The Bedroom Killer

by Taylor Waters

  "You—" he started to say to her, but Bell cut him off, which John had come to expect by now.

  "John?"

  "And now you live on Sonoma—1507?" Ash asked.

  "Yes."

  Ash flipped the sheet in front of her and read the next page. She looked up at John, then back down at the sheet.

  "Your wife and son died in a car accident?"

  John didn't answer. He stared at the teddy bear, and his eyes welled up. How could his wife and son have anything to do with this?

  Yet he knew they did. But it wasn't their fault.

  How would Paulette have felt if she knew her name was thrown about in a murder interrogation? She was a very proud and private woman. She would've been so embarrassed. How would she have felt knowing that less than twelve hours ago John sat outside their home with a gun to his chin?

  It was so unfair. He didn't belong here. He didn't do anything wrong. Paulette didn't do anything wrong. Trevor was just a kid. He didn't deserve any of this. None of it was their fault. They were innocent.

  "Is that bothering you, John?" Detective Bell said.

  John's eyes blinked and he focused on Bell, who leaned forward, his eyes locked on John's.

  "What?"

  "I said is that bothering you? The teddy bear," Bell said again, with his finger pointing toward the bear.

  "No," John said, confused by the question.

  "Are you sure…cuz I can move it if you want me to."

  And with that, Bell reached over and slid the chair a foot closer to John, banging it against the table leg, almost knocking the bear over on its side.

  "There," Bell said. "That better?"

  "John, you ever heard of a girl named Colleen Hanson?" Ash asked.

  "No," he said.

  Bell picked up the ball and ran with it, placing his elbows on the table and leaning closer to John. And then he let go with a barrage of questions, steamrolling John in the process.

  "Lori Pashton?"

  "No."

  "Jamie Kirk?"

  "No. Why are you asking me these questions? Why am I here? I didn't do anything."

  Bell slammed his hand on the table, making both John and Ash jump.

  "Cut the bullshit, John. Why were you parked in front of 1736 Date Avenue this morning at—"

  "I told you."

  "No, you didn't. You just admitted to being there. Why were you there?"

  "You know why."

  Bell reached into the paper sack again and dropped a Ziploc baggie containing three bloody envelopes onto the table. John looked down at his suicide notes to Danny, Carrie, and Dr. Larson. They'd been opened, and surely read. They knew. So if they knew, why were they asking him these questions?

  "We found these in your car, John," Bell said. He pointed to the letters, one at a time, reading the names they were addressed to. "Danny Turner, Carrie Atwood, and Dr. Burt Larson. Why is there blood on these envelopes, John? Why is there blood on these envelopes?"

  John didn't answer. He only stared at the envelopes and the blood on them.

  "John!" Bell yelled at him, snapping his fingers in front of John's face. "Earth to John."

  "What?"

  "Why were you at—"

  "You know why."

  "No, I don't. Tell me."

  John fidgeted in his chair, his cuffed hands shook, and his lips trembled as he spoke. He was losing it. He didn't want to lose it. Not here. Not in front of them. "You read the letters."

  "Why'd you do it, John?"

  "I didn't—"

  "Why'd you kill them, John?"

  "What?"

  "Why'd you kill Rachel?"

  "Who's Rachel?"

  "Let's quit playing games. I'm not stupid. You staked out their house, you waited until they went to sleep, then you broke in."

  "What are you doing?" Ash interrupted, turning to face Bell.

  Bell continued. "You sneaked into her room—"

  "Wait," Ash said.

  "…and you killed her." He looked to Ash. "What?"

  John took the opportunity to jump in. "Is that what you think?"

  Bell focused on John. "I sure as fuck do."

  "John, all we want to do is—" Ash started in a calm voice.

  "But you didn't count on Mom waking up did you?"

  John studied Bell, trying to understand what he meant by “mom waking up.” Is he talking about the woman with the bat? Is that it? She woke up and found the killer? That's why he hit my car. It hadn't occurred to John until then. That guy, the one with the dark hair. Up to that point, he didn't understand why someone would run into a car so hard that they'd fall across the hood.

  Unless he was running away. And the only way he could have been running to fall across the car hood was from… My house. That meant he was the Bedroom Killer. The guy they've all been looking for all this time was on my car.

  John's eyes went wide and he spoke as fast as he could. "She was chasing him out of the house. She thought I was the killer. That's it. That's what it is. She chased the killer out of the house, then she thought I was the killer. It makes sense. It all makes sense. Then you found me at the hospital. That's it. That's what happened. Don't you see?"

  Now he understood everything. But Bell hadn't stopped talking. He was still ranting away. John's mind began to focus back on Bell's words.

  "…surprised the hell out of you, didn't she?"

  "No, it's not like that."

  "You smacked her around a bit, then you got the hell out of there as quick as you could, right?"

  "Haven't you heard a word I said?" John looked to Detective Ash.

  "I heard you," Ash shouted over Bell's booming voice.

  "And she smashed your car window before you could get away." Bell slammed his hand down as he said the word smashed.

  "No, it wasn't like—"

  "What happened to your face, John?"

  "Calm down." Ash placed her hand on Bell's forearm. "Did you hear what he just—"

  Bell pulled his arm away, as if her hand were hot to the touch.

  "Your blood is all over her nightgown, John," he said, then pointed to John's bandage and added, "She scratched you."

  John shook his head. "No, she thought I was the killer. But I was…"

  John would have to confess to the whole thing. It was the only way to get them to listen. John tried to grab his bandage, as if touching it would somehow make it disappear, and no one would see any evidence of his inconveniently unsuccessful suicide attempt.

  "She really cut you up," Bell said.

  "No, it's not a scratch."

  John stood , slouched over, due to the chain holding his cuffed hands.

  "Sit down!" Bell yelled.

  "It's not a scratch!" he shouted.

  "John, it's okay," Ash said.

  Bell stood, pointing across the table.

  "I said, sit down!"

  "I'll show you." John reached up as far as he could with his shackled arms. Bell began to round the table, and Ash stood, too.

  The door burst opened, and two officers ran inside. They grabbed John from behind, each taking an arm. But it was too late. In the time it took them to enter and Bell to get around the table, John had managed to get the fingers on his right hand under the corner of the four-inch by three-inch gauze dressing that covered his right cheek. As they shoved him down, he ripped the bandage from his face, exposing the ugly, four-inch long laceration that ran from his right jaw line up to the corner of his right eye. John held the bandage in his right hand and turned his head so his right cheek faced Bell.

  The officers stepped back. Ash sat in her chair, and Bell stood defiantly over John.

  John turned from Bell and looked across to Ash, the only person he felt he had any hope of actually listening to him.

  "It's not a scratch!" he shouted through his tears.

  "Christ," Bell said.

  "It's a gunshot wound. From my gun. And you know who put it there? I did. I was going to put a bullet through my brai
n, but I missed. Because the guy you're looking for slammed into my car and knocked me sideways. I saw him. I'm not a killer. I don't kill people. I help people. I'm a doctor. I save lives.” John slumped forward, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. "I save lives."

  CHAPTER 16

  Two hours after the ugliest interview in her long career, Megan had John's bandage replaced. She calmed him down and gave him a Tylenol. When she learned he hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours, she bought him a cup of coffee, some eggs, and bacon from the local Denny's around the corner.

  She spoke briefly with him after Bell and the other detectives had left the room, asking him to go into a little more detail about his entire day before driving to his old house. And when he was finished, she believed him. He wasn't the Bedroom Killer. They would visit his home— he even encouraged it—but she didn't believe they would find anything. She'd conferred with Andy and Rick about their interviews with Drs. Larson and Turner, and she shared her information about Nurse Atwood. It was clear to Megan that Ms. Atwood was somewhat in love with Dr. Randall—or had been at one time. She certainly cared for him. More than just a co-worker. It was also clear that if anything happened between these two, it ended the night his wife and son died. She didn't know how to feel about that, and in reality it didn't matter. But still, the way Carrie spoke about this man made Megan wonder. Could he really be as wonderful as she'd made him out to be? Megan had only met one man who fit that description, but he'd been gone a long time now. She missed him. Every day.

  Focus, Megan.

  She didn't need to review anything. There just wasn't enough evidence to put Dr. Randall inside the house, either that, or Randall missed his calling as an actor with Oscar-caliber talent. Time would tell. She found herself feeling very sorry for him. Everything in his life had collapsed around him. He was a good man. That's what they all said. Dr. Turner said, "One of the best human beings you could ever meet." Nurse Carrie said, "He was loved by everyone. I was a little envious of his wife. They were the perfect couple." Dr. Larson said, "I can't imagine what made him try suicide. We were making such good progress."

  All that and the way his eyes looked. They were warm. Not a killer's eyes. No, he wasn't a killer. He was a man in need of love. A man who needed to be held. Taken care of. She knew before she left the room that she would have him. But it would be different with him. She felt it. And it gave her hope.

  ***

  The men walked single file into the stark, white room and stepped upon the wooden stage, then turned to face the one-way mirror. Each man moved in front of a number, one through five on the wall behind them, and said nothing. The stage was lit well enough to see the facial features of each man, and the wall behind them bore horizontal lines with height measurements on the right side to reveal the height of each man. Megan's eyes were glued on John as he entered. Although each man had a bandage on his face, he was the only one with a black eye that looked real. The others had makeup under their right eye. Detective Bell and Karen Sharp stood beside her. Before they even settled into their spots, Karen pointed. "That's him. Number four."

  "Are you sure?" Bell asked.

  Karen hesitated. Megan and Bell watched as she stared at the men, her eyes always coming back to John. "He's the one in the car."

  Gerald smiled and grabbed Megan's shoulder in a show of solidarity. She flinched! Bell took note, and let go.

  "But…"

  "But what?" Megan asked.

  "He's not tall enough."

  Megan watched as Bell leaned forward, looked at the height of number four, and his smiled dropped as the realization spread across his face. John didn't match her description of the man in the house. At least six foot three was what she'd said, maybe taller.

  "Maybe he was wearing lifts," Bell said.

  Megan turned to face him. "Five-inch lifts?"

  Bell winced at her comment and bore his gaze into Megan, but she didn't flinch. She knew Dr. Randall wasn't a killer. No matter how much her fat-ass boss hoped he was.

  Sorry to burst your bubble, Numbnuts.

  "They could be working together," Bell said.

  Karen Sharp took one more look at the man under number four, Dr. John Randall, as he stood there with his bandaged cheek, "All I know is he's not the guy who killed my daughter. You still don't have him."

  After Karen was finished, they drove her home and had the other moms brought to the station to try to identify John as the killer. In each instance, the mother of the murdered child could not identify John or any of the other men in the lineups. The other three mothers hadn't woken up in the middle of the night, so there was little hope of them recognizing John.

  Finally, Bell had to admit John Randall was telling the truth.

  CHAPTER 17

  A crowd of neighbors, onlookers, and news reporters had gathered outside John's house as Detectives Bell, Anderson, Kennedy, and Megan walked inside with John to search his home. He had given them permission, almost imploring them to come take a look. He knew he had nothing to hide…at least not from them. Once the front door was opened, Detective Bell took over.

  "Kennedy, you and Andy check out the backyard and the garage."

  Detectives Kennedy and Anderson nodded, stepped off the porch, and disappeared around the corner of the house. Megan watched John as Bell barked his orders.

  She was attracted to John, but she wasn't sure if it was normal attraction or something else entirely. Normal being he was a handsome man, even with the bandage, and he was a doctor. The "or something else entirely" being her never-ending lustful needs. She was experienced enough to know the dangers of falling for a suspect. But she didn't think of him as one. She knew that was dangerous in and of itself, but she believed every word that came out of his mouth. She was impressed that he was a doctor, but she wasn't too concerned that he was on disability, considering the circumstances that led to it. And she felt like she had to protect him from Numbnuts.

  "Doc."

  Bell motioned for John to step inside. John entered and Bell followed behind, then Megan. A forensics team stepped in right behind her. The CSI team, consisting of three technicians, the same ones handling all the other killings, went to work without needing to be told what to do. Sometimes the techs were the ones who broke the case. It wasn't advertised in the nightly news—CSI Tech Breaks Major Case—but it was known to happen. A comment or observation pointed out to the detective, some follow up, one thing leads to another, and a suspect is found.

  "Why don't you wait here by the front door?" Bell asked.

  John nodded and sat in a recliner by the door.

  Megan went into the kitchen. She noted the dirty dishes in the sink and reminded herself the last time John was here, he left with no intention of returning. Maybe he was a messy guy or maybe it didn't matter anymore. Maybe she'd have a chance to find out.

  Bell read the book titles on the shelf as Megan rounded the kitchen and came back into the living room. She made her way back toward John.

  "What do you do in your spare time, John?"

  "I read."

  "What do you read?"

  "Nonfiction, mostly."

  "Like what?"

  John nodded toward his bookshelf. Megan turned and scanned the titles including The Intimate Lives of the Founding Fathers by Thomas Fleming and Lincoln and McClellan by John Waugh, The Federalists Papers by Thomas Jefferson.

  "American History," she said.

  "Mostly. Biographies, too. I like to know what people have done in the past."

  But Megan didn't want to talk history—of any sort. All she wanted to listen to was John's voice. She couldn't help it. There was something about his voice. It was pleasing.

  "And you like to save lives."

  John's eyes squinted. "Are you mocking me?"

  "No. Not at all. I just… I once thought about being a doctor myself," she lied. "I think it's noble. I admire it. I admire you."

  She winced, then threw a nervous smile at John. She was
going too fast. Her compulsion had kicked in. But it was so damn exciting. Making the first move. Waiting for them to catch her drift.

  But not now, you idiot.

  "Detective," Bell called from the hallway entrance, appearing as if he'd been watching the two of them speak, which of course he had.

  "Coming." Megan walked toward Bell, swinging her hips a little more than usual, but eying Bell as she did it, almost defying him not to notice. But he was looking beyond her at John.

  "Doc, I'm going to need you to come here, too."

  John joined them in the hallway. Bell stood outside a bedroom door facing the back entrance.

  "Doc, this one's locked. You have the key?"

  John stared at the door, his eyes seemed to float away as if he were no longer with them. Megan thought about John standing behind her—almost too much to bear. It was the worst time, the worst place, but that's how her lust always was. That's what made her addiction so exciting and so debilitating all at once. As she kept her focus on Bell, Megan slowly reached her right hand behind her, palm open, fingers curled, like she was palming a baseball, or in this case, getting ready to cup John Randall's crotch in her hand. She wanted to caress it until he got hard, then she could turn around and drop to her knees.

  What would he do? Would he jerk away? Would he wonder what this crazy homicide detective was doing right in the middle of her investigation?

  And she could do it right in front of Numbnuts. But before Megan could reach back far enough, John came around her, fishing into his pockets and pulling out his key ring. He found the key and handed it to Bell. But as he did, he brushed up against Megan's left shoulder as he leaned forward. She didn't make any effort to move away. In fact, she moved her left hand so it scraped against his right thigh and rested it, palm open, on the back of his upper thigh for a split second. She pressed down gently to make sure he knew it was there, then she pulled it away. She was sure he'd felt it.

  Bell inserted the key into the lock. John turned to leave.

  "Where are you going?" Bell asked.

  Megan's eyes followed John. He turned back, glanced at Megan first…