Bell nodded. "Right."
Andy dropped his hand onto Bell's shoulder. "Hey, relax. We got him."
Bell smiled. "Fuckin' A."
"I need some coffee. You want some?"
"Yeah, sounds good. Black."
Andy walked back the way he came and disappeared through the double doors while Bell read the time on his watch. Fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER 11
John heard the double doors open down the hall and moments later, the two detectives stood outside the station door.
"Press everywhere," the younger detective said.
Detective Bell smiled and dropped his coffee cup into a trash can inside the empty station room across from where John waited in cuffs.
"You ready?" Bell asked the young detective.
"Ready when you are."
The expression on Bell’s face changed from friendly to all business. He walked through the door and introduced the young detective.
"This is Detective Anderson. He will be accompanying us out to the car. Please stand up."
Danny and Carrie turned and faced them. John lifted his head.
"He didn't kill anyone," Danny said.
"I said stand up. Now!" Bell shouted. He motioned to Danny and Carrie. "You two, out."
They stepped around the officers and waited in the hallway. John slid off the edge of the bed and Detective Anderson took him by one arm while Detective Bell took the other. They moved him through the station door and down the corridor.
"You're crazy," Danny called to them. “He didn't do anything.”
***
The emergency doors opened. Bell, Andy, and the uniformed cops pushed their way through the gathering mob of frenzied reporters. Every television station was there with their antenna dishes facing the sky.
John slogged through the center of the hoard, hunched over, hiding his face as best he could. As they hustled him toward the cop car, the press pushed in. Cameras flashed. There must have been a half dozen or more microphones within five feet of him. All he could hear was, Are you the Bedroom Killer? Why did you kill those girls? Did you work alone? What's your name?
He wanted to scream. How could this be happening? How could they think he'd want to kill anyone? Didn't they know he was a doctor?
I'm a doctor.
"No!" he shouted.
"What? What did you say?" came a response from somewhere to his left.
"Get out of here," someone else shouted.
"I'm not a killer!"
One of the cops beeped the doors unlocked and pulled the back door open. John felt a strong hand on the back of his head, and he was eased inside the backseat of the car. The door slammed, momentarily cutting off the shouts from outside. The sound soon returned when the front doors opened. The car rocked as the detectives got in, and John suddenly flashed back to earlier that morning when he felt the same sort of rocking in his own car. He pictured the dark face of the man staring at him through the windshield. John closed his eyes to blink it away. The car doors shut, and the engine started with a roar. The handcuffs dug into his wrists, a welcomed pain for it took his thoughts away from what was actually happening to him. He was being arrested right here at the hospital where he used to work, while his coworkers watched.
He peeked up and caught sight of the line of news vans.
Could he prove to them that he was there to kill himself?
Your Honor, all I wanted to do was put a bullet through my brain and forget about everything. That's all. I had no plans on killing the bat-swinging lady who came out of nowhere and bashed me in the head.
The siren blared, causing John's head to snap back away from the window. The car picked up speed. How could this be happening? I'm really being arrested. I have handcuffs on. They're taking me to the police station. They're going to fingerprint me, take my mug shot, and put me in a cell.
My God. This is really happening.
John eyed the detectives in the front seat.
"You have the wrong guy," John said.
No response.
"I said you have the wrong guy."
"Heard you the first time," Detective Bell said.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"That's not for me to decide."
"I apologize, I've forgotten your name," John said.
"Detective Gerald Bell, if it really matters that much."
"Nice to meet you, Detective." John said, hoping to spark a conversation.
"Sorry I can't return the sentiment, Mr. Randall."
"You think I killed all those girls." It was more of a statement than a question, but just saying the words freaked John out.
Bell didn't bite.
He sighed. "Do you know where I was earlier this evening?"
No answer. "I was trying to kill myself."
Still no answer.
"I didn't want to live anymore, so I drove to my old house. I figured it was as good a place as any. No, that's not true. I chose to go there for a reason."
John thought about what he'd just said, and, it hit him all over again. The reason he wanted to die. His wife Paulette. His son Trevor.
He let his head drop, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from crying.
The police cruiser turned down the drive that lead behind the police station, and parked the car near the rear door.
John raised his head and saw television news vans lined up one after another—parallel to the fenced parking lot—their antennas raised, with field reporters facing their cameramen. He knew they were probably saying variations of the same thing. "A suspect in the Bedroom Killer case has been arrested." Word would spread throughout the community. Parents groups would be on the phone, emails and text messages would fly through cyberspace, heating up the cell phone towers. The Bedroom Killer had finally been caught.
They’re all wrong.
Bell removed John from the car and walked him into the station. John raised himself upright and glanced at Bell and his partner, then at the other officers who stared at him. He turned and peered down a hallway, where another plainclothes detective held open a door.
They walked John through booking, took his picture and got prints. Bell handed John a wipe, which he used to remove the ink from his fingertips, and then lead him through another door. They approached a line of interrogation rooms. Bell eased John inside the first room, sat him down in a chair, and re-cuffed his wrists in front of him around a chain attached to the table. This time he didn't cinch the cuffs so tightly.
CHAPTER 12
Megan stayed behind to finish up at the Sharp residence, completing the interview with Karen Sharp and her daughter. Then Megan discussed evidence with the technicians and scheduled to meet Kennedy back at the station to learn about the suspect. She felt a sort of melancholy about the whole thing, knowing full well that she should be happy, but still sensing the arrest was just the beginning. The beginning of what, she couldn't say. She had another intense feeling. It came on in a flash, as it did so often. So when she finally left Karen Sharp's house, Megan didn't go straight to the department. Instead, she drove aimlessly, wondering if she could quench her urge for sex before heading back to the station. There's no way, she thought. They had the killer. He was being booked and would soon be in an interrogation room. And she should be there to plan the interrogation with Bell, Andy, and Kennedy.
So why was she driving the other way?
She knew why.
But she was needed back at the station. There was so much paperwork to do—follow up interviews with the neighbors, the hospital personnel, and the ambulance crew who actually found the killer in his car, and lots of discussion with the team. Plus, there would be phone calls from the mayor, the district attorney, and a visit from the chief of police. But it didn't matter to Megan. She didn't care. Not really. She actually giggled as she drove, one of those, I'm-so-stressed-and-out-of-my-head laughs. But there was no one else to share her laughter, and it disappeared as fast as it came.
No matter h
ow she looked at it, everything still seemed the same to her, just like it was the day before and the day before that. Nothing seemed to change, except the bodies. She'd wake up, take some pills, drive to the office, sit down, turn on the computer, and stare at the same fucking icons on her computer screen. She'd click open her e-mail program, click open some case files, and decide which ones needed to be reviewed. She'd read a few paragraphs, jot down some new notes, talk to Bell, Andy, Kennedy, or all three, make some calls, then drive to interview a witness, family member, or a victim for the umpteenth time. Compared to some jobs, this would be a never-ending new experience. But to her, it was just misery. A new misery each day but still misery. And she was tired of it. Tired of the phone calls announcing the discovery of the latest body, the endless forms, and the long hours. Sure, it felt good to crack a case, to find the killer, to get a confession. But when was it ever going to stop?
Never.
It was nearly ten on Saturday when Megan pulled into the CVS parking lot. She weaved her way past soccer moms heading for the Target next door to buy iPods, Disney movies, the latest must-have video game, while they sipped their four-dollar lattes from the in-store Starbucks. But how could Megan judge? Was she any better? Was there really anything wrong with sipping latte, cheering your kids at the game, throwing them in front of the TV for a by-the-numbers Disney flick? No, Megan had to admit, there was nothing wrong with it. In fact, it sounded so…real. So natural. But so unlike anything Megan had ever done in her adult life.
How lucky for them.
Megan pushed her cynicism aside—or was it jealousy—and granted each mother a silent prayer as she walked into the pharmacy. A prayer for continued normalcy.
Dear God,
Please don't let them ever get a phone call from me.
Or anyone else in my department.
Keep them cheering.
Keep them sipping.
And tell them to never, ever let their children out of their sight.
She walked past the candy aisle and half considered grabbing a bag of Milky Way bars, one of her vises. Instead, she moved on to the sexual health aisle and snatched the extra-large MegaMan condoms from the bottom of the rack. A box of fifty. She would need these if she kept seeing Jason. He owned a landscaping business and set his own hours. He divorced young, at twenty-six, and told Megan he was just too young to be married. Truth be told, he was a player and probably always would be, but that was all right with her. Easy in. Easy out. No strings. The perfect interlude. Enough to charge her up when she needed it.
But he was big. So, MegaMan. He could go forever, too, which in most cases would be just fine, but with his size, she had to cut him off after the third of fourth orgasm, or she would certainly split in two. Besides, after the first couple, her mood changed. She had gotten what she wanted. No need to cuddle. Thanks, anyway. She set the condom box on top of the pharmacy counter located at the back of the store and asked, Stephanie, the young pharmacist assistant, "Are they ready?"
"Let me check," Stephanie said. She knew Megan by sight. A regular. Plus, Megan had been on TV because of the Bedroom Killer case.
"Here you go," she said, returning with a small, white bag, the bar-coded receipt stapled at the top.
Megan pushed the condom box forward to join the bag. The young girl grabbed the box and ran it under the laser gun without seeming to give it another thought, then pulled the receipt that was stapled to the bag, and held it under the laser gun.
Beep.
Beep.
Megan noted the same sound for gigantic condoms as for Vicodin and made a half-smile. One for pleasure. One for pain. Story of my life. Megan slid her debit card through the machine and punched in her four-digit PIN code. Once the transaction was complete, she grabbed the bag and finally exited into the chilly gray outdoors.
She stood still, just outside the door, staring up at the white, patchy storm clouds drifting slowly across a background of pale-blue sky. If only there were a way I could just not go back. She briefly imagined herself on top of one of the white clouds, lightly bouncing and floating, watching the city of Greenwood pass by. She saw all the landmarks drifting by: the courthouse, the police station, her home, Greenwood Park, the long-dead industrial park…and the rail yard before the countryside took over.
But she couldn't leave. She would have to return. She sighed and took her first step.
CHAPTER 13
Danny shifted in his steel chair, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. They placed him in Interrogation Room 2. Danny had to assume it was built to intimidate—and it was working.
Why put me in here? Detective Anderson had asked him and Carrie to, Please come downtown to answer some questions about Dr. Randall. Danny couldn't believe they actually used that phrase. He wasn't supposed to be on shift anyway, so he didn't have to get anyone to cover for him. And by the time they were leaving, Carrie's shift was ending, so it worked out for both of them. They took Danny's Lexus, following behind the line of cop cars. Their sirens blared and lights flashed, as they whisked John out of the parking lot and back to the station. He and Carrie talked all the way there, taking turns asking each other questions.
What exactly did John do?
He didn't really kill a girl, did he?
No, he said he may have killed a woman.
When was the last time you spoke to him before today?
No matter which question they asked, none of it made any sense. For the past year, they had each seen John a few times, Danny more than Carrie. He made a point of stopping by John's place when he could, trying to get him to go out for a beer or to a movie. Anything to get him out of the house and into the world. Not much had worked. John was seeing a therapist and that was a start. He seemed to like the guy, Dr. Larson. John said he was a nice guy. He was helping. That's all John would say.
Danny parked behind the police station, an old, red brick building that looked like it had been moved, brick by brick, from some gritty 1950s Brooklyn neighborhood. Danny and Carrie walked up to a group of policemen milling about the back door, evidently talking about John and what they each saw at the house. Carrie asked one of the cops how to get inside and, after a brief discussion, the cop escorted them into the detectives' office, where Detective Anderson separated them. He placed Danny in one room and Carrie into another next door.
Twenty minutes after Danny sat in the seriously uncomfortable chair, the door opened, and Detective Anderson walked in, carrying a manila folder, a notepad, and a pen. He dropped them in front of Danny and sat.
"I appreciate you coming in. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No," Danny said. "I'd just like to get this over with."
"Of course." Detective Anderson flipped open his notepad. He clicked his pen and looked at Danny. "Exactly how long have you known John Randall?"
Danny thought about his time working with John, and then about the accident. He took a deep breath. "We did residency together at Greenwood Hospital. So…a little more than ten years."
Detective Anderson wrote on his pad. "He's worked there for those ten years?"
"Up until about a year ago."
"What happened a year ago?"
How far would Detective Anderson go in this line of questioning? There was only so much Danny knew, but he figured what he knew would be enough to satisfy the detective. He felt his heart rate slow.
"His wife and son passed away."
Andy's eyes squinted and he glanced up from his notepad.
"A car accident," Danny said.
Detective Anderson scribbled.
"He took it bad," Danny said. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled loudly, and dropped his shoulders. "Who wouldn't?"
"Was he hurt?"
Danny shook his head. "He wasn't with them."
"So what happened to him?"
"He stopped working, became depressed. I couldn't imagine losing your wife and son."
The detective nodded and kept writing, then raised his head. "He ever
say anything strange to you? You know, anything out of the ordinary?"
"Like what?" Danny knew it would come to this, and he wasn't going to play the guessing game. Let him lead me into it.
"Like feelings of anger. Getting revenge. Wanting to lash out."
Playing along, Danny leaned forward and asked, "You mean like killing a girl?"
Detective Anderson just nodded.
"No," he said quickly and sat back in his chair as if to say, next question.
Detective Anderson stared at Danny for a long time, then exhaled deeply and read his notes. "Why do you suppose he was parked on Date Avenue last night?"
"I didn't know he was."
"You didn't?"
"No. Was I supposed to?" Danny said, picking at his fingernails.
"I thought—"
"You thought maybe John confided in me and told me everything? I'll tell you what he told me, for the third time, because I already told you at least two times while you dragged his ass out of the hospital. All he told me was he thought he might have hurt a woman. Not a girl. A woman. He thought maybe he'd run her over with his car. Tell me, Detective, you find any run over women in the past six hours?"
"I'm trying to find out what Dr. Randall was doing at the house where a young girl was strangled tonight. Doesn't that sound strange to you, Dr. Turner? A young girl is strangled to death in her bed, and your friend is sitting outside in his car at the very same time. Because it does to me."
Danny had to agree. He didn't know what John was doing at—
"Wait, did you say Date Avenue?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, he used to live on Date Avenue. I don't recall the address but…that's where he used to live with Paulette and Trevor. He went there to kill himself."
Detective Anderson looked across the table at Danny, then scooped up his notepad, and stood. "Please wait here. I'll have more questions."
And with that, the detective walked out.
***
"Dr. Larson?" Detective Richard "Rick" Kennedy entered the interrogation room and sat down. He opened a file folder, leaned his head right, then left, with a pop each time. He clicked his pen.
The Bedroom Killer Page 4
