by James Swain
The transcript was several hundred pages long. Many of the early entries were trivial, and talked about Berkowitz’s dreary, day-to-day existence. The product of an illicit love affair, he’d been raised by foster parents, a situation that had gone well until his foster mother had unexpectedly died. His relationship with his foster father had deteriorated, and he’d begun to fantasize about connecting with his real family, and starting his life anew. He’d finally gotten his wish, only to have his mother and sister reject him. His slide into madness had started soon after that.
A hundred pages into the transcript, the neighbor’s dog started barking orders to Berkowitz, telling him to kill. Berkowitz would later claim that the dog was possessed by a three thousand year old demon. Prison psychiatrists believed that Berkowitz had made up the story to avoid the death chamber. Others were not so sure.
Vick decided to take a break.
She ate a sandwich at the kitchen sink, a habit from living alone. Through the window, she stared at the blight of downtown Miami. The city had been filled with promise when she’d moved in, a happening place with people her age looking for new experiences. The Great Recession had changed that. Construction had come to a screeching halt, and thousands had defaulted on their loans and rent. Downtown was now filled with empty shells of buildings, many of which were occupied by squatters, their campfires burning brightly at night in the empty floors.
Her apartment buzzer rang. The only other person on her floor was a chatty eighty-year-old widow named Mrs. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg was rarely home during the day, and Vick put down her sandwich and removed a loaded Sig Sauer from the kitchen drawer.
She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. Mrs. Rosenberg stood outside with a sweet smile on her face. Again the buzzer rang.
“Coming,” Vick said.
She stuck the Sig behind her back, and opened the door.
“Hey, Mrs. Rosenberg, how are you?” she asked.
“I’m splendid, Rachel,” her neighbor said. “I was in the lobby waiting for my cab, and this nice man asked me to let him in. He said he knew you, so of course I did.”
Mrs. Rosenberg giggled, no doubt thinking she was playing cupid. Vick stuck her head out, and saw the nice man standing in the hall, his eyes downcast.
It was fucking DuCharme.
Chapter 32
Mrs. Rosenberg giggled into her hand. “Well, I suppose I must be going. I’m sure you two young people have lots of talk about.”
“We certainly do,” Vick said. “Would you like Roger to escort you downstairs?”
“No, I need to get something from my apartment. Thank you, anyway.”
DuCharme walked Mrs. Rosenberg to her door across the hallway. When the detective returned to Vick’s door, she showed him the Sig.
“Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?” DuCharme asked.
“Go fuck yourself,” Vick replied.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Send me an email. And don’t ever come into this apartment house unannounced again.”
DuCharme let out a deep, exaggerated breath. He was not the same man she’d seen on CNN earlier that day. His necktie was undone, the knot hanging halfway down his shirt like a hangman’s knot, his eyes watery and red. His silk sports jacket, so perfect for the television cameras, had not held up in the South Florida humidity, and had more creases than if he’d rolled down a hill.
“I’m sorry for everything I said. I was wrong,” the detective said.
Vick knew how well men lied. She held her ground.
“Go away.”
DuCharme reached into his jacket and removed several sheets of paper which were paper-clipped together. Vick spied the heading. It was a Broward Sheriff’s Department initial crime scene report.
“You need to see this, Rachel.”
“Piss off.”
“Come on, hear me out.”
“Give me one good reason why I should.”
“There’s been another killing.”
The sound of someone sneezing snapped both their heads. The door to Mrs. Rosenberg’s apartment creaked shut. Vick’s nosy neighbor was eavesdropping on their conversation.
“For the love of Christ, get your ass in here,” Vick said.
DuCharme shuffled into her apartment. She closed the door behind him and threw the deadbolt.
“Why the Sig?” he asked.
“The building’s had a lot of break-ins. I keep a loaded gun in every room.”
“It must be like living in Baghdad.”
“I’m not in the mood for small talk, Roger. Tell me what you have to say before I throw you out the flipping window.”
“I need a drink of water,” he said.
“Choking on your own words?”
“Please.”
She led him into the kitchen. He took a chair without being asked. His body language said that he’d just come from getting his ass chewed out. Cops were not supposed to slam other cops. His one-man publicity crusade had backfired on him. Poor Roger.
Vick set a glass of water down in front of him. She positioned herself on the other side of the room and leaned against the counter. She put the Sig down next to her.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
DuCharme drank the water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “This morning a corpse was found on the roof of the parking garage across from the Broward Library. The head had been cut off. The corpse had a hat, which had a slip of paper stuck in the brim. The slip had the words Mr. Clean written on it.
“The coroner’s office examined the body. They’ve put the time of death at around the same time you and I were inside the library. Mr. Clean was watching us from the parking garage, and then killed someone and left him for us to see.”
“Any idea who the victim is?”
“They think he was a vagrant. Now, here’s the bad part. A reporter over at Fox News is all over the story, some pesky woman named Debbie Bodden. Bodden has made the connection between this killing, the shooting last night, and Wayne Ladd’s abduction. Fox was going to run a story on their noon news show saying that Mr. Clean was running amuck in Fort Lauderdale, but my boss got the station manager to put a lid on it.”
“How much time did he buy?”
“A day.”
Media shit storms were great at ruining criminal investigations, especially when the criminal was still at large. The clock was ticking.
“What do you want from me?” Vick asked.
“Help us find this guy. Please.”
“Who’s us? You?”
“Yeah. Moody wants me to stay involved in the investigation, and make amends.”
Vick laughed silently under her breath. No apology had been offered, just a tender pulling at her heart strings to stop a cold-blooded killer from claiming the life of another victim. She refilled DuCharme’s empty glass and threw the water in his face.
“Hey..!”
“That’s for going on television and ruining my reputation,” she said.
“I said I was sorry.”
“Fuck your sorry.”
“I’m going to issue an apology to the media once this is over, Rachel.”
“It’s too late for that. The damage is done. For the rest of my life, people will be able to Google my name, or go onto YouTube, and read or hear the things you said about me, none of which had an ounce of truth. You soiled me, Roger.”
Next to where DuCharme sat was a napkin dispenser. He pulled out several, which he used to dry his dripping wet face.
“You know, you’re really pretty when you’re angry,” he said.
The glass was still in Vick’s hand. Growing up with three older brothers had its advantages. For one thing, no one would ever accuse her of throwing like a girl.
She threw the glass at DuCharme with all her might. It winged the top of his head before hitting the wall and shattering.
She walked out of the kitchen, ignoring his plea for mercy.
; Vick went to her computer room, a small space off her bedroom with no windows. Meant to be a closet, she’d stripped the shelving units off the walls, and replaced the cheap carpet with a piece more to her liking. She’d hung Clyde Butcher prints on the walls and stuck her computer table in the corner. PC, HP printer, and scanner, it was the piece of furniture she spent the most time with when in her apartment.
Everything stored in her laptop was also stored on her PC’s hard drive. She pulled up the transcript of Berkowitz’s diary and punched in a command. Soon pages were spitting out of her printer. When the print job was done, she returned to the kitchen.
To his credit, DuCharme had cleaned up the broken glass, and was washing his hands in the sink. She dropped the pages on the counter.
“You really want to find Mr. Clean?” she asked.
DuCharme dried his hands on a towel and nodded. His mouth had gotten him in more trouble than anything he’d ever done. Not speaking was a wise choice.
“Mr. Clean has been linked to another serial killer named Son of Sam who terrorized New York City back in the 1970s. This is a transcript of Son of Sam’s diary. Look through it, and see if anything about Son of Sam reminds you of Mr. Clean.”
DuCharme picked up the transcript and took a seat. He read with his head hanging over the table and his eyes a foot from the text. He needed reading glasses, but was too vain to accept it. Still, it was a fresh pair of eyes, and sometimes that was what was needed to bust an investigation wide open.
“We learned what Mr. Clean’s motivation is for kidnaping the boys,” Vick said.
He looked up, his face dead serious.
“He’s schooling an apprentice,” she said.
“You can’t be serious,” DuCharme muttered.
“It fits his profile. Mr. Clean is vain. Most vain people envision someone following in their footsteps. That’s why he chose Wayne Ladd.”
“Guess he made a good choice.”
Vick liked DuCharme better with his mouth shut, and walked out of the kitchen.
Chapter 33
Wayne Ladd did not know what time it was, what day it was, where he was. All he knew was that he’d been subjected to one hundred of the worst porno flicks ever made, and was sick of seeing women tortured and hearing them scream. It was getting old.
Besides, sex wasn’t like that. Sex was like Amber, soft and sweet and thrilling to the touch. Sex was holding and kissing and talking for a long time afterward about the things that mattered in your life. Sex was about the way things could be if you tried.
But Wayne had played along with the big Cuban. He’d figured out the game as best he could. So long as he got an erection for the movies, the big Cuban would tell him what a good boy he was, and treat him to a good meal. Every game had a scorecard, and this one wasn’t any different. Wayne wasn’t dead yet, which put him ahead.
Wayne heard the deadbolt on the door being thrown. The big Cuban entered wearing sweat pants and no shirt. He undid the leather straps holding Wayne to his chair while looking his victim in the eye. Wayne pretended not to be afraid.
“What’s that smell?” Wayne asked.
“Breakfast,” the big Cuban said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
The big Cuban went to the door and motioned for him to follow. Wayne rose on unsteady legs. Except for going to the bathroom every few hours, he’d been strapped into the chair, and his legs had turned to jelly.
“Go in front of me,” the big Cuban said.
Wayne walked to the front of the house. The living and dining rooms were combined, with a kitchen off to the side. Steel hurricane shutters covered the windows, and the front door had three different locks. Escaping seemed out of the question.
“What are you cooking?” Wayne asked.
“Eggs, sausage and home fries,” the big Cuban said.
“Good. Watching all that porno made me hungry.”
Wayne had always had the knack of getting adults to like him. The big Cuban offered the faintest of smiles. He put his hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and left it there.
“The movies were good, yes?”
“Couldn’t get enough of them,” Wayne said. “That’s some collection you’ve got. How big is it?”
“I have thousands of films. One day I will let you pick out some to watch.”
Wayne had a feeling the collection didn’t include any South Park or remakes of Batman. The big Cuban went into the kitchen and he followed him. It was small and spotlessly clean. His mother could definitely take some lessons from this guy.
A knife sat on a cutting board. The big Cuban used it to chop an onion, which he added to the eggs he was scrambling in a frying pan on the stove. Wayne didn’t see any other knives or sharp objects in the kitchen that could be used as weapons. He didn’t think that was a coincidence. The big Cuban was testing him.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
The big Cuban kept chopping. “Renny.”
“Can I call you that?”
“That would be fine.”
Wayne leaned against the counter and watched Renny make breakfast. The guy was good with his hands, the knife a blur as the onion got turned into tiny pieces. Renny added pepper and some spices and turned the heat up on the eggs. He pulled a wooden spoon out of a jar on the counter, and handed it to Wayne.
“Stir them while I prepare the sausage,” his captor said.
Wayne stirred the eggs while Renny tore the plastic off a package of sausage. The teenager asked himself a simple question. If Renny turned around or got distracted, could he grab the knife from the cutting board, and stab him with it? Renny was big and strong, but all that muscle wouldn’t stop a sharp blade. One good plunge into the heart was all it was going to take. If the knife was sharp enough, the plunge could come from the front or back, and end Renny’s life. The hard part would be the aftermath. Watching his mother’s boyfriend die had ripped him apart, the memory burned into his brain. But he’d kill Renny if the chance presented himself. It was his only ticket out of here.
Soon their breakfast was ready. Renny asked Wayne what he wanted to drink.
“You got any OJ?” Wayne asked.
“Yes. It’s in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”
“You want some?”
“That would be good.”
Renny picked up their plates of food, and moved toward the dining room table, his back to Wayne. Seeing his chance, Wayne moved next to the counter where Renny had prepared the food. The knife was no longer there. He hadn’t seen Renny put it away, and wondered if he’d stuck it in his pocket.
“What are you looking for?” his captor asked.
The guy had eyes in the back of his head, Wayne thought.
“Some glasses for the juice,” Wayne said, not missing a beat.
“The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.”
Wayne found two plastic glasses and put them on the counter. Then he pulled open the refrigerator door and searched for the OJ. His eyes fell upon the bowling-ball sized object sitting on the front shelf. The object was wrapped in saran wrap and looked like a rotting melon with hair growing on it. Without thinking, he took it out for a closer look.
Then, he freaked. It was the head of a small black man.
Wayne tried to yell but no sound came out of his mouth. The dead man’s pink tongue was sticking out of his mouth and pressed against his face. One of his eyes was open, and was staring at Wayne. Wayne told himself it was all a horrible dream.
“I see you found my friend,” Renny said.
Renny reached around Wayne and removed a carton of OJ from the back of the shelf. The head was put back and the refrigerator door closed.
“Come and eat,” Renny said, pouring two glasses of OJ.
Wayne sat down at the dining room table. The room was spinning and he felt ready to pass out. He hadn’t gone to hell. Hell had come to him.
The smell of the food on his plate snapped him awake. He plunged his fork into t
he runny eggs and pretended to eat. He could feel Renny’s eyes burning a hole into his soul.
“He was a bad man. He was going to hurt me,” Renny said.
“I figured as much,” Wayne said.
“There are times when it’s necessary to kill. Do you agree?”
“I guess.”
“Like your mother’s boyfriend. Don’t you think he deserved to die, Wayne?”
