by Blake Pierce
But a different voice came out of the shadows, startling her further.
“Agent Ripley?” it asked.
Mia felt the adrenaline and instinctively reached for her gun and handcuffs. Standing before her was Dr. Richards, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and holding a vending machine coffee. “It is Ripley, isn’t it?” He held up his spare hand with his palm out. “Whoa, you’re scaring me. Everything okay?”
Something told her that things weren’t exactly as they seemed.
“Dr. Richards, what are you doing here?” she asked, loosening her grip on the cuffs. “We’ve been looking for you all day.”
“Looking for me?” he asked. He slid himself into a chair next to the old man in the bed. “Why have you been looking for me? I left work early to see my dad. We had a new body in this morning but I didn’t have time to perform an autopsy. I’m back in the morgue tomorrow if you want to come see me in the morning?”
My dad. Mr. Richards, Mia thought. “This is your dad?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” the elderly man jumped in. “I’m a wreck now but I looked just like him thirty years ago, I swear it,” he laughed.
“Correction. Thirty-one years ago,” Dr. Richards said, pointing to a banner hanging off the right-hand partition. In her haste, Mia had completely overlooked it.
On a silver ribbon with gold letters were the words HAPPY 64th BIRTHDAY TOM.
“You left early to celebrate a birthday,” Mia said.
“Yeah. Dad’s been in intensive care for a few months. Most nights I just come sit up here and hang out.” Dr. Richards nodded toward the television. “What’s with all these reality shows? What happened to good old-fashioned TV?”
“Like Baywatch,” added Richards’s father. “I tell you, if cancer doesn’t kill me then those girls will.”
“Dad, stop saying that.”
Mia watched on in confusion as she thought the whole thing through. She could not come to any conclusion other than the simplest one: their presumption that Dr. Richards was their killer had been incorrect.
While it was by no means definitive proof, Dr. Richards didn’t look like a killer at all. He was welcoming, approachable, passive. His skin was pristine; no visible wounds whatsoever, and she knew Alex Bauer had jammed a key into the killer’s face. This certainly wasn’t a man who was involved in an altercation the previous day. She couldn’t identify a violent bone in his body, despite his profession. He fit the physical description but nothing more.
“Sorry, Agent Ripley, but you haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” Richards continued. “Is everything okay?”
Mia took a moment to consider whether she could tell Richards the truth. She glanced at his father in his bed. No, it wasn’t the time or the occasion.
“Yes, everything’s fine. I was actually downstairs visiting someone, but then I saw your car in the parking lot outside.”
“You… recognized my car?”
“Toyota Camry, right? I saw it the other day at the morgue. Only Camry I’ve seen around here. I guess being an FBI agent makes you remember stuff like that.”
“Sure, I bet it does.”
Mia hoped the lie was convincing enough. “I thought you were perhaps here for professional reasons, and I’d never have interrupted you if I’d have known you were just seeing your dad.” She turned to Richards’s father. “Happy birthday, sir. I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”
Mia waved her goodbyes as she ran out of the Intensive Care Unit into the hallway. She pulled out her phone and dialed Ella’s cell as she continued down the spiral staircase and back outside. “Pick up, damn it.”
No answer.
Two calls followed with the same result.
She dialed Harris instead. He picked up on the second ring.
“Sheriff, we need to get to the halfway house right now. Is there someone there to take over watch duties?”
“A night shift officer just got here. I’m on my way.”
Mia jumped in her car, backed out of the parking lot, and sped off into the night. If Dr. Richards wasn’t the killer, then the actual killer was almost certainly at the halfway house. Mia realized that she might have sent Ella to her death.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The alleyway smelled of gasoline and cigarettes, but its location was ideal for what he had planned. The big finale. The magnum opus.
He made the two-mile journey on foot, as he had done with all of the others. The ones who left their vehicles at home always evaded detection for much longer than those who didn’t. He was one of the smart ones, one of the elite. America hadn’t seen a spree like this in decades, and tomorrow morning, after the dust had settled and the high was dissolving, he’d up the ante once more.
Oh, he had big plans for a follow-up, but no murder would be involved this time. No, they involved the press and the media. The murders might stop or they might carry on, he wasn’t sure yet. But what he was sure of was that within the next few days, the world would know of the bayou copycat murders.
He idly wondered what they’d call him. The Replicator, the Imitator, the Mimic Killer? He had originally thought about assigning his own designation, like Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac, and BTK, but he decided against it. It came across as trying-too-hard, he thought. Let it play out naturally.
He had all the proof he needed in his home. Photographs of every dead body. Trinkets he’d prized off their corpses, mementos he’d stolen from their homes. Locks of their hair, pieces of their fingernails, even a swab of human flesh. He’d have his doubters for sure, but no one could deny that it was him and him alone who pulled off this masterful scheme.
He put one hand in his pocket as he casually leaned against the wall. He fingered the small piece of metal he found. He clasped it between his fingers and pulled it out, then clenched it tightly in his palm. It was the metal key ring he’d stolen off the stupid kid who’d manage to escape his wrath, the lucky little shit who had no idea that he’d signed on for a life of living hell when he fled that house.
He had kept the key ring for the same reasons as he had the others, but every time he looked at it, it didn’t bring up the same feelings as the others. It didn’t excite him. It only reminded him of his failure.
After the incident, he’d spent around twelve hours wallowing in anger, punching panes of glass until his knuckles bled. How could he have been so careless as to let the kid escape? He should have planned better, executed better, made sure the exits were bolted shut, not taken as many risks as he did.
The frustration of his botch had lasted until the morning after the murder attempt, when he’d all but bled every ounce of rage from his body. He had thought of what Jeffrey Dahmer once said: killing was a means to an end. The act of killing was secondary; it was everything that preceded it which he enjoyed. The torment, both physically and mentally, the power struggle, the act of playing God.
This was all still very possible. One of his victims was alive, and while the kid might know what he looked like, he didn’t know his name or his location. That meant he could torment him for the rest of his days from afar, perhaps one day return to finish what he’d started. Hell, if he was intense enough, maybe even push the stupid kid into taking his own life. How sweet it would be to kill without even being present. How many others could say they did that?
He returned the key ring back to his pocket and felt it press against his leg. He brought it with him to remind him of his failure, and this time, to do better. This whole experience had been an intense learning curve, one which he’d flourished in by his own admission. Even the best ones made mistakes. Almost every high-profile serial killer had that one that got away. Dahmer had one, BTK had one. Hell, Bundy had countless. It was expected. One could even argue that it was necessary in order to perfect the craft of killing.
Tonight was his chance for redemption, and to meditate and act on what he’d learned. There would be no errors, no flaws in his plan. He wasn’t going
to fail again, especially not during the most important tribute of all. Tonight, he’d do what few serial killers ever had or ever would—take multiple lives in one night. There was every chance he’d even outdo his idol. Three was the goal and any more would be a bonus. What better way to celebrate Ted’s birthday than bringing his most twisted crime to life once more? If he added a new shine to it, then even better. History would repeat itself, but it would be rebooted for the modern era.
He positioned himself in the shadows where the alleyway ended and main street began. He told himself he would be in there at 1 a.m. and out before half past. Bundy did it all in twenty minutes and he would too. It was now 12:56 a.m.
Leaning against the wall beside him was a large, sturdy piece of oak firewood he’d specially procured. Exactly the same weapon Bundy had used to cave in the skulls of four unaware young girls. Nothing else would do.
Twelve fifty-eight now. He’d been watching the building for nearly an hour and hadn’t seen any of the rear windows light up. They were all sleeping, no doubt.
It was time to move in. Time to put the master plan into motion. He picked up his weapon and moved stealthily toward the Maya Rehabilitation Center for Recovering Women. He’d seen at least six women enter the building over the past hour, and what excited him more than anything was that no one, not even himself, knew how many would be leaving.
***
The center was a detached building flanked by a metal fence which backed onto the alleyway he was hiding in. He’d spent some time at this center himself years ago, back when it was a place for AA meetings. All this time later, they still hadn’t fixed the two broken bars in the fence.
He squeezed himself through, making sure not to clang his weapon against the metal bars. The entryway led him into a patch of overgrown grass, still soaked from the evening’s downpour. In the trees above, nocturnal creatures sang their midnight songs to him. He heard an owl hoot in the distance, and was sure he saw a cluster of bats flutter around in a distant oak tree.
And then silence, broken only by his footsteps as he reached the patio area. There were some old appliances littered around, a broken washing machine, an uprooted toilet, and a round table with an ashtray in the middle. There were four chairs dotted around, and one still had a coat hanging off the back of it.
Next came the door handle. He clicked it, expecting it to fall open as it used to do back in the day. But he felt resistance.
He tugged on it harder. Nothing.
Shit, he thought. There must be another way in somehow, he reassured himself and approached a large window looking into the center’s lounge area. He squinted, unable to identify much. He considered breaking the glass, but didn’t want to draw any attention himself. He could try the front door, but that was always locked.
It’s going to have to be brute force, he thought, pressing his hands against the window to scope their durability.
But as he did, he saw a flicker of light from inside. A beam, like a flashlight.
Fuck. He ducked down out of sight, panicking. Was it one of the women who lived here? Had they seen his face?
His legs began to tremble as he felt that pang of frustration rise through him once again. The same one he felt when the stupid kid got had gotten away. The thought of failing again made him clench his fists to the point he couldn’t feel his fingertips.
What would Bundy have done? he thought to himself. He would have outsmarted them. He would have used the situation to his advantage. He would have thought on his feet.
His eyes locked on the jacket hanging from the chair. An idea came to him.
He reached out, grabbed the jacket, and approached the back door. He made sure his log was out of sight. He knocked on the door.
In his peripheral vision he saw the beam of light return. This time, it was right next to the window. Whoever was inside had seen him, but he didn’t turn to meet their gaze.
Shuffling on the other side of the door. Beyond the frosted glass, he saw a figure appear. Stocky and wide-shouldered, dressed in blue from head to toe.
Security guard, he thought.
A voice boomed out. “Who is it?”
Time to turn on the charm. “My name’s Theodore. My sister lives here. She left her jacket at my place this evening. I’m just returning it.”
A brief silence. “At this ungodly hour? How did you get into the back area?”
He put himself in character. He thought of Bundy again. “Her meds are in the pocket too. She needs them. I knocked on the front door but no one answered.”
Another pause. “I didn’t hear a knock.”
“I only tapped lightly. I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”
“Okay,” the guard said. “Well, just leave the coat on the step and I’ll get it in a second.”
“Thank you,” he said, purposely placing the coat back on the chair. “It’s on the chair when you’re ready.”
“Who does it belong to?” the guard asked.
Names rushed through his head. Could he give a vague description? No, the guard would know he was lying. He needed a name. He took a stab in the dark.
“Abigail.”
He watched the guard’s distorted shape move to and fro behind the frosted glass. “Okay,” he said, finally. “Thanks. Now please leave the premises.”
He nodded, unsure if the guard could even see him, then he stepped away from the door. He went around the side of the building, out of sight of the guard. He checked the wall for windows or security cameras and saw none.
He waited. Biding time was a virtue of the functional psychopath, he told himself. Impulsiveness was a fool’s game.
He squatted down against the wall, listening for any signs of life. He caressed the wooden log in his hands, feeling its rigidity and sturdiness. He gently tapped it against his own knuckles to test its battering power.
The idea to give the weapon a name crossed his mind. Sam, he thought, the same name as the dog which possessed David Berkowitz. That would do.
Suddenly, he heard the door handle click. He grasped his weapon tighter and took in a deep breath. The cool night air seeped into his lungs and sharpened his focus. He heard the door hinges creek, then the guard’s footsteps hit the concrete.
He thought of Alex. How he was somewhere out there now, still alive and breathing. He harnessed the rage, channeled it into a lust for savagery, then rushed out from his hiding place toward the security guard.
He saw terror in the guard’s eyes. The same terror they’d all shown. He swung his log directly at the man’s face, his surprise appearance making the guard freeze in shock. The attack connected, momentarily blinding the guard and sending him off his feet to the floor. He had no time to scream or run or fight back.
He perched himself over the guard, lifted the wooden log high in the air, and brought it crashing down again.
Silence took over.
His hands were shaking. The adrenaline was pumping. He was God again. He dragged the man’s body into the shadows and stuffed him in a small gap between the building and the fence. An act of mercy, he thought. This poor sucker wasn’t part of the plan, but he had to die for the cause.
“That makes one,” he said. “Now, how many more do we have in here?”
And he walked into the center.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Everything was dark inside, one rung below pitch-black. He could make out faint shapes around him and was able to steer forward using them as a guide. His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, and then the layout of the building, hibernating somewhere in his long-term memory bank, came cruising back to him, He recognized the room’s general arrangement, although furniture had been replaced and new areas had been added. But he was able to maneuver himself to the main area, the communal room, without issue.
There was a carpeted floor now, with a small TV and a few two-seater sofas dotted around. A lemony scent clawed at his nose as he recalled the building layout again in his head. There was a small upstairs ar
ea from what he remembered, so he decided to check up there first. There was every chance the living quarters were located there.
He ascended the stairs as unobtrusively as he could, making sure to step on the part of each step closest to the wall. It was always the quietest there—something he’d learned from a prison interview with Ramirez.
He found himself on a small landing walkway littered with boxes. He saw wholesale amounts of canned food, water bottles, rice. Survival essentials. He navigated past them, coming to two doors.
Thud.
His alert heightened. There was someone else here. He looked down and saw he’d kicked one of the smaller boxes by accident. Did he make that sound?
No. There’s someone else in the building. Someone’s awake.
He gently opened the first door, finding a room with a single toilet. He moved to the room opposite. It opened into a much bigger area. More storage and a few pieces of old gym equipment. He strolled around, enjoying the nature of his presence here. He was a trespasser, a predator on the hunt. He’d read that many serial killers committed their murders in a kind of detached haze, and were sometimes unable to recall the finer details of them.
But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He wanted to savor every moment of his crimes. He wanted to live in the moment. Who knew if he’d ever do this again after tonight?
Another thud.
He spun around, his attention drawn to the far wall. There was a mirrored cupboard. He approached it and scrutinized the reflection staring back at him. He had specks of blood on his forehead from when he’d killed the guard. He wiped it with his sleeve.
The cupboard gently shook on its tracks at the top and bottom of the door. But there was no breeze in the room, no airflow from any open windows.
Someone was in there.
He readied his weapon and gripped the door handle. He pulled, but the door didn’t slide as he expected. His touch rattled it again. This must have been what caused the thudding, he thought.
