by Ethan Cross
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Marcus’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and the anger swelled up like a volcano inside his chest. He gritted his teeth, fought the urge to throw the phone across the room, and switched it off.
“Who was that?”
“It was him.”
“You mean Ackerman?”
He said nothing. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch.
“Who are you guys?” Vasques said. “I don’t know too many people on Charlie Manson’s speed dial.”
Marcus swallowed hard and let out a long breath. “Ackerman was sort of my first case within our organization. He became obsessed with me. Thinks I’m the yin to his yang. He claims that our destinies are linked. Since he got away he’s been following our investigations somehow and actually trying to help with them. In his own sick way.”
“So he’s following you around?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“How does he know about your cases?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know that Ackerman is an expert in pain.” He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking of the pain that the killer had caused him. Maybe that was truly why Ackerman had latched onto him. To kill him slowly, a little piece of his soul at a time. “Have you heard his story … what he went through as a boy?”
“Just that his father tortured him. I am familiar with his more recent exploits. There was a lot of buzz about that hospital fire in Colorado Springs and Ackerman’s escape.”
Memories of that night cascaded through Marcus’s mind like a tsunami.
Flames calling out for him, longing to devour him. Ackerman’s fists slamming against his ribcage. Hanging from the edge of the building, the killer looking down on him. Falling through the flame-damaged roof. The fire surrounding him, closing in. And then Ackerman saving his life, carrying him from the inferno to safety.
That was the night he had faced his darkest demons and deepest secrets and came through the flames alive, but not unscathed. It was on that night that his dreams of a normal life had died. Trying to push away the memories, he continued with his story. “Ackerman’s father was a nut-job psychologist who wanted to gain some insight into the minds of serial killers by subjecting his son to every traumatic experience ever documented in the lives of the world’s most deranged men.”
Vasques nodded. “Okay, I do remember this. He kept the kid in a little cell and taped all the experiments. The boys at the BAU treat those tapes like they’re some kind of sacred religious texts. The Ackerman Tapes, they call them. Like they’re the Dead Sea Scrolls or something. You’ve heard the conspiracy theory, right?”
“No,” Marcus said. “What do you mean?”
She turned in her seat as though she was about to share an extra-juicy piece of gossip. “Ackerman’s daddy taped every move the kid made. Everything he did to him and made him do. But one of the eggheads was watching the tapes and realized that there is a two-week period of time with nothing. No experiments. No video of any kind.”
“I’ve watched most of the tapes myself, but I’ve never paid attention to the dates and times. Maybe something interrupted him?”
She shrugged. “You’re probably right. But I guess we’ll never know.”
Marcus opened his mouth to ask if there were any theories, but thoughts of Ackerman were pushed to the back of his mind when a petite Asian woman in a white coat walked into the room. He shot to his feet.
“Is he alive?”
The doctor nodded. “He’ll live, but we still don’t know how bad the damage will be. He’s broken several bones, but our main concern is that he’s suffered significant damage to his spine.” She hesitated and looked to the floor. “It’s too soon to know if he’ll ever walk again.”
Marcus looked away as tears filled his eyes. He thought of Allen’s family—his son Charlie, his daughter Amy, and his wife Loren. They were good people and had taken him in as one of their own, a surrogate uncle or son. Allen had finally retired and escaped this life. He had came through all those years of hunting unscathed, and now when he could finally devote himself entirely to his loved ones, he might have to do so from a wheelchair. It wasn’t fair. This would devastate them.
Marcus could never imagine putting anyone through that. He didn’t understand how Loren or Allen could deal with the pressures of family and the work of a Shepherd. Two different worlds. Worlds that would never be compatible.
The doctor added, “He’s conscious and stable right now. You can speak to him briefly, if you wish. But only for a moment and then he needs to rest.”
Marcus’s head bobbed from pure reflex. The doctor led the way down a hall of grays, blues, and whites. The strange antiseptic smell of a hospital clung to everything, but they had tried to mask it with something floral. Allen’s room wasn’t far away. It was filled with different shades of blue. A sink was off to the right. A recliner and a love seat sat along the wall in front of a window. Allen lay in the hospital bed in the center of the room, connected to all manner of tubes and machines that buzzed, whirred, and beeped.
They approached, and Allen’s eyes turned in their direction. Marcus swallowed hard and squeezed Allen’s hand. “You scared us, Professor. You must be getting soft in your old age. Five years ago it would’ve been Ackerman in that bed.”
A ghost of a smile crept onto Allen’s lips, but he looked frail and weak. When he spoke, his voice was only a whisper, and they had to lean close to hear. “‘Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.’”
Marcus chuckled. But Vasques had a strange look on her face. “Shakespeare,” he explained.
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t want you sitting around here coddling me with your thumbs up your asses.” Allen coughed, and pain showed on his face. “Get out there, boys, and catch me a killer.”
Thinking of Ackerman and the Anarchist, Marcus said, “How about two?”
“Even better.”
34
After dialing Marcus for the fifth time and still receiving no answer, Ackerman threw the disposable pay-as-you-go cell phone across the dingy little room. It shattered against the wall, the pieces raining down over the two dead bodies that had been shoved into the corner. The men had been scumbag drug dealers peddling a chemical escape to anyone with the cash. Ackerman didn’t understand drugs. What did normal people need to escape from? Why burn up your precious brain cells and your intellect along with them for a cheap high? He would have given anything to be like the people he passed on the streets every day, to be normal, to escape from the monster in the mirror. But fate had chosen a different path for him. He accepted that. But others longed for an escape from the normalcy and monotony that he craved. It was human nature, he supposed, the grass always being greener on the other side.
He pounded his fist on the 1970s-style table decorated with different-colored boomerang shapes. Why wasn’t Marcus answering? He was clearly upset about his friend. But the least he could do was give Ackerman a chance to explain. He hadn’t meant to harm anyone, hadn’t meant for Allen to fall. It had all just been a terrible accident. He had even grabbed for the old man as he’d tumbled over the railing.
Not that he really cared whether or not Brubaker lived or died, but he did care about Marcus. Their tenuous relationship was about to go through a major upheaval. His plan would be put into action soon. The incident with Allen shouldn’t affect that, but he didn’t like leaving things to chance, either.
The entire incident had been his fault. He had screwed up in the parking garage. He had been sloppy. The call to Marcus should have taken place while they were on the road. It wasn’t a mistake he would make again.
The smell of the small house located in Englewood, one of Chicago’s most notorious neighborhoods, was beginning to truly bother Ackerman. The dec
omposition of the bodies—which he needed to dispose of soon—contributed to this, but it wasn’t the main factor. That was a smell that he had become accustomed to, even comforted by. But the filth that the two degenerates had been living in was a different matter. Not even Marcus could possibly fault him for the disposal of this human garbage.
He reached out with his left hand for another unopened phone resting on the table, and pain lanced through his shoulder. He touched the ragged bullet hole, and his fingers came back bloody. With thoughts of Marcus plaguing him, he had almost forgotten about his injury. Luckily, the big .45 caliber bullet had pierced straight through the meat on the edge of his shoulder as he had ducked down. It was all skin and muscle damage, barely more than a grazing flesh wound. A minor annoyance. Still, it needed to be tended to in order to stop the bleeding.
Ackerman stood and moved to the kitchen of the dilapidated little house. As he flipped on the lights, cockroaches scattered. Dirty dishes and moldy food dotted the counters, and trash covered the yellowed linoleum. A musty, fungal smell mixed with a smoky taint burned his nostrils. The space disgusted him. He wished he could revive the two drug dealers and kill them again. But he had lived in far worse, and it had never really bothered him before. It must have simply been his anger over being ignored by Marcus that was coloring his attitude.
An ashtray filled with ground-out cigarettes sat atop a lime-green table. A dark purple book of matches rested beside it. He ripped off his shirt, but as he glanced around the noxious little kitchen, he couldn’t see anywhere he really wanted to lay it down. He decided to drape it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and opened the pack of matches. It was nearly full. He tore out the whole contents and rolled them into a round bundle. Then he struck one of the matches and used it to start the others burning.
The matches in his right hand found their way up to the bullet wound, and Ackerman jammed the flaming wad inside the hole in his flesh. The more pleasant smell of sizzling meat overpowered the other aromas in the house. His teeth ground together, and he lost himself in the ecstasy of the pain. Over the course of his life and the experiments conducted upon him by his father, the pain had actually become a comfort to him. It centered him. Cleared his mind and gave him focus. He was strangely at peace in his pain, and he imagined it to be comparable to the feeling that a normal person would experience when returning home for the holidays after a prolonged absence.
His gaze fell on the cover of the book of matches. The address and name of a bar adorned its front in a plain, utilitarian script. The Alibi Lounge. Judging by the address, the bar wasn’t too far away. He considered this and decided that a little walk might do him some good.
But first, he put on a clean black polo shirt and chinos, opened up a new phone, and tried Marcus again. No answer. This time he resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. The anger at how easily Marcus could dismiss and ignore him burned and roiled through his guts. Ackerman’s hunger grew in the darkest part of his soul.
Maybe he’d find some interesting playmates at the Alibi Lounge.
35
Margot Whitten lived in a yellow split-level with brown shutters. Two large maples bordered a short blacktop drive. Next door was another split-level that was identical except for its color and landscaping. It had once been the home of a woman named Sandra Lutrell—the first of the Anarchist’s latest victims. Margot had witnessed a man in the alley that night.
As they pulled up in front of Margot’s home, Vasques received a phone call. Judging by her reactions, Marcus knew the news wasn’t good.
“They found Jessie Olague’s body,” she said. “This time he did the deed in an empty house on the south side of town. Same as the others. Maybe we should put this off and head over there instead?”
Marcus considered it for a moment but replied, “It’s your call, but I’d let the cops do their jobs and process the scene. We can head over after we talk to Mrs. Whitten.”
Vasques nodded, and the three of them walked up the snow-covered sidewalk to the front door of the split-level. Margot had been expecting them, and she quickly opened the door and ushered them in from the cold. Vasques made the introductions, and she and Andrew sat down around a glass coffee table on a white floral-patterned couch. Margot sat on the edge of a tan recliner while Marcus remained standing and examined the room.
A glass display case filled with Elvis memorabilia sat along one wall of the living room. The knick-knacks and souvenirs weren’t of any real value, but Margot had amassed quite a collection. A little table next to the display case held a phone with a lifelike Elvis figure in a gold jacket mounted on top.
“I’ve seen these,” Marcus said, gesturing to the phone. “He dances when you get a call, right?”
Margot smiled shyly and scrunched up her nose. She had short white hair and was well built. Not fat, but thick. “And it plays Blue Suede Shoes.”
“You’ve got a nice collection. I’m a collector myself. Movie memorabilia, mostly. But I like yours better. Mine’s all stuff that I’ve bought on the Internet. But I can tell that every item in this case has a story behind it. That’s what really makes a good collection. Not just the stuff, but the memories that go with it.”
“Thank you,” Margot said. “It’s a hobby. You know, I was there at his last concert.”
“June 26, 1977. Indianapolis.”
Margot’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. I’ll never forget it. I got to hear the last song he ever played on stage. Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
Marcus walked over and sat down on the love seat next to Margot. “Can you tell us about that night, Mrs. Whitten?”
“The concert?”
He grinned. “No, ma’am. The night you saw the man in the alley.”
“Oh, right.” Her expression turned somber. “I want to help in any way I can. Sandra was a very nice young woman. I still can’t believe … I’m sorry. I really don’t remember much.”
“That’s okay. Anything you can recall could help.”
“Well, I work as a garbage woman so I keep pretty odd hours. I typically wake up between two and three in the morning. Then I’ll fix myself some breakfast, watch some TV before work. Anyway, that morning I saw a man park in the alley behind Sandra’s house.”
“Do you remember anything about the man? Anything distinctive?” Marcus wasn’t taking any notes. He’d never needed to.
“Pretty average size. He was dressed all in black or dark blue, but I couldn’t see his face. I was suspicious at first, but he knew right where she kept her key. I figured he was just some new boyfriend.” Tears filled her eyes. “How else could he know about her key? He just didn’t act like he was out of place. But I …” She looked away, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Marcus leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. I know there’s nothing I can say to really convince you of that. Guilt’s funny that way, but—trust me—you couldn’t have known. That man is the bad guy, not you. He’s the one to blame for this. The only one. But if you can remember anything else about him and help us find him, I promise I’ll make sure he never hurts anyone else.”
“I’m sorry. I just … I did look at his license plate, but I didn’t write anything down. It started with an M or N, but I can’t really remember.”
“What did the car look like? Did you recognize the model?” Andrew asked from the couch.
“It was dark. Like I told the others, I just don’t know.”
Marcus decided to change tactics. “Let me ask you this, Margot. What were you doing at the moment when you saw him?”
“I was making breakfast.”
“Cooking?”
“Yeah, I was frying a couple eggs. Why?”
“This may seem strange, but would you mind cooking some eggs for me? I’d like you to try and re-enact exactly what you were doing when you saw him. Most people don’t realize it, but smell has a powerful bond to memory. Sometimes doing the same thing, the same s
mells and sounds, will help you to remember things that you didn’t even realize you had seen.”
“Anything to help.”
Margot’s kitchen also served as her dining room. The whole room was white with red accents. White cabinets, red handles, red countertop. White table, red chairs. Red and white knick-knacks on white shelves. White curtains with red dots.
The room made Marcus feel like he was drowning in blood, but he supposed that wasn’t the reaction a normal person would feel. To most people, red was just a color.
Margot took a skillet from a white cabinet and cracked two eggs.
“Just go through everything as you normally would. Exactly like you did that night. Try to imagine that you’re back there in that moment, watching him pull up and get out of the car. Try to recall every detail.”
Her brow furrowed in concentration. She closed her eyes, opened them, and closed them again. “Okay, the guy pulls up. The car’s dark, blue or black maybe. I don’t know.”
“Don’t force it. Take your time.”
She sighed and was quiet for a long moment. Then she added, “The brake lights slanted inward and down, and there was a silver emblem above the license plate.”
Silence stretched out again. The smell of sizzling grease wafted up from the stove. Marcus didn’t rush her.
Margot suddenly turned her head quickly toward him and got very animated and excited. She was almost bouncing. “I remember. I remember. The license plate was MJA 4 … and then maybe a 59 or a 69. But I’m not sure about those last two digits. Does that help?”
