by SJD Peterson
“God, I think I stood there a good five minutes screaming for her, but she never answered and I was too embarrassed to turn around, so I ran to my sister’s room and beat on the door. She didn’t answer me either. I tried for a really long time to get her to open the door. I never went into her room without permission ’cause that made her even crazier. I was dying to tell Mom about my award and really, really wanted Katie to help me wake her up. I was frantic with excitement, and I figured Katie had her headphones on and hadn’t heard me. I tried the doorknob and it wasn’t locked—which normally it was—so I poked my head in her room.
“She was in the exact same position as my mom. Naked, legs spread, and hands over her head, only this time I knew Katie wasn’t sleeping. Unlike Mom, Katie’s face was turned toward me, her eyes open wide, and there was blood coming from her mouth and nose.”
Noah blew out a harsh breath and wiped at the single tear that had spilled over as he remembered the look on his sister’s face. It was a look of horror that had haunted him every night for years and one he had hoped to never see again. Now that the lid to the box had been lifted, however, the memories of that horrific day burst forth and he couldn’t stop.
“It was the wildest thing. Suddenly this scream rattled the walls. It was so loud it caused my ears to hurt, and I covered them, trying to block out the horrible screech. It took me a while to realize the agonizing sound was coming from me. Even at such a young age, I was very protective of my mom and sister, understood I would be the man of the family one day, and yet there I stood, unable to look away from my sister’s terrifying face, feet frozen to the spot, screaming and pissing myself.
“Pretty much everything after that was a blur. The cops came with lots of other folks, like the coroner, techs, and social services. Oh and there were lots of reporters outside, but you know what?” Noah asked, turning away from the window and meeting Hutch’s gaze for the first time.
“What?” Hutch asked gently, the sympathy apparent in his expression, something Noah had seen many times as a child.
“Once I had come out of my funk or whatever in the hell you call it, I didn’t call 911 right away. Nope, I changed my pants. Strange that. My mom and sister were lying dead, and I was more worried about people knowing I had pissed myself. Who does that?”
“A scared little boy of eight,” Hutch responded.
“Yeah, well,” Noah mumbled, turning away from Hutch and unable to look at Granite. Noah stared once again out the window, seeing nothing beyond the glass. “You can only imagine the nightmares I had over that one. My sister visited me most nights with that same expression on her face, only she wasn’t dead, or maybe she was, I don’t know. Instead of the silent scream of the cold dead, she was screaming at me. Yelling at me to call for help, but I couldn’t because I was too fucking busy pissing myself.”
HUTCH WATCHED Noah carefully. He was shaking, face red and tears streaming down his face, the anger Hutch had been expecting to see coming out at last, still wrapped in that all-consuming sadness. He could only imagine what experiencing such horrors at such a young age had done to Noah’s psyche. Add in the humiliation of soiling himself, and it was little wonder Noah had suffered such horrible nightmares. Hutch’s first inclination was to wrap Noah in his arms and cradle the child within, but it was the barely masked violence that held Hutch transfixed.
Noah was no longer a boy of eight but a grown man of twenty-six. He’d had eighteen years for the hatred and fury to brew. Without proper treatment, hell, sometimes even with counseling, Noah could be a time bomb ready to explode at any moment. Or had he already erupted, leaving eighteen victims in his wake? Hutch could no longer decipher his instincts when it came to Noah. Instead, he teetered evenly between doubt and possibility.
“Noah, did your grandmother comfort you when you had a nightmare?” Granite asked after long silent moments.
“That old bitch? Are you fucking kidding me?” Noah spat. “I was the product of a one-night stand, a bastard and, in Sophia Walker’s eyes, spawn of the devil. She did spend a lot of time trying to exorcise the demon out of me with long hours of prayer and reading scripture.”
Hutch met Granite’s wary gaze. Hutch could tell from his partner’s expression that he was beginning to lean toward Noah being their killer right along with Hutch. Hutch’s stomach dropped at the thought that his initial suspicion about Noah was beginning to solidify into more than just a suspicion. After meeting the young man, he didn’t want it to be so.
“What about teachers or school counselors? Social workers? Did they offer help?” Hutch inquired.
“No.”
Hutch scratched the stubble on his chin as he continued to watch Noah with a critical eye. He was no longer crying, but he sat rigid, one hand balled into a tight fist at his side, the other wrapped around his glass of water, unblinking. His face was still red, his jaw clenched, expression angry. Hutch waited, but when Noah didn’t elaborate, Hutch pressed further.
“What about other family members? Were you close to maybe an aunt or an uncle?”
Noah opened and closed his hand a couple times as if the strain was beginning to make them ache, but he finally clenched it again and held on tightly to his anger. “No.”
Again the silence stretched out. Hutch kept glancing from Granite to Noah to the glass in Noah’s hand. Noah gripped it tightly, visibly shaking. Hutch was half tempted to pry the cup out of Noah’s hand before it shattered, but he didn’t want to spook the man. Noah was no longer in the room, at least his mind wasn’t.
Discreetly, Granite pulled his gun, tucked it against his leg, and eased around the room until he was standing to the side of Noah. Granite’s gaze was intent as he scrutinized Noah.
Once Granite was in place, Hutch turned his attention back to Noah. “Are you okay?” he asked, keeping his tone low and even.
Noah’s grip on the glass tightened further still until the glass shattered. “Oh fuck!” Noah cried out and shook his hand, sending shards of glass flying and causing Hutch to jerk back and reach for his weapon.
Thankfully Granite kept his wits and didn’t pull the trigger in the commotion. Noah seemed to come out of whatever stupor he’d been in; his brow furrowed, eyes cleared, and he grabbed his hand and rushed to the sink, leaving a bloody trail behind him.
Hutch pocketed his gun and followed. “Jesus, you okay?”
Noah flipped on the tap and stuck his injured hand beneath the flow of water. “I….” He looked over at Hutch and then shook his head. “What a basket case, huh? I haven’t thought about that day in a very long time. I’m….” His shoulders slumped, and he blew out a long breath. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what the hell came over me or why all that shit came back now.”
“We can talk about that after we get your hand tended to. Let me see it,” Hutch ordered and reached over and turned off the water.
“I’m fine,” Noah said meekly, but he allowed Hutch to examine his wounds.
There was a large gash across his palm, and shards of glass were embedded in his fingers. “You’re going to need stiches, I’m afraid.”
“Yup, definitely going to need stitches,” Granite commented as he looked over Hutch’s shoulder at Noah’s hand.
“Hell no!” Noah tried to pull his hand away, but Hutch held fast. “I hate needles,” he explained with a bit of a whimper in his tone.
Granite handed Hutch a wad of paper towel. He folded them quickly and pressed them against the gash, putting pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “No way this is gonna heal on its own. Plus, you’re going to need to have the glass removed.”
The color drained from Noah’s face, sweat beaded on his brow, and he began to sway. “I think I need to sit down,” he muttered.
As Hutch helped a shaky Noah to a chair, he shot a questioning look at Granite, who just shrugged. Noah slumped down in his desk chair, and Hutch fumbled to keep hold of the wound when Noah stuck his head between his knees and started breathing heavily
.
“Dude, are you seriously going to pass out?” Granite asked incredulously.
“I hope not,” Noah muttered. “But I hate the sight of blood almost as much as I hate needles.”
Hutch didn’t even try to hide his shock. “There are pictures of mutilated bodies on your wall, and you have an odd habit of attending death scenes. What the hell do you mean you can’t stand the sight of blood?”
Noah lifted his head and smiled weakly at Hutch. “Those are just pictures, and at the crimes scenes, we’re behind a barrier. You don’t see the victim, only the activity around them.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just my own blood that freaks me out.”
“Whew! You, my man, are a walking contradiction, aren’t you?” Granite asked, his tone skeptical.
Noah rested his elbows on his knees, leaned his chin on his uninjured hand, and looked at Granite sheepishly. “Yeah, I suppose I am. I’m not really into the actual act. I hate looking at the death and mayhem he causes. It makes me a bit squeamish. I’m more fascinated by the mindset. What drives a serial killer, how he—yes, he, since female serial killers are so rare—chooses his prey, and identifying risk factors that could prevent the formation of a psychopath. My graduate thesis is on becoming the perfect victim.”
Hutch had noticed letters addressed to Noah tacked to the wall from various killers, although he hadn’t taken the time to read them. “Is that what you’re trying to accomplish through correspondence with them?” Hutch pointed to a letter. “Become the perfect victim?”
“I study the victims of convicted killers and then correspond with them, often portraying myself as the appropriate age, sex, body type, but not always.”
“What do you mean, not always?”
“It depends on the subject. Sometimes it makes more sense to use the ruse of attorney or disciple to get them to talk to me.” Noah suddenly seemed to shrink in on himself, his eyes red and glassy. “I’m drained. I really need to sleep,” he muttered and hung his head.
“We need to get this wound looked at,” Hutch reminded him.
“I’ll go to the infirmary as soon as I can close my eyes for ten minutes,” he responded, his words slightly slurred. “I’m crashing fast.”
“You need to let me at least clean it and bandage it,” Hutch insisted.
“Sure… okay,” Noah yawned. “Can we do it from bed?”
“Nope. Up you go,” Hutch encouraged. He hooked his arm under Noah’s and hoisted him up out of the chair.
Noah whimpered a bit and was a little unsteady on his feet, but allowed Hutch to help him to the bathroom and tend to his hand.
Chapter 13
“I GOTTA say, that’s was one of the most interesting interrogations we’ve ever done,” Granite commented as he slid into the passenger seat of the rental car.
“You can say that again,” Hutch agreed. “Did you have enough time to snoop?”
“Yeah. If he’s our guy, he doesn’t have anything in his apartment that’s incriminating. Well, beyond all the creepy shit on his walls.”
“It looks like our walls,” Hutch reminded him as he pulled out into traffic.
“But it’s our job to be creepers.”
“I think it falls into Noah’s job description as well. I don’t know if there is anything much creepier than forensic psychology. You definitely have to enter some seriously disturbing minds.”
“Probably why you’re so damn gloomy. You do it all the time,” Granite muttered.
“I am not gloomy,” Hutch countered. “I’m thoughtful.”
“Mmmhmm, moving on from that dead horse. I seriously don’t think Noah is our killer, but I slipped one of Byte’s groovy tracking devices in his backpack just to be on the safe side.”
“You know that’s an invasion of privacy, not to mention completely illegal.”
“Yeah, well, so is torturing, mutilating, and killing eighteen men. I get a bit miffed that the perps have more fucking rights than we do. I’m simply evening the playing field,” Granite responded without even a hint of apology.
“You just said you didn’t think he was our guy.”
“And did you not get the part about the safe side?” Granite asked with a huff.
“Yeah, I got it, and I agree. I’m still not one hundred percent sure. My gut isn’t helping much on this one as it’s constantly flip-flopping. What I do know is that kid is going to be either extremely helpful to the investigation or….” Hutch wasn’t sure what Noah would be if he wasn’t helpful. He damn sure had done his research, had a personal reason for wanting to stop a serial killer, but Noah also seemed quite damaged, broken even.
“Or what?”
“Or not,” Hutch settled on.
“What the hell kind of answer is that?” Granite complained.
“The only one I have.”
Hutch could feel Granite’s eyes boring into him, but he refused to look over, concentrating instead on the road before him.
Granite continued to stare and then sighed dramatically. “Fine, be that way. What did you two talk about when you were playing doctor?”
“It basically consisted of grunts, curses, and groans. It’s kind of hard to carry on a conversation when your jaw is clenched as someone rips shards of glass from your fucking hand.”
“Why are you being such a prick?” Granite demanded. “It was just a question.”
Hutch blew out a frustrated breath and eased the death grip he had on the steering wheel. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired, and after spending the last couple days chasing the Noah lead only for it to leave us right back at the beginning, I’m a little disheartened.”
“But we’re not back at the beginning,” Granite reminded him. “Even if Noah turns out to be completely innocent, you said yourself that he might give us some new insights into our guy that we may have missed. I don’t call that a waste of time.”
Hutch nodded. He knew Granite was right, but it was so goddamn frustrating. Normally calm, detached, and analytical while investigating a case, Hutch found this new aspect of his personality unsettling. Was it because no one else seemed to care about the victims other than he and his partners, the disdain for the sloppy police work, or was there more? He supposed it could be a simple case of burnout. It wasn’t unheard of in his chosen profession—in fact it was the norm—but even if it was possible, it didn’t feel like it fit here. For the first time, he was allowing himself to let a case become personal. That was the true source of his temporary insanity. At least he hoped it was temporary.
“Hey! Our hotel is back that way,” Granite shouted, stabbing a finger over his shoulder.
Hutch glanced out the window. He hadn’t planned on it, but found himself drawn to the spot the last victim was discovered. “This will only take a minute,” he promised and pulled down a side alley.
“What will only take a minute?” Granite asked suspiciously.
“I want to visit the last crime scene.”
“Now? I’m hungry and I’m tired,” Granite grumbled. “Can’t this wait till the morning? And don’t tell me you need to see the scene as the killer did. Disson was posed during daylight.”
“I know, I just…. Just humor me, will ya?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Hutch put the car in park and cut the engine. “Nope.” He smirked and stepped out of the car.
“Didn’t think so,” Granite muttered and followed Hutch, stopping at the front of the car and leaning against it as Hutch continued down the alley.
The scent of rotting garbage and the lingering stench of death blew along the breeze. The alley was eerily silent except for the echoes of Hutch’s boot to pavement. It would have still been daylight, sometime close to dusk when the killer posed his trophy; however, for some reason he didn’t quite understand, Hutch could “connect” with the killer best under the cover of darkness.
Slowly he made his way to the dumpster, his heart already beginning to speed and his breath quickening
with excitement. The low-wattage bulb hanging above one of the metal doors to a business beyond was the only light, yet Hutch didn’t need to see, at least not with his eyes. He stood in front of the spot where Mike Disson had been propped up next to the dumpster, took in a deep breath, and held it as he closed his eyes.
Talk to me.
Hutch stood there with the scent of death in his nose, and a cool breeze caused his sweat-dampened skin to break out in goose bumps, but nothing else happened. No images came to him, not a hint of the sickening feeling that roiled his gut or caused his skin to crawl. After long frustrating moments, flashes came to him. However, they weren’t the ones he was seeking. No glint of light off a knife blade, no mouths wide in a silent scream. Also absent was the tingling sensation of excitement skittering down his spine, the rush of adrenaline, and the maniacal glee of splattered blood. Instead, the only thing Hutch saw behind closed lids was a younger man with shaggy blond hair and tears of rage streaming down his face. Hutch tried in vain to push the images of Noah away.
“Goddammit,” he grumbled and then jumped, eyes flying open, when a crack of thunder boomed.
“Storm’s a-brewin’. We better head back,” Granite called out.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Hutch grumbled under his breath and then pulled up the collar on his shirt as the first drops of rain began to fall. Figured his attempt to focus on the killer would be like everything else lately—a total fucking bust.
The skies opened up in a torrential downpour, and Hutch ran for the car. The very loud, very annoying sound of Ozzy Osborne screaming “All aboard” was even louder than the storm.
