Killer Chef

One

You know him or at least think you do.  Devon LaRue has been on television longer than some of his fans have been alive.  LaRue opened his first restaurant in 1992, his second three years later. By the end of the decade, world leaders and celebrities alike were vying for the best seats in his now three restaurants.

But Devon LaRue was not what he seemed. It was as a young culinary student in 1982 that LaRue found himself at the scene of a murder. LaRue admitted later he had been high on a few drugs; he just didn’t remember which ones.  The victim was Amie McAvey, a girl that had a history with LaRue. Amie and LaRue had dated and had broken up, dated and broken up, dated and broken up. Each breakup had been precursor by violent breakup arguments.  When he came down, LaRue found himself in a cell, covered with blood. He had gotten sick, the drying puddle of vomit on the floor and on the corner of the long sleeve shirt he had borrowed from his roommate.

LaRue tall lanky frame was curled up in a ball on the cot that smelled of urine and death.

A short, heavy-set man watched him from the corridor. He stood, holding the file that contained every information about LaRue’s twenty year on Earth. He watched the young man’s body jerk slightly as the silent tears he cried added to the filthy mattress.

“Mr. LaRue,” the man began. LaRue didn’t hear him. “Mr. LaRue,” he said again, louder this time.

LaRue stopped crying, embarrassed, he realized he was being watched. He sat up slowly, wiping his eyes. He stared timidly at the older man as he slowly stood. “Come with me, please.”

“Am I being charged, Sir?” LaRue asked, standing very straight, his voice cracking.

“Come with me, please,” the man repeated.

Slowly, the door opened.

LaRue was led to an interrogation room. The grayness of the walls matched the way he felt. He saw the large mirror on the opposite end and guessed they were being watched behind it. The man pointed to a chair. After LaRue sat, the man exhaled and smiled.

“Mr. LaRue, I’m Special Agent Donald J. Thomas, Jr. My friends call me Tommy. He pulled up a chair, put LaRue’s file on the table and sat down.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Sir. . .”

“Call me Tommy.”

“Uh, Tommy . . .”

            Special Agent Thomas nodded, encouragingly.

            “Tommy, I don’t know what’s going on. I blacked out, last night maybe, and woke up in the cell.” He looks at his shirt, afraid to say the next thing on his mind, “please tell me this isn’t blood.”

            “I can’t do that LaRue, I don’t want to start our friendship out on a lie. That is blood on your shirt. That’s why you are here.”

            LaRue put his head on the table, for the second time, his body jerked as he silently cried. Again, Tommy watched him. Letting him cry. The secrets that Tommy knew would cripple the United States government as well as several other governments around the world. This thing at the table across from him would be so easy to kill. He had done it before. No one would ask any questions. Instead, he had a different plan.

            “Mr. LaRue,” he began, “Devon,” trying to put that syrupy smile back in his voice that he hated. LaRue started trying to stop the tears, he sat up, his breath coming in stilted sobs. LaRue wiped his eyes. He wanted to listen. He wanted to know what was going on. He wiped his eyes again and blew his nose on the same sleeve that had the vomit on it.

            Tommy could have handed him his handkerchief or gotten him some tissues. He did neither. He wanted the little shit to feel as vulnerable as possible. “Take your time, Devon,” he said in that voice again while looking as sympathetic as he could manage. The kid’s tears started to slow as he began to get himself under control.

            Tommy opened LaRue’s file. He had acted out this little scene before to almost a dozen kids now. They now lived all over the world. He owned them. He would make the same deal with this punk. Although he could just as easily have killed the little shit and make it look like a heart attack. Wouldn’t be the first time, or even the fiftieth time. He knew exactly how long to rifle through the file. He knew how often to stop and examine a document. Tommy looked sympathetically at LaRue. “Are you ready to talk?”

            LaRue nodded, still not sure he was able to talk.

            Tommy began his well-rehearsed speech. Once LaRue was able to untangle the truth, he would implicitly be tied to Tommy. The only thing Tommy said that first night that was true was that if he agreed to his proposal, LaRue would walk out of prison with no trace of him ever being there.

            LaRue would be back in school the next morning. The difference was he had a well-rehearsed speech to give about Amie’s death. A speech about how they had gotten a late meal at the all night place two blocks from her apartment. A speech that would backed up, if need be, by three witnesses who saw the couple together and a receipt.

            He would have overslept except for the coke his new friend Tommy gave him.

            “What do you want from me?” LaRue had asked.

            “Tonight, nothing. Tomorrow we will sit down at a restaurant of your choice.” Tommy slid the package of coke to him. “For now, just except this so you’ll be able to function in class. I do believe cocaine is your drug of choice, is it not?”

            LaRue thought he was being set up. He then rationed that, as he sat in a police interrogation room covered in the blood of someone he probably killed, getting busted for drugs were the least of his problems. He grabbed the small manilla envelope in his left hand and put it in his left front pocket.

            Tommy stood up. “Mr. LaRue, you’re free to go.”

            As he was escorted out, Devon LaRue wasn’t sure what this person named ‘Tommy’ wanted and didn’t care. He cared simply that he seemed to have gotten away with murder and had gotten some blow for his trouble.