James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  Victoria Hoffman.

  Two

  Chicago, Illinois

  Reid Hoffman tapped his fingertips against the wooden armrest. From the grooves etched in wood, it wasn't hard to tell that he wasn't the first person to feel uneasy under the spotlight. Reid hated cameras. Despised being gawked at by the public eye, but his agent deemed this a necessary evil if Reid wanted to pack up and move to the islands one day. His book, Killer Mentality, was a New York Times bestseller. His agent started fielding offers about a reality crime show hosted by Reid after his retirement from the FBI, which was planned for two years down the road. So, Reid suffered through it by tapping the rhythm section of popular songs against the wood, playing a game of Name That Tune with himself during the commercial breaks of The Phil Hamlin Show. Reid looked at his watch, hoping the hands would sign to him how much longer he would have to endure the pain of vulnerability.

  “You’re doing great, Mr. Hoffman,” a stagehand said, handing Reid a coffee cup filled with water. “One more segment and it’s over.”

  Reid smiled and tipped his head in appreciation.

  “All right, Reid for this last segment we are going to take a few questions from the audience,” Phil Hamlin said, combing the perfect part in his hair. “People eat this shit up. I don’t know what it is about death, but it’s a ratings jackpot.”

  “We’re live in three, two, one,” the stagehand said.

  Hamlin faced the camera and flashed a smile. “Welcome back. Today, we are talking to FBI profiler and famed author Reid Hoffman about his debut book Killer Mentality. Anyone have a question for Mr. Hoffman?”

  A woman in the third row raised her hand.

  “Hit me with it,” Hamlin said.

  “Mr. Hoffman, in your book you talk about the charisma of killers. Personally, I find that scarier than the crimes. I mean the good looking guy buying me drinks could be fantasizing about killing me and I’d have no idea. Are there any warning signs?”

  “The world is evolving,” Reid said. “Unfortunately, so is evil. What was safe in the 1950s is not safe today. It’s not all doom and gloom though. You just have to be proactive. Think before accepting that drink from a stranger. If you choose to accept, look for anything that seems off about the guy. Don’t give the guy with a broken down car a ride. If you really want to help, stop by the next gas station and report it. Or flag down a cop. All sociopaths possess some form of charisma. Bundy has looks and charm. Look at Ramirez, there is nothing about that guy that doesn’t scream danger, yet he gets more fan mail than rock stars. Danger is charisma. Fortunately, humans have something called instinct. It’s an excellent indicator of harmful things to avoid. Don’t ignore it.”

  A skinny man, in his early twenties, five rows back raised his hand.

  “We are running out of time, so this will be our last question. Make it a good one, kid,” Hamlin said, putting the microphone under the man’s chin.

  “Why do you do this? Every time you catch a killer another one takes his place. It’s a never-ending cycle. Why do you continue to fight a losing battle?”

  Reid chuckled and shifted in his seat. “I do it because I’m a sore loser.” He waited for the audience’s laughter to die down. “You’re right, it’s a vicious cycle, and I know I can’t stop every killer out there. But I am going to do my damnedest to put as many away as I can. Right now the Green River Killer is on the loose out West. Right here in Chicago, there is a possible serial murderer leaving ball gags as a calling card. I want these killers to know that I am their shadows.”

  “And that’s the perfect note to end this episode…”

  The man snatched the microphone from Phil Hamlin as cameras shut down.

  “Aren’t you catching killers to compensate for not being able to save your mother from Norman Wallace? You never caught Norman Wallace did you?”

  “Wallace is dead. He died many years ago, son. And you’re probably right; I do this partly in my mother’s honor.”

  Reid was cool. Nothing flustered him, not even a punk kid trying to earn fifteen minutes of fame. Norman Wallace might be watching. He wasn’t dead. Reid confirmed that seven years ago when Wallace left him a note after officiating at Michael Callahan’s wedding. That was information Reid never made public and shared with only his wife.

  Reid spent seven years secretly hunting Wallace. All roads ended in frustration. Wallace appeared like an apparition and faded the same way, only to be heard from when it benefited him. The note that simply read “Let’s catch up soon” was only meant to be a reminder that the man who murdered Reid Hoffman’s mother still walked the streets a free man.

  As the studio audience cleared out, Reid eyed the skinny man with the Norman Wallace fascination. He weaved through the crowd trying to catch up to the man who saw Reid closing in. He started to run.

  “Stop,” Reid said as a group of people slowed him down.

  The man turned and smiled before stopping to drop something in a trash can. He waited long enough for Reid to see what he had done and then disappeared down an alleyway.

  On top of the trash was a sheet of notebook paper. The words “The Morning Star Has Risen” were written in red ink.

  Three

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  What’s tougher — finding out your brother is a serial killer or being a single parent? The answer isn’t as easy as you think. Technically, I wasn’t a single parent, but it sure felt like it. Rebecca was now a bestselling author which transitioned into being one of television’s top actresses. And me? I was Mr. Mom. Seven years earlier, I was a homicide cop with the Twelfth Precinct. But after the death of my partner, the revelation that my father was the infamous Morning Star killer, and my identical twin brother had followed in dear old dad’s footsteps, I needed a break.

  What I got was diaper duty and more insomnia, not in the form of nightmares in which I murdered women, but the crying of a baby. The endless wails of Michelle were enough to question the choice I made of leaving the life of a homicide cop behind. But she soon grew out of the non-stop crying. The images of death imprinted on me from years earlier never faded. I made the right choice.

  Rebecca was in San Francisco wrapping up the second season of Headline, a television show, in which she played the lead, about a reporter who helped solve crimes. Michelle, almost seven-year-old, was sitting up a tea party with her Cabbage Patch Kids, begging me to sit in on tea when the phone rang.

  “Jesus Christ, I can’t take these incompetent assholes any longer. You’re a professional actor. Why does it take you ten takes to get a goddamn line right that you should already know by heart?”

  “Hi, honey,” I said.

  Rebecca laughed. “Sorry. I’m just so ready to get home and these assholes are making it impossible. Whoever said the television lifestyle was glamorous was full of shit. How’s Chelle?”

  “At the moment she is preparing tea for Emma, Beth, and Kirk.”

  “And you’re not joining her?” Rebecca asked.

  “Well, I kinda filled up on imaginary crumpets earlier, but I’ll probably have a cup with her.”

  “I miss you guys. I have to go finish this scene. Just three more episodes and I’m coming home, unless I hurt someone. If that happens, I'll need you to wire me bail money.”

  We both laughed. Before I could tell Rebecca that we missed her too, there was a dial tone followed by a little girl yelling that my tea was getting cold.

  Four

  Chicago, Illinois

  The man slid into a booth on the opposite side of the older man. He snatched a piece of pizza from the pan in the center of the table.

  "I'm starving."

  “Did you drop the letter like I asked?”

  “Yep.”

  “And did Hoffman see you do it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did he get flustered when you asked him about me?”

  “Nope. Not even a flinch." The man grabbed another piece of pizza. "The guy is as cool as a cucumber. S
aid you were dead.”

  “Dead, huh?” Norman laughed. “Well, this is going to be one hell of a second coming.”

  Five

  Chicago, Illinois

  It was as if Reid were trying to burn a hole in the note with his eyes. He analyzed every letter, every word, and every curve in the handwriting. Did Norman write it, or was it some punk kid looking to rattle Reid’s cage? Reid hoped for the latter, but knew better. Norman warned him that they would meet again. And Norman always kept his word. The phrase “The Morning Star Has Risen” was just for dramatic effect. The true meaning was I’m here, let’s play. Reid waited seven years for this day. Seven years of hell that tempted his sobriety with the allure of drowning his troubles in a sea of cheap whiskey. Seven years that drove a wedge between him and his wife, Barbara. From the beginning, Barbara accepted that Reid had a hunger to avenge his mother. She even played her part in helping find solace. But this wasn't about avenging his mother any longer. This went much deeper. Reid’s life had become consumed with Norman Wallace. The entire basement of their house was a shrine to the ghost that never stopped haunting Reid. He had fallen off the wagon. It wasn’t alcohol. It was much worse — there was no support group for his addiction. Even if there were, Reid wouldn't attend. He wouldn't accept that he had a problem. Reid Hoffman was an FBI profiler. It was his job to catch serial killers. He was just doing his job.

  The phone rang, waking Reid from the trance the unopened bottle of Jim Beam had him under. He looked at the clock which read 5:03 pm. Reid always called Barbara at 5pm to check in, no matter where he was or what was happening.

  “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

  “Reid?”

  The male voice puzzled Reid. Only Barbara and the Bureau knew where he was staying in Chicago. And the Bureau would have called his cellular phone.

  “Reid, it’s Mack Root. I called the Bureau and they told me you were in Chicago.”

  “Mack? What’s going on?”

  “How fast can you get to Knoxville?”

  “I’m leaving Chicago in the morning and heading back to Virginia. I can switch flights. What’s wrong?”

  “There was an incident at the Body Farm this afternoon. I was training a group of rookies when we came across a dead body.”

  “Isn’t that the way it works at the Body Farm?” Reid asked.

  “Sorry, I don’t know how to put this delicately. The body wasn’t part of the program. Someone dumped her there to send a message to you.”

  “To me?”

  Mack hesitated. “Your mother’s identification card was beside the body.”

  “That’s not possible."

  “That’s not all. The woman was wearing an apron that had Reidy Bug stitched on it. Does that mean anything?”

  Reid dropped the receiver to the floor. Norman wasn’t sending an invitation to Reid to play a game. He was already playing the game.

  “Reid? You Ok?”

  Reid heard his mother calling him Reidy Bug again, just like when he was eight-years old.

  “Reid? You still there?”

  Reid picked up the receiver from the floor. “I’m leaving now.”

  Usually meticulous with packing, wrinkled clothes were the last thing on Reid’s mind. He studied Wallace for years and knew very little about what made the killer tick, and in a matter of minutes Reid was hit with the revelation that Wallace knew the nickname his mother called him. What else did Wallace know? Reid tossed the bottle of whiskey onto the crumpled mess that once resembled a Ralph Lauren suit.

  “Barbara.”

  Reid grabbed the phone and dialed home. After four rings and a row of sweat beads forming on his forehead, Barbara answered.

  “Barb, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am, Reid. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Barbara was tough. Not as tough as she was years ago when she was with the Bureau. But she could still handle her own. That never outweighed the fact that her husband caught the country’s most violent criminals. She knew there would always be a chance one of them would come for her. She was the ultimate prize for a psycho seeking revenge. Oddly enough, she never worried about Norman Wallace. He must have been in his late sixties by this point.

  “Wallace made contact with me,” Reid said.

  “Are you sure? It’s been seven…”

  “I’m sure,” Reid said, cutting Barbara off. “He dumped a body in Knoxville with a clue meant only for me. I’m heading to Tennessee now.”

  “Do you think you should tell Michael?”

  Silence.

  Reid never told Michael that Wallace had spent years impersonating the family pastor. He never told Michael about the note that Wallace left at Michael and Rebecca’s wedding. Reid saw the joy on their faces as they left for the honeymoon. He protected Michael from a future of dealing with the sins of his father when he put three bullets into the face of Michael’s twin. That wasn’t for naught. Reid continued to protect Michael by erasing Wallace from his life. But things were different now. Michael had a family. A baby girl. Happiness —the one thing Norman Wallace despised. Reid built an image that this was between Wallace and him, but he knew all along that Michael was the endgame. Reid would have to tell Michael what he knew.

  “I’ll have to tell him, yes,” Reid said. “But I need to figure out what I’m dealing with first.”

  Six

  Chicago, Illinois

  “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I killed the girl like you wanted me to. Only left a few marks on her neck. Believe me, the rage inside wanted to rip her head off, but I didn’t, I followed your instructions — minimal damage. I dumped the body in Knoxville without getting caught and I hopped a flight back to Chicago in enough time to get on that TV show and leave the note. You can trust me with this, Norman.”

  “Yes, you’ve performed every task I’ve asked of you, but I still cannot trust you.”

  The man slammed his fists against the steering wheel of the blue Cadillac. “I want to be the one that births the whore.”

  Norman laughed. “How do you expect me to take you seriously when you act like a child throwing a tantrum? Do you really think I’d allow you to unleash the whore on this world?”

  “I’m sorry, Norman. My temper gets the best of me sometimes.”

  “Your temper is not the problem, Peter. Rage is an asset in this career field. The fact that you’re still calling me Norman is the reason I cannot trust you. What did I tell you about that?”

  “Fuck!” Peter banged the steering wheel again. “I’m really sorry, Arthur.” He forced a smile, unsure of how Norman would react.

  Peter couldn’t gauge Norman’s soft chuckle response.

  “Please. I can do it. I’ve never let you down, Arthur.”

  Peter Miller, a twenty-two-year-old college dropout wasn’t accustomed to begging. He never had to. Born into wealth, the beggar’s mentality went down like sour milk. He was the spoiled, little rich kid with a penchant for violence. Norman didn’t care if money could buy Peter’s way into college, it couldn’t buy Norman’s trust. But the gleam in Peter’s eyes burned of persistence and determination. He wanted to please Norman. In Norman’s world that made him a minion. And Norman liked minions. They were loyal and most importantly — dispensable.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I won’t call you Norman again. I promise, Arthur.”

  Arthur Berry was born, seven years earlier, almost to the day, after Norman confirmed Reid's Hoffman's assumption that he was still alive.

  “What’s the one thing you told me that day at your sister’s grave?” Norman asked.

  A crooked grin possessed Peter’s face. He knew the only acceptable answer to the question. “I said that she deserved it.”

  “Deserved what?”

  “She deserved the pain.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was a whore and she destroyed our family.”

  Norman nodded his head in approval.


  Shelby Miller was sixteen when she got hooked on cocaine. By nineteen, she was an oozing pimple on the family name. She turned to the streets when her father stopped funding her habit. Two months later, her legs were found in a trash dump in south Chicago. Her torso found in the dumpster of a White Castle on the North Side. Shelby’s head wasn’t found until after the funeral. It was stuffed in a cooler dropped off at a Goodwill store. She had a red ball gag in her mouth. There were rumblings that she was another victim of a serial killer staking claim to the Windy City. But it never was proven.

  Norman watched Peter go to his sister’s grave every Wednesday afternoon at 4 o’clock. He was never late. It was a compulsion. Once Norman started talking to Peter, he understood that Peter shared his hatred for selfish whores who didn’t care about the lives they destroyed.

  “Your sister brought Armageddon down on your family?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, you know how important it is that we find the right woman to bring down the world?”

  “Yes, Arthur. I won’t let you down.”

  “Stop the car,” Norman said.

  Peter eased to a stop a block and a half away from a rundown convenience store. Women in mini-skirts that barely covered their backsides and high heels that toned their calves circled underneath a sign that read O-Mart. Peter muffled his laughter when he imagined the O meaning orgasm. The bulb in the G had burned out and from the sound of the hum coming from the sign, the rest of the letters were soon to follow. The women paced back and forth like hungry sharks circling chum.