by CJ Lyons
But even if I hadn’t been able to get away with it, I was still glad I’d done it. It was… glorious, the hand of God reaching down to touch me.
Eager for my next kill, thirsting for that sense of excitement, the thrill of power, I almost got caught stalking my next victim. I realized that if I wanted to keep pursuing this, my passion, my bliss, then I needed to hone my skills, learn discipline, how to think better, control my emotions. And I had to find a much wider hunting ground, one where nobody would ever suspect me.
So I joined the army where the taxpayers—aka my future prey—were so thankful for my service even as they paid to teach me better ways to kill.
I returned home with more skills, more kills—sanctioned and unsanctioned—and a thirst for more thrills. Unleashed from the military’s constant surveillance, I could go where I wanted and do what I wanted, as long as I never got caught.
That became my new obsession. Not my next kill, but how to win the freedom to keep killing for years and years to come.
I studied my fellow killers—those who had gotten caught, especially. And I realized that their biggest mistake was allowing themselves to fall into a pattern. Lazy bastards deserved to get caught. But not me. I wouldn’t repeat their mistakes.
I bought an assortment of dice, coins, I Ching divination rods, Tarot cards, and a random number generator app for my phone. And I began to allow them to control my life, every decision made guided by pure, unpredictable, capricious random chance.
If killing was to be my destiny, then I had to embrace Chaos in all its glory.
More—much more, I promise!—next time.
Your devoted fan.
Leah stopped there. The next file wasn’t a letter from the stalker but Risa’s notes: a running list of clues the stalker had revealed. Parents divorced, father moved to LA, heart attack, etc. A second list held a series of questions with possible research avenues and annotations on what Risa had found.
There were pages and pages of research, everything from obituaries of men who’d died of heart attacks in LA county during a span of years, survived by teenaged sons and ex-wives, correlations with the names of the sons and databases of army enlistment, to overseas deployments, sniper and special ops training. Leah wondered how Risa had gotten those records—obviously the reporter had her sources in the military. But every lead Risa followed turned into a dead end.
Leah scanned the files Risa sent and realized the largest one was a spreadsheet. She hated spreadsheets but with this kind of research, she could see why it would be the best way to organize the information. Leah opened the file, just to see how many leads Risa had followed over the past year.
The spreadsheet was huge. 3019 entries with 212 data fields. Each. And that was only the first tab—the tabs went from A to the end of the alphabet and then from AA to HH. All color coded and labeled with Risa’s shorthand notations, like GEO, WITS, etc.
Leah stared at the dizzying display splashed across her screen. How much time had all this taken? These were only the data points, the end result of painstaking hours and hours of research. How had Risa found time to do her paying work? Clearly she was as obsessed with her stalker as he was with her.
She clicked the spreadsheet closed, her screen returning to the text of the next letter, dated only three weeks after the previous one.
Dear Obituary Reader,
I feel we’ve gotten close enough for me to share some intimate details. I thought you might enjoy a moment-by-moment account of how I go about my business. I warn you, I won’t make it easy for you, but I’ll play fair and leave enough clues that you’ll eventually work things out. Who knows, maybe you’ll be able to reunite my chosen one with his family… if you’re not too late.
Wish I could help you with a name, but honestly, I have no idea. The dice led me to him. I will tell you he lives in Indiana. I watched him for most of a day. He worked at a landscape company and I’ve never seen anyone so… More than happy—content might be a better word, yes, he was content with his job. All day long, a smile on his face, he helped people pick out shrubs and trees and rocks and dirt. He loaded their cars and SUVs, loaded pickup trucks and even used a forklift to load bigger trucks headed out to some suburban development or a new golf course or wherever.
That was his life. Digging in the dirt. And it was clear that he loved it. It was as if he had some special shine to him—despite the grime that covered him. The way he leapt to greet each new customer, the way he hummed and sang as he watered and tended the plants, even the way his body moved when he shoveled fertilizer—as if he were performing intricate choreography, a ballet. Joie de vivre, the French call it.
I feel that way about my own work, so I knew when his time came, it had to honor his love for his work.
He was the last one there after closing. Bedding the plants down for the night as if tucking children into beds, complete with a lullaby sung in Spanish. Using a tractor to push fallen dirt, fertilizer, and mulch back up into their small mountains. Even sweeping around the base of this tiny mountain range, despite the fact that as soon as he turned his back, wind and gravity would cascade more down to the ground again. And he knew it—as soon as he finished sweeping and walked away, a breeze gusted, rippling across the display of ornamental ponds, and he glanced back at those mounds of soil with a grin that said, Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll return to fight again. You can’t beat me, but have fun trying.
And that’s exactly when I knew how he had to die. No need for casting the dice, not when it was so blindingly obvious what Fate had in mind for him.
He’s still there to this day. Waiting for you to find him, reunite him with his family—or what’s left of him.
Let the games begin, dear Obituary Reader. The clues are all there. Good luck!
Your devoted fan.
Leah leaned back. She felt dirty; the urge to go wash her hands overwhelmed her. Turning a man’s death into a game? Surely the stalker hadn’t actually killed anyone? No, he’d said he wanted Risa back working; this must have been a way to try to lure her into writing again.
Except… it felt real. The way the stalker’s mind worked, the lovingly drawn description of his victim, the strange combination of clinical detachment and intimacy.
There was a knock on the door, and she jumped, chiding herself for allowing herself to be drawn into the stalker’s macabre game—just like Risa had. Still, a shudder sent goosebumps racing across her skin as she took a breath and called out, “Come in.”
It was Naomi Harper. “Walt Orly,” the young detective said as she came inside and plopped herself down in Leah’s sole guest chair. “His doc says he couldn’t have done it. Can you talk to him, translate the medical jargon? Because the man is stronger than he looks—you saw him tear apart that living room.”
“Sure. Is he ready?” Leah reached to close her computer, the words she’d been reading still glowing on the screen. She hesitated—should she ask Harper to read the files? No. Better to give them directly to Luka. After all, Harper was the youngest person on his team, a patrol officer allowed to wear plainclothes. Not yet a real detective.
“Yep. Guy’s awake. Calm, lucid. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde compared to the way he was this morning. I’m just waiting on Luka to get here.” Harper said it as if she assumed Leah was sitting at their beck and call, nothing better to do than come when summoned. True, she didn’t have anything other than paperwork, but that was only because she’d just begun this job this week—a job that was hers to define within the parameters of the funding.
For the first time, Leah realized the possibilities of her new job were endless. She could be more than a figurehead scribbling her signature on administrative forms and advising the CIC’s staff—who were already experts at their jobs. The sexual assault nurse examiners underwent rigorous training as did the social workers they partnered with.
Leah had enjoyed the call-out this morning—it felt like being back in the ER. How could she do more of that? She was already c
ertified in CISM—the crisis debriefing that first responders underwent immediately following a major trauma or disaster. How hard would it be to get training in hostage negotiation? Or more acute mental health interventions—other than dosing someone with Haldol, like she almost had to do this morning.
She’d seen courses for tactical training for physicians so they could work with SWAT. No, ERT, she reminded herself. Except… It was too dangerous. She had to think of Emily. After all, Emily was the reason why she’d left the ER. Stable hours, decent paycheck, no more night shifts. Those needed to be her goals. Not chasing the thrills she’d left behind in the ER.
Leah sighed and pushed back her desk chair to stand. Maybe she was destined to spend the rest of her career tied to a desk after all. A vision of herself buried in a mound of unfinished paperwork flashed through her vision.
“Let’s go talk to Dr. Chaudhari while we wait for Luka,” she told Harper.
“Thanks, doc. Knew you’d sort it out for us.”
As they left the office, Leah glanced longingly at her computer, feeling the compulsion of the stalker’s words. She understood why Risa couldn’t let it go.
Fifteen
Luka hoped he’d done the right thing, sending the kids home with Ruby. He wished he had time to take them to Jericho Fields himself, but blowing off one of Ahearn’s interminable meetings was one thing; missing the interview of a vital witness—and their only viable suspect—was something else completely.
He was having second thoughts about how he’d handled things with the vice principal. They all knew the reason why Nate would be targeted by kids like the Homan twins—and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was a newcomer to the school. Was saying nothing, focusing only on finding the truth of what happened instead of why—was that the right thing? It worked for Luka in his professional life. But was it right for Nate?
Anger seethed through him and he almost turned the car around to go back and give Driscoll a tongue-flaying, like his gran would have—or Pops for that matter. But the vice principal hadn’t done anything overtly racist, not that he’d seen, and Nate needed her on his side. It rankled, though, the thought of giving an eight-year-old “the Talk” and adding to the burdens Nate already carried after Tanya’s death and having his life uprooted. But the kid had to be prepared—in this country, in this world, in this city, this wouldn’t be the last time he would have to deal with people who only saw the color of his skin and not the person inside.
He’d calmed himself by the time he pulled into Good Sam’s parking garage and followed the instructions Harper had texted him to the secure neuro-psych ward. A guard at the reception desk had a pass ready for him and buzzed him through glass doors into a short hallway decorated with soft, woven tapestries and Amish quilts. No sharp edges, he realized. Just as there was no furniture lining the walls, only thick, rounded handrails, at the right height to catch a patient who lost their balance. The ward even smelled different than the rest of the hospital. Instead of the strange scents of cleansers and fake citrus air freshener, here it smelled almost like… A memory filled his vision: Christmas or Thanksgiving, his gran and mother pulling pans and pans of cookies from the oven, waving him away when he and his sister tried to sneak one.
He followed the signs to the counseling room Orly’s physician had said they could use for the interview. Like the CIC facilities down in the ER, it was a suite of rooms with an observation area in the center. That’s where he found Harper, Leah, and a middle-aged man wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, with no tie. His hospital ID said Dr. Chaudhari.
“You can’t be in there asking questions,” Harper was telling Dr. Chaudhari as Luka entered the tiny room. Harper, only a few inches shorter than Luka, practically towered over Chaudhari. Add in the intimidating posture she’d assumed, her face mere inches from Chaudhari’s, and he was surprised the man appeared so placid, almost amused. “We can’t have any information you elicit thrown out as hearsay.”
Leah moved to intervene between the two—reminding Luka of the way Ms. Driscoll had separated her warring first-graders. “I understand why Dr. Chaudhari wants to be the one to conduct the interview. He’s right. A familiar face will help keep Walt calm and focused.” Chaudhari aimed a smile at Harper that was subdued yet triumphant. “But Officer Harper is also right. We need to make it clear for everyone involved, especially Mr. Orly, that this isn’t a medical interview but a witness interview so that we avoid the hearsay exception. I can ask the questions in my capacity as a consultant for the police, while Dr. Chaudhari monitors Mr. Orly’s mental and physical status.”
Luka rapped his fingers against the wall since it seemed no one had noticed his arrival and Harper immediately backed off.
Luka stepped forward and offered his hand. “Dr. Chaudhari, I’m Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho. I’m in charge of the investigation into Trudy Orly’s death.” They shook hands and Luka continued, “I think Dr. Wright’s solution is the best all around. I know your primary goal is to protect your patient, but learning the truth behind his wife’s death could also have serious implications for his welfare.”
“I’ve been treating Mr. Orly since his initial diagnosis three years ago and I have never seen any evidence that he’s capable of violence.” Chaudhari’s composure slipped, but only for a brief moment. He gathered himself. “But I do agree with you. Dr. Wright and I were discussing this, and I am concerned about the ramifications to Walt’s prognosis and treatment if he does believe he caused his wife’s death.”
“Now that we have the court order, I checked his chart. There was an incident several days ago, was there not?” Leah asked.
Chaudhari blew his breath out. “An isolated incident. Walt has been fixated on driving again; he stumbled across the keys Trudy had hidden from him and became irate.”
“What happened?” Luka asked in a low tone, noting that Harper had pad and pen out, documenting everything. Because of Walt’s cognitive decline, they had a court order for his medical records and permission to interview him, but anytime a doctor–patient relationship was involved, things could get dicey in the hands of a good defense attorney. If Walt was their actor, his case might never make it to court, given his diagnosis.
“No one was hurt,” Chaudhari said. “Not seriously. Walt grabbed Trudy by the arms, shook her, shouted at her. Left a few bruises. She called me and I adjusted his medication, arranged for respite care. And that’s when we both decided it was time.”
“Time?” Luka asked.
“To find an alternative living arrangement. I gave Trudy a list of several facilities in the region and she visited them. I believe she decided on one in Smithfield, placed Walt on a waiting list for the next available bed.”
“And that’s the only time, to your knowledge, that Walt has laid hands on his wife?”
“The only time Trudy told me about.”
“Patients with Huntington’s—I understand they can be volatile, unpredictable. Could they snap, do something in the heat of the moment, but not realize it or remember it a short time later?” Leah asked.
“Mr. Orly definitely seemed to have no awareness of hurting his wife, or even that she was dead, when we finally calmed him down,” Luka explained to Chaudhari. “Despite witnesses saying that he’d been at the railing, had seen his wife’s body, probably moments after she fell. Is that normal for someone at his stage of the disease?” He didn’t add the question he could tell by Harper’s scowl she was itching to ask. Could Walt Orly be faking his confusion after his wife’s death? Maybe he’d pushed her in the heat of an argument, then realized what he’d done.
Chaudhari considered carefully. “Unfortunately, with this particular disease, almost anything is possible, Detective.”
“Does he know Trudy is dead now?” Leah asked. Last thing they needed was to agitate Walt with news of his wife’s demise.
“Yes. I explained it to him and he seems to have retained the information. But I can’t predict how long that clarity wi
ll last. Which is why, although he’s much calmer and more coherent, I doubt this interview will yield anything helpful. But let’s not keep Mr. Orly waiting any longer.” He opened the door and waved Leah through it, leaving Luka and Harper to watch and listen from the monitoring room.
“Talk about your bedside manner,” Harper said to Luka as they closed the door.
“He seemed fine to me.”
“No, you. The way you got him to cooperate. Guy’s been stonewalling me all morning.”
Luka met her gaze and raised an eyebrow.
She sighed. “Yeah, I know, honey instead of vinegar. I was just so riled up over McKinley and the patrol guys trying to blame me and Krichek for this morning’s fiasco—”
“How about if you let me handle McKinley and you focus on the case. What other loose ends need following up?” Naomi Harper’s test scores had proven she was capable of being promoted to detective, but her attitude often made Luka wonder if she was ready.
“I haven’t had any luck tracing next of kin—”
“Maggie and the coroner’s office will help with that.”
“Then the biggest thing I want to tackle is finding the victim’s cell phone. A woman her age, sick husband at home, no way in hell she’s forgetting it or losing it. But it wasn’t on her body or with her personal effects, so where is it?”
Luka nodded. The missing cell phone was top of his list as well. “Get with Sanchez in the cyber unit. There was a video baby monitor in the apartment, no doubt sending footage to Trudy’s cell. Maybe he has a way to access that. Also see if the cell provider has the data on her recent activity ready. If not, follow up on it. I don’t want to wait until Monday.” Weekend or not, he and his team would be working, so why shouldn’t the damn phone company?
“And you’ll take the autopsy?” Harper seemed relieved to be spared that particular duty.
