by Erik Carter
He wasn’t even blinking.
Sadler had stood back up. He sighed, shaking his head again, as he looked down at the body. “It looks like our guy smashed her face in after he cut her throat.”
“Just like the Axeman of New Orleans,” Dale said. “The first two victims—a couple—were treated this way. Both throats slashed, the wife nearly decapitated. Both heads were bashed in, possibly trying to conceal the cause of death.”
“You keep saying our guy was imitating the Axe-man of New Orleans. That’s no axe,” Sadler said and pointed to the bloody knife on the ground a couple feet away.
“No, it’s not,” Dale said. “But I’m guessing it’s one of the knives from the restaurant’s kitchen.”
Sadler took a step closer to Dale, gave him a confused look. “That’s right. How do you know that?”
“The Axeman of New Orleans used implements that belonged to the victims themselves. Usually an axe. On the first victims who were treated like this,” Dale said, pointing down, “he used a straight razor.”
Sadler gave him a slow, impressed nod.
Dale nodded back and stepped over to the rear door of the restaurant. He looked at the hinges.
Nash approached. “What do you got?”
Dale didn’t turn to respond, just kept looking at the hinges. “Nothing at all, actually. The Axeman chiseled panels out of doors to get in. There aren’t any panels in this bad boy, obviously,” Dale said, rapping a knuckle on the solid metal door. “To get the knife, I’m thinking this door was either unlocked, or our guy knew Jenna Mancini.”
Dale looked away from the note and saw Ern, beyond the crime scene tape, several feet away on Exchange Street. Dale motioned to Nash, and then started toward Ern.
"Thanks for your time, Sadler,” Dale said as they ducked under the crime scene tape.
They walked down Exchange Street to Ern, finding him staring into nothingness, arms crossed over his chest. His skin looked clammy. His eyes still registered shock.
“You all right, Ern?” Dale said.
Ern turned, looking Dale in the eye. There was that same fearful expression Dale had seen when Ern stepped away from the body. Only for a moment. Then he brought out his standard smile, albeit with a bit more nerves than usual.
“Yeah, I’ve just ... never seen anything like that.”
Dale nodded, put his hand on Plunkett’s shoulder, and led the three of them back toward Central Avenue.
Chapter Thirteen
Dale had a collection of five creepy books spread out on the desk in front of him.
Two of them he’d brought with him. Two had come from the Hot Springs public library. And one was property of HSPD.
And they were all about serial killers.
As Dale had poured through the materials, his mind kept looping on the notion of people’s dark historical fetishes. There were plenty of people with a fascination for serial killers. There were also those who fixated on Nazi history. And then there were some who were intrigued by medieval torture. Of course, it was human nature to be scintillated by the seedier sides of life. And to Dale, this made sense when dealing with fictional works. Movies and novels. After all, many people contended that the villain of a story was invariably more interesting than the hero.
But when it came to real life, Dale became concerned with folks’ fascination toward evil. People could become enamored with other human beings’ pain. The thought of human suffering gave some people the warm-fuzzies. And this bothered Dale. But he tried to remind himself—or at least convince himself—that it was disassociation. People might not view Jack the Ripper’s victims as anything more than characters in a story because it happened “so long ago.” It was the short-sighted and arrogant part of human nature that believed nothing was real aside from the current moment, nothing was more important than what was going on right now. But everything that was written in history books had been a “right now” at one point. Jack the Ripper’s victims had been real people. Who suffered. Horribly.
And so too were the other people in the books Dale was reading.
He was at a desk in the now empty NPS office—the same desk he’d climbed atop and yelled out to the employees earlier in the day, as a matter of fact. The texts were limited in scope, but he’d been able to compile a bit of information regarding the two unidentified serial killers to whom the Hot Springs killer had made reference—the Cleveland Torso Murderer and the Axeman of New Orleans.
But there were two problems. First, Dale hadn’t found much information he didn’t already know. Second, and more importantly, he’d found nothing linking the two murders.
He had the desk lamp on, but the rest of the main office space was deserted and dark. It was about 6 PM. He’d been researching for nearly two hours. A bit of light came through the window of an office on the far wall where Nash, Ern, and Higgins were. They’d given Dale the space he needed to do his work.
Dale heard the office door open, and he looked to see Ern striding toward Dale’s desk in his slightly awkward manner. As he did, the phone rang in the office behind him. Dale saw Higgins answer the call.
Ern put his hands in his pockets as he stopped at Dale’s desk. “Any luck?”
Dale pushed away from the books and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “It seems our guy is picking his targets in direct relation to the unidentified serial killers he’s paying homage to. So not only is he copying the killings, but he’s also emulating the victims. The first victim, Paula Willett, was poor. She had a low-paying job and issues with drugs. The Cleveland Torso Murderer preyed on the poor. The second murder was based upon the Axeman of New Orleans, who killed almost exclusively Italians. Jenna Mancini was Italian and worked at an Italian restaurant.”
“Okay,” Ern said. “But if both murders have emulated different unidentified serial killers, how can we predict the next one?”
“That’s the golden question,” Dale said. “And I’m afraid I don’t have a golden answer.”
Ern looked down at him, concerned, supportive. He patted Dale on the shoulder then motioned toward the office. “Listen, Higgins wants to call it a night. You and Nash already met Ricky earlier—why don’t you two come to my house for dinner, meet my other two? Connie won’t mind.”
Dale smiled, both at the graciousness and the prospect of free food. “I’d be delighted.”
There was a bang from the other side of the room. The office door flew open, and Higgins rushed out, heading their way.
“That guy you chased earlier, Conley,” he said. “He was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt, baggy pants?”
Dale stood up. “That’s right.”
“Someone matching that description was seen roaming the Barton Ridge community. That’s out on the north edge of town,” he said. “And they’re trying to figure out if we’ve got another victim.”
Chapter Fourteen
The interior of Ern’s International Harvester Scout 800 was dusty and smelled a bit like mildew, but it got the three of them to the Barton Ridge neighborhood in no time flat via a combination of Ern’s outstanding driving skills and the extra-loud siren.
Dale hopped out of the passenger side. The gray sky had gone black and was now misting. Tiny little droplets. Not even a drizzle, just enough that collected on one’s skin, got everything wet.
Nash climbed off the bench seat in the back. Dale stepped up to him.
“Why don’t you wait here? In the car. Anything could happen. You’re not armed, and you’re not a cop.”
Dale winced inwardly the moment the last words left his lips. You’re not a cop. He hadn’t at all meant to be rude. The words had just slipped out.
As it had been back at the Fordyce, it was clear that Nash wasn’t going to listen, that he was going to come along. But unlike before, he had something to say. Something snide.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks so much for your concern.”
He stepped past Dale.
They met up with Ern in f
ront of the Scout. Ahead, a half dozen HSPD squad cars lined the street, and Dale caught glimpses of cops on foot stealthily running across yards and darting in and out of the forest that surrounded the neighborhood on all sides.
The Barton Ridge neighborhood was full of stately homes, mostly two stories in height. The lawns were well tended, and the landscaping was fresh and tidy. It was also well-lit, not just from the streetlights lining the sidewalks but also from the windows of the homes. Almost every window in almost every home was alight. Dale reasoned that these homes wouldn’t be so lit-up on a normal night but were currently due to a combination of motivators: the squad cars on the street, the cops running about the neighborhood with guns drawn, and a serial killer on the loose. As Dale scanned the area, he saw many silhouettes, people peering outside, hands cupped against their windows.
The passenger side door of one of the squad cars ahead of them opened, and Detective Sadler stepped out. He scanned the area, and his gaze landed on Dale and the other two. He waved his hand, beckoning them over.
And as the three of them started toward him, there was a noise from across the street.
Psst!
A voice.
Dale turned.
It was the stranger, standing behind a tall fence with black vertical bars that surrounded one of the properties. The stranger watched them from a gap between the bars. He wore the same clothes as earlier—the baggy sweatshirt and oversized work pants—but he had ditched the sunglasses. The hood of the sweatshirt was again cinched up incredibly tight, and the small bit of exposed face was hidden in shadow.
The stranger waved.
And then he turned and darted across the yard, heading for the back side of the property.
Dale didn’t check to see if Ern or Nash had noticed. He just sprinted across the road and toward the property.
The gate was closed across the driveway, and as Dale ran up to it and grabbed it, he just knew that it was going to be locked tight.
But it wasn’t. It swung open when he gave it a tug.
Ern rushed through and into the yard, and as Dale followed, he stole a quick look back. Nash was standing on the opposite side of the street where they had been before Dale had spotted the stranger. Just watching.
Good. At least he was finally listening to reason.
Dale sprinted after Ern, and though Dale was shorter, he had soon passed Ern by. Dale had noted earlier how Ern’s walking was a bit clumsy, and it seemed that the clumsiness extended to his running as well.
The house was to Dale’s left, a huge structure of dark brick, two stories tall, with a gabled roof and a wraparound porch. As he glanced over, he saw a man peering around the corner of a window, half concealed by the drapes, watching nervously.
Ahead, the home’s blacktop drive split—one side going to a garage off the main building, and the other side going to a detached two-car garage in the back. As Dale and Ern ran out of the grass and onto the blacktop, Dale feared that the stranger was going to head for the detached building. That would complicate things tremendously.
But that’s not what he did.
He kept going. He was heading for the back side of the property, toward the fence and the thick, dark forest beyond.
Dale reached deep into his reserves, gritted his teeth, and pushed himself harder. He cleared the blacktop and was back in the grass again, the back yard. But after a couple moments of ferocious leg-pumping, he saw that he hadn’t gained on the stranger at all. In fact, the stranger had pulled even farther away. Dale remembered how fast the stranger had been when he and Nash chased him back at the Grand Promenade, how he’d gotten away from them.
Dale could only watch as the stranger ran up to the fence, slowed down for just a moment…
And slid right through the bars.
“Shit!” Dale yelled. “Shit!”
How had the guy gotten through? The bars were only about six inches apart. And how had he done it so quickly? He’d barely broken his stride.
Dale sprinted up to the fence, and his hands clanged into the bars as he reached out to stop his momentum. Footsteps behind him, at a run, and then Ern was beside him, shuffling to a stop, panting.
Dale stuck his hand through the gap, testing the size. His estimation had been right. They were only six inches across. If that.
He turned sideways, pushed his shoulder through. Felt resistance on both sides. It wasn’t gonna happen. And Ern had an even deeper frame and a bit of a gut.
Dale pulled himself back into the grass. He looked up. The fence was eight feet high, and the bars curved out at the top. He took hold of one of the bars, tried to climb. His hand slipped on the wet bar, extra slippery with its high-gloss paint.
He looked left and right, scanned the property. Far down at either edge of the yard were ninety-degree corners in the fencing, marked by big, elegant cornerstones made of brick.
Definitely climbable.
Ern noticed too, and when they made eye contact, a short series of head movements conveyed the plan: You try the one down there. I’ll try the other one.
They took off toward opposite corners of the yard. As Dale ran, he pulled out his Model 36. The trees on the other side of the fence were pitch black, and the stranger could be hidden anywhere among them.
Dale needed his weapon.
He reached the corner post. Large branches came out from the forest beyond, criss-crossing the top of it. These branches were going to make climbing the thing difficult. He holstered the Model 36 and jumped up, grabbing the cement topper. One of his hands slipped on a wet branch, and his arm dropped.
He repositioned and pulled himself up, relying on his abdominal strength. And as he brought his head level with the top of the post, he saw that it was completely blocked by the branches.
Still, the ledge gave him a high spot to hold onto. He steadied himself and reached out with his leg to the fencing, hooked one of the bars with his foot. He started to transfer his weight to the fence…
And his boot slipped on the wet metal.
He lost his hold on the post and fell, landing on his back in the wet grass.
Looking up from the ground, he saw the complexity of the branches hanging above the corner post. He wasn’t going to be able to clear it.
He hopped back to his feet and drew his Model 36 again. He saw that at the other end of the yard, the opposite corner post was unattended. Ern had cleared it. He was somewhere in those dark trees.
And so was the stranger.
Dale stopped for a moment, listened. It was surprisingly quiet. A few insomniac birds. Faint drops of the mist dripping off leaves. But no footsteps.
Dale kept two hands on the gun—steady and ready to go—and he took off toward the opposite corner post, not quite running, keeping part of his attention on his forward progression and the other part on those pitch black trees.
As he drew closer to the corner post, he saw how Plunkett had been able to clear it. Unlike the post Dale had tried to climb, there were no branches blocking the top, and it was positioned in a way that—
A hand grabbed Dale’s arm.
Dale sucked in a breath, and in one solid movement he swiped the hand from his wrist and pointed his gun through the fence.
And found Ern Plunkett.
Smiling at him.
Dale exhaled. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry, buddy,” Ern said, still smiling.
Even though he was smiling, Ern looked incredibly uncomfortable. Branches squeezed in around him from all sides, digging into his uniform, and he was pressed up tight against the metal bars.
“The guy’s gone. I haven’t heard a peep since I got back here,” Ern said. “He sure must know his way around here, because I can’t seem to move an inch without running into something.”
He chuckled.
Dale holstered his gun.
“All right,” Dale said. “I’ll meet you at the corner post. We gotta let HSPD know the guy got away.”
Plunkett l
aughed again. “That’s easy for you to say. I don’t know if I can get out of here. In fact, I’m not sure how I got this far in!”
Ern looked at him with that warm toad-smile.
Then his eyes opened wide.
And he shrieked.
It was something unlike anything Dale had ever heard, and he instantly knew that he would never forget it. It was high-pitched and wailing, and it didn’t sound like something that should come out of someone who looked like Ern.
In fact, it didn’t even sound human.
There was another sound with it, a quick-fire set of thumps. Three of them. Wet and solid.
Thump-thump-thump.
With this sound was a shadow. And movement. The shadow came up behind Ern, much shorter than him. The movement was at Ern’s side. A blur of an arm and the glint of metal.
Three stabs to Ern’s ribs. Quick and efficient. Ruthlessly precise. Shatteringly objective.
It had all happened in a moment—Ern’s eyes, the shadow, a shriek, the wet sounds of metal going into flesh. So fast that by the time Dale had drawn his gun, the shadow was already disappearing into the trees.
Dale fired through the fence. Three times. Rapidly.
And listened.
Footsteps. Disappearing into the distance. Vanishing into the trees.
Gurgling noises came from Ern’s mouth. Blood flowed through his fingers, at his side.
“Ern!”
Ern looked past him. And fell forward. His head clanked into the fence, lodged between two bars. He now faced the yard, coughing, as he slid downward. His body hit the ground, propped at an angle, leaving his face hovering several inches above the ground. More coughing.
Dale dropped down in front of him.
“Ern! Ern!!”
Ern coughed loudly. Blood sprayed on Dale’s face.
Gurgling noises. A sudden twist. And he stopped moving.
Dale scrambled to his feet. “Oh shit! Oh shit!”
He threw his Model 36 into its holster and sprinted to the corner post. The alarms in his head were blaring, and his mind and senses trusted his intuition. In a flurry of activity that his body completed on auto-pilot, he somehow propelled himself over the corner post and into the trees, through the branches and undergrowth tearing at his clothes and face, and placed himself at Ern’s side.
