Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll need to take the car.”

  “Of course,” Rachel said. “But you can’t go yet.”

  “Why?”

  She pointed her spatula into the pan.

  “Ah.” Morgan gave his kindest, most grateful smile as he watched her finish cooking. She’d always done this for him in his weaker moments, and it all started around five years ago, when he’d revealed that his mother used to make pancakes for him when he was going through a rough patch. “Keep the stomach happy, and the mind follows suit,” she used to say. Boy, he missed her, but although she was long gone, Morgan could see many of her traits in Rachel. He hoped—or rather he thought—that she was watching from up above, nodding her head with approval at the woman he’d married.

  She had every reason to be.

  Chapter Ten

  Larry’s was nothing if not quiet, the last customers of the night leaving arm in arm while they laughed among themselves. It reminded Morgan of the 1950s—not that he was alive in the ’50s—but he’d seen enough movies where couples went out for a milkshake together. It lent a certain nostalgia to the place, promising warmth and joy.

  Somehow, he just didn’t expect to find that here.

  He waved to Liz, his favorite waitress, as she cleaned up behind the counter. She waved back and pointed to the corner table, where Gary sat nursing a beer with a range of paperwork spread out before him. His hair was a disheveled mess, his moustache hiding within the surrounding facial hair that was starting to catch up. There was no question this case was taking its toll on him, and who could blame him? He’d loved Carrie Whittle, and nobody should have to see someone they cared about looking how she did.

  “Need company?” Morgan asked, approaching the table.

  Gary hesitated before looking up, as though there was a delay between Morgan speaking and Gary hearing. When those red, half-closed eyes revealed themselves, he looked worse than before. As if that was possible. “You’re always welcome at my table.”

  Morgan smiled and sat, unbuttoning his coat to get comfortable. He glanced down at the paperwork in front of him, reading the file names upside down. It came as no surprise that he wasn’t investigating Carrie’s murder; he wasn’t allowed to even if he wanted to. “What are you working on?”

  “Some woman shot her husband. Just tidying up the details.”

  “Need any help?”

  “It’s pretty open/shut.”

  “Right.”

  Gary dropped his pen and slumped back, running his fingers through his thick, graying hair. “It’s good to see you, but what are you doing here?”

  “Your phone was off.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  “Hannah said you’d be here.”

  “Did she say I wanted to be alone?”

  “No.” Morgan grinned. “Should she have?”

  Gary stared at him like he had a grudge, until a knowing smile finally bested him and broke through. “It’s been a little rough, you know? I’m trying to knuckle down and keep myself busy with other cases, but every time I close my eyes I see Carrie’s face all… how it was. It just makes me so sick. She was a good person. She didn’t deserve that.”

  Morgan remembered—on the few occasions he’d spoken to her she’d had nothing but kindness and respect in her voice. There’d been something welcoming in her green eyes, as if she were reaching into your soul just to understand you a little better. “Yes, she was nice.”

  “She was more than nice. I just… Man, I’d love to get this sicko.”

  “You and me both.”

  “But you tried your best, right?”

  “Yes.” Morgan locked eyes with him. “We’re okay?”

  “You and me? We’re fine.”

  “Even though I proved kind of useless back there?”

  Gary uttered a short grunt of a laugh. “You were a little useless.”

  “Think you could do better?”

  “Not legally.”

  Morgan couldn’t help but grin. It warmed him to see his friend acting human again. Grief was too aggressive in how it disabled people, especially when someone else was involved—losing somebody you loved was one thing, but having them brutally murdered and knowing there was nothing you could do about it? That kind of stuff changed you.

  Liz, the waitress, made an appearance at the table and severed the moment. Maybe it was for the best, as Morgan had no idea where to take it from here. It felt like something had been left unspoken, and he didn’t want to address it in case Gary expected more. Instead, he took the save and ordered a coffee to go, thanking her as she left.

  “Do you remember when we were kids?” Gary asked when they were alone.

  “Only the parts I want to remember. Why?”

  “I have fond memories of those times; wanting to grow up to be a cop.”

  “One too many viewings of Hawaii Five-O.”

  Gary half smirked, his eyes still red and raw. “I remember thinking how much I wanted to do some good in the world. Everything seemed a bit more black and white back then, you know? The bad guys were easy to identify. The good guys always won.”

  “Uh-huh.” Morgan’s sense of comfort shifted. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Well, things got darker. You know what I’m talking about. The bad guys are nearly impossible to track down, unlike on those TV shows, and when you see the things you see in this line of work, you start wishing bad things on the killers.”

  “So now you feel like a bad guy?”

  “Aren’t we all bad guys?”

  Morgan considered this. His own conscience had been tainted by a great number of things in the past—hell, even his inability to help Gary had made him question his own efforts—but had he ever truly felt like the bad guy? He’d made mistakes like most people had, but Rachel had always been there to nod her head with approval whenever he did something right. That’d always made morals easy to understand. “Do you feel like a bad guy, Gary?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And right now?”

  “I don’t feel bad. Just useless.”

  That was something Morgan could relate to. But seeing his friend like this, maybe there was something more he could do. There were no clues to follow the killer, but there was nothing to stop him from running a simple profile. As long as the police didn’t stand in his way. “Look, I want to help find the guy who did this.”

  Gary’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas Day.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Morgan said, putting his palm out to calm him. “I’m just going to talk to a few people and see what I can dig up. But I’m going to need your help on this; if the MPD stumble upon some information, you’re going to have to share.”

  “No problem. No problem at all. Oh, man, you won’t regret this.”

  “I probably will,” Morgan said. “But just answer me one thing, will you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You called the police morons, but you know they’re good guys. They’ll do everything they can to find the guy who did this. So why me? Why not just leave it up to them?”

  Gary nodded, scratching his moustache as he turned to gaze out the window. “I believe they’ll get it eventually, but I want you to be there first.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a vendetta. I’d never be able to do it by myself, but if you do it, at least it’ll feel like I contributed. I feel like I owe it to Carrie to find the guy.”

  “And if the cops get there first?”

  “Then we miss out on a big dose of justice. Besides, you need the work.”

  “I’m not taking payment.”

  “Take my gratitude, at least.”

  “That’s worth more than money.” Morgan nodded as Liz placed the coffee in front of him. He thanked her, scooted out of the seat, and grabbed the Styrofoam cup. “I’ll get to work first thing in the morning, but the coffee is on you. Cheers.”

  Chapter Eleven<
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  “Doing the rounds” was as arduous a task as it sounded. Those who didn’t slam the door in his face refused to answer entirely, and anyone who stuck around long enough to discover he wasn’t with the police quickly grew tired of his presence. For Morgan, there was no task more demoralizing or tedious, but it was necessary.

  He’d started on the street Carrie Whittle had lived on. From there, he’d worked his way around the block, stopping only to cross the street and return on the opposite side. As if this wasn’t already an exhausting chore, the morning offered only chilling air with a threat of rain. If he was going to be dry when he finished this, he’d have to finish fast.

  There were only four doors left to go. Morgan stalked up the drive of a bungalow with perfectly kept grass that was probably fake and a white patio that surrounded the front and sides. Half-wilted flowers hung on either side of the door, and Morgan got a strong whiff as he pressed his finger to the doorbell. He waited in the cold, his hands fed into his pockets.

  But there was no answer.

  Now there were only three left to go. Fearing he’d have to disappoint Gary for a second time, Morgan stepped off the porch and started to make his way to the next house when a voice called out from behind.

  “Are you with the police?”

  Morgan put on his best smile before he turned around. He’d been complimented on that smile more than once, not to mention being compared to Denzel Washington more times than he could count. Though he couldn’t see it himself; Denzel harbored far more masculinity than Morgan could ever dream of. “In a way, yes.”

  He was looking into the eyes of an elderly lady with white hair and shining, inquisitive eyes. Cowering behind her front door, only her head was visible, but it was low enough to tell how tall she was, which wasn’t very.

  “What, then?” she asked.

  “I’m a private investigator.” Morgan cleared his throat and returned to the patio, shivering as he spoke. “I take it you’ve heard about what happened?”

  “At the Whittle residence? I saw the news on TV.”

  “Is it worth me asking if you know anything?”

  The old lady smiled. Her teeth were too perfect to be her own, but the kindness in her humored expression was enough to compensate for that. Even her crow’s feet were perfectly symmetrical. “You’re quite bright. But actually, the police never did get as far as me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I was with my nephew for a couple of days after the incident. The ladies in my bingo group said they were all visited by the police and asked questions. Getting agitated, they were, being pressed as if they knew something.”

  “That explains why nobody wants to talk to me.” Morgan craned his neck to see the view of the Whittle residence from where he stood. It was visible, but only barely. “And you? Do you feel like you might know something about what happened?”

  “Ah.” The lady licked her finger and held it up to the air as if she were to reveal a huge secret. “As a matter of fact, I might know something, but I can’t promise it’ll be of much use to you. Wait here a moment.”

  While the lady disappeared behind her door, Morgan felt a twinge of excitement. She’d said it might not be helpful, but at this stage anything at all would serve him. Civilians never knew just how useful they were until they’d donated some information. Although that wasn’t always the case; most of the time they were just creating drama.

  It felt like forever before the woman returned, delicately handing over a cell phone as she shuffled toward him, revealing her grotesque green sweater. She passed it into his hands like she was scared to break it. Maybe she was. “My nephew took this for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  Morgan squinted to view the image on the screen. What he saw made his pulse quicken, his mouth turning dry at the prospect of finding something new. “You say your nephew took this?”

  The lady nodded. “It was a few days before those awful murders happened. I was seeing the same car parked outside my house every day for a week. At first I thought it was just somebody taking a break before work, but one day I saw him taking photographs.”

  Breathless, Morgan continued to stare at the photo, using his thumbs to zoom in on the image. The car was parked at such an angle that the driver could easily watch Carrie’s house, and although it might have meant nothing, there was the slimmest chance it might’ve meant everything. “Please tell me he was taking photos of the house.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. He was photographing Carrie Whittle.”

  That was enough. Morgan’s heart pounded. A smile crept onto his lips, and he leaned into the phone like he was about to fall into it. The license plate was unreadable, as was his typical luck, but there was something else about this car that stood out, and it couldn’t be ignored.

  Morgan zoomed in further and scrolled across, reading the sticker on the rear window.

  RICO’S CAR HIRE

  “Like I said,” the lady continued, “it might be nothing.”

  “It’s definitely something.” Morgan handed back the phone, placing it into her wrinkled palm as softly as she’d put it in his. He reached into his pocket and produced his own phone, his shaking thumbs ready to google the address of Rico’s Car Hire. “Thank you so much for your time. Could you call the police and tell them what you told me?”

  “And endure hours of interrogation?” She screwed up her face. “No.”

  Morgan could only laugh, but there was no time to let her see it. He was down the driveway and headed back to his car before he knew it, his thumbs dancing across the screen to follow up on the clue he’d lucked into finding.

  If only everything was that easy.

  Chapter Twelve

  The killer just had one of those faces, he supposed. It never took much to change his appearance: usually something as simple as a wig or a bit of eyeliner or, in this case, a pair of glasses stolen from the café table of an old gentleman who wasn’t paying attention. Those things came cheap, he knew, but the thrill was in the theft, so why not try his chances?

  The next thing he needed was a quick ruffle of the hair, and he was off. There wasn’t much of it really—mostly just a clump of brown fluff he didn’t much care for—but a dab of hair gel made all the difference. Now, he looked like an entirely different person, perhaps an accountant or a number puncher from some random office cubicle. The point was that he looked like a nobody, and that made it easier to gain access to her home.

  Just like before, he stepped up to her front door, shocked by the similarities to the last house he’d entered, and pressed the doorbell. It wasn’t long before there was a click, and the door swung open. This was it, the killer thought; it was time for another.

  But someone else opened the door.

  It wasn’t her.

  “Can I help you?” the young woman asked. She had mousy-brown hair and small hazel eyes that swung up and down the street. She seemed to have immediately noticed the sweat he’d worked up on his way over, dripping from his clammy face.

  “I know this is really weird, but could I come in for two minutes?”

  “What’s going—”

  “Please, it’s an emergency. Someone was chasing me. H-He had a knife, and he just kept swinging it at me. I started to run, but he just k-kept coming.” It was all he could do not to smile; making it this far without being told to leave was more than he’d expected. Not that he didn’t have a more brutal backup plan.

  The young woman opened the door wider and waved him inside. “Quick.”

  It couldn’t have been easier to get inside her home—unless he’d chosen to break in instead, that was—but where was the other woman? Where was the one he wanted? The one in front of him was beautiful enough, and he might’ve even argued she was too beautiful, but she wasn’t the reason he was here.

  There was no choice but to improvise.

  The door had barely closed before the killer pulled out the knife. Grabbing the hilt with
the blade held outward, he stood smiling as he waited for her to turn around and then enjoyed the shock in her eyes as they registered the danger.

  “What the—”

  “Shut your mouth, right now,” he spat. “Where’s Danielle?”

  The woman froze, tears already streaming from her eyes. This was too easy.

  “Where is she?” he demanded again, jerking the knife.

  “She’s at work. Please, don’t hurt me.”

  “Jesus,” the killer said, forcing back a grin. If he’d known it would only take the flash of a blade, he would’ve done this years ago. “How about this: you give her a call and tell her she has to come home, and I might not hurt you.”

  Blubbering now, the woman buried her face in her hands. “You might not?”

  “Believe me,” the killer said, the grin revealing itself like that of a hungry lion, “your chances are far greater than if you don’t. Now, go get your phone and we’ll make this quick. Do it within a minute, and I won’t make you watch as I cut up your friend.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan found the car rental place across town with no problems. It was a modest, independent establishment with only three cars outside and a colorful sign that could be seen from a mile down the road, but he had to park too far away for this to be a convenient location. Then again, he supposed most customers didn’t need to park, since they obviously didn’t have cars.

  There was a short wait inside the dusty seating area where Morgan could barely keep still. His leg bounced up and down as the excitement of revealing the killer’s name came closer. That was presuming, of course, that the man who’d been watching the house was in fact the killer, though Morgan had little reason to doubt it.