"Have you noticed Megan?" asked Kennedy.
Andy didn't hear him approach his desk and was startled out of his Megan daydream.
"Yes," replied Andy.
"I feel like I should go to Bell and confront him."
"Don't."
"Why not? She's always—"
"He doesn't need you pointing out the obvious. Think about it." Kennedy did and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He walked on and sat down at his desk.
It was Bell who'd explained Megan to Andy when he first arrived on the team, saying that she'd gained a lot of respect from the others for staying in after her husband had been killed in the line of duty and then for making it to detective at such a young age. He wondered if anyone else noticed how haggard she looked and how her work had slipped as of late. He'd known her for the nine years they'd worked together and was aware of her personality change a few years ago. Not so much a change, but intensity in her demeanor that he couldn't place. She was a good woman and a good detective, but she had been falling short in a way that would be hard to explain to anyone outside the small group of detectives in his office. She was there, but yet, not there. Sometimes literally, like the other day at the Sharp killing. It was a good hour before she showed up. He didn't know her excuse, it wasn't his place to ask. Gerald too had seemed more gruff than usual, if that was even possible. Gerald seemed just as occupied with Megan as he was with the work. Or was it the Svengali effect? Would Gerald do something like that? He's professional, but he's also not afraid to do what it takes to get things done.
Andy had asked Megan once if she was okay and she snapped at him, but she'd quickly apologized. He didn't take it personally, but he was happy she'd apologized. He was pretty sure of the cause of her pain, but there wasn't much he could do. He was married with kids, and his job came first.
CHAPTER 36
The video was originally recorded on VHS tape twenty years ago. Then ten years later it was transferred to DVD. The picture was grainy, the lighting amateurish, but if you knew the people in the video, you could still identify them. Actually, you could only identify two of them because one of the men kept his back to the camera throughout the thirty-three minute film. He knew where the camera was at all times.
The young woman in the home video looked no more than twenty-five. She was sharing her bed with two men. It began with a view of an empty bed and lasted seven minutes and thirty-four seconds before the young woman appeared. She was fully clothed, stood approximately five foot six, and had short brunette hair, cut above her shoulders, but not tight to her head. She was speaking to someone off camera and there was laughter. By the way she stood, or to be more accurate, swayed, it was apparent that she was intoxicated. Within the next ten minutes both men entered the viewing area, all clothes came off, and the woman was soon on her knees fellating each one. In time, they were on the bed having sex in various positions, switching off, all of it in movements that would best be described as mechanical. In the end, they each got dressed, passing in and out of view of the camera. No discussion. The video ended after fourteen minutes of silence showing nothing but the empty, disheveled bed, until the man who only showed his back walked into view, a small sliver of the left side of his face showing briefly as he reached forward, and then the screen went black.
The man who owned the video used to watch it quite often. But over the years, not so much. He had others. Some homemade. Some professional. He preferred the professional kind since the lighting was better; the women were hotter and more highly skilled. Over the years, he'd acquired a large library of tapes and video discs, either through the mail or, more recently, over the Internet. But he was a working man, a professional, and his library and downtime activities had to be kept to a small circle of like-minded individuals. It was not something he could afford to let his co-workers know about.
He turned off the DVD player with a click of the remote, took a pull from his Budweiser tall neck, and muttered six words to himself. His mantra. He'd spoken the same six words after viewing the same video for the past twenty years. It was not only his mantra, but a reminder to himself that he'd been in the right, that he'd done the right thing back then, on that terrible night so long ago. He was in the right and no one could tell him otherwise. Subconsciously, the mantra helped him cope. But he didn't live in his subconscious mind, and if one had tried to psychoanalyze his actions back then and told him something other than how he felt about the way things went down, he'd tell them to go fuck themselves.
Six simple words, that when said together helped keep him alive and sane for all these many years.
My house.
My camera.
My tape.
CHAPTER 37
"What have you learned?"
Her name was Brenda Pashton and her daughter was the second victim of the Bedroom Killer. She was divorced and now found herself living alone in the small three-bedroom home her husband left her when he ran off with his gym trainer. Although she woke up and rolled out of bed every morning, if you were to ask her, she'd tell you she hadn't taken a breath in six months.
"Not much," was all John said as he looked around the living room at the other three mothers. Each one missing a daughter, and except for Karen; their only child. Brenda's daughter Lori was fifteen when she was found lying dead in her bed one morning. Brenda was about to yell at her for sleeping in, knowing she might miss the school bus, but when she opened the bedroom door and saw the rope and her daughter's dead eyes, she knew she would never again catch the bus. Sitting on the couch next to Brenda was Michelle Hanson and Allison Kirk. The first three mothers of the first three daughters. Karen, mom number four and now owner of Dr. John Randall's former home, came in from his former kitchen with a tray of tea and coffee, which she set down on the coffee table between John and the moms. John reached for a cup; the ladies did not. They each sat staring across the coffee table at him. The detectives were getting nowhere, and this man, this doctor with the bandage across his face and slightly blackened eye, had joined the team and was now sitting across from them as if he were the new coach, here to lead the failing team to victory.
"Then why are we here?" Allison asked. "I mean, if you don't know anything more than the detectives, why did we come here tonight?"
"For support," said Karen.
"Screw support," said Allison and then added, "No offense, ladies, but I don't need support. I need to have that bastard caught and castrated. You bring him to me, and I'll do it myself with a dull butter knife."
"That's the plan," John said. "Catching him, that is. I wanted to speak to everyone together to see if we could compare your backgrounds, your daily rituals, the places you frequent. Maybe we'll find a link. This guy might have picked you out of the blue or there might be a connection."
Michelle leaned forward and poured a cup of tea. "But we've done that with Detective Bell and his team. They have all of that information on me."
"Me, too," said Brenda.
"I know," John said. "I've read it. I've read through almost all of it. But I still felt that bringing you together might shed light on something. Plus, who else do any of you know who can say that they know exactly what you're going through?"
The moms' heads turned to study their comrades in arms, silently acknowledging the validity of John's last statement. John watched as they did this, studying each woman's face and taking notice of the dark circles under their eyes, undoubtedly appearing over the last few months. When he looked at Karen, he saw just the slightest hint of shadow starting under her eyes, and he knew in another month, the shadows would be there in full measure and would probably never completely go away. The worry lines on their foreheads were there too. Megan had said that after a death, especially the death of a child, a parent will ask themselves a thousand "What If" questions. What if I'd stayed up later that night? What if her room was right next to mine? What if we slept together on the pull-out couch that night, falling asleep to a late night movie? What if I'd listene
d better? Should I have put a second lock on the back door? John knew this—he knew this very well. Allison looked back at John and asked the question he knew would come.
"So how do you know all that?"
"I'm assisting in the investigation," John said.
"But you're a doctor, right? Not a detective."
"I have a fascination with detective work. I study it," he lied.
"I volunteered my services to Ms. Sharp—"
"Karen," she said.
"…Karen, because I felt guilty about being out in front of her house that night."
Allison said, "Well then, why don't we hear about that first before we all start talking about ourselves. Again, no offense, but I don't know any of you, and I don't really like sharing my life with anyone. I don't have anything to hide but…"
"Then why worry about it?" Karen asked.
"Because it was hard enough answering the questions, the hundreds of questions they asked me…" She began to cry. John snuck a look at Karen and saw tears starting in her eyes. In fact, as he turned back he saw each of the women had tears. John was used to this. He'd faced tearful men and women, young children, and grandmothers and grandfathers in his years as an emergency room doctor. Some were tears of pain, some anger; most of them were from fear. And sometimes they were tears of death. But through all those tears shed on his shoulders or in his face, he was always in control, always knowing that he had done or would be doing all that he could to fix the situation.
Almost always.
So now he stared across the room at four crying mothers and knew his place. He would let them cry. It would not be the last time. There would be more tears, maybe many more, before it was all over. But he would be here to help. He would keep working with them, keep asking questions, and keep encouraging them. He had to. It was his job now.
"You saw him," said Brenda. "That's what they said on TV."
The other moms were looking at John now and were anticipating his response. He stole a glance at Karen, who looked back at him as if to say, You knew this was coming.
"Yes, I saw him. It was raining though. I was in my car and he was outside. It was dark."
"But you saw him," said Brenda again. John nodded and took a sip of coffee. Michelle leaned forward and asked, "What did he look like?"
"I can't get into that."
"What!" Allison yelled. "You expect us to spill our guts about our personal lives and you won't discuss the man who killed our kids. Screw you! You will tell us. You will tell us right now or we're all leaving!" The other ladies said nothing, and in so doing confirmed Allison's threat. They would all get up and leave if he didn't talk.
John took a deep breath. "You're right. I owe you that. I'm here asking you to relive it but I didn't want to relive mine." John stood and walked around his chair, pacing the room as he tried to think of how to start. He looked into the kitchen, spotted the kitchen table, and turned back.
"Follow me," he said, and walked into the kitchen. The ladies took turns shooting looks at one another, as if wondering in unison, Why the kitchen? They stood at once and walked into the kitchen gathering near the table, but no one sat.
"Please, sit," John said. The ladies pulled the table chairs squeaking across the hardwood floor and sat. John waited until they were situated, then turned his attention to Karen.
"Karen, you ever have mice problems in here?" The ladies looked at Karen and she looked back at them with a quizzical face.
"What the hell does—" Allison started to say, but John silenced her with a wave of his hand. John looked back to Karen.
"No," she said. John walked to the far corner of the kitchen, which wasn't really that far, and stooped down and shoved his hand under the corner of the lower cabinet.
"That's because I plugged the hole." He stood back up and leaned against the sink. "As you all have heard from the reporters on the eleven o'clock news, I used to live here." They nodded. John continued, "We had mice the first few months, and I couldn't figure out where they were coming from until one night when I got home real late. It was probably three a.m. I slipped in quietly while my wife was still asleep and made myself a sandwich. I was hungry. I'd worked a long shift. I was sitting right where you're sitting, quietly chewing my sandwich when I spotted him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this movement, over there. He just appeared out of nowhere. He sat there looking up at me, his nose twitching, like he wanted me to throw him a piece. He eventually ran back into the corner. I found a small hole underneath and I set the trap that night. The next morning he was in it. I kept it set for the next couple nights but never caught another one. Then I plugged the hole."
John looked at the ladies, knowing they didn't understand. He hadn't said enough. He would have to explain his meaning.
"I lost my wife and son a year ago. A car accident. The other night…"John lifted his hand to touch his bandage, something he never realized he did as he thought about that night, "the other night I tried to kill myself. That's why I was here, parked outside at one in the morning. I didn't want to live. I didn't feel I had a reason for living. So I decided to kill myself, right here in front of my old house."
He waited a moment then added, "So to answer your question, yes, I saw him. He's tall with long dark hair and dark eyes. He has broad shoulders…and he might walk with a limp. I don't know if that's normal or from slamming into my car that night. He was running away from the house, and he hit my car." John's eyes went vacant as he recalled the image of the killer limping down the rain-soaked street.
Karen turned to the others and said, "I thought John had killed my daughter. That's why I hit him with my bat." She turned back to John. "I never apologized for that."
With a shake of his head, John said, "I shouldn't have been here."
They all sat in silence for a long time until Allison spoke up. "What the hell does the mouse story have to do with anything?"
All eyes shifted to John.
"For some stupid reason, while I was driving around that night trying to figure out where to go, that mouse popped into my head. I felt so bad for killing him. I never gave it any thought at the time but that night I just felt this overwhelming guilt and I just started driving here without really thinking about it."
More silence.
"Now what?" Allison said.
They all looked at her, then back at John. As he stared at their blank faces, John knew one thing…he didn't have the first clue.
CHAPTER 38
"What the hell were you thinking?" Megan yelled as she stormed past John, leaving him standing at his front door. He'd woken from a deep sleep only to find himself still lying on his living room floor surrounded by his notes and newspaper articles on the Bedroom Killer. When he heard the sound of the loud banging on the front door, he slowly stood and stepped over to open the door, and was practically knocked over backward by a fuming Detective Ash. Once she got inside, she swung around to face him, and that's when she asked, "Again, what the hell were you thinking?"
"Can I get you some coffee?" was all he said, still sleepy and not quite sure what she was talking about.
"God, yes," she said. She followed him into the kitchen and sat at his kitchen table, but just as quickly stood back up.
"Are you out of your mind? What am I saying? Of course you are! You tried to kill yourself. And I'm out of my mind for telling you anything about this case!"
"Don't forget the sex," John said, as he scooped freshly ground French roast coffee into the filter on his ten-year-old Mr. Coffee. Megan ran her hands through her long hair, moaning and pacing in the small kitchen. After John turned on the coffee machine, he turned back to face her.
"What are you talking about?" he said.
"You've been talking to the mothers," Megan said.
"I have."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"But you brought them all together. You never bring witnesses together. They tend to mix up their stories, each believing that the other witnesse
s are more correct than they are."
"I hadn't thought of that," John said.
John pulled a large cereal bowl from the cabinet and then grabbed a box of Trix out of the pantry.
"Want some?" he asked.
"Trix? You eat Trix? A doctor of medicine eats that crappy cereal?"
"My favorite cereal."
"Unbelievable!" Megan said.
"Here," John said, setting down the box of cereal, "I'll do my Trix dance for you." John proceeded to dance around the kitchen, surrounding Megan with the dumbest moves a white man could make. As much as she wanted to remain angry, she had no choice but to laugh. She was stressed out, and while she was chewing John a new asshole, he was just as calm as could be.
"How do you do it?" she said.
"Do what?"
"How do you stay so calm?"
John poured the milk and took his first mouthful, spilling a couple balls of Trix onto the kitchen table. He quickly gathered them up and tossed them back into his bowl. He swallowed and said, "I'm not a homicide detective. I'm an out of work suicidal doctor, remember? I don't have a boss. I have no schedule and no bedtime. I stay up as late as I want, Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah."
He smiled at this last childish remark, but he felt very good about what he was doing and he wasn't going to let Megan bring him down. He continued shoveling his cereal into his mouth and chewing in silence when the coffee maker began gurgling, indicating it was done. Megan walked to the counter and poured two cups, then grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and poured her own Trix. She sat in silence eating the crappy cereal and drinking coffee with John.
Finally, she pushed her half-finished bowl aside and said, "I'm going to put in for a transfer."
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