Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  “You could’ve picked them up in the morning.”

  “Doc, what is this? I gotta be in Buffalo by— Hey, since when do I gotta tell you everythin—”

  Bannerman grabbed hold of Mitulak’s jacket and pulled it open. “You still got your gun on.”

  “Yeah, I still got my gun on. Come on, now, what’s—”

  “Get inside.”

  Mitulak stepped warily into the corridor, still frowning.

  “Let me see it.”

  Mitulak frowned some more.

  “The gun, let me see your fucking gun.”

  Mitulak smiled and started to shake his head.

  “Jimmy, I’m not playing around here. Let me see the gun.”

  Mitulak flipped the harness catch and removed the gun, held it out to Bannerman. “Doc, you’re making me nervous here. I hope I’m not going to regret this.”

  Bannerman took it gingerly, checked the cartridge. It was full. He secured the cartridge and handed it back to Mitulak with a visible sigh of relief.

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Who’s out?”

  “The eater, Mellor. He’s loose in the station.”

  “What?”

  Bannerman nodded. “But... it gets worse.”

  “How worse?”

  “He’s disguised.”

  “How can he be disguised? There’s only you and-—”

  “He’s disguised as Marty.”

  “Marty?”

  “And Gershwin.”

  Mitulak started to laugh. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re smoking, Doc, but how about passing it around?”

  “Listen to me, goddamnit!”

  Mitulak’s smile faded.

  “He’s taken their appearance,” Bannerman said. He shook his head tiredly. “I know, I know,” he added as Mitulak looked at him like he was going mad. “It sounds crazy, but he has.”

  “How?”

  “How the fuck do I know how? Maybe he’s a fucking Ymir or a face-hugger ... maybe he can assume the identity of whoever he eats ... you know? Like the Indians? They ate the hearts of their enemies because they thought it gave them their enemies’ strength. Maybe this guy gets the full thing ... hair, face, looks ... everything.”

  “He’s eaten Gershwin and Marty?”

  Bannerman shrugged. “Maybe. All I know is that they’re never together.”

  “Never together?”

  “Never together in the room at the same time. And when Gershwin came into the squad room he sat down in the same chair as Marty ... propped his feet on the desk just the same way as he had been doing a few minutes earlier. And ... yeah, and Mellor’s dead. In the cell. He doesn’t move or speak or anything.”

  “You just said that Mellor was loose.”

  “Jesus Christ! He is loose. But he’s left his body in the cell, curled up so it’s facing the wall.”

  “You sure it’s him? In the cell?”

  “Sure as I can be without going in there and checking him out.”

  “You haven’t even checked the body?”

  “Hey, I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs, okay? I wasn’t going to go in there and have him wearing my head like a Hallowe’en mask.”

  Mitulak thought for a moment. “But, if Mellor’s out and about, what’s the problem with going in the cell?”

  Bannerman was breathing heavily, almost panting.

  “Well?”

  Bannerman shrugged tensely. “I wasn’t sure then. I’m sure now. Okay? I didn’t want to go into the cell when I thought that, maybe, Mellor was playing possum. But then all these other things happened—”

  “Like Gershwin and Marty sharing a chair?”

  “Yes! It sounds crazy ... I know it sounds crazy, okay? But my gun.”

  “Your gun?”

  “It disappeared. And Marty was reading my personal file ... and the phones are dead ... and the front doors are locked ... Look, we have to do something, Jimmy.”

  Mitulak made noises with his mouth as he considered. Bannerman shook his head and ran both hands through his hair, turning around and walking to and fro in the corridor.

  “Okay.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Let’s say I believe you believe, and leave it at that for now. Maybe it’s worth checking it out.”

  Bannerman suddenly felt as though all of his problems were over. Then, just as he felt like hugging Jimmy Mitulak, he remembered that they still had to confront Steinwitz. Or Gershwin. Could he move both of them at the same time, this eater? He didn’t think so. It would be one or the other.

  “So what do we do?” said Mitulak, interrupting Bannerman’s thoughts.

  Bannerman glanced longingly at the back door and then turned to face him. “We go up.”

  Mitulak nodded. “Right.” He slipped off the safety catch on his gun and hefted it slowly in his hand, like he was weighing it. “Right,” he said again. “You lead the way.”

  Bannerman turned around and walked back along the corridor to the stairs.

  Taking them slowly, stopping after every couple of risers to listen for any sound of movement, took time. In fact, it took too much time. Halfway up, Bannerman started to wonder what Steinwitz was doing up there. Had Steinwitz discovered that he wasn’t there? If so, where did he think he’d gone? Surely by now he would have checked all the possible hiding places - there weren’t many, for crissakes - and would probably have concluded that he was downstairs. If so, then why hadn’t the eater come down after him?

  He stopped and listened: all quiet. He pressed on.

  Maybe Steinwitz had suddenly remembered the downstairs door, and had gone out from upstairs and snuck around the back of the parking lot to wait for him outside. Shit! Maybe the eater had tried the door and discovered it was open ... then sneaked in, sneaked along the downstairs corridor, taken a look around the corner of the staircase, real quiet, and seen Mitulak and him creeping up the stairs.

  Bannerman stopped again and turned his head slowly. There was only Mitulak behind him. The rest of the staircase was empty. He shook his head and carried on. Two steps further and he was at the top, his hand on the door handle.

  “Hey ...”

  Mitulak’s sharp whisper almost made Bannerman jump out of his skin. He held on to the handle tightly and hissed, “What?”

  “You want maybe I should go first?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got a gun. If this guy is round the corner when you open the door - and if he knows you’re on to him - he’s gonna start shooting as soon as we show ourselves.”

  It made sense. “That makes sense,” Bannerman whispered, and he changed places with Mitulak, staring intently at the door handle while neither of them was holding it.

  When they were in place, Mitulak gently turned the handle and pushed. The door eased open silently.

  “See anything?” Bannerman whispered.

  “Nothing.” Mitulak pushed it a little wider and stepped on to the top step, folding his body into the door, his gun flat against the handle.

  “Anything now?”

  “Just wait, for—” He stopped.

  Bannerman drew in his breath. “What? What is it?”

  Mitulak jammed his head between the door and the jamb and tried to look up the corridor to the right.

  “What is it?” Bannerman asked again.

  “It’s Marty.”

  “Jesus Chri—Where? Where is he? Can he see you?”

  Mitulak pushed the door wider and looked around it to the left. Then he stepped back and turned to Bannerman.

  “Now I believe you.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Marty. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Mitulak nodded. “Far as I can make out.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Lying on the floor right in front of us.”

  “Any sign of
Gershwin?”

  Mitulak shook his head. “God. Marty. Dead.”The three words came out slow and punctuated into tiny sentences, each with a poetic, grim resonance.

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go out - what else can we do?”

  Bannerman grunted. There was nothing else.

  “Ready?” said Mitulak.

  “Ready.”

  “Right!” He pushed open the door and ran, crouched over, to the main desk on the left.

  Bannerman stepped up on to the top step and looked around the door-edge. Marty stared at him. He was naked, lying facedown on the floor about fifteen feet from the door, his head tilted to one side like he was watching them. His legs were splayed out behind him, his arms stretched in front of him. One half of his face had gone, exposing teeth and gums and part of his cheekbone. His left arm ended just above the wrist in a fray of skin and cartilage. There was no blood.

  Bannerman closed his eyes and blinked away the tears, then opened them again. The horror was still there. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the corridor without thinking.

  “Hey,” Mitulak whispered loudly. “What the hell you doing?”

  Bannerman didn’t answer. He walked across to Marty Steinwitz’s body and looked down at it. There was a folded piece of paper lying on his back. He bent down.

  “What is it?” Mitulak whispered.

  Bannerman read the words on the note, four lines, carefully typed on one of the machines up in the squad room:

  game over

  you have gun now

  now weer even

  lets finnish it

  He waved the sheet to Mitulak. “Come read it yourself. He knows you’re here.”

  Mitulak stood up from behind the desk, warily watching for any signs of movement from anywhere. “Huh? How’s he know I’m here?”

  “He knows I’ve got a gun.” Bannerman shrugged. “How the hell do I know how he knows anything?”

  Mitulak reached him and took the note. He read.

  Bannerman turned Steinwitz’s body over and jumped back. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Mitulak looked up from the note and then down at the body. The whole of Steinwitz’s chest had been ripped open, pieces of snapped bone jutting out.

  Bannerman said, “He’s eaten his heart.”

  Mitulak said nothing.

  “Let’s go. He’s waiting for us.”

  Bannerman led the way along the corridor to the doors. They pushed open the doors together and looked up the staircase. Gershwin was hanging from one of the lights. He, too, was naked, his chest similarly destroyed and both legs gone from the knees. As they got closer, they saw that his eyes were missing. A note taped across his stomach read:

  getting warmer

  the end is nere

  Neither of them said anything.

  At the top of the stairs, his heart pounding fit to burst out of his own chest, Bannerman turned the handle on the door.

  “Wait.”

  Bannerman turned.

  “Let me go first. I’ll go left, over towards the cage, you go right.”

  Bannerman nodded.

  “Right!” said Mitulak.

  Bannerman threw open the door and both men fell into the room, crashing in two directions behind the desks nearest the door. But the hail of bullets Bannerman had expected didn’t come.

  Bannerman lifted his head above the desk and looked around. He couldn’t see anything.

  Mitulak did the same.

  “Hey ...” Mitulak said.

  “What?”

  “I thought you said the guy was dead in the cage.”

  Shit, Bannerman thought. He knew what was coming next but he had to respond. “He was.”

  “He ain’t now, man,” said Mitulak. “Cage is empty.”

  Bannerman stood up slowly, staring around the squad room. “He’s gone back to his own—” He stopped. Over by the far wall, Mellor was sitting against a radiator. He still had the blanket wrapped around him, like an Eskimo or an Indian Chief. Pulled down over his head was a large, brown evidence bag, one side of which was blown apart and stained a red so dark it looked almost black. The wall behind the bag looked like somebody had thrown a pizza at it.

  “What is it?” Mitulak asked.

  “Just wait where you are,” Bannerman said. “And cover me.” He moved to the side and walked slowly around the desk. As he moved, more of the body came into view. Mellor was holding a gun in one hand. In the other hand was another note. He looked around at Mitulak. Mitulak frowned and mouthed, What? Bannerman shook his head. Cover me, he mouthed back. Mitulak nodded and waved the gun.

  Bannerman edged his way along the side wall, keeping Mellor in sight all the way. At last he had reached a point where there were no more desks to provide cover. But he had watched the body very carefully and there was no sign of any movement. Either the guy was dead or he could hold his breath a very long time.

  He crouched down on to all-fours and crept the final few feet towards the body. When he reached it, he leaned over and took hold of the barrel of the gun and gently pulled.

  “You okay?” Mitulak whispered from behind him.

  The gun came away, and Mellor’s fingers plopped against his stomach.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” Bannerman said. He put the gun in his pocket and reached for the note. Behind him, he heard Mitulak moving between the desks.

  Bannerman unfolded the note, a roster sheet, and looked at the other side. It was blank.

  “You still okay?”

  Bannerman nodded, frowning. “He left a note.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “It doesn’t. It’s blank.” He turned it over. It was this week’s roster. He looked at the grid and the pencilled names in the boxes. One of them was ringed, the one for tomorrow - today, now. The box was for ten a.m.; the name in the box was J. MITULAK.

  Bannerman frowned and looked at the evidence bag, reached up and lifted it off. The eater had left just enough of Mitulak’s face - the real Mitulak’s face - for Bannerman to recognize who it was, even without the eyes. “Jimmy ...” he whispered, sadly. Behind him, he heard desks moving as though something large was malting its way across the floor.

  He saw it all, now, in his mind’s eye.

  He reached into his pocket and lifted out the gun.

  Then he discovered that the cartridge was missing.

  “Let’s eat,” said a voice behind him. It didn’t sound like any accent or dialect he had ever heard before.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  JOHN LLEWELLYN PROBERT

  Case Conference #4

  DEFINITELY SOMETHING TO put you off your food, don’t you think?”

  Robert Stanhope said nothing as Lionel Parrish closed the bulging document folder. Throughout the telling of the story the journalist had been staring at the floor, his eyes following the complex geometric patterns woven into the rich red fabric of the rug that lay beneath Parrish’s desk. He fidgeted with his hands for a moment, then looked the doctor in the eye and said, “False.”

  Parrish gave him an encouraging look. “The story, you mean?”

  Stanhope nodded. “That one’s just too extreme, too over the top. It couldn’t possibly be the creation of someone whose mental state is so impaired that they have ended up in here.”

  The doctor held up the folder, failing to notice the scrap of paper that had been stuck to its underside. It fell to the desk, skimmed the red leather, and then slipped to the floor making less sound than a whisper.

  “On the contrary,” Parrish replied. “Many of the members of our little community are here exactly because their fantasy lives have become rather too vivid, because what is going on in their minds has taken over their real lives to the extent that they have caused significant harm to others, as well as sometimes to themselves.”

  “All right,” said Stanhope, happy to play along. “Supposing that stor
y is true? If it is, how do you know that I’m not Mellor? How do you know that I haven’t transferred my personality into the body of a journalist so that I can take my revenge on the man who was finally able to keep me locked up?”