Field Report — Back to School — Submitted by D. Tremont
The address for Purple Rain Prints is a vacant lot.
The building got torched in 2010.
Seems the owner was sharing albums of underage kids back in the day.
Community vigilantes wanted to cleanse the building of impurities.
They did a thorough job of it.
Martin Marks spent a little time behind bars for his pictorial predilections.
Now he’s registered and working for a salvage business in Denver.
At first he doesn’t want to talk.
But when I tell him I’m working on an article for “The Hunt” in praise of Mr. Lier, he agrees to meet.
His company is cleaning out a row house a few doors down from a park.
Kids are chasing on the brown grass nearby.
“I produced all kinds of kinky shit, that was my thing,” Marty tells me on a smoke break as he stares intently at the playing children, “but mess with kids and people lose it. Hypocritical fucks. No person’s a saint.”
He stubs out his cigarette and squints at me.
“You sure you're a player? Time was, you'd be just the type of boy they’d be all hot to catch.”
I tell him Mr. Lier is an inspiration.
I refer to Lier by the name Serge uncovered.
I ask what he remembers of the man.
Marty lights another cigarette.
“He was a young guy,” he tells me, “— not hurting for cash — had tie-ups on the brain. He wanted to start a revolution. I suppose he did.”
Does he know where Mr. Lier is today?
“I’m out of that world,” he says. “But his family had business in Denver. Don’t remember what.”
Does he have an old address for him — or any paperwork or printed material to help with the article?
“You sure you aren’t a scared rabbit?” Marty asks with a smirk. “A hunted animal sometimes runs toward its chaser — to make a final challenge and end it all.”
I reassure him I only want to praise the man and his vision.
He smokes and stares at the park children.
He thinks. Decides.
“Fuck it,” he says finally. “I got nothing left to lose.”
He gives me an address.
Tells me not to get caught.
Pulls on his gloves.
And returns to work.
Serge meets me outside the school.
He’s brought Ki along, too.
Ki’s a mutual college friend who’s volunteered to help.
Ki seems wide-eyed about the whole thing, not sure what he’s getting himself into.
Maybe that describes us all.
Marty Marks said he stashed files and print work that survived the print shop fire in the basement of McArthur Elementary school. (Irony duly noted, Marty.)
The school was vacated in 2009 over worries of toxicity levels created by an adjacent paint plant dumping waste in the ground since 1963.
A lawsuit is still pending, but Denver Schools all but abandoned the site…
…making it free to be investigated by three curious college kids.
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McArthur El is frozen in time.
Chairs and desks are still set-up in the classrooms.
Books and personal items poke out from open lockers and broken cubbies.
Papers scatter the halls.
Standing water floods most of the lower floors.
The walls peel paint like they’re desperately trying to shed to a second skin.
There is no basement.
Just a series of underground rooms servicing designated parts of the building.
We agree to split up and see what we can find.
We have mag lights to illuminate our way.
Ki and Serge head to the west side of the building.
I’m to the east.
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I stare at the banner on the gymnasium wall.
“Enjoy the game.”
Another bit of added irony.
Because that’s what we need right now.
More of the old ironic.
If you skirt the edge of the gym, there’s very little ankle-high wading to do.
In the side changing room, there's a spiral staircase leading underground.
It’s like going deep into the belly of a submarine.
Steel understructure.
Water beading down the walls.
Drenched insulation dripping fiberglass from the ceiling like heavy moss.
This basement section was used for athletic storage.
There is an equipment cage.
Wired baskets full of half-deflated dodge balls.
Jump ropes and p.e. equipment strewn about.
At the far end of the room, there is a sheet of OSB plywood leaning against the wall — a red message spray-painted on it: “Keep Out.”
Nice security system, Marty.
I carefully move the OSB aside, revealing an open doorway.
Plastic dolls are tied from the ceiling joists, strung up by their arms and feet, creating a staggered curtain effect.
The iconic Prince Love Symbol #2 is permanent-markered on a few of the naked dolls.
Nice touch.
I push through the dolls and enter the dark the room.
More water drips from the ceiling above.
The whole roof looks like it could cave-in any second.
My flashlight trains on the items in the room.
There are file cabinets and boxes staged on pallets.
The paperwork has miraculously survived the water-slogged room.
I pop the top on a few boxes and am immediately greeted with pictures I can’t unsee.
Not what I’m looking for.
I fold the lids back tight.
I open a drawer or two in a cabinet.
Files, papers — some proofs from jobs done.
Marty’s right.
He worked on some kinky shit.
I dig for the name Lier used in the late 2000s.
I find a file.
Inside are sketches for “The Kidnapper’s Bible.”
I take a snapshot with my phone.
I pocket it again to have a hand free.
I dig back into the paper work.
There is a page of instructions on printing the manual and its dissemination.
There is a signature with the name that Lier used.
An invoice…an address.
I reach for my phone, and that’s when I hear the rush of water behind me.
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I train the flashlight toward the doorway.
The curtain of dolls is swaying.
Someone just came through.
I spin at the next sound, but I’m too late.
An arm tightens around my neck and squeezes tight, blocking off air.
My flashlight drops into the standing water.
I struggle to get free, but the hold is too strong, the pressure too great.
I pass out.
The rest comes in flashes.
I am dragged to the equipment cage.
A rag is stuffed in my mouth.
Duct tape “skriiiitches” from the roll and seals in the rag.
My hands stretch to their sides.
Rope lashes me to the fence.
My feet cross and are tied in place.
I am crucified to the chain link fence.
I begin to lift from consciousness.
I peer at the end of the room.
The tall, imposing figure who imperiled me now destroys the small, secret room with a simple push on the convex ceiling.
Water, tile, insulation, sewage, and crumbling concrete rain down and create a deluge, engulfing the boxes, papers and cabinets.
The proof is washed away.
The figure stands in front of me.
Daylight streams down from the circular staircase, outlining his form.
I see a vampiric shape — bald, scabbed head — gleaming ratlike eyes.
My opponent — Amond Swofford.
He breathes heavily in the near-dark.
He begins to rub himself, watching as I struggle against my bonds, tied to the fence.
His breathing grows heavier.
Then there is a sound from upstairs.
Ki and Serge calling my name.
I begin to cry out from behind my rag and tape gag.
In a moment, Swofford is away, escaping with surprising fleetness up the spiral stairs.
In another minute, Ki and Serge follow my cries and discover me.
They release me from the fence.
We hurry from the school.
But not all is lost.
I remembered one bit of information from my brief look in Lier’s file…
…and I suddenly know the significance of the library image on the King of Hearts card.