The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel

by Torbert, R. J. ;

  “Just get well,” Bud said. “I will speak to you tomorrow.”

  They hung up as Bud looked at his computer screen. He wrote, “You may know who you are. You may know the color of the car. But I won’t let you become the star.” He didn’t have many followers, so he put BF_TJ_GW @NEWSDAYLI in the message.

  Steven Anderson went back to his offices to finish up. It was already 9:00 pm, but he had lost about four hours during the afternoon shooting. He had a deadline, and he never missed one and wasn’t about to start now. He worked at his desk for a few minutes when he heard a slight noise, almost like a creaking sound. He stopped what he was doing and there was silence. He went back to his computer, finished his spreadsheet and his emails and printed them out by 10:30 pm. He left notes for his staff because he would be in late Monday. He had already had the windows boarded up from the shooting and the glass company would be there by 11:00 am and claimed they would be finished by 3:00 pm.

  He wanted to write down what had happened during the afternoon while it was still fresh in his mind. The Now edition coming out on Tuesday, between the status of Rachelle and now this, had businesses across Long Island begging to have the paper on their premises. Instead of driving away tourists, the town of Port Jefferson was overflowing with the traffic, especially on the weekends.

  Steven finished up and sent a text from his phone as he went toward the door. As he put his hand on the handle, he was slammed into the door by a human body who ran into him. He fell to the floor and looked up in time to see the knife come down into his body. The sleek figure in tight black pants and shirt stared at him behind what his paper called “the Face of Fear.” As he looked at the blood pouring out of his body, he touched the blood with his hands to see if what was happening was real. He looked up at his killer as the assailant took the mask off. Steven shook his head with a “No!” as he saw the real face of the person who cut into him. He tried to speak, but it was too late. The knife came down hard again to finish him. The killer stood there as the last seconds of life left Steven Anderson. As the killer witnessed the last movements of the editor, he looked at the papers the editor had in his hand. He took one and left the rest with the body that would be discovered the following morning when the staff came in to work. The mask was put back on as the disguised killer left the building and disappeared into the night.

  Deborah was out all day at the Marriott Hotel in Marco, swimming, and forgot to check her emails all day at the encouragement of her father and friendly acquaintances down in Marco. She had been so distracted by all the relaxation and the massages she had received that it was already 10:00 pm when she finally did check her emails.

  She saw the email from Bud in bold black and began to smile before she even opened it. Her smile turned to tears as she read the message filled with kind words that apologized for the things that had happened to her. She covered her mouth, then picked up a tissue to wipe the tears from her eyes. She hadn’t had much time to really even think about Bud as a person during all of this, but at that moment, she missed him.

  She wanted to call him and thank him for the beautiful message but decided it was too late. Instead she wrote him back. “Dear Bud, thank you for sending me such a beautiful note. It brought tears to me. Tears of happiness that you took the time to be so sensitive toward me and that I was in your thoughts. You are a very sweet man. I’m sure we will speak in the next couple of days. Deborah.”

  She had always signed her name Deb or Debbie, but now since her father and now Bud were calling her by her formal name, she decided to start using it. She checked the rest of her emails and saw a couple from Robert. She opened the first one. It read, “Don’t let this change things. I love you. You know I would never do anything to hurt you.” As Deborah deleted the message, she thought, Except fuck my best friend behind my back. She opened the second email, and it read, “Debbie, I love you, please talk to me. I miss my Deb.” As she deleted the message, she said aloud, “I’m glad you never called me Deborah.” She checked the other emails and eliminated about 30 junk emails before she crawled on the couch next to her dad to watch some television before turning in for the night.

  Paul came back from his walk about 11:00 pm and had actually worked up a sweat from the steep hills of Port Jefferson. He took a shower, laid down in bed, and turned on the television to see what was going on in the world besides the now famous village of Port Jefferson. He was in a good mood from his talk with Rachelle, so he called Bud.

  Bud picked up the phone with, “What the hell, you miss me already?”

  “Hey, Bud, trivia king, before the Revolutionary War, what was East Hampton a part of?”

  Bud replied, “Connecticut. Any asshole would know that.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Paul answered.

  “Then you’re not just any asshole,” Bud remarked. “You’re a different kind of asshole.”

  “Good night, you bastard,” Paul said, laughing as the phone went click.

  Bud smiled as he hung up and opened Deborah’s note to him on his BlackBerry. He was so happy he caught himself opening the refrigerator, which was a habit he had when he was happy. Suddenly, he had an urge to take better care of himself. He closed the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of water as he lay down in bed.

  Sunday, June 26

  The body of Steven Anderson lay in the Now offices all day. There were no calls he was missing from anyone, not even his family. He had made the mistake of telling his wife not to worry about him, that he would be traveling most of the day. He had a special meeting with a major newspaper in the San Francisco area for a job opportunity, and Sunday was the only day that both could accommodate each other. She thought nothing about his not calling, for it was something she had gotten used to over the years. The truth is that Steven Anderson had a meeting Sunday with someone that was a secret, and he didn’t want the pressure of family obligations Sunday. It was apparent he got his wish.

  The man sitting at Danford’s downstairs restaurant waiting for him was not happy with waiting for him for more than an hour before leaving at 3:00 pm. He dialed his cell number three times, and all he got was his voice mail. As he got up from the table, he spoke to himself, “You’re a dead man, Steven Anderson.” Little did he know, someone had saved him the trouble.

  Monday, June 27

  It was 8:34 am when Paul’s phone rang and he was told to get to the Now offices. He checked his text, and Bud said he would pick him up by 9:00 am so they could both go in one car. He met Bud downstairs at 9:03 am and was told by Bud they found the body of Steven Anderson sitting up against the wall near the front door. A young intern who had come in at 8:00 am to get things ready for the day found the body and screamed bloody murder as she ran out to the parking lot, startling morning commuters who also worked in the small strip center.

  Paul checked his Twitter to see if Rachelle had released a tweet, and she had about 10 minutes earlier. “It was you from the start. You broke my heart. Now we need your friend so this can end.” He read it to Bud, who just shook his head as they pulled in to the lot.

  Detective Lieutenant Cronin was already there and greeted both of them with a grumpy hello. They walked and examined the crime scene, and it was determined the Now offices would be closed until further notice. Between the shooting and the murder, the police and the FBI didn’t need additional people around.

  Cronin yelled at both detectives, “When you guys are finished here, I need you both at the precinct!” He drove off as they checked out the hallway and the body. They checked out the papers he had, and Bud requested them to be checked for fingerprints. Agents Sherman and O’Connor drove up and got out of the car with a Newsday in their hand.

  “Guess who’s getting their tweets in the paper now?” O’Connor said as he flashed the paper to Paul.

  “What’s going on, Bud” Paul asked, as he read it.

  “Just a hunch, go with me on it,” his partner replied.<
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  O’Connor spoke, saying, “Are you sure you’re not trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Just think,” Bud replied, “with me out of the way, your odds on getting shot again go way down.”

  “Well, that’s true,” the agent replied.

  “What brings you back here?” Paul said to Sherman.

  “Come on,” the FBI agent said. “This is all related, you have to know that. It’s another piece of the puzzle to what started out as a kidnapping across state lines. Now another killing, and I would think it’s fair to say your partner is in danger based on the note from yesterday. Instead of having a low profile, he’s here and now writing tweets that are bound to piss someone off.”

  Paul replied, “Or draw the killer out.”

  “You already drew the killer, duh!” O’Connor answered. “What I’m having a hard time understanding is the original victim in all of this is down in Florida basking in the sun, getting a tan, and everyone else on Long Island is either getting injured or killed. For Christ’s sake, even her boyfriend is free with no charges!”

  “And why is that?” Paul asked.

  “You tell me,” Agent Sherman spoke up.

  “Because someone we don’t know is calling the shots,” Paul answered.

  “Well,” Sherman replied, “your boss, Cronin, pulled the security detail off the Lance Mansion, and I really don’t see why we should be watching it either. I’m pulling them off today. Hell, there’s no one even there, and they have an alarm system.”

  “Be my guest,” Paul said. “Do you guys want to take a look at the body?”

  They went in to look at Steven Anderson before they moved him, and O’Connor remarked, “Another visit by Bud, another person shot or killed.”

  “You’re with me right now,” Bud replied, “so be careful.”

  As they were getting ready to leave, the medical examiner also stated that the way the wounds were inflicted suggested the killer was left-handed. Anderson was stabbed six times, all on the right side of his body. That suggested the stabbing was done by a left-handed person. Anderson had no defensive wounds on his hands and none on his feet, which indicated he was totally surprised.”

  Medical examiner Lawrence Sun summed it up in a sentence, saying, “Whoever did this was filled with hatred and wanted him to know he was going to die.”

  Bud couldn’t help himself and said, “So in other words, Doctor, the attacker was pissed off.”

  Ignoring Bud’s attempt at humor, the medical examiner continued, “This was consistent with the other wounds of the other victims. I will know more once we test for prints either from the hands or gloves, but I believe it was probably the work of the same masked killer who has been wearing the Ghost Face mask. Also, this man was killed over 36 hours ago, judging by temperature and stiffness of his body.”

  “Great,” Bud said, “something else for national news.”

  As they got in the car, Bud said, “Speaking of national news, is it me or does it seem almost every woman on Fox News is a blonde?”

  “Let’s go,” Paul remarked, ignoring his quip.

  “OK,” Bud said. “It’s either that, or I go insane.”

  As Paul drove on Route 112 and went past Jefferson Plaza, Bud asked if there was time for breakfast at the Station Coffee Restaurant. Paul reminded him they just had the seventh murder in eight days and that breakfast might not be a good thing at the moment.

  They arrived at the precinct about 15 minutes later, got themselves some coffee, and planned to be at their desks most of the day while the FBI was still searching for Phil Smith. They had his photo at all the train stations on Long Island plus Islip MacArthur, Newark Liberty, John F. Kennedy, and LaGuardia Airports, and they even had the Cross Island Ferry Company checking identifications on all ferries. Unless Phil Smith was successful in a disguise and managed to get a professionally fake identification, he wasn’t going anywhere unless he swam across the Long Island Sound.

  True to their word, the FBI abandoned security at the Lance Mansion on Cliff Road. The house was now on a normal security alarm system. Bud called Allan at the security building and asked him to take extra measures on the house. Allan told Bud that Paul had already called and asked him the same thing; however, Detective Lieutenant Cronin had called before both of them and told him not to do anything different in the security detail.

  Bud told Allan to follow Cronin’s instructions until and if he got back to him. Bud told Paul about Cronin’s instructions to Allan, and he just nodded as he looked in at Cronin’s office. The detective lieutenant was with the police commissioner. Paul was sure the commissioner was threatening Cronin to resolve the case. No one was sure anymore if the unsolved killings were good or bad for the village. Yes, it had been exciting for the past eight or nine days, but if this went on too much longer, people and tourists would start to realize that if the killings were not stopped, it might not be a good place to bring the kids for a summer vacation.

  Paul could see the commissioner’s body motion that he was definitely giving an ultimatum to Cronin. He continued to watch because he wanted to see his famous finger-pointing before he slammed the desk with a closed fist. He only had to wait about 45 seconds until that happened. The commissioner left the office and shut the door hard, so everyone would hear it. As he walked by, everyone had their heads down in their paperwork, yet the corner of their eyes were on the commissioner as he stormed out of the precinct. Paul was only able to relax for about 20 seconds before Cronin yelled for him to come to his office.

  Bud stayed at his desk and started putting all the notes together on the case in piles. He opened up his Twitter account and entered another tweet: “So you want to play the game, because you think it will bring you fame. The rules I will choose, bang you lose.” This time he didn’t send it to Rachelle or Newsday, for he already had 1,800 followers in 24 hours due to the article.

  He signed off of Twitter to start to review his paperwork. His fellow cops at surrounding desks could hear him talking aloud to himself, and they started to look at each other to see if the others noticed the same thing about him. Bud was engrossed in his paperwork, going over all the details again, from notes on the interrogations of Patty Saunders and Robert Simpson to the visits to all the homes and Mather Hospital since day one. He wrote a chart almost like a family tree of all the names that had been involved or people they had come across since the case opened. The list had continued to grow in the past couple days. He picked up the phone and requested to see Patty

  Saunders. She was still being held for arraignment later in the day, but Bud wanted to speak with her. A couple favors were pulled for him, and he was sitting across from her within 20 minutes.

  “Do I need my attorney?” the young woman asked.

  “Just answer me, left-handed or right-handed?” Bud said. “That’s all I want to know. Are you ready?”

  She shook her head and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

  “If you can’t answer the question, I’ll be sure to tell the judge you might have prevented another murder but you didn’t want to help.

  So please answer the question,” the detective said.

  “OK,” she said.

  “Just answer left or right,” Bud replied. “Robert Simpson?”

  “Hmm, right.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  The young woman leaned over with a seductive smile and said, “Because when you do the things we did in bed, you are sure; you know what I mean?”

  Bud ignored the question and continued with the names. “Deborah Lance?”

  “Left.”

  “Wayne Starfield?”

  “Right.”

  “Mason Winters?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “John Winters?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “William Lance?”

  “Right.”

  “Y
ou?”

  “Right. “

  “Phil Smith?”

  “Right.”

  The answers disappointed Bud, and he asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Patty answered.

  “Why are you sure about Phil and not the others?”

  “Like I said, Detective, there are ways you become sure.”

  “Oh, great!” Bud replied. “You are living the dream of a single woman, aren’t you?”

  Patty smiled.

  “John Winters?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Steven Anderson?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How do you know who Steven Anderson is?”

  “Who?” she replied.

  “Don’t who me.” Bud said. “How do you know him?”

  “You said left or right, and I said I don’t know.”

  “But you knew who he was.”

  Patty remained silent. Bud moved in a little closer to her and said, “He was sliced and diced last night by someone most likely left-handed.”

  “He’s dead?” she asked.

  “Honey,” Bud replied, “he looks like a zebra with red stripes,” as he pulled out a photo to show Patty of the deceased body. She put her hand to her mouth as if she was going to throw up.

  “Don’t throw up,” Bud replied. “Throw-up makes me throw up, and someone will have to clean up twice as much.” She put the other hand up to her mouth, and she was gagging.

  “Hold it in,” Bud said. “I just had two hot dogs with ketchup and mustard on both, and I don’t want to look at it again.”

  She moved to the wall to face the corner to try and control her regurgitation.

  “OK,” Bud said.

  Patty looked back at Bud and told him she wanted her attorney. He shook his head and replied, “Honey, you’re lucky I’m not in the mood for your attorney. We will continue this conversation another time.”

  He left the room to go back to his desk, and he pounded the pencil on the top. Going down the list, he started to add names out of frustration and boredom. Bud, left. Paul, left. Cronin, right. Rachelle, right. O’Connor, right. Allan, right. Smith, not sure. Sherman, not sure. Sherry, right. Kyle Winters, right. Joey Z, right. William Powers, not sure. Simmons, left.