Yes, he felt it. Her breathing increased and a slight smile crossed her face.
Returning his gaze to Bell he said, "I don't want to go in there,"
"Hold on." Bell pulled his radio, depressed the button, and was about to speak, but Detective Anderson stepped into the hallway. Bell dropped the radio from his lips. "Take him outside and stay with him."
Andy nodded.
"Dr. Randall." Andy motioned toward the living room.
John walked out with Andy. When Megan swung around, she faced Bell, who stared right into her eyes. She responded with a bring it on stare of her own. He finally blinked and moved to the door.
***
The detective led John into the living room, where he walked to the front window and peered through the curtains at the line of cop cars parked in the street. John glanced at the neighborhood. How many neighbors were on the phone talking to other neighbors, or other family members, wondering why there were so many cops around? Maybe there were some long distance phone calls across the United States in his honor.
Grandma, you'll never guess what's happening right here on our street.
From behind him, the detective said, "So you once lived at the house where—"
"Yes," John said, cutting him off. He turned to face the detective, who nodded and turned away, staring out into the street at nothing in particular.
A crashing noise came from the hallway.
"Stay here." The detective bolted for the hallway and came to a stop at the bedroom door. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it, but the door stood tight.
John didn't leave the living room, but he could see down the hall.
"Are you all right in there?" the detective asked.
The deadbolt flipped, and the door opened. Detective Ash brushed past him.
"Boxes fell," Detective Bell said as he entered the hallway. "You find anything outside or in the garage?"
"No, sir. Nothing. Why…"
Of course, they found nothing that would indicate John was in any way involved with the series of killings. No rope, no duct tape, no souvenirs. No kidding.
After the techs had finished and packed up, Detective Bell said good-bye to two of the detectives, then he and Detective Ash joined John on the front porch. Detective Bell handed his card to John. "You can reach me at that number if you think of anything else."
John took the card, and Detective Bell walked away. Detective Ash stepped up with her card in hand. John reached for it and, just as he did, she pulled it back.
"I believe you," she said, a smile on her face.
John nodded.
"Thanks," he said.
"Call me if you ever want to talk about history… Or anything else." She pushed the card out again.
John took it as he looked down at her bright-green eyes. She finally turned and proceeded down the sidewalk, her hips swaying with each step.
CHAPTER 18
Marcus Cash had been stationed across the street for the past hour, and now he watched the detectives wrap things up at Doctor Randall's house, prime suspect in the Bedroom Killer case. At twenty-four, Marcus was the youngest rookie reporter the Greenwood Times had ever had. He was thin, but not too thin, with an oval face, spotted with a few well-placed freckles.
He was there with all the other reporters because, like everyone else, he was following the Bedroom Killer case, and he'd been on high alert since Dr. John Randall's arrest earlier that morning. Marcus was there at the hospital when they dragged him out—the first perp walk Marcus had ever witnessed. He described it to his friend and mentor, Morry, as freaking amazing. He was there when they released Dr. Randall from the police station, and now Marcus had followed them here, where he waited to see what would happen next. Someone said the police were searching the doctor's home, which made sense to Marcus.
Marcus walked the line of onlookers, listening to snippets of conversation and poking his head in when he thought he'd heard something worth noting. He'd talked with Mrs. Parker, who lived directly across the street. She knew the suspect was named John but had never learned his last name, had no idea he was a doctor, and for all she knew, he was just a single man on disability. She'd never been able to figure out what his disability was, even though she'd politely asked him at least three times. He walked fine, talked fine, and his hands weren't shaking, so she wondered what could be the matter with him.
"He might be faking it. Everyone is out to screw the government these days. Those are my tax dollars, you know. Yours, too," Mrs. Parker said.
Marcus nodded politely as he took her statement, gave her his card, and with a quick wink asked her to call him if she learned anything else. The wink was a trick he'd learned from Charles P. Morrison. Everyone called him Morry. He was seventy-two, but Marcus would've sworn the guy was fifty. He was an old-school reporter who smoked three packs of Camels a day, swore like a sailor, and always had a bottle of Knob Creek Single Barrel Bourbon in his bottom drawer. Morry taught Marcus the finer things in life and in reporting. His mentor swore up and down that Marcus had the goods—he just had to believe in himself. Along with all his other idioms, Morry taught Marcus that he should always keep a handful of business cards in his pocket and hand them out like candy. But no matter what, whenever you hand one to somebody, look them in the eye and wink.
They may not remember you, but they'll remember that wink.
So Marcus gave her and seven other bystanders his card, winked each time, and now stood by himself across from Dr. Randall's house, watching the detectives drive away. Dr. Randall was still on the sidewalk, his eyes on Detective Ash, as she stepped into the unmarked vehicle driven by Detective Bell. Marcus knew all the detectives by name and face. He should have, he'd been following the case since the first killing and ramped up his antennae when it became clear it was a serial killer they were chasing. But as he stood there, and Dr. Randall watched Detective Ash, Marcus tried to figure out what he'd just witnessed between the two of them. It was something. He couldn't put a name on it, but it was definitely more than just a good-bye, or a so sorry we harassed you.
Did she smile at the doctor?
If you're a detective on a serial killer case, you don't smile at a suspect, at least not the kind of smile he just witnessed.
But was it just a smile?
Dr. Randall seemed surprised by her action, and the way he stared after the detective… Maybe it was something.
Onlookers dispersed, walking back into their homes or down the street. Marcus had to get over there before the others, but he was too late. That hottie from Channel 9, Sabrina Clark, was already across the street with her camera guy.
"Damn," Marcus said, as he dashed across the street to join her. There were at least four other news stations, each vying for position as they stepped onto Dr. Randall's porch.
"Hold on, everyone. We can't all fit up here," Sabrina said.
"Feel free to step down." Another reporter inched his way past Sabrina on the right.
Sabrina rapped her knuckles on the front door, then rang the doorbell.
"Chuck," she said, looking over her shoulder at her cameraman.
"Ready," a voice called out from somewhere behind them.
Marcus had to smile at her presence, even in the field with everyone else jockeying for position, she pretty much told everyone where they stood. He loved a strong woman, and this gave him even more reason to want her.
There it was.
The thumb ring.
He stood there, watching her hold the microphone. She wore heels, and they put her a good two inches taller than him. He fantasized about her telling him what to do in bed to please her. His eyes moved from her hand up to her eyes.
" Do I know you?"
Marcus snapped out of his daydream. "Umm, I'm…"
The front door opened. Everyone's attention turned toward the door. Dr. Randall stood there, his bandage and black eye prominent on his face. The reporters shoved their microphones forward, shouting their inane questions.
/>
"Did you do it, Dr. Randall?"
"Why were you parked at the house, Dr. Randall?"
"Do you know who did it?"
Marcus had to laugh at the dumb attempt at getting some recognition. Morry called it spreading their legs. Whoring themselves out for anything they could take back to the office. Morry said to let the others ask the stupid questions. He didn't waste his time, and he taught Marcus not to either.
You watch the face and look for the reaction, then you'll spot which question hits the mark. If the source is going to talk, you'll know in the first three seconds. If they don't talk, come back later, when you can get them alone.
Marcus flashed on an idea, another one of Morry's old tricks. While the others shouted, and the doctor denied everything, Marcus pulled out one of his cards, flipped it over, and wrote a note on the back. Then, without drawing attention to himself, he lowered his arm and flicked the card at the doctor. The card bounced off the doctor's pants leg and fell onto the carpeted floor at his feet—note side up. Marcus then waited until the doctor spotted him, and when he knew he had eye contact, he smiled and winked, pointing toward the card. The doctor followed his gaze, then looked back up at Marcus. Exactly what Marcus wanted.
Then Marcus waved and jumped off the front porch, leaving the other idiots behind. The doctor would watch him go, just as he'd watched the good detective walk away fifteen minutes ago. If old Morry's theory was correct, Marcus would receive a phone call from Dr. Randall later that day.
Good Ol' Morry.
CHAPTER 19
Not long after Marcus drove away from Dr. Randall's house, a news conference was called concerning the Bedroom Killer murder case. At three o'clock that afternoon, news vans from every local and national network, including CNN and Fox News, filled each end of the small street that split the Greenwood County Courthouse from the Greenwood City Police Station.
Greenwood City had gone through as many as seven generations, and the present generation was restless and scared for their daughters. Single mothers bought guns and signed up for shooting lessons. Attendance at local Tae Kwon Do classes increased for girls, and teachers and principals held community meetings to ease parental anxiety. After six months of accumulating bodies and hearing nothing more than official detective speak, questioning family and friends, working diligently, persons of interest, the reporters following the Bedroom Killer case were losing patience. Like starving coyotes, they built a ravenous appetite for any snippet of information that might lead to a cover story. After all, this was Pulitzer time, or so they all thought.
All except Marcus.
He knew rookies don't win Pulitzers, so he wouldn't be wasting his time with thoughts of grandeur. He just wanted the story. He pulled his 2002 Toyota Camry sedan, with its peeling paint job and dented fenders, into the east end parking lot of the Greenwood Police Station.
Once Marcus arrived at the courthouse, he wormed his way toward the front of the impatient crowd and stretched up onto his toes, craning his neck to survey the group for familiar faces. He'd attended enough local political news conferences to know who else should be there.
Sabrina.
Being a healthy and horny single young man, all Marcus wanted to know was what made her tingle.
Damn, she was hot. What really attracted him was her thumb ring. He couldn't explain why, but he confirmed his theory with his best friend, Jim. Women who wore thumb rings were, for some reason, much hotter than women who didn't. There was just something about them. Not much of a theory, but when it came to women, most men didn't need much.
What news reporter wore a thumb ring anyway? News reporters were supposed to be serious and educated, not mysterious, adventurous, or overly sensual and sexual. Well, maybe they were, sex sells after all.
Marcus would find her and remind her that they met earlier on the porch. Then he'd introduce himself and make some self-deprecating remarks about his looks and reporting ability. She'd laugh, and he'd be in.
A man could dream.
When the group jostled as one, he still hadn't found her in the crowd. Time to turn his attention to the podium. Greenwood Mayor Katherine Messina, a matronly woman with dark hair and perfect Beverly Hills skin, took the podium and grabbed the mic, pulling it close to her pouty lips.
"Thank you all for coming this morning. I want to say to the citizens of Greenwood that we're doing everything we can to catch the person known as the Bedroom Killer. I'd now like to give the podium over to lead homicide investigator, Detective Gerald Bell."
Marcus glanced around as Mayor Messina left the podium. Sabrina Clark stared forward, her red hair pulled back, eyes front, notepad and pencil in her hand.
Damn.
.
The microphone clanged as Detective Bell banged it upward to better fit his height.
"Thank you, Mayor Messina."
As Detective Bell spoke, Marcus took note of the small group of other detectives on the case: Detective Anderson, Detective Kennedy, and Detective Ash. Detective Bell recited the known facts, at least the ones he was willing to let the public know about, but Marcus kept his eye on Detective Ash. There was something about her. Maybe it was his always raging, twenty-six-year-old hormones, but Marcus remembered watching her at the last news conference. She seemed like a million miles away rather than being on the most high-profile murder case in the county, or possibly in state history. Detective Ash seemed tired. She was pretty but not too pretty and had probably been a knockout ten or fifteen years ago.
"Doctor John Randall…"
Marcus turned off his thoughts and focused on Detective Bell.
"We haven't been able to link him to the case."
This statement was quickly followed with rising murmurs in the crowd.
"He was parked outside the home of Ms. Karen Sharp the night of the latest attack. However, we have no evidence he was inside the home, and he wasn't identified by Ms. Sharp as the person she confronted in her home."
Marcus took notes, alternating his gaze from Bell, to Ash, to Sabrina, and back again.
When Detective Bell finished speaking, the crowd of reporters fired off a series of questions asking for elaboration on Dr. Randall, what actual evidence was found at the murder scene, and just how much closer did this bring them to catching the killer.
As Marcus passed his eyes from Sabrina, then back up to Detective Bell, he noticed movement off to the side and witnessed Detective Megan Ash, seasoned and experienced, almost twenty years on the force, definitely a woman worth looking at, and now even more so. He witnessed that stunningly sensual and sexual mysterious woman reach up with her right hand and brush a strand of her auburn hair out of her eyes. This act alone was not what brought Marcus to a standstill. It's what he saw on her hand as she made the simple eye-clearing movement. There, on her right thumb—was a ring. And in the split second his eyes caught the ring, he was able to quickly scan the other four fingers. He found them to be completely and gloriously bare.
No other ring except the thumb ring on a fucking homicide detective involved in the most high-profile serial killer case in the history of Greenwood County.
Damn!
CHAPTER 20
This time, the Bedroom Killer drove his 1969 cobalt blue Chevy Camaro SS, powered by a stock 396HP engine. The muscle car purred down Hawthorne Boulevard, where the rest of the working community joined him on its Friday morning commute. He'd watched the evening news the night before and listened to the radio in his car as they recounted Rachel Sharp's death. The talk show hosts were all in a tizzy over the Bedroom Killer's latest victim, as if she were more important than the last three. He was more confident that they wouldn't catch him, more excited, too. Each news show had brought in their own homicide experts, each one doing their best to reveal the inner demons that drove a man to kill. "He came from a broken home." Check. "He was a loner and liked to harm small animals as a kid." Check. Not really. He'd tied a firecracker to a cat's tail once, but what kid didn't do something l
ike that at one point in their lives? And besides, it was just a cat.
"He feels impotent around women and has a need to show power." No check—no way. Who's impotent? I fuck my girl every week. These idiots have it all wrong. They're never going to catch me.
He knew the baseball bat just might have his hair on it. She'd caught him good. But then what? They had a hair. So?
He slowed as the approaching light turned yellow, and he pulled to the front of the intersection. He looked to his right and eyed the woman in the next car. She was adjusting the rearview mirror as she applied lipstick. He had no interest in grown women, at least not to kill. She had no idea she was sitting in her car at a red light, and the guy in the car to her left just killed another young girl less than twenty-four hours ago. She finished with her lipstick and fixed the mirror into the correct position. Then she focused her gaze on the intersection and swung her head ever so slightly to look at the killer. He smiled.
Yup, she doesn't know a thing.
The light turned green. The killer pulled forward, gunned the car to cut in front of the woman to his right, and swerved into the driveway to a 7-Eleven. He stepped inside, poured himself a large cup of French roast coffee, grabbed a copy of the local newspaper, and threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. The clerk counted out his change. Then, the killer nodded and walked outside.
As he sat in his car, he read the article about Rachel Sharp. Poor Rachel. No matter. Her mom had another daughter. Little Rachel had been chosen. Not much ol' Mom could do about that. He started the car and pulled onto Hawthorne. Half a mile down, he turned into a commercial area filled with an assortment of auto repair shops, tire shops, and collision, brakes, and alignment shops.
He swung his car into Isaac's Auto Shop's driveway and parked in the rear. He stepped out, peered up into the puffy, white-grey clouds from the departing storm, took a deep breath, then exhaled.
What a beautiful day. He loved his life.
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