Murderous Twins

by Edward Kendrick

  “That would be my guess. According to the hospital, he made no attempt to visit Lloyd. Who ever said blood is thicker than water never met him.”

  “Or he was afraid when he saw him, Lloyd might say something implicating him in the attacks on the women.”

  “Possibly. We’ll ask once we’ve got him in custody.” Owen stopped to answer his phone. “You’re certain,” he said after a moment to whomever he was talking with. “All right. Thanks. I’ll let the FBI know he’s in Chicago, although it may be too late catch him at the airport if his plane landed on time.” He nodded, hung up, and immediately made a call, asking to speak to agent Moore. “My FBI contact here in the city,” he told Steve and Gary as he waited for the agent to answer the phone.

  When the man did, Owen began to tell him about Ms. Paulson’s murder, nodding at something agent Moore said in reply. “I figured you would have heard,” he said. “We know who the killer is. Blaine Ayers, who as you know is Lloyd Thomas’s twin brother. He’s probably somewhere in Chicago now.” He explained how he knew. “Yes, his plane was due to land at nine-thirty their time.” After a pause, he ended the call by saying, “Thanks. I hope they catch him before he starts over again there, or somewhere else.”

  “So it’s out of your hands, now,” Steve said.

  “Yep. Not that I’m crying in my beer about it, to be honest. I’m more than ready to get back to handling normal murders.”

  “No surprise there,” Steve replied while checking the time. “I’ve got half an hour before I need to meet my client, so I can take Gary home rather than you getting an officer to.”

  Gary chuckled. “Good. We don’t need the neighbors wondering why I was being dropped off in a squad car. There’s been enough excitement around there as it is.”

  “More than enough,” Steve agreed. He waited for Gary to stand, which he did, wincing in pain. “You’re going right to bed when I get you home,” he said quietly as they left the squad room.

  “Honestly, I’m not going to argue with you,” Gary replied, grumbling, “This sucks.”

  “It’s been less than a week since you were attacked,” Steve pointed out. “As much as you’d like to get back to normal, it’s going to take time.”

  Gary sighed. “I know, but damn, I’ve got a business to run, among other things.”

  “I’m sure your clients know what happened by now. Call the ones you have appointments with this week and put them off, or send one of your people to talk with them. I know you like to be hands-on, but right now that’s not an option.”

  “I will, as soon as I get home.”

  “After you’ve taken a nap.”

  “You promised,” Gary replied, shooting Steve a sour look.

  “I promised I wouldn’t baby you, or be over-helpful. I didn’t promise I wouldn’t say something when you try to overdo it.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  When they got to the house, Steve went in with Gary, helped him settle on the sofa, and got his pills and a glass of water. Then he kissed him, smiling as he said, “At least I’m not making you go upstairs to sleep.”

  Gary snorted. “Lots of luck with that. I’ll see you…?”

  “In a couple of hours. Love you.”

  “Love you too…bossy.”

  Steve rolled his eyes, they kissed again, and then he left.

  Chapter 12

  Early Saturday afternoon, Blaine was looking around the room he’d rented in a dingy motel south of downtown Chicago. One that worked on a cash-only basis and didn’t require him to show ID.

  Hardly what I’m used to, but for the moment, where I’m stuck. Fucking cops.

  He’d seen a news story on one of the overhead TVs at the airport, after he’d deplaned at O’Hare. The reporter had been updating an earlier bulletin, apparently, about two serial killers in Denver. One had been caught; the other was on the run. There were, the reporter had said, two photos taken at a gala which showed the killer with his last victim. Behind the reporter as he talked was one of the photos, of Blaine with Ms. Paulson.

  “God damned son of a bitch,” he’d sworn under his breath as he adjusted the dark-framed glasses and cap he was wearing. Ducking his head, he’d rapidly made his way to baggage claim to get his bags after stopping to buy a newspaper, hoping no one had been paying attention to the story on TV—and that it wasn’t in the paper.

  He’d debated taking a taxi or the airport shuttle into the city, then opted for the Blue Line L train instead as being more anonymous. He’d gotten to the platform just as the train pulled in. Forty-five minutes later, he’d gotten off in the Loop and caught a bus to the motel, which he’d remembered from when he’d lived in Chicago. The only good thing that had happened since arriving in the city was finding out he hadn’t made it into the paper. Not that I won’t in the next edition.

  Unfortunately the anonymity of the motel was balanced by the fact that it didn’t have Wi-Fi, making his laptop useless unless there was a coffee shop nearby which did. He knew he’d be taking a risk, leaving to look for one, but he needed to find exactly what the police, and probably the FBI as well, had on him other than the photos.

  I bet they’re still trying to process the fact their serial killers were twins who used completely different MOs. A thought that brought a brief smile to his lips.

  He changed from what he’d had on during the flight out, which obviously hadn’t been the tux he’d worn to the gala. That had gone, piece by piece, into various dumpsters while he drove to the DIA. Settling on a pair of older jeans and a T-shirt, to fit into the neighborhood, he got the laptop, in its carrying case, slung it the case over his shoulder, and took off.

  Blain found what he was looking for, a ubiquitous Starbucks three blocks from the motel. After ordering coffee, he found a table in a corner, well away from the windows and the few other customers. Booting up the laptop, he went online. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for, which had him mentally swearing. There were several stories about his last kill—with him featured prominently as the murderer.

  Now the question is, do they know I headed out here? The stories didn’t say so, but he figured the FBI would consider it, since Chicago was the last place he and Lloyd had lived before moving to Denver. And, damn it, I had to show my ID to buy a ticket, and get past the security checkpoint. So yeah, they know. Okay, where do I go, now? Not anywhere connected to us, which leaves out Cleveland and New York for starters.

  Leaning back, he considered his options. Toss a coin? Close my eyes and point at the map? He brought up a major map site, and while he didn’t actually close his eyes, he did trace his finger over it, stopping when it hit San Antonio. Maybe? It’s large enough I’d be a just another man among hundreds of thousands. It’s also well away from anywhere I’ve lived before.

  “Or perhaps,” he said under his breath. “Why settle down somewhere? Get a car and travel the country instead. Find a city, stick around long enough to pick a bitch who fits the profile, kill her, and move on.” That idea appealed to him.

  He began to search online ads for cheap cars, since he didn’t want to spend all his money on a vehicle. Then stopped when it occurred to him he’d need to use his ID to buy one. That would be courting trouble in a big way. But…Yeah, why not?

  “Well, that sucks,” he muttered a minute later when he found out that Greyhound required ID to buy a ticket. “The country is getting way too security conscious, damn it.”

  He got offline, packed up his laptop, and headed back to the motel. He was walking across the parking lot behind the motel, going to his room, when he saw the solution to his problem. He’d noticed the car when he’d carried his bags up to his room earlier in the day, but hadn’t paid it much attention. Now, he did. It was in the back corner of the lot, covered with a fine layer of dust and dirt, as if it had been sitting there for at least a few days. Abandoned, or stolen? Whichever it was, he had the feeling whoever had left it there wasn’t coming back for it. Deciding to wait until af
ter dark to check it out, he continued on to his room.

  * * * *

  Blaine slept for a few hours then went in search of somewhere to eat where he wouldn’t get food poisoning. He found a diner four blocks from the motel where there were enough customers that he didn’t stand out. His meal was passable, barely. When he finished, he left, taking the long way around to the parking lot at the back of the motel. After checking to be certain no one was watching, he strolled by the dusty car and then peered through the driver’s side window. There were no keys in the ignition, which didn’t surprise him. The fuel gauge showed it had a bit less than half a tank of gas.

  During his ill-spent youth—and it had been since his father had been more interested in the women he’d installed in their home than in him—Blaine had made friends with a couple of guys in high school who were less than savory individuals. They’d taught him how to boost cars, a lesson he’d put to use more than once until he got bored and moved on to other pursuits.

  He tested the door handle, found the car wasn’t locked, and got in. It was an older car. Old enough that he could hotwire it, he discovered when he checked. He did, then drove it to a carwash he’d seen on his way back to the motel.

  “You sure aren’t a thing of beauty,” he said when it was clean. “But you’ll do for now, and you’re not costing me a penny which is a plus.”

  Returning to the motel, Blaine got his belongings, put them in the backseat of the car, and took off, heading south out of the city.

  * * * *

  On Tuesday, Blaine was ensconced in another cheap motel, although not as bad as the one in Chicago. This time it was in San Antonio, Texas—and it had Wi-Fi.

  He could have made it down there faster, but he’d checked out Dallas along the way—purely as a tourist because it didn’t impress him enough to stay. While he was there, he called a locksmith to come to the motel where he was staying. “Somehow, I managed to lose my keys when I stopped at a bar last night,” he told the man. “I feel stupid, but…”

  The man had laughed, telling him it happened more often than he might think, and an hour later Blaine had ‘new’ keys for the car. It was definitely better than having to hotwire it every time he had to start it.

  After unpacking, he sprawled on the bed to read the local newspaper. The story of the Denver serial killers had been relegated to the bottom of page four, with no pictures, for which he was thankful. That wasn’t why he’d gotten the paper, however. He turned to the business section, looking for possible stories about local business women. Jackpot! There were two, one involving an up-and-coming entrepreneur, the second about a woman who owned an office staffing agency. From the accompanying photo, she fit his parameters. Right age, looks like she thinks she’s the boss of everything and deserves to be. Yep, Ms. Robinson, you need to die.

  He checked her company’s website to see what their clients were looking for. Then he called the agency to set up a job interview. He told the woman he spoke to that he was new to the city, was a trained product manager, which was what two of their clients were looking for, and had references. She set him up to come in Wednesday morning at ten after asking for his name and a phone number where he could be reached. Without hesitating, he replied, “Jackson Ayers.” Jackson was his middle name. It was on his driver’s license, the only ID he carried—Blaine Jackson Ayers. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of interviewing for a job. He only wanted to meet Ms. Robinson and take things from there.

  * * * *

  Blaine was checking himself in the mirror over the dresser Wednesday morning when there was a knock on the motel room door. He felt a moment of pure panic before common sense took over. No one who matters knows I’m in the city, to say the least at this motel. It’s probably room service. That’ll teach me to forget to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle.

  Still, he wasn’t about to open the door without checking first. He peered through the peephole and saw the front desk clerk, who had signed him in the previous day, standing in the hallway. Engaging the security latch, he opened the door as far as it would let him, asking, “Is there a problem?”

  The man nodded. “One of the guests told me the side window on a car in the lot had been smashed. I checked and it’s yours. It looks like someone tried to break in to it.”

  “Shit. Not that they’d get anything, but still…Thanks for letting me know.” Blaine shook his head in disgust as he closed the door to disengage the latch. “This I don’t need right now,” he muttered to the clerk. “Though I guess it’s better than the windshield. At least I can still drive it, I hope.” I’ll just have to park somewhere other than in the lot for Ms. Robinson’s building. I don’t want anyone wondering what happened and remembering the car. He got a commiserating look from the clerk before he walked away.

  He put his wallet, car keys, and the keycard in his pocket, and put on the glasses he’d worn when he’d come to the motel. Then he took the emergency stairs down to the ground floor and used the back door to go to the lot.

  As he approached his car, two men stepped into view from behind the van parked beside it. Both were carrying guns, pointed at him. The taller man said, “FBI. Blaine Jackson Ayers, you’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your neck and lace your fingers together.”

  Blaine had no intention of obeying the man’s orders. He had places to go and things to do. He feigned it though, starting to raise his hands as he assessed the situation. A car pulled into the lot at that moment, the driver tapping his horn because Blaine was standing in the middle of the aisle between the two rows of parked cars. He stepped back quickly, putting the car between him and the agents, then sprinted back toward the motel.

  The first bullet hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second entered his chest. The third blasted into his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  * * * *

  When Steve arrived home from work late Wednesday afternoon, he barely had time to give Gary a kiss and ask how he was feeling before his phone rang. He saw Owen’s name come up on the caller ID and answered it.

  “It’s over,” Owen said. “Blaine Ayers is dead.”

  “Thank God,” Steve replied. “They found him in Chicago?” He sat down next to Gary on the sofa, holding the phone so they could both hear Owen.

  “No. He was in San Antonio. For someone who thought he was so smart and clever, he made a couple of fatal mistakes.”

  “How so?” Gary asked.

  “For one, he used his laptop. Now you’d think he’d know better, but apparently he didn’t.”

  “Or he was desperate,” Gary said.

  “Could be,” Owen agreed. “The first time was in a Starbucks on Chicago’s south side. The agents canvassed motels in the neighborhood and found the one where he was staying. Unfortunately, by the time they got there, he was gone. He used the laptop again in Dallas, searching for a locksmith. Agents there talked to the man. He identified Blaine and told them the kind of car he was driving, although he hadn’t written down the license plate numbers.”

  “So he was heading south,” Steve said.

  “Yep. To San Antonio, where he used the laptop for several searches, including one for women-owned businesses. He was at a motel. The agents talked with the desk clerk, showing him Blaine’s photo. He identified him, then agreed to draw him out of his room.” Owen went on to give them the details of what had happened next.

  “Why the hell did he try to run?” Gary said, then answered his own question. “He must have seen the story about his having been identified as the serial killer, here in Denver, and knew it was run or end up in prison for the rest of his life. I wonder…”

  “What?” Steve asked when Gary didn’t continue.

  “Maybe, subconsciously, he wanted to die. He and Lloyd were a team, joined together in their obsessions, as well as by birth. With Lloyd locked away inside his own mind, probably forever, Blaine was on his own. He might have, probably did intend to kill a woman in San Antonio, bu
t there would be no one to brag to about it, anymore. No one to tell him how clever he was—just as he probably supported and congratulated Lloyd when he killed men who resembled their father.”

  “It’s possible,” Owen agreed. “Unfortunately, we’ll never know.”

  “Any more than we’ll know why Blaine went after the type of women he did,” Steve said.

  “Something to do with his childhood would be my best bet,” Gary replied. “A stepmother who treated him badly.”

  “Mr. Ayers senior never remarried,” Owen put in.

  “Right. But unless he was celibate, he probably had female friends. If he paid more attention to them than he did to Blaine, and Blaine was jealous…” Gary said.

  Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Then he and Lloyd finally connected and Lloyd’s obsession with what their father did to him served to rekindle Blaine’s hatred of the type of women his father brought home. The sins of the father…”

  “And too many people died as a result, including Blaine,” Gary said. “Not that he didn’t deserve to, but I have to wonder, would he and Lloyd have become serial killers if their lives had been different?”

  “Nature versus nurture, the age-old question,” Owen replied before ending the phone call, telling them it was time for him to head home, “Before my wife begins to wonder if I’m married to her or to my job.”

  “How are you feeling?” Steve asked after putting his phone away. “You didn’t have a chance to answer earlier.”

  “Much better. Okay, it’s all relative, I guess. I keep telling myself that in a couple of weeks I can get rid of this—” he tapped the sling, “—and my life can get back to normal. And don’t kill me,” he shot a look at Steve, “but I made an appointment to talk to one of my old clients tomorrow. She wants me to redecorate her bedroom, now that her divorce is final.”

  “Gary…”

  “I’m only talking, not tearing up carpeting and repainting the walls. I’ll leave that to my crew, as always.”

  “Who’s going to lug all your sample books out to her house?”