Killer's Diary

by Brian Pinkerton

  She planned to pay a surprise visit to him at his condo. He had never invited her over. If she could see him in his own environment, perhaps it would yield a clue. She would ask him about his day at work—and possibly learn whether or not he truly worked at Technor.

  First, she needed an excuse for the drop-in visit.

  Ellen used her employee discount to buy the brand-new thriller by James Patterson. She knew he liked Patterson and had talked about getting this book in particular.

  After work, she drove toward the Gold Coast, remembering that he said he lived at the corner of Lincoln Avenue and LaSalle Street.

  Fighting traffic all the way, she followed Lincoln Avenue until it ended at the park, just south of Lincoln Park Zoo. She did not see an intersection with LaSalle Street. She retraced her path—perhaps she had missed it? Finally she stopped at a gas station for directions.

  The attendant looked at her as if she was crazy. “There’s no such intersection,” he told her. “The streets never meet. LaSalle hits a dead end several blocks from here.”

  Ellen hurried back to her car. She slammed the door and covered her face with her hands. She wanted to scream.

  Was everything a lie?

  Was his name even Charles? Or was it Darren?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Peg Shore lived four blocks east of Ellen on the second floor of a handsome four-story Lakeview brownstone, occupying a two-bedroom unit that she had once shared with a sensitive and snippy roommate, Trish. After ongoing quarrels over everything from boys to dirty dishes, Trish moved out to live with a second cousin. Peg held onto the apartment, half-heartedly advertising for a new roommate while her well-to-do parents helped subsidize the rent, sending her monthly checks from one of Chicago’s wealthiest lakefront suburbs. The extra space often accommodated men of various types: one-nighters, three-week trial boyfriends, seasonal flings, and even a six-month romance (exclusive for at least three of those six months).

  Peg called her bookstore stint a “short-term, full-time job.” She was always on the verge of advancing to something else, but without any real plans. She encouraged her parents by pursuing a college degree, even if it was in slow-motion, one night class per semester at a community college, successfully targeting Bs. “I’m in no hurry, as long as I graduate while they’re still alive to see it,” she had once told Ellen.

  During their time together at the Book Shelf, Ellen had gotten to know Peg fairly well and even considered her a friend, although they didn’t socialize much outside of the job. They were two very different personalities, but gravitated to each other, finding a complementary fit in each other’s company.

  Ellen felt like she was about to have an emotional breakdown over Charles, overwhelmed by his riddled back history and inconsistencies. She knew she needed to speak to someone, share everything, and get an outsider’s view of this madness. Ellen’s choice was Peg.

  “Come on over,” said Peg on the phone, sounding more than eager to oblige. “Tell me everything that’s going on, no detail is too personal. I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.”

  “This is just between the two of us,” said Ellen, well aware of Peg’s tendency to gossip.

  “Absolutely,” said Peg, adding, “What toppings do you want on your pizza?”

  Ellen and Peg sat on the floor of Peg’s living room, pizza box open between them, bottles of Heineken at their sides.

  Before Ellen could even get the conversation started, Peg asked, “Have you slept with him?”

  Ellen blushed and looked down at the carpet.

  Peg squealed and said, “Way to go, girl.”

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  “I know, sorry,” said Peg. “Just had to get that out of the way.”

  “I’m worried,” said Ellen, “that I don’t really know him. That he hasn’t been totally honest with me about some things. He’s very guarded.”

  “Welcome to the world of men,” said Peg, taking a long chug from her beer.

  “It’s more than that,” said Ellen. “I’ve seen him…get violent.”

  “Toward you?” Peg straightened up.

  “No, no,” said Ellen. “He’s been very gentle and caring toward me. It was a fight outside a bar. But that’s not everything. He’s also written…about some things. And now…with these murders happening in the neighborhood… I’m wondering…”

  “No way!” said Peg, breaking out in a grin. “You think Charles is a serial killer?”

  “I know,” said Ellen. “It sounds ridiculous to even say this. But he’s…different. And I feel he’s covering something up. He’s been lying to me about some things.” Ellen sighed. “I guess I better start with the notebook.”

  “What notebook?”

  Ellen said, “I’m going to tell you some things, but they are just between you and me. It can’t go any further. If Charles knew…”

  “You think I’m going to call him up and tell on you? Get real.”

  “I know. It’s just…” Ellen sighed. “Complicated.”

  Ellen started at the beginning.

  She told Peg about finding the notebook. She discussed her emotional connection with the troubled, lonely voice in the writing and the shared bond of childhood trauma. She talked about meeting Charles and dating him while secretly holding on to the notebook and continuing to read it.

  She described the writing’s increasingly dark tone and the emergence of Darren, the evil brother.

  “Toward the end of the journal, Darren’s voice takes over and he’s talking about committing a murder,” Ellen told Peg. “And it’s in the same handwriting as the rest of the journal, like a split personality.”

  “Amazing,” said Peg. “I have got to read that notebook. Can I borrow it?”

  “He took it back,” said Ellen. “He found the notebook in my apartment, and there was a big blowup. That’s when everything fell apart. He couldn’t believe I had it and never told him.”

  “What did he say about Darren and the murder?”

  “He said it was all made up. It was part of a story he was writing.”

  “Then maybe it was.”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t read like fiction to me.”

  “Then it’s well-written fiction.”

  “It read more like a diary.”

  “There are a lot of novels written that way.”

  “I’d believe him more if he hadn’t lied to me about other things. Like his job and where he lives. There are so many plot holes in his own story that I can’t determine what’s real and what’s fake.”

  Peg said, “I’ve seen Charles in the bookstore a bunch of times. He doesn’t seem like the crazy type. He’s quiet, but I can’t see him killing women and cutting out their eyeballs…” She started to bite into a slice of pizza, then jerked her head back and nearly choked. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”

  Ellen looked at her.

  “I just remembered something,” said Peg. She put down her pizza. “You know that book that Bradford was waving around today? See No Evil by Robert Walker?”

  “The book where the killer cuts out the eyes?”

  “This is freaking me out,” said Peg, putting a hand over her mouth. “Holy shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “I remember selling that book to Charles like six months ago.”

  Ellen felt her stomach turning over. “Oh no…”

  Peg waved a hand. “Now let’s not get carried away. I sold a lot of copies of that book. My grandmother read it. Still…”

  Ellen said, “Peg, what should I do?”

  “I don’t know. This is freaky. But we don’t have enough evidence to conclude anything. We need to do some more investigating.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for starters, we need to get that notebook back.”

  “No way. He’ll never let it out of his sight again. Besides, he’s started writing a new one.”

  “A new one?” Peg looked at Ellen. “How
do you know?”

  “I saw him writing in it this morning at Pacific Coast Coffee.”

  “Would he let you read it?”

  “God, no.”

  “Your answers may lie in what he’s writing about now.”

  “I thought about that, too.”

  “What if we stole it—I mean, borrowed it? If it matches up with what’s happening…the other murders…then we’ll know for sure. We can go to Karen’s friend Jack, the police detective.”

  “I don’t see how this is going to work.”

  “What do these notebooks look like?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ellen.

  “The covers, the brand.”

  Ellen thought back to the red notebook. It was a standard, spiral-bound, three-hole-punch, student notebook.

  “The cover on the red one said something like ‘class’ or ‘classroom’.”

  “Is the green notebook the same?”

  Ellen searched her memory and nodded. “Yes. I’m pretty sure it is.”

  “Easy,” said Peg. “We go to the store and we find an identical notebook. Then you and I go to Pacific Coast Coffee. You talk to Charles, create a diversion. I swap notebooks without him seeing. We take the one he’s writing in. We get out of there, go someplace and read it. If it talks about more killings and they match up to the Lakeview murders, we go to Jack the Detective. We could help solve the case and become famous. I bet we’d get on TV.”

  “No, no,” said Ellen. Her mind was swimming. “I don’t like this.”

  “Why not? I’m kind of digging it.”

  “What if he’s just writing more fiction? If we take his notebook…If I do it a second time, that’s the end of the relationship right there.”

  “So what?” said Peg. “There are more fish in the sea.”

  Ellen shook her head. “No. It’s not that easy.” She had spent her entire life looking for a romance this heartfelt.

  Peg could read the reaction on Ellen’s face.

  “Listen,” said Peg. “I know how you feel. You might even think you love this guy. Maybe you haven’t had a lot of relationships so you don’t want to let go of this one, but let me tell you something from the voice of experience, too much experience some would say—all men are interchangeable. Sure, their bodies may look a little different, their hobbies might vary, their sense of humor might be better or worse, but in the end, they’re just men, with a limited range of emotions, good for a few things, like sex, companionship, fixing stuff, paying the check at dinner.” Peg started laughing at her own analysis.

  Ellen wasn’t laughing. “I feel different about Charles.”

  “Sure you do,” said Peg with a dismissive tone. “Listen, I have a lot of guy friends. I’ll fix you up with someone. You won’t even have time to rebound. In fact, there’s this guy, Pete, he’s cute and I think you would really hit it off. Pete Brent. He’s an architect.”

  “Thanks,” said Ellen, “but I don’t think so.”

  “Come on,” said Peg. “Charles has lied to you about things, he’s writing freaky shit in notebooks. Even if he’s not the killer, why do you want to hang out with him? I know, he’s really good looking, but take it from me, the excitement from that wears off after six weeks, and then you have to deal with their brains…”

  “I’m not ready to split up with him,” said Ellen. “Not now.”

  “But you’re the one worried he’s a maniac killer.”

  “You said yourself that it’s far-fetched,” said Ellen sharply. “You just like the idea of playing Nancy Drew and stealing his notebook to see what’s in it.”

  Peg frowned. “I think maybe you get off on thinking he might be dangerous. It’s like those women who send marriage proposals to serial killers in jail. I heard that Drew Peterson receives…”

  “Stop it,” said Ellen. Her tone had an unusual forcefulness to it.

  Peg went silent and drew a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “Whatever. Do you want another beer?”

  Ellen said, “Yes.”

  As Peg got up to head for the kitchen, she turned to Ellen and said, “Let me just say one more thing and then I’ll drop it. Once they start lying to you about the little stuff, like their jobs or what their parents do, then the big stuff usually isn’t far behind—like cheating on you and seeing other women.”

  Peg’s voice turned uneven, and Ellen knew she was speaking from personal experience, old wounds that had not healed.

  Ellen looked down at the crumbs in the pizza box and wished she had not come over and started this entire conversation.

  It was shortly after nine p.m. when Ellen returned to her apartment. As she stepped through the door, she heard the telephone ringing.

  She sprinted across the room and grabbed it. “Hello?” she said, out of breath.

  “Hello,” said a deep, gravelly voice. “And how are you this fine evening?”

  Ellen didn’t recognize the caller. “Fine. Who is this?”

  The voice responded, “This is Darren.”

  Ellen’s blood ran cold. Her heart raced. She didn’t know what to say or do. “Darren?”

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time, Ellen.”

  She almost dropped the receiver but hung on. She couldn’t think of a response. Her breathing turned choppy. Her lips trembled and her feet wanted to run…but where?

  Then the person on the other end laughed.

  His tone lightened and became familiar. “It’s me, Charles. I’m just kidding with you.” After a long silence, he said, “Hello?”

  “Oh,” said Ellen, heart still pounding. “You…startled me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Charles. “I thought it would be funny, given all the, you know. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just goofing around.”

  “Real funny,” said Ellen, unamused.

  Charles said, “You didn’t really think…?”

  “No,” said Ellen. “Of course not.”

  “Good. Then you know how ridiculous this whole thing is?”

  “Ridiculous. Yes.” Ellen’s head was spinning.

  “I’m looking forward to our date night tomorrow,” said Charles. “I just wanted to see if I could bring anything. How about a bottle of wine? You pick the movie, I’ll pick the wine.”

  “Sure. That would be fine,” said Ellen.

  “And Darren will bring the dessert.”

  “Charles, stop it,” said Ellen sharply. “It’s not funny.”

  “All right, all right,” said Charles. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just wish you wouldn’t take everything so seriously.”

  “I take you seriously,” said Ellen. “That’s why I don’t like this joking around about…Darren.”

  “Okay,” said Charles. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave him at home. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Peg Shore typically woke up at the last possible minute, dressed quickly, ignored breakfast, grabbed the bus moments before it pulled from the curb and made it to the Book Shelf with one minute to spare. She enjoyed her night life, which made her a lousy morning person. At work, she applied her makeup in the ladies’ room and then jump-started the day with a cup of coffee from the bookstore’s café.

  On this particular morning, however, she stepped out of her routine. Her digital alarm clock triggered earlier than usual, displaying a readout she rarely witnessed. Waking up extra early sent an ache throughout her bones. Fortunately, her brain kicked into high alert. She had a mission.

  Ellen would not go along with Peg’s scheme to obtain Charles’s new journal, so Peg chose to go it alone. She was going to nab that green notebook. Ellen would thank her later. The girl was simply too timid to make such a bold move. Fortunately, Peg had plenty of courage and liked a good challenge.

  First, Peg had to find an identical notebook for the swap.

  Ellen had described the notebook as spiral-bound, three-hole punch, and branded “class-something” on the cover.

  Peg’s search b
egan at Walgreens. She entered the school supplies aisle and found a shelf with several stacks of notebooks.

  But nothing with the word “class” on the cover.

  No problemo. She advanced to the next drug store on her list, Hooper’s, a few blocks away. She dug through another series of notebook stacks, and then found one staring her in the face that was labeled First Class Notebook 10 ½ in. x 8 in./wide rule/270 sheets.

  She continued flipping through the pile, excited. The First Class line of notebooks offered a rainbow of colors: yellow, red, blue, black, orange…and green.

  She bought the green one.

  Outside the store, she roughed up her purchase to remove the appearance of newness. It needed to look worn.

  Then Peg placed the notebook in her handbag and headed for Pacific Coast Coffee.

  Peg had been inside the establishment once or twice before with boyfriends who led her there “the morning after”. She didn’t remember it much. For her, all these coffeehouses felt the same. Plus, they were stupidly expensive. Unless a boy was treating, she didn’t need to fork over a big wad of cash for a cup of caffeine.

  Pacific Coast Coffee bustled with business. There were three lines at the counter and most of the tables were occupied.

  Peg glanced around, looking for Charles.

  She almost missed him, because he looked so grubby. His head was down.

  He had one of those faces that was quick to sprout whiskers. He wore an old gray sweatshirt, torn at one of the shoulder seams. And, sure enough, he was writing in a notebook with a black pen. His arm circled the notebook like a protective fence.

  Peg thought about Ellen’s descriptions of the content of Charles’s writing: the dark and moody expressions, the split voices, the allusions to committing murder.

  Right now, messy and hunched over with intensity in his eyes, Charles looked more than a little cracked.

  A tall cup of coffee rested near his arm. Perfect.

  Peg advanced.

  “Charles. How’s it going?”

  He looked up as if being pulled from a nap. It took a moment for him to emerge from his fog and concentrate on her.

  “Oh. Hi.”