by David Beers
“Oh, God,” he said. “Oh, God what did I do?”
He cried, not moving, for a long time. Again.
Again.
Again.
He did the thing he hated most, listening to a creature that didn’t even exist. God, his family, none of it had mattered to him, and now he saw the results of it all. A dead man.
When he finally stood up, his cheeks were streaked with salt stains, his eyes large and puffy. He looked to the window in front of him and, though he didn’t think it possible, his heart broke again.
Harry stood at the window.
“Why are you here?” John said, his voice cracking, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He simply couldn’t believe it. He thought it was over—always, always, always it ended when John did the act. Harry went into hibernation, or somewhere—John didn’t care as long as his constant pressure let up. As long as he felt a little freedom from the constant hunger.
“We have a problem,” Harry said, not turning away from the window, a fat finger moving the curtain slightly out of the way.
And then John stood at the window beside Harry, seeing the same thing.
“No,” he said out loud. “No. No. No.”
“That’s a big problem,” Harry said.
John looked out the window and saw Alicia at his car, half bent over, her hands on the driver side window and peering in.
30
A Portrait of a Young Man
Years Earlier
Lori didn’t know what to say. She stared, wide-eyed with tears rolling down her face, out Dr. Vondi’s window.
“It’s not your fault,” he said for the third time. He said the phrase every few minutes, but she did nothing but stare out the window.
“It is,” she said, finally. “It’s my fault.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“He’s dead.”
“Who?” Dr. Vondi said.
“Harry.”
Silence stormed into the room, Lori feeling the same oppression that she had felt since hearing the news.
“What happened?”
“He drowned,” Lori said. What was she to tell this man? That what she feared happened had happened? Nothing that could be proved, but did that matter?
“Oh my God. How is John?”
She looked to him. “He seems upset.”
“Oh no, Lori. You’re not going there, are you? You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking away.
“Tell me what happened, Lori.”
“The official story is that Harry got swept out by the riptide.”
“Were his parents not there with them?” Dr. Vondi said.
“No, they were. They went inside to make a drink when it happened.” Her voice cracked at the last word, tears filling her eyes.
“What do you mean, official story?”
“What everyone believes. What Harry’s parents believe. What Scott believes.”
“But not you,” he said.
“But not me.”
“I’d like to start seeing John, Lori. I think, especially after this, it would be good for him to talk to someone. I also think that I can take away some of this fear you’re feeling. I won’t be able to tell you what we speak about, obviously, but I can tell you whether or not he’s a psychopath.”
Lori looked to him. “You want to talk to John?”
“Yes. Truth be told, I’m worried, Lori. I’m worried that this monster you’re creating in your head is going to negatively affect him. He may just be a teenager, but they’re perceptive, extremely so, and I imagine he can tell the difference in how you’re treating him. It’s not healthy for him, Lori.”
Lori smiled a sad smile. “Sure you can see him, Doctor. When would you like me to set up an appointment?”
31
Present Day
“You’ve gotta do it,” Harry said.
John looked up from his computer screen to Harry sitting at the table in John’s office. He had been staring at his computer though not doing anything with it. How many weeks had it been since he actually did any work, he wondered?
“You have to call her, man. You have absolutely no idea what she’s doing or thinking right now, and that’s very, very dangerous.”
John knew Harry was right. He hadn’t slept or done anything besides worry about Alicia since last night. He waited until Alicia got in her car and then, finally, went back down to his. He drove off, seeing where she sat a hundred feet down. He tried to clean up the house, to retrace his steps and make sure everything was clean, just as he did at the lake—but he couldn’t focus like he needed to. Things were too hazy, too …
Fucked up.
John’s hand turned into a fist as he stared at Harry.
“What am I going to say?”
“You need to figure out what the fuck she saw, what she’s thinking. I mean, sooner or later, old Larry from Marketing is going to hit the news. Now, I don’t know if they’re going to publish Larry’s address, but if they do … what if she makes some connections? Alicia isn’t dumb, John.”
“I know,” he said. He turned around and looked at the degrees hanging on his wall.
“Think the answers are written on those?” Harry said.
John didn’t say anything back, just pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Hello?” Alicia answered. John heard the tone and didn’t need to ask too many more questions. The only thing he needed to know was what she thought he was doing inside the house.
“Most likely, she thinks affair,” Harry said. “For now.”
John didn’t turn around from the degrees on the wall.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said to his sister.
“Nothing. At work. It is Thursday.”
“Was wondering if you wanted to get lunch?” he said.
“I can’t today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Already have lunch plans.”
“You’re fucked,” Harry said from behind. “How the hell can you find out what she’s thinking if she won’t even talk to you?”
“What’s going on?” John said. “You sound pissed.”
“Nothing, just busy here,” she said, and then offered only silence that apparently would stretch until John decided to break it.
“Alright,” he said, letting the word hang in the air. “You get into anything last night?”
“Just dinner with Mark,” she said too quickly. John would have known it a lie even if he hadn’t seen her peering into his car. He knew her too well not to recognize the speed of her speech as nervousness.
“Doing anything tonight?”
“We’re supposed to meet another couple.” Another lie.
“Just an excuse to keep you from asking her to do something,” Harry said, putting his feet up on the table.
“Anyway Diane and I could invite ourselves?”
A brief pause before she said, “It’s actually our first time with this couple. Probably should wait until we get to know them a little bit before shoving other people on them.”
John nodded knowing the conversation was over. He couldn’t penetrate no matter what he did.
“Alright, give me a call later, okay?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too,” Alicia said, though the words sounded like ice sliding across ice.
John put the phone down on his desk, turning around.
“I don’t think she believes you’re a killer,” Harry said. “So there’s that.”
“There is that. And what happens when this next one comes out in the news? What are your plans then, Harry?”
Harry stared straight on, eye to eye. “I’m here for a reason, John.”
“What’s she giving you?” Susan said.
Susan sat in the sketch artist’s—Thomas Kineck’s—office. He was behind his computer and as per usual, Thomas kept the drawings all hidden.
“You want to let me get a look at it?”
“You already know the answer. We should be done by the end of the week. I’ll say it again though, I don’t release it early because unfinished work could put you on the trail of the wrong person.”
“You’re always so concerned with the rights of the innocent, Thomas. It’s adorable,” Susan said. “Okay, let me know when you have something.”
“I always do,” the sketch artist said.
Susan stood up and left the office. Thomas would be retiring soon, and his every movement and word seemed to say that, for him, it couldn’t come soon enough. Susan liked him fine, but he moved like a tour train in a national park—slow so that everyone saw all of the scenery. He would eventually arrive at a final sketch, just as the train would eventually drop everyone off, but the time in between could be maddening if you really wanted something.
Susan walked across the office to her desk, where she sat down and fired up her computer. Email after goddamn email. It never ended.
The murder trail was definitely growing cold and Alan didn’t feel too happy about it. None of the SA folks turned up anything. They were a tight group and they all seemed to genuinely care about each other. More, the group’s nature kept people from inquiring too much into the lives of others. They came to the meetings, they spoke, and they left; some knew more than others—the really, really active ones—but everything Susan gathered from the interviews showed people genuinely trying to fix their lives, if imperfectly.
She honestly didn’t think anyone that went to those groups were bad people, just fucked up.
Susan was actually beginning to worry about Alan. The hours he worked weren’t sustainable. She hadn’t called his wife, though she really wanted to. She and Marie weren’t super close, but they both cared about Alan, and there might need to be an intervention of sorts. She didn’t fully know how that would work, but Alan was working himself into the ground, and as the chance of catching this perp decreased, he worked harder to help his chances.
His chances.
That’s how he saw it now.
This wasn’t about justice; he hadn’t said as much, but she knew. For Alan, this had expanded to a crusade for Teresa. To Alan, she was a saint; he hadn’t been able to save her, and the only way to correct that failure was to catch her killer.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket—interrupting her thoughts on Alan—and she pulled it out already knowing who it was before she saw the screen.
“Yo,” she said.
“Hey, there’s been another one,” Alan said.
“Another one?” That didn’t make sense. This guy waited years between murders. In fact, Susan wasn’t completely sure he could be considered a serial killer. He might be doing this for very specific reasons instead of urges—why else would he wait like he did?
“Yeah, but not at the lake. It’s an hour out in Denton. They only called us because there’s bleach out there, just like at the lake.”
“Are you there yet?” Susan said.
“No. I’m interviewing people in Stinson’s neighborhood. The call just came in, but I’m going now.”
“How far away are you?” she said.
“An hour without traffic.”
She looked at the clock on her computer screen. It was already four.
“I take it you’re not going to be home for dinner then?”
“No, I called Marie.”
Of course you did, she thought. Right before you called me. The two most important women in your life, both of them watching you spiral out of control.
“You want me to come up there?” she said.
“You don’t have to. What did Thomas give you?”
“Said end of the week he’ll be done. I think he’s meeting the girl tomorrow.”
“And you’re done with the SA group?” Alan said.
“Yeah, finished up. I think I’m going to interview Mrs. Stinson once more.”
“Probably not a bad idea. No, don’t come up here tonight. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“Alright. Get some sleep,” she said.
“I will.”
But she knew he wouldn’t.
Alan couldn’t lie that he was beyond glad this body showed up.
He didn’t know if that made him evil, or something close to it, and he didn’t care that much. Alan saw this whole thing fluttering away, disappearing in the sky like smoke as it rose from ashes. They still waited on the sketch, and a lot hinged on that, but every other lead was falling through. He spent five hours canvassing the neighborhood, interviewing person after person, and hadn’t learned anything else from it. Only that people were shocked, saddened, and on and on about their feelings.
None of it gave him what he needed.
This body, though, was a gift from God.
Lucky as hell to be found so quickly, also. The guy lived alone from first reports—they didn’t know a whole lot else about him so far—but he paid a maid to clean once a week. She had her own keys to the house and came in when he was at work. She found the body, presumably freaked out, then made a bunch of calls.
Alan got out of his car; he glanced at the clock just before he pulled the keys from the ignition and saw it was five-thirty. The local cops were still here; police cruisers lined the streets and yellow tape had been strung up across the yard. The neighbors were getting home from work and starting to come to the scene, wanting to know what happened and how. Alan ignored them all as he walked across the street from where he parked, stepping over the yellow tape and moving up the yard.
Well kept, but Alan imagined Lawrence Kolzet had someone mowing it, just as he had someone cleaning his house.
He walked through the open door. People glanced at his plain clothes, but saw the badge hanging from his neck and then went about their business. All of them wore filter masks, obviously to help with the irritant attacking his nostrils: bleach.
Alan found the chief, an iPad in hand, talking to one of his police officers.
“Alan Tremock,” he said, interrupting the conversation. Both officers looked at him, but knowledge quickly dawned on the chief’s face.
“Oh, hey,” he said, extending his hand. “Chief Halley.” He looked at the other officer. “Give us a second, okay?”
“Sure thing,” the officer said and walked off.
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” Halley said. “Might want to put one of these on.” The cop reached into his back pocket and pulled out another mask, then handed it to Alan.
“Well, between you and me, this is the most important case I have going,” Alan said, as he put the mask over his face.
Halley nodded and Alan knew immediately he remembered Teresa. Maybe not her name. Maybe not too much about her, but he knew Alan was the partner that watched her die.
“So, do you want to know the information about the victim or the crime scene first?”
“Let’s look at the scene,” Alan said.
“Okay, come on.” Halley turned away from him and started walking across the foyer. “It looks like the victim was cooking before everything happened,” Halley said, pointing into the kitchen as he walked by it. “There’s no sign of a struggle, so most likely, the man knew the killer.”
Alan entered the living room and the scene hit him like a bat to the stomach.
The other two murders hadn’t been like this. They were clean … perhaps even civilized, though Alan hated using the word to describe this guy. What he saw in front of him now was dirty, a complete fucking disaster. The man’s head was open, his skull having broken apart when the bullet hit it. Most of the contents turned into a bloody soup, at least the contents which remained inside. Dark, red blood spatter littered much of the white carpet, some of it even hitting the curtains behind the victim.
“Yeah, the bleach is why we called you, given what I heard happened at the lake,” Halley said. “The perp doused the victim in bleach apparently.
You can see his clothes are stained white.”
Alan walked across the living room slowly, taking it all in.
“Victim was tied up here, we’re thinking, not dragged from somewhere else. There’s a bullet lodged in the wall. I doubt we’ll find much in the way of DNA, but we should be able to get the bullet out and compare it,” Halley said, pointing to the wall behind the victim. “We found a shell casing too, which makes me wonder if it is your guy.”
Alan walked over to the small hole in the wall, looking in but not touching anything.
“What do we know about the victim?” Alan said.
“Not married, no kids. We notified the parents this morning. They live in Pennsylvania, so it will take them some time to get out here.”
“Where did he work?”
“Var Technologies.”
“Did we contact his employer?” Alan said.
“Not yet. No one will be there right now, anyway.”
Alan nodded. He didn’t like the way this one looked. A shell casing wasn’t his guy’s modus operandi. And yet, the smell of bleach was strong enough to be nearly nauseating. Blood everywhere, though … so he hadn’t poured the bleach on any of the mess his bullet made.
“Where else is the bleach?” Alan said.
“Mainly right here in this area. The carpet was soaked with it, as was the victim. There’s some other places in the house, too. The garage, kitchen, though not as much as here. Basically anywhere the perp went, he put bleach on it. He found all the rope in the garage, and we’re thinking he grabbed a knife out of the kitchen.
The bleach. He hadn’t been to another crime scene that smelled like this, even if much of what else he saw here didn’t match up.
It could be a copycat.
Alan didn’t feel any resistance to the thought; something about this just felt so different than the other two murders. Different from Teresa’s too.
He stood up. “Going to step outside, the bleach is giving me a headache.”
“Yeah, we’re all having to do that every fifteen minutes or so,” Halley said.
