Mommy May I

by A. K. Alexander

  Richard glanced at him. His body went cold. He wanted to cry. The sourness in his stomach worsened and hurt so bad he thought he might puke.

  “I also know what you did with her. I found ashes in the oven the night after she’d gone missing, and I knew we hadn’t used the oven for some time—and I knew you’d cleaned it when we had. I watched you do it. Remember? You said that you hadn’t, that you’d forgotten, but I knew that was a lie. I also found the bag of beer and her sweater in the dumpster out back. But I didn’t tell. I figured you had a lot to work out about your own mother’s murder. We all got secrets, Richard—and I kept yours, because I love you.

  “Then with the animals, when I discovered what was going on with that, I let it go too. But this has gotten out of hand. You need help, son—you really do. This is much more than about your mother. You’re sick. And I don’t know what to do anymore.” James took out a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped his face.

  Richard could not believe what he was hearing. This man whom he loved and trusted wasn’t going to help him. “No. Please, you’ve got to cover for me, please. I can’t go to jail. I didn’t mean to do it. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s just that I got so mad, and she was talking trash about my mother again. And you don’t understand about what happened with Janie. She was my friend and she betrayed me. You wouldn’t understand. I won’t hurt no one else, I promise.” The desperation in his voice made him sick, but Richard was playing this one for the Academy Award. He refused to be locked away to rot in some prison cell. James owed him for his own lies and transgressions.

  James sighed, then leaned back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “What can I do?”

  “You promised to take care of me. Do it for my mother.”

  “You’ve got to leave, then. That’s all I can say, and I don’t want to know where you go. I never want to know! Do you hear me? Go away, far away. I can’t be responsible for you anymore. I can’t take it if you kill someone else. But I do love you, and couldn’t bear to have you in jail, or worse yet, if the state killed you for these crimes. So go.” The old man started to cry again.

  His tears infuriated Richard even further—having to leave was ridiculous. “It’s not like you loved the old bag. All she ever did was nag you. You know, for a while there I was too young to figure out your dirty little secret—the secret she had on you. But when I got a little older, it wasn’t too difficult. I can’t say that I blame you with some of the corpses that came in, Dad.” The power was once again Richard’s. That one little word infused him with more power than he’d ever known. He had his father right where he wanted him. He watched closely as James’s entire body language changed.

  James’s head snapped back into place. “What are you talking about?” His red eyes turned into tiny slits.

  “I now know why you kept her around. First, dear Uncle, is that you’re my father. Secret is out. The bitch told me the whole sordid truth, before I . . .” Richard made a gesture with his finger sliding across his throat while making a gurgling sound. James tried to protest, but Richard wouldn’t let him speak—not while he had the spotlight.

  “Yes, Daddy, and old Aunt Valerie also knew that you were screwing the corpses. I can understand why you’d want to keep your fetish a secret. Hell, I can understand why you wanted to keep me a secret. You’re a pretty sick old buzzard, aren’t you? Like father, like son. Don’t fall far from the tree and all that jazz, right? So maybe I should be telling you how it’s going to go. If I wanted to stay, and you made a fuss, it could get kinda ugly. Know what I mean?”

  “Richard, I . . .”

  He could see his father sweating and raised his hand in protest. “No need to explain. Your necrophilia thing never stopped me from loving you. Actually, I understand. I really do. But I’m not too happy about this whole daddy thing. It’s a pretty sickening thing you two were up to—I sure don’t want to think you raped her. Since you are my daddy, though, I’ll try to be real understanding. But the understanding has to go both ways. Of all people, I thought you would support me. I kill this woman who has been awful from the word go, and you want me to leave? You can’t take the pressure? Man, who can? I’m shocked, to say the least.”

  Richard rubbed his forehead. He was sweating. But he was in control, and he knew it. He would feel his father’s abandonment later, but now he needed to be cold. It was easy—like turning off a TV, he could turn off his feelings. He pushed down the hurt to the same place he’d put all the feelings about his mother so long ago. He ignored his nerves and the pounding in his chest. Why did everyone he ever loved wind up betraying him? What was real emotion anyway? Maybe his had died along with his mother.

  “Be thankful,” he told his father, “that I’ve loved you so much that I could never do what you’re going to do to me—and don’t worry, I could never kill you. But you will have to suffer for this.”

  James said nothing. Richard could see the fear on his face, could even smell it coming off him—quite a stench, nasty really. He sighed.

  Richard paced the floorboards, which creaked beneath his feet. “I’ll go. And since you won’t have Miss Tightwad looking over your shoulder, you’ll set up a bank account for me with unlimited funds. I know you have it, Dad.”

  His mind was buzzing. He couldn’t see the room clearly; everything felt so out of place. He would never have imagined that he and this man would have ever come to this. They had always gotten along so well, agreed on nearly everything, loved each other.

  James nodded slowly. “Whatever you want. Whatever you want.” He held up his hands as if giving up. The look on his face was a mixture of confusion, contempt, sympathy, even love.

  Richard knew that his father still loved him, maybe he felt ashamed that he did. In his father’s eyes, he must be a mixed up monster that he felt sorry for. It was the other way around, as far as Richard was concerned.

  “I hate doing this to you. I didn’t figure it would happen like this. I never meant to upset you, but there was no other way. If you could only understand.”

  James nodded, bowing his head. He never looked back up at Richard.

  “Well, since this is only business between us now, I need you to make me your sole heir when you die.” James continued to nod. “Good. Better call the police—they’ve got a mess to clean up.”

  James did everything that Richard told him to do. It was in Richard’s favor that James was highly regarded in their community, and the police believed his every word without much investigation. For once, Richard was glad this was a small town, with a small town police force, with an even smaller mentality—murder never crossed their minds.

  Richard left on the bus that evening. James concocted a story that Richard was already up north visiting friends for the Thanksgiving holiday and had decided to get an apartment up there and wait tables until he started college the next fall. Richard wanted to get out quickly before the cops changed their minds; he knew his father wouldn’t change his. As awful as he felt about what he’d done to his daddy, he’d had no choice. Life must go on. Hell, Richard had no doubt that life was just beginning.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tyler lit a fire in the fireplace and poured himself his third cup of coffee. He grabbed the large dossier of files he’d brought home, and then collapsed into his leather recliner. Stirring the sugar in his coffee, he stared at his pile of work.

  Those files contained the proof that pure evil existed. Although he was agitated, he was compelled to read through them. Analyzing the criminal mind was his nature, his job, his life.

  On the drive home he’d been jittery, thinking that maybe in tonight’s chamber of horrors he might find something to help him make some sense of his Jane Doe case.

  He leaned back in the recliner and flipped open the file: Elaine Myers. She’d also been a Jane Doe case for quite some time, and the killer had never been found. Also, this new Jane Doe had been found close to where Elaine Myers’s body had been discovered. His intuition
told him that Jane Doe was not his UNSUB’S, otherwise called the unknown subject’s, only victim. There’d been others; maybe Elaine Myers was even one of them.

  Tyler read the file on Elaine Myers, carefully studying the photos taken at the dumpsite. The deep feeling in his gut told him that the killer had not returned here to the original grave. Many serial killers would, as if to pay homage to their victims or relive the experience. Tyler didn’t receive a vibe that his UNSUB necessarily wanted to relive the fantasy of the killing. There was something more to it than that for him. This guy had buried Elaine just like Jane Doe, which meant it was a personal thing with him. He didn’t need to visit the grave or leave the body in the open to get himself off. If Tyler was right, then the perp probably kept a souvenir, maybe jewelry or a wallet, or maybe even panties.

  He concentrated on the photographs of Elaine’s skeletal remains, then the pictures the forensic art team developed as the woman’s identity began to emerge through their skilled work. Once CSI had come up with a good impression, they searched the missing persons’ banks where Elaine’s identity was finally matched.

  Elaine Myers was twenty when she was abducted in 1994 from a rural area outside of Los Angeles. She’d been pulling into her driveway when the perp made his move. When her boyfriend arrived later, he found the car in front of the mailbox with the door open, motor running. The police had targeted him at first, but not for long. He’d had a concrete alibi.

  Tyler read and reread the report. This guy sees these women and wants them, but why? What is their commonality? There has to be a particular characteristic that he targets. “It’s more than sexual, if that even equates into it at all,” Tyler said aloud. No way of telling if Elaine had been sexually assaulted, as her remains were mere bones. The same was true with Jane Doe.

  Tyler finished his coffee. He knew he should get up and make himself something to eat. He patted his stomach, feeling his ribs. Nothing tasted good anymore. Susan had been a wonderful cook. Now, he ate simply to survive. His mainstay was usually macaroni and cheese or a can of soup, if he didn’t go out or order in.

  Samuel Paul Nelson, Susan’s killer, had ruined his life. This Jane Doe and the related cases were personal because of what they meant to him—reminders of Susan and her murder. Unlike Nelson, who left his victims in the open, this killer appeared to go to great lengths to find burial ground. This spoke volumes to Tyler. The killer was to some degree ashamed of what he was doing. That’s why he hid their bodies. It also meant he could probably blend fairly well into society, because he did have some type of conscience, even if it was rather tiny. Elaine had been found wrapped up in a blanket and buried. This guy had a need to depersonalize the women. But Tyler believed that before he went through the ritual of depersonalization, he owned them in some way; he wasn’t convinced that it was entirely sexual.

  Tyler looked at his aquarium. He didn’t have a television—too much noise. Instead, his large, fascinating fish bowl was his one source of solace. He watched the blowfish puff itself out and the pretty coral fish dance around each other.

  He stood up, shaking his finger at the aquarium. “I don’t think these girls were the beginning. I think there are more. And when we find out who Jane Doe is, I think it’ll be like Elaine Myers. This girl has been missing for a long time. But he’s doing something different. I know it. His fantasy game is escalating—has escalated. He’s killed since he was a kid and will keep on killing until he’s stopped. Mark my words.” The blowfish deflated.

  This wasn’t voodoo, nor was it a psychic process, although Tyler knew that many would say that it was. They called him “Voodoo Man” under their breaths at the agency. He’d heard defense attorneys use that exact term when trying to get their sicko clients off. But when it came down to it, they all knew and respected Tyler for the profiling he did.

  He stretched out his palms as if weighing something. Was this personal for the killer or not? He’s gone from one extreme to the other, developing a persona, building on his fantasy, his scheme. Personal or not? Tell you what, man, as far as I’m concerned, it’s personal.

  He watched the fish for a while longer. He was missing something here. What was it? He sprinkled fish food into the tank, fascinated as they swam to the top, fighting over the food like gluttons.

  Gluttony. A vision of a velvet sofa, candles lit around it, poetry from somewhere, read out loud to someone. The listener afraid—female. She is blonde, tears flow down her face, smearing makeup. Champagne glasses sparkle in firelight. A flash in front of Tyler’s eyes and the vision—gone.

  “He likes the finer things in life,” Tyler said out loud. “Bastard thinks he’s royalty, special somehow. Well, my friend, your term on the throne is about to end.”

  Tyler sat back down in his chair, finished his coffee, and started to re-read his files, determined to uncover the missing link.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Helena drove straight to the UCLA Medical Burn Center where Rachel had been taken by a life flight helicopter. Pressing buttons to take the elevator up, her mind and heart raced as the words Lindsay had spoken to her played over again in her mind, “Rachel burned. Shea House blown up.” None of it made any sense. The palms of her hands were sweaty. She was nauseated almost to the point of vomiting, but knew she had to keep everything in check. Her needs were of the least importance right now.

  The doors to the elevator opened. She stepped out. Blurred images in white flitted past her. Perspiration formed at the top of her forehead. She sneezed from the smells of rubbing alcohol and other sterilizing agents.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” asked a male nurse. He was bald, in shape like a body builder, and his hazel eyes met her with scrutiny through wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Yes, I hope so. I’m here to see Rachel Winters. I was told she was brought in here.”

  “Yes, she’s here. However, only family is allowed to visit her.” The nurse squinted through the glasses. “You aren’t family, are you,” he stated more than asked.

  “Technically I’m not.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I understand your policy, but you see, she doesn’t have any family, not really anyway. She has a son, a baby boy. But I am like family to her, as she is to me.” Helena realized how dumb she sounded. It was difficult to get any words out. Her hands shook as she shoved them into her jeans pockets. “I’m Helena Shea.”

  “Oh, ho, ho, excuse me,” the nurse said. “Sure, sure. I recognize you now. But celebrity status won’t do much for you here. Sorry.”

  “That is certainly not my intention. Rachel is my friend. I care a lot about her and her child. We’ve spent a lot of time together. Please, please let me see her.”

  Hearing the desperation or perhaps the sincerity in her voice, the nurse relented and, changing his attitude somewhat, said, “Hang on, and let me see what I can do.”

  He walked back down the corridor towards the nurses’ station. A few minutes later he came back nodding his head. “Okay, but only for a few minutes. I’m afraid that you’ll only be allowed into an observation area. If she’s awake at all, she’ll be able to hear you. We can’t take a chance of any type of contamination. Infection is what we’re worried about now.”

  Helena choked back her tears. “Thank you. Can you tell me how bad she is, please?”

  He lowered his voice. “She’s pretty lucky. When they brought her in, she went into cardiac arrest, but the folks downstairs in E.R. were able to resuscitate. Her burns cover the lower half of her body. Right now, it’s hard to say. Every second counts. Like I said, the main thing is to keep her from getting any kind of infection.”

  “I understand.”

  “Follow me.”

  The nurse led her behind two swinging double doors. He had her scrub, put on a gown, gloves and mask. He then took her through another door where she was able to stand behind a plate of Plexiglas. Fluorescent lights beat down on her. She could see Rachel through the glass. The young woman looked even tinier than she
normally did. Bandages covered her burns, her lower half wrapped like a mummy. Intravenous lines were hooked into several veins.

  “Oh, sweet girl,” Helena gasped. The tears she’d fought back now readily trickled down her face. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

  Rachel turned her face towards the glass. A severe look of pain shone in her eyes as a tear fell from her face. She appeared much older than her eighteen years. Helena placed a hand on the glass. Rachel mouthed the word, “baby.”

  “He’s okay. He’s good. Lindsay has him. I’m going over after I leave here. He’ll be fine, but you have to hurry up and get well.” Rachel closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry this happened to you. I wish there was something I could do to change it.”

  Rachel opened her eyes again, looked at Helena. They caught each other’s gaze for a long time. It pained Helena to see her that way. She wanted to scream, cry out. There was no explanation for any of this.

  “Lots of prayers okay, Angel?” Rachel said in a barely audible voice coming over the speaker piped into the room.

  “You got it, my friend. All the prayers in the world. And don’t forget, you’re my angel and so is little Jeremy. You’re gonna be fine, just fine.”

  The nurse tapped Helena on the shoulder. “It’s time to go. She really needs to get some rest.”

  As they walked out Helena asked, “Can you tell me anything else about her condition?”

  “Each twenty-four hour period she makes it through without contracting any type of infection will raise her odds significantly.”

  “Okay.” Helena left the hospital and drove straight to The Sober Living House. Walking in, she quickly noticed the silence and the absence of the usual buzz of activity. The atmosphere was somber. No one was in the game or TV room. Helena went to Lindsay’s office and tapped lightly on the door. A man with a slight paunch around the waist, wearing a tweed jacket, and smelling faintly of cheap men’s cologne opened the door.