the truck. He hadn’t put down anything deliberately that would cause a flat tire, but as a building manager he was used to being blamed for whatever transpired on the property. There didn’t seem to be a flat, but Rob looked back at the enraged Caravahlo, feeling absolutely no urge to argue. “I’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah. You fucking will,” Marcus agreed, and swung the tire iron at Rob’s head.
It was a telegraphed move, and Rob scrambled back, narrowly avoiding it. “What the hell?! I said I’d pay for it, Caravahlo, why in God’s name are you attacking me?”
“You’re a murdering shit,” the bigger man spat, recovering from the missed hit and obviously preparing for a second. “And you killed the wrong person this time, you sick fuck.”
“Oh.” York’s eyes widened, but it was more out of guilt -- surprise that he'd been found out -- than anything else. There was no time to question how Caravahlo knew, but he didn’t doubt the knowledge. It made sense, in a way, that Eden Williams was someone Marcus Caravahlo cared about. She’d been staggeringly beautiful, and apparently possessed of a wild streak. Her sexual aggressiveness would have made her a perfect match. It didn’t explain why she’d targeted him to fuck with, but maybe it was some kind of sick game the two played. Bedding the rest of the town when they weren’t together, and comparing notes about it during their own pillowtalk. Predatory swingers. Marcus would have known Eden was going to assault Rob. He probably would have encouraged it, thinking it was funny. And when Eden had disappeared, he’d been able to put two and two together.
Rob didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. He had killed her. He hadn’t meant to, but he had. Hers was the death that plagued him, causing him night terrors every time he tried to sleep. The rage in Caravahlo’s face was justified, and Rob gave the larger man a pained look in response, hoping that his own suffering was penance enough. Showing that more punishment was hardly warranted. There were tears in his eyes, blurring his vision when he muttered an apology. “Marcus, I’m so sorry, I... I didn’t...”
But the swing was already on its downward arc, and the tire iron never let him finish. The connection created more of a sharp clang than a thud, not at all like the ceramic toilet lid cracking open Gilman’s skull like an egg. Rob might have been biased, however, because the pain felt a lot sharper than a thud. It resonated, the reverb causing a literal ringing in his ears. The worst tinnitus he’d ever suffered. It completely drowned out the faint sound of his glasses hitting the pavement. He cried out, hand came up automatically to ward off another blow. There was no reason for one; he wasn’t exactly fighting. But everything up to that point had been devoid of reason, so he wasn’t surprised when he was hit again, and again. Connecting with his head, his back, forcing him to double over, curl up on the ground. Begging didn’t stop them, screaming didn’t stop them... silence did, but by then it wasn’t even the silence of a broken man.
It couldn’t be argued that Rob York would be missed. He wouldn’t be.
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Marcus was no stranger to the Crows Landing police department. He was not a man who avoided physical altercation, particularly when he was inebriated. Over the years, he’d probably attempted to break up roughly as many fights as he’d started, so it evened out in the wash. The majority of the time, Marcus was the one who made the call to the cops when there’d been a fight. He’d once gone down to the station first to give his statement before heading out to the hospital with a boxer’s fracture and two bruised ribs. His respect of the law could be fickle at times, but he generally tried to uphold it. He was a good citizen... more or less. A fucking nurse, which meant that at times he had something of hero complex. If someone was bleeding, Marcus involved himself.
So when he lumbered through the department entrance that afternoon covered in blood, it actually wasn’t the first time. One of the harried dispatchers coming off of a much-needed coffee break even teased a little, “Marcus Caravahlo, now how much of that blood on you is yours?”
Flags were raised when he answered. “None. I just killed Rob York. Need to fucking report it.”
Then there was a reaction. Marcus was ultimately processed into an interrogation room to make his statement for the record.
What is your full name?
“Marcus Jude Caravahlo.”
Before we go any further, I have to advise you of the Miranda rights. First is that you have the right to remain silent. Number two, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Three - you have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned. And four, if you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning, if you wish one. Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?
“Yeah.”
And with these rights in mind, do you still want to go forward with this line of questioning?
“...Yeah.”
You claim that you murdered Robert York?
“Yeah. Beat him to death with a fucking tire iron.”
When did you do this?
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Where’s the body?
“Bed of my truck, with the murder weapon. Parked right out front. Figured I’d save you guys the fucking trip.”
After verification of the statement, Marcus Caravahlo was arrested for the murder of Theodore Robert York. He initially refused to say why while on the record, and was oddly subdued throughout the booking process. Until they wanted him to change out of the bloody shirt. Then he raised enough hell for the Sheriff to be called in.