by R. L. Akers
When I finally woke up, when I realized it was just a nightmare, it filled me with relief. Everything is okay. It was just a dream. I did not kill anybody. Ellis and Kathy are still alive. I will not have to live with that horror the rest of my life. And then I remembered that I have had this dream before, many times, and I am terr full of fear again.
I saw them for real this afternoon. I went down to check my mailbox, and they came home from visiting Sara, and we rode the elevator back up together. It was sc tense and awkward, because of these terrible dreams. I do not think they notice it, or if they do, they pretend it is not awkward. But more and more when I am around them, I feel afraid. I do not know if I am afraid of them or afraid of myself. When we got to our floor, Kathy said it. "Your parents would be so proud of you, Barton." I actually flinched and backed up, like I had anywhere to run. But then they left the elevator and they said"Have a nice day" and it was over.
This whole thing There are times when I wonder if I am actually awake or if I am in the nightmare again. The nightmare always starts out so routine. And when I am in the nightmare, I do not know I am in the nightmare, so if I am actually awake, how do I know I am awake and not in the nightmare? If I stop and think about it, the fact that I can even wonder if this is a nightmare tells me it is probably not a nightmare. But being around the Howells is starting to terrify me, and I cannot think straight when I am terrified. I finally called Dr. Gharin today. I have put it off too long. I'm afraid of what he will say about these nightmares, but now I am more afraid of what might happen if I do not talk to him.
That was it. The last of Barton Chan's journal entries.
Slowly, Gray lowered the notebook, realizing that the hair was standing up on the back of his neck. There hadn't really been any doubt in Gray's mind that Chan was the killer—how could there be, when he'd seen a security recording of the murder?—but he had wanted to get some sense of motive. There wasn't any, though. Mack was right. The guy had just snapped.
Unless, of course, the Harkley Building really was haunted.
Barton Chan had murdered the Howells more than a dozen times, as far as Gray could tell. It was all documented right there in his journals, stretching back three or four months. Always, it occurred in the elevator. Always, it started with a friendly conversation. And always, the tone of the encounter changed right after one of the Howells said, "Your parents would be so proud of you, Barton." If the elevator surveillance footage had included audio, Gray suspected he would have heard Ellis Howell saying those words immediately before Barton attacked him.
Interesting, though, that Barton Chan never initiated the violence in his dreams... or at least, not according to his own journal documentation of those dreams. Rather, the Howells always initiated the change in tone, immediately after speaking that trigger phrase. Sometimes they threatened him with a sword, sometimes with a gun. Once there was even a bomb strapped to Kathy Howell's chest beneath her own trench coat. All of this was strange enough, but even stranger... according to Chan's journal, the Howells always seemed to announce that they were carrying a weapon, rather than simply using it.
But that was just how dreams were, right? Strange.
The hair on the back of Gray's neck had still not lain down, even though he was now out of Chan's apartment. At this very moment, he was standing in the Howells' kitchenette, flipping through the day planner he'd found on the counter.
Appointments had been added to the book primarily in pencil, the cursive inscribed in a careful but somewhat shaky hand. There was the usual mix of doctor's appointments, more than a few each month, thanks to the Howells' stage of life. But equally well represented were social engagements with three different individuals: Vanessa, Barton, and Sara. Barton Chan's journal had mentioned the Howells visiting a Sara, and Gray wondered who that was; most of their appointments with her appeared to be outside the Harkley Building, often dinner at a restaurant. For their visits with Vanessa Watkins and Barton Chan, it seemed Mr. and Mrs. Howell typically hosted in 603, either for dinner or a game night, sometimes with both of their neighbors, sometimes just one.
Visits with their future murderer happened almost weekly, and Gray had a sudden flash of intuition. Flipping out Chan's most recent journal, which he had collected as evidence, he started comparing dates... but no. None of Chan's nightmares occurred after having dinner with the Howells. In fact, it didn't appear that they had met for dinner in almost a month, possibly because Chan had been avoiding them.
Well. So much for the theory that contact with the Howells right before bedtime triggered the nightmares.
Gray went ahead and collected the day planner as evidence, slipping both it and Chan's journal back into his case. He stepped into the living room again and began perusing the Howells' wall of fame—dozens of framed photos, many of them multi-photo frames or collages. If he focused hard and glanced back and forth quickly, Gray could tell that there were a number of teens and young adults who featured repeatedly in the photos; grandchildren, perhaps?
The detective sighed, blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes. Mack had agreed to find and contact next of kin, to inform them of the Howells' death, and Gray was grateful for that. So soon after his own loss, Gray wasn't sure he could manage that responsibility right now. Mack had warned him on numerous occasions about getting too emotionally involved in his cases, but staring at these photos, Gray found himself even more affected than usual. Funny that the gore of the murder itself should have so little effect, while these photos could reduce him to tears. It was just so unfair, that death could rip a person away from loved ones—suddenly, unexpectedly. And for the killer to be the victims' own friend, someone in whose life they had repeatedly invested...
The ring of Gray's phone came as a welcome distraction. "Gray Gaynes here," he answered.
"Gray! Hey man, it's Bobbi."
"Hi, Bobbi, what's up?"
"Mack said you wanted me to analyze that surveillance video, check for tampering. You suspect the landlord or something?"
"Not really. Just doing my due diligence."
"Well, guess what I found?"
Gray blinked. "You found something?"
"I found... bupkis. Nothing. No evidence the video had been doctored in any way."
"Bobbi," Gray said in a warning tone.
The tech laughed. "Sorry, man, you're just too much fun." She sobered. "But seriously, how spooky is this, the way the guy just erupts, attacks them for no reason."
"Believe me, I know."
"I mean, they were being nice and stuff too, saying nice things about his parents."
"Yeah," Gray agreed, then froze. "Wait, what?" He replayed Bobbi's words in his head. "You can hear what they're talking about?"
"Yeah, man. There's an audio channel in this footage, you know."
"Play it for me," the detective demanded. "From the point where the victims get on the elevator and start talking to the suspect."
"Alright, man, hold your horses." She paused. "How about I just text it to you?"
Gray agreed, and they ended the call. It took a few minutes, but eventually a video text appeared on his phone from Bobbi Falmer. Cranking up the phone's volume, Gray jabbed impatiently at his screen until it started playing.
There it was, the now-familiar footage of the elevator car, seen from the perspective of the security camera in the corner near the ceiling. Gray realized suddenly that as he'd read through Chan's journal and pictured the events it described, he had done so from this perspective. As the video started, Chan was already in the car, riding up from the basement to the first floor.
Ding-ding.
The door slid open, admitting the Howells exactly as before. Chan tensed up, pushing himself into the corner of the elevator car, hands white-knuckle on the handrail behind him. "Hello, Barton!" came a man's voice—Mr. Howell—and then...
Ding. The door slid closed once more.
"How about dinner on Friday?" There was no immediate answer from Chan, and the sile
nce grew awkward.
Ding. The elevator was passing the second floor.
Mrs. Howell spoke up. "Honey, I'll make that apricot chicken you like so much." The silence from Chan grew even more awkward, and the Howells traded a look.
Ding.
Finally, a new voice said, "I... No, thank you. I have plans Friday." Presumably that was Chan, though he was facing away from the camera now and Gray couldn't tell if his mouth was moving.
Ding.
Before the Howells could respond with an alternate date, Chan changed the subject: "Are you going to see Sara today?" "Oh yes!" Mrs. Howell enthused. "She has a performance at noon." The woman seemed on the cusp of saying something more, but then—
Ding.
She glanced up at the floor number display, apparently saw they were about to arrive at their floor. Mr. Howell smiled at Chan, and then he said the words.
"Your parents would be so proud of you, Barton."
Yes, Gray saw it. At the exact moment Howell was saying these words, the trigger phrase from Chan's dream, he was also reaching to unbutton his trench coat. And Chan attacked.
Ding-ding. The door opened onto the sixth floor, spilling a new shaft of light onto the now battered bodies of Ellis and Kathryn Howell, while Barton Chan stumbled out into the hallway.
The detective returned the phone to his pocket, then let himself out of the Howells' apartment, locking the door and pulling it closed behind him. Without thinking about the bleach fumes, he called the elevator and stepped inside, pushing the "L" button. Fortunately, the vapors had abated somewhat.
That was it, then. Barton Chan had murdered the Howells, just as he'd done a dozen times before in his dreams. Despite his evident love and regard for his neighbors, Chan had snapped, unable to separate dream from reality. Gray had wondered why today was different, what had pushed the man over the edge when he'd survived numerous other elevator trips without attacking his friends. The answer was apparently as simple as Ellis Howell's unconscious move to unbutton his trench coat. Not only did he say the trigger words, he was reaching toward his jacket, where so many times before—in Chan's dreams—he had been hiding a weapon of some kind.
Ding-ding.
Gray nearly jumped out of his skin. Yes, it was time he laid this case to rest. It didn't matter whether he went home or back to the precinct; he had to get out of this building. He would call a cab. He could pretend to be blind, and maybe the cabbie would have mercy on him, help guide him to the car.
Stepping out of the elevator as its door opened, Gray collided bodily with a young woman. A very distraught young woman.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am," he said, allowing her to enter the elevator before he stepped out. She immediately began jabbing at the "6" button, and he paused, one foot in the hall, one still in the car.
She didn't respond to his apology, didn't seem to even acknowledge his presence, despite their collision.
The elevator door tried to close, but of course Gray was standing in the way. "Excuse me, ma'am." There was something familiar about her. He was beginning to learn that even a close friend might appear only vaguely familiar to him, or not familiar at all, but this woman...
He fished out his shield and ID, just as she finally noticed that he was preventing her ascent. She saw his badge, and her eyes went wide.
"What happened to my grandparents?" she demanded. "Are they okay?" She paused. "Ellis and Kathy Howell, are they okay?"
Ah, that explained it. The photos in their apartment. Gray had undoubtedly seen this young woman's face there. "I'm sorry, your name is?"
"Sara Hoffman."
Even better: this was the mysterious Sara. "Miss Hoffman, I'm Detective Gaynes with the NYPD." He considered her strange question as he pocketed his identification. She had asked whether her grandparents were okay; clearly she knew something had happened, but she had no idea they were dead. "Why do you ask about your grandparents?"
"I got a call from their neighbor, Vanessa. She wouldn't tell me anything, just that I needed to get up here and speak with the landlord, Mr. Saunders."
Of course, Gray realized. Saunders was paying Vanessa Watkins for her "discretion." Watkins had taken it upon herself to contact next of kin, but she'd passed the buck on actually telling Sara Hoffman that her grandparents were dead. In her shoes, Gray would have done the same, even if not for the arrangement with the landlord.
"Please, Mr. Gaynes, what happened?"
Gray nearly told her right then, the standard "I'm sorry to inform you, but..." He stopped himself. The investigator in him still had questions, even though just a minute before, he'd been ready to wash his hands of this depressing case. And so he asked his questions, putting off telling her the truth, knowing that he'd lose her entirely the moment he imparted the grave news. "I take it you live in the area, Miss Hoffman?"
She blinked, obviously surprised by the question. "I— Yes. I'm at Juilliard. I'm a senior."
That triggered another memory for Gray. An appointment in the Howells' day planner, late in May. May 25th? Two weeks from today. It had said simply "Sara," but the name had been traced over several times in pen and circled repeatedly. "So you're graduating later this month?"
"Yes." She was fidgeting noticeably, eyes shooting toward the floor number display as if doing so would speed her more quickly on her way.
"On the 25th?" He wasn't sure why it mattered, but something made him want to clarify the date.
She stared at him in disbelief. "I... No. Graduation is the 22nd. The 25th... I'm moving in here, with my grandparents." She gave a little shrug. "I'm going to stay in the city. Try to make it on Broadway."
That tiny bit of information trickled through Gray's mind, dripping past all the other facts of the case—and his eyes widened. Suddenly everything made sense. For the first time, he saw motive.
Yes, yes... He just needed to verify a few facts. First, he needed Vanessa Watkins' work schedule for the last few weeks. Then, a phone call to—
"Please, Mr. Gaynes—detective—whatever... Are they okay?"
Gray had to fight to keep the smile from his face. He was about to crack this case wide open, but first, he had some terrible news to relay. "Miss Hoffman, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but..."
"I hope you know what you're doing," Mack said quietly, a worried look on his face. "We have a confession and video evidence—convincing video evidence, admissible or not—and you're throwing that away to go after someone different. If this doesn't pan out, it won't take the review board long to decide you're going back on leave."
That gave Gray pause. In truth, he really wasn't ready to return to duty; today had shown him that. But he needed to be here. He needed his shield and the resources of the department at his disposal.
He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the internal debate. "It'll pan out. Trust me." Even though I've been less than honest with you all day long.
Mack eyed him a moment longer. "Okay. I trust you."
Gray took one last inventory of the NYPD personnel assembled outside the apartment door: in addition to the two detectives, there were two uniformed officers and Bobbi Falmer, toting a forensic kit. Almost three hours had passed since Gray's epiphany.
"Here we go," he said finally. He pounded on the entrance to 201.
The occupant came to the door and gazed out at them in confusion. When his eyes met Gray's, when he saw the hard look there, he paled so visibly that even Gray could see it. "Detective? What's going on?"
Mack handed him a piece of paper. "We have a warrant to search the premises."
Robert Saunders, owner of the Harkley Building, stepped back slowly, his mouth struggling to form words. "I don't understand. I already let you in here, several times." He glanced at Gray. "I've cooperated with every request. What do you need a warrant for?"
The senior detective ignored him, motioning for everyone to get started. One of the uniforms took up station just inside the door, while the other moved to block the window that let out on
to the fire escape. Mack began going through drawers and cabinets in the kitchenette while Bobbi seated herself at the landlord's computer. Gray stepped over to the shelving unit that held Saunders' tools and maintenance supplies.
The third shelf from the top, about level with his shoulder, included the stack of battery-operated smoke detectors he had noticed earlier in the day. Most of the devices were still in their vacuum-wrapped packaging, but a few had obviously seen use. Gray hefted one thoughtfully. "Mr. Saunders, where is the smoke detector you had earlier?"
The landlord shrugged uncertainly. "Right there on that shelf—maybe the one you're holding. I don't know, they're all the same."
