Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  But now their time had come to an end, and Morgan felt the clean spirit of his vacation being sucked away like water down a drain. It was like he’d never left. “What happened?”

  “That’s the worst part. He was murdered.”

  There was stab number two. Morgan didn’t realize he was falling back until his spine hit the brick wall behind him. Had it not been there, he was sure to have hit the ground. “Murdered? Who the hell would want to hurt Dusty Young?”

  Gary kept to himself, not rushing forward or crowding his best friend. Morgan recognized that effort and appreciated it, but it didn’t do much for his mood. “Don’t worry about that. I’m working on the case right now, just like you did for me not so long ago. All you need to do is attend the funeral. Provided you want to?”

  “Sure I do,” Morgan said eagerly, but as he parted with the words, he saw glimpses of his distant family. He pictured them all gathered in a large, dull room, the conversation dying the moment he stepped inside. All eyes were on him, and the sweat soaked his collar. How was he supposed to stay in a room with them after all these years? They were distant family for a reason, but Morgan knew it wasn’t about him, them, or their relationship; it was about his cousin and old friend Dusty Young, who’d been killed for reasons Morgan had yet to learn.

  “You okay?” Gary asked.

  “I’m fine,” he lied. “You going to tell me what happened?”

  “How about you get settled, and I’ll explain at the funeral tomorrow?”

  Morgan nodded, staring vacantly at the ground. “But how do you know about this?”

  “Homicide.” Gary opened his suit jacket and flashed his badge. “That, and your Aunt Gladys called me personally.”

  “I’ll bet that was fun.” Morgan’s Aunt Gladys was a piece of work. After many years of no communication, she’d spent her lonely hours filling her son’s head—Dusty’s head—with lies about why they had to leave DC. She’d blamed the neighborhood and Morgan’s bad influence, rather than confessing to her inability to hold down a relationship, much less a job. Morgan had refused to react, deciding to keep to himself and avoid the toxicity of an altercation. He’d been happier this way. Until now. “What did she say?”

  “Just that she wanted me to invite you to the ceremony.”

  “She didn’t want to talk with me personally?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Morgan smiled, but he didn’t know how genuine it was. “Not much.” He sighed. “All right. Thanks for coming down here to tell me. I’d better find Rachel and head home. Maybe I’ll make a stop along the way to pick up a black tie.”

  “Good idea. Keep your chin up, pal. And stay out of this one.”

  They exchanged a weak, brief hug and parted ways. Morgan dragged the suitcase around the exterior of the building toward the parking lot with a gray cloud following above him. All he could think about was Dusty’s young, playful smile, and Gary’s words repeated in his mind like a broken record: “Stay out of this one.”

  But how was he supposed to?

  His cousin had just been murdered, and Morgan couldn’t just let that slide.

  Chapter Three

  The funeral had been normal, as far as funerals went. There was a priest and a lot of crying and hugging, and everyone wore black. Morgan had stood at the back throughout the ceremony, keeping quiet with Rachel’s arm looped around his, saying nothing except “I’m sorry for your loss” to those who passed.

  Not that it did him any favors—Morgan’s cousins, aunties, and uncles all scowled as if he’d wronged them somehow, to which Rachel frowned. He’d tried to explain that these weren’t grateful, caring, or loving people, and judging by the cold stares exchanged by each of them, they didn’t want kind words.

  They only wanted their loved one back.

  But Dusty wasn’t coming back. Morgan was yet to know why, but somebody had taken it upon themselves to end his life. From the little he’d heard from Gary, the killer had gone to great lengths to ensure that Dusty suffered, but the greatest question was why?

  Morgan had no clue, but he was determined to find out.

  It wasn’t until the wake that Gary approached him. Morgan had been sitting at the corner table, eager to reconnect with his family but reminding himself that the toxicity of it was far too hot. He’d spent a lifetime convincing himself he was better off without them, and even something as simple as starting a little small talk would be akin to stripping his armor and making himself vulnerable. Instead, he sat with his hands wrapped around an empty glass, regretting having asked Rachel to leave him to his grief. It only made him more grateful when Gary slid a whiskey glass across the table and heaved himself onto the stool across from him. He leaned in and clinked his own glass against it, then knocked it back before Morgan could even take a sip.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, watching Gary slam the glass onto the wooden tabletop.

  “I know you’ve been out of the loop for a while, but we call it a toast. You’re supposed to drink it in honor of your late friend.”

  “Well, in that case.” Morgan swept it up and swallowed it in one gulp, the hot liquid flushing down his otherwise dry throat. It burned his insides, falling into his stomach where it settled with comforting warmth. It was a pleasant sensation, but not enough to make him crave more. If he were telling the truth, all he really wanted was to head home and slide into bed, sleeping off the day’s grief until he awoke with a clearer head. “To Dusty.”

  Gary nodded. “To Dusty.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “To your cousin?”

  “Who else?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to know?”

  Morgan was unsure, but there was only one way to find out. He agreed to listen, ignoring his gut feeling and slumping back with his arms folded across his chest while Gary explained what’d happened. It started off bad—his body washed up on a dirty riverbank—but the more Gary explained, the more Morgan wanted to hurl the table across the room and storm out. The questioning, judgmental stares from his distant family didn’t help either.

  By the time he was caught up, Morgan had no energy left. Gary let the last of the facts settle in the silence, and Morgan only noticed the clink of glasses and hissed murmurs from the people around him. He didn’t feel much like having company; he only wanted to know what could have driven a man to hurt Dusty, especially as savagely as he had.

  “It was personal,” he said.

  Gary knocked his head to one side. “What makes you say that?”

  “Duct tape, a sanitized vehicle, and a remote location. It takes a lot of effort to go through all that, and I can’t see why anyone would bother unless they wanted to prove a point. You’re human, right?”

  “Last I checked.”

  “Then imagine you’re the killer. Surely you’d need some sort of grudge.”

  Gary shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Supposition is for the lazy. Come on, Detective. You’re better than this.”

  “I’m trying my best.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Morgan said, lowering his tone when he realized he was talking a little too loud. He didn’t want it being mistaken for bitterness—he felt a lot of things for Gary, but anger wasn’t one of them. “I’m just saying, it’s worth looking into his past.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re on it.”

  Morgan nodded, saying nothing more. He glanced around the room at all the faces. All the expressions of hurt. There were a lot of memories in this room, but for now he didn’t want to think about any of the trouble caused over the years. He only wished he could heal their pain. Nothing he did would bring Dusty back from the dead, but if he could get to the bottom of why this happened, then maybe he had a shot at easing their anguish, even if just a little.

  “I know that look,” Gary said, burping into a closed fist. “You want to investigate.”

  “Are you going to stand in my way?”

  “Woul
d it stop you if I did?”

  “Not really.”

  Gary sighed. “Then I guess I’m here for anything you need.”

  “That’s good,” Morgan said, sliding off the stool and paying no mind to the eyes he felt crawling all over him like ants, “because I need a ride home.”

  Chapter Four

  The Young family weren’t the only ones in mourning. On the other side of the city, the killer stood in the open cemetery, the fierce wind howling at him and throwing his open coat behind him like a flapping flag. It didn’t bother him in the slightest—freezing temperatures were a mere discomfort compared to the internal agony he was enduring.

  Gawking down at the fresh marble headstones, a horrifying image of his loved ones crept into his mind. Lifeless bodies, bugs eating away at what used to be fun, lovable smiles with soft skin and bright, wonder-filled eyes. It winded him, feeling like someone had reached into his stomach and grabbed his innards, squeezing and twisting until he couldn’t take it anymore. He collapsed to his knees, reached out for the largest headstone, and ran his fingertips across the etchings:

  BELOVED MOTHER AND WIFE

  The pain was unbearable, to the point he no longer felt like himself. He hadn’t always been a murderer—that was still new to him, but he wasn’t able to stop. The people who’d done this had to pay, no matter what people thought of him. He only prayed the departed were looking down on him with love and understanding, rather than judging him for his somewhat inhumane behavior.

  It wasn’t like before, however, and the killer knew that like he knew his own reflection. The woman rotting beneath him would’ve understood him in life, and she would’ve been at his side telling him as much. She would also be asking him to stop, trying to convince him this was the wrong thing to do. But did that mean she was always right? In some ways she was lucky; she didn’t have to experience the sheer agony he was currently unable to escape, and it felt as though that perspective was necessary before being able to judge.

  But vengeance wasn’t the point.

  It was more like a funnel. He simply had to vent his anger, and if it wasn’t directed at the people responsible, then who else would suffer? Ever since the ordeal—after spending an extended period of time in bed without sleeping—the killer had discovered his need for revenge. It was like a part of him he’d uncovered in the long, winding trails of his mind where his calm, collected persona once resided. There was once a man whose biggest concern was paying the bills on time, maybe even finding thirty minutes to rearrange his DVD collection into a newer, more discernable order.

  Now there was only rage.

  Hot, unrelenting rage.

  And for what he was about to do, he could only hope that his loved ones—the kind, beautiful, innocent people who’d died for no reason other than the ignorance of others—would look down on him with just a touch of forgiveness.

  Because he wasn’t done yet.

  Not by a long shot.

  Chapter Five

  Sleep didn’t come for him. Morgan spent countless hours awake in bed, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling like dark monsters reaching out for unsuspecting victims. It drove him wild, shooting him into the deepest areas of his imagination where nobody and nothing was safe. Was this where Dusty had been a few nights ago, he wondered? Had he known his demise was so close, or had it been as big a surprise to him as is had been to everyone else?

  There was no way to know.

  After hours of pointless staring, Morgan finally gave in and slipped quietly into his clothes, careful not to wake Rachel. With that accomplished, he snuck downstairs in the dark, made a coffee, and took it with him in one of the Styrofoam cups Rachel had bought for those last-minute journeys. Creeping through the dark and watching over his shoulder the entire time, he found the garage and slipped into the car, started the engine, and left the neighborhood in the dark of night, the smell of hot coffee working its magic on his heavy eyes.

  When he was far enough away from the house and able to make all the noise he wanted, he turned on the radio and slipped into the trance of ’70s soul music. Al Green sang through the speakers about staying together, and although he’d love to get thinking about the days he and his wife first fell for each other, all he could think about was Dusty.

  Dusty had been a person—a living, breathing person. His favorite movie was The Goonies. His favorite rock band was AC/DC. He’d loved strawberry Pop-Tarts and always started by nibbling around the crust before tucking into the icing. He’d had dreams of becoming an actor, fears of moths and the monster under his bed. The man he’d grown into—although Morgan had been deprived of the opportunity to know him—surely had dreams of his own, but all that had been taken away from him.

  Why?

  Morgan stayed deep in thought, lingering on that question until he arrived at his destination. It wasn’t a place he’d planned on heading, but something in his subconscious must have directed him there. He climbed out, stepping from the warm safety of his car and into the freezing wind beside the river. His boots squelched into the dirt as he locked his car and pulled up the flashlight app on his phone, navigating his way toward the abandoned building that stood in the dark like one of the monsters hiding under Dusty’s bed.

  Everything in his body told him to turn back now, but Morgan knew better. It’d been decades since he’d believed in ghosts or monsters, and he knew it was his inner child talking to him. He dismissed it for now, following the light produced by his cell phone, peering into the holes of the smashed windows. He directed the light into the rooms, but there was nothing there besides wall graffiti and old fast food wrappers. Morgan wanted to head inside and investigate, but something told him there was nothing to find. The police had probably inspected it thoroughly anyway.

  Moving on, Morgan stepped away from the building and headed toward the boat slip. The breeze returned to him here, the assault of icy midnight wind tearing at his coat. He shivered, pulling it taut at the collar with one hand, while the hand holding the cell phone suffered the pain of a thousand cold spikes pricking his bare skin. He did his best to ignore it, simply following the most lit path to where the car had been dragged from the river only days ago. It felt surreal standing in the exact spot where his cousin had been found dead. Life was fragile, and he often forgot that. Hopefully this would be a lesson for him.

  Focusing on the part of him that’d told him to be here, Morgan walked to the end of the slip and gazed out toward the water. There was nothing but faraway lights and the sparkle of them bouncing across the water. He shook in the cold breeze and turned toward the slope, lighting up the dark tracks where the car had been recovered. While his breath drew short, he followed them back until he was on level ground. What exactly had happened here? What had pushed somebody into hurting Dusty in such a cruel, vindictive way?

  He intended to find out.

  At the far back of the boatyard, past where the tracks ended, Morgan shined the light on the ground and continued his hike back to the car. On the far rim of the yard, buried between two patches of overgrown weeds that’d probably been healthy grass long ago, two deep grooves in the dirt formed a familiar pattern. Morgan froze before crouching low to investigate. Something was off about this picture, and the truth behind it felt only an inch too far away for him to grasp. Regardless, he activated the camera on his phone and snapped away at the grooves from multiple angles.

  It wasn’t until he took the fourth picture that he realized.

  These were tire tracks.

  He was sure of it now, kicking away the weed patches and following them back to the exit of the yard. It wasn’t much of a discovery—it was probably nothing at all—but Morgan kept snapping photos until the tracks ended. When he was done, he returned to his car and sent the pictures to Gary’s phone.

  In the warm, comfortable silence of his car, he reached for his coffee, which had turned cold long ago. Each sip disgusted him more and more, but God knew he needed the caffeine, and he wasn’t ab
ove drinking it cold. Still, he cradled it in his hands as if it would warm him, staring into the dark abyss of the windshield.

  Until his phone lit up.

  Fatigue picked at his brain while he reached for the phone in its dashboard cradle. He swiped with his cold-numbed thumb, the caffeine working together with the name on the screen to quicken the beat of his heart.

  It was a text message from Gary, and it was good news:

  Were these at the yard? MPD didn’t see those.

  That was because they were officially off the site, Morgan thought, typing up his reply with multiple errors. He was too cold to care about the mistakes, as long as the message was recognizable:

  East sidf, under she sign.

  Good enough, he thought, firing up the engine and relishing the hot blast of air shooting from the vent. With any luck, the police would send somebody over to investigate the tracks soon, but wouldn’t that be too late? The sun would be up in an hour or so, and Morgan had no intention of sleeping. Instead, he headed for downtown, where he knew a guy who might be able to help him out.

  This way, he could stay a step ahead of the police.

  Chapter Six

  Jimmy Dinsmore was an old friend of Morgan’s from way back when. They’d met at a bar long, long ago when Morgan used to hang out and get some breathing space. Usually when Rachel was busy and there was nothing better to do than sit on a stool and sip at an overpriced drink. It was always lonely until you got talking to people, and that was one thing Morgan was good at.

  It was a good thing too—Jimmy had handed over his business card for the custom tire shop he owned, and Morgan had studied it with great interest. Just like anything else of an entrepreneurial nature, it fascinated him that a man could choose something so unique and craft an entire business from it. As far as Morgan could see, a man only needed two things to succeed in such a venture: start-up funding and knowledge.