The desk sergeant who first spoke with her wasn't sure what to think as he stared across the front counter at the young woman who had tattoos up both arms and multiple piercings through her eyebrows and ears. She'd said she knew who the Bedroom Killer was—and she said she had proof. The desk sergeant nodded his head politely, pretending to write the minutes of this very important meeting down in his logbook, when in actuality he was trying to think of a nine-letter word for coffee on his crossword puzzle.
But when she said I have photos of the dead girls—that got his attention.
Now she sat in the same room and in the same chair that Dr. Larson sat in when Detective Kennedy was interviewing him the night that John was arrested.
The door opened and Andy walked in.
"Good morning, I'm Detective Anderson."
"Hi. I'm Lindsey."
Andy shut the door, shook Lindsey's hand, and sat across from her, laying his notepad and coffee mug on the desk. It was only 7:15 a.m. and he was still on his first cup, having grabbed only six hours of sleep since the last body was found.
"Would you like some coffee or anything?"
"No thanks," she said, growing impatient at the time it took these guys to do anything. She'd already told them she knew who the killer was, and they were acting like they couldn't be bothered. Andy nodded vaguely and flipped open his notepad to find his last entry page, then reached into his shirt pocket to grab his pen and found it empty.
"Oh hell, I left my pen on my desk." He began to stand. "I'll be right—"
"Wait," Lindsey said, throwing her hand out. "I've told three people now that I know who the Bedroom Killer is and y'all seem not to care, like its business as usual around here. Do you want to know who it is or not? "
Andy smiled, wondering what rock this tatted girl crawled out from under.
"Here!"
Lindsey reached into the envelope and pulled out a five-by-seven-inch photo. She looked at it for a second as if deciding whether this was the one she wanted to show him—decided it was—and then slapped it down on the table in front of Andy, who was still hunched over the table, leaning forward on his arms, in the middle of standing up to get his pen. She slid it across so it rested just below his eyes.
Rachel Sharp.
Andy's eyes opened wide. He recognized the photo because he'd looked at the same photo tacked up on the Bedroom Killer case board for the past month. He immediately dropped into his chair, his mind racing, trying to understand how this woman got hold of a copy of their photo. His heart rate increased with the knowledge that this must be the guy. He was staring at Rachel Sharp's face, close up, eyes half open, with a strand of white cotton rope around her neck. But there was something wrong with the photo. He couldn't place it. It was Rachel. That was for sure. But something was different. He was still leaning on the thought that this woman somehow got a copy of their photo.
"Wait right here!" said Andy as he grabbed the photo and ran out the door and down the hallway, weaved through the agents' bullpen, and stopped in front of the case board. He held up the photo and compared it to their photo of Rachel tacked to the board…and immediately the difference between the two photos was obvious. She was telling the truth. The Bedroom Killer took this photo.
It was the rope.
Karen Sharp had pulled the rope off Rachel's neck when she tried to revive her. The police evidence photo had no rope. Lindsey's photo did.
He took photos. The Bedroom Killer took photos of all his victims.
The police didn't know that.
He also took charms bracelets, rings, and necklaces.
That was information that the police knew but had withheld from the public.
Andy swung his head around. No one else was in yet. No one he wanted to tell this to. He needed Bell. Or Megan. Or Kennedy. They'd be here soon.
He raced back the way he came and threw the door open to find Lindsey still sitting in her chair just as he left her. But now, there were four other photos laid out on the table…and next to them, necklaces, rings, and charm bracelets.
Before he could come to any rational thought, he stepped forward and stared down at the first photo on his left. Colleen Hanson—but her head was turned at a slightly different angle compared to the photo they had on the case board just twenty feet outside the room. Andy felt chills run through his body.
Colleen had reminded him of his high school sweetheart, Allison Peters, but he'd never told anyone that fact. Staring into her dead eyes every day was a constant reminder of the girl he dumped after he'd graduated, telling her he needed his space, then finally admitting he was seeing someone else, Linda Stevens, which only lasted another two months. When he tried to get Allison back, it was too late. Finding the killer was going to be Andy's redemption for leaving Allison. A screwed up reason, he knew, but it worked for him.
Next—Lori Pashton. Her rope was on tight in the killer's photo. Her mother too had loosened the rope but had not pulled it off, so the police photo just showed the cotton rope lying loose around her neck.
Third—Jamie Kirk. For no apparent reason, he reached over and laid the photo of Rachel down into position number four where she belonged.
And last…the fifth girl. Hillary Conrad.
"You believe me now?" asked Lindsey.
Lindsey sat looking across the table, watching the expression on the detective's face.
Finally, I’m getting through to these idiots.
Andy's head nodded vaguely and he suddenly reached out and scooped up the photos, saying, "Please wait here." He turned and grabbed the doorknob, then turned back to Lindsey and said, "Oh, um…what's his name?"
Lindsey cocked her head to one side and a frown appeared on her face. She was really doing it. She was ratting him out. She suddenly felt bad for Isaac. He'd
treated her well and it had been a good two years. She was in love, or thought she was. But then her eyes fell on the photo of Jamie Kirk in Andy's hand, her mouth open and her dead eyes staring out but seeing nothing, white 12-strand cotton rope taught around her neck. Lindsey looked up at Andy.
"Isaac Graham."
Andy nodded.
"Address?"
"4669 Grace Lane."
"4669 Grace Lane," he repeated. Then added, "You did the right thing."
Lindsey nodded, and thought of her younger sisters, and began to cry. Andy quietly slipped out the door, holding the photos in his hands.
Photos taken by Isaac Graham…her boyfriend…the Bedroom Killer.
CHAPTER 62
An hour later, Lindsey was sitting with Kennedy, Andy, and a few other detectives, all listening intently as she recounted her story. Andy had called for Bell and Megan, but got no answer from either.
"I can't remember what woke me up last night, but I got up and looked out the bedroom window, it faces the garage and I saw the light on inside. I threw on my robe and walked out the back door, but instead of walking into the garage…he doesn't like me in there, I decided to walk around the side of the garage and peek inside the window." She looked up, scanning the faces of the detectives surrounding her, and suddenly felt very small. The faces were serious. Hardened. They didn't care about her or how hard this might be for her. They wanted to know what she knew. She wouldn't be leaving until they heard it all. She lowered her gaze and continued. "I…I saw Isaac hunched over a large trunk. It was open. He was holding something in his hand, but I couldn't tell what it was. Then he closed the trunk and locked it. Then he put the key on a piece of wood way up high on the wall."
Andy said, "Like a support beam?"
"Yeah," said Lindsey.
"So the interior garage walls are not covered. Like, there's no real wall, just wood framing?" asked Kennedy.
Lindsey nodded and said, "I watched Isaac turn off the light and go outside. I hid so he couldn't see me. He was holding a black fanny pack in his hand. I've never seen it before. And then he just left."
"What do you mean he just left?" asked Andy.
&nb
sp; "He walked up the driveway and around the front of the house. A moment later I heard his car start up and drive away. You know, it's one thing for Isaac to stay out late, he shoots pool, you know, with friends…but I don't understand why he was driving away at that hour." Lindsey went on to explain how she entered the garage and got the key from its hiding place, opened the trunk, and then pointed to everything laid out in front of them, saying, "This is what I found." She pointed to the necklaces and bracelets, including one with a dolphin and butterfly, given to Rachel Sharp by her cousin on her birthday, the one Karen Sharp noticed missing from her daughter's wrist the night she was killed.
Andy, Kennedy, and the others stared again at the killer's collection of prized mementos. They had all of them according to Lindsey. She took everything out of the shoebox she found inside the trunk. The call went out, an all-points bulletin for Isaac Graham. A judge issued a search warrant. Undercover cops were sent to the neighborhood, where they parked and jogged by the house, keeping it under surveillance. In all the communications that went flying through space and over phone lines that morning—no one dared mention the words Bedroom Killer, as if speaking them would jinx what they knew they had—a confirmed identity.
This time there was no doubt.
CHAPTER 63
The photos were laid out in sequential order, and they both stood and stared at them a long time without speaking. From left to right, the photos showed Detective Ash and John outside of John's house during the search of his home, John and Detective Ash outside the Greenwood Library, John and Nurse Carrie Atwood, John and Detective Ash again, John and Detective Bell talking on the pier. The best one of all, the last photo in line, Detective Bell holding John down on the trunk of his car with a gun to his head.
Finally Morry spoke, "Kid, I still don't know what you got, but you've got something. Just need to fit the pieces together. You get the full story that goes with these photos and Kabanga!" Morry shouted and slapped his hands together.
Marcus grinned. Kabanga was Morry's favorite word, if you don't count Unfuckingbelievable. He'd once told the story to Marcus about how his brigade had entered a small Italian village after D-Day. The Nazi's were gone and Morry and his boys were sharing a drink with a short, old Italian man—one of the few survivors in the village. They were drunk, and trying to teach the Italian how to say Kowabunga. Morry couldn't recall how the conversation got to that word, but every time the old man tried to say it, it came out as Kabanga. The word stuck. Morry said it's the best story he had about the war.
"Scotch!" yelled Morry.
Twenty minutes and two scotch shooters later, Marcus was driving toward John's house, the photos slipped into a file folder in the seat next to him, wondering what sort of story he was going to hear. As much as he felt he had something big, he couldn't help but worry that he was reading way too much into it. Maybe each photo could be explained away and the story he got would be as dull as mud. Maybe nothing really exciting was happening between John Randall, Detective Ash, and Detective Bell. But then he quickly remembered what Morry had said just before he left for John's house. He'd stared at the last photo, lifting it from the desk, and holding it in front of him like he was examining a Picasso at the Louvre.
"That's a Pulitzer…" Morry said, holding the photo of Detective Bell with his gun jammed into John's head, "…sure as shit."
CHAPTER 64
She called and told him she needed to talk to him at her place first thing in the morning. He arrived at seven, holding a small French roast from The Coffee Bean. His favorite. He didn't bother to bring her one, and he didn't bother to knock.
He never did.
He didn't figure this would be a chat session anyway—even though she said she'd wanted to talk. Maybe it would start out as a talk—but he would make sure it didn't end with talk. They'd have to hurry though, they both needed to get to the department. There were still a ton of leads to run down on the latest victim and she was going to have to get her shit together and help the team. This was a hiccup, he knew. A bit too intense right now. Once they caught this guy, things would change and she would settle down. She could take some time off and go see her sister. Maybe he'd go to see his.
Maybe.
He stepped into the kitchen to find her leaning against the sink counter. On the round table between them was a small stack of papers. A pen sat on the stack.
"How you feeling?" he asked.
"Tired," she said.
He nodded, and she watched as he set his cup on the table, hesitating as he stared at the papers. The way his eyes narrowed, she knew that he understood the reason for the meeting.
"But I'll feel a lot better once you sign those papers."
He lifted the pages, a total of five, and flipped though each one, casually examining the contents and reading some of the passages. Two were official department forms, and three were double-spaced typed pages to go with the two department forms. He looked back up at her and let them slip through his fingers, some floating to the tabletop and others landing on the kitchen tile.
"I thought we'd already discussed this," he said.
"I don't remember a discussion," she said.
"Why change what we've got?"
"What exactly do we have?"
"Magic."
"It doesn't feel like magic."
"That's because someone has fucked with your head."
"Yeah, and he's standing right in front of me."
"Oh no, he's out there. The Bedroom Killer. Dr. John Randall."
"John is not the killer."
"John is not the killer," he said, mocking her.
"Just sign them. Please."
He moved a step toward her, but that was the move she was expecting. She reached her hand from behind her and pointed her Glock at his face.
His hands went up and he said, "Whoa, look who's talking now."
"Pick up the pen and sign."
"You know I can't do that."
"Sure you can. Just do it."
"They'll never believe you."
"Let me worry about that."
He took another step closer. Her triceps tightened and her finger slipped onto the trigger. But her arms were getting tired. Everything about her was tired. He kept moving forward. She slid backward along the counter, keeping the distance between them.
"Sign them. Please."
"No."
She slid back as far as she could until she hit the center of the counter and all she could do now was slid sideways. He kept moving forward, his arms still raised. She closed her eyes, her lips trembling.
"Please."
He closed the distance between them and lowered his left hand, closing it over hers, and gently eased the gun from her hand. He set the gun down on the counter to his right and returned his gaze to her, but she had turned away, crying. That was all right with him, as long as she learned her place. But just to make sure, he pushed her forward, onto the counter, and reached around and unsnapped her pants.
Ten minutes later he was finished. He stood behind her, closing his belt, and adjusting his shirt. He looked over at her. She hadn't moved.
"Get dressed. We have to go," he said.
She didn't move. The phone rang, its sound waves penetrating her bones, breaking each one from the inside out. She had to have a phone, both a cell and a land line, but the sound of the ring never seemed to bring joy, only some form of pain. But the last month was different. John was calling, or texting, and she began to enjoy hearing it again. But she wasn't sure where she and John stood anymore. She was slowly going crazy, and she knew it. She must get the papers signed. It was her only way out.
The ringing continued.
"You going to answer that?"
"No."
It rang a fifth time, then the machine kicked in.
"This is Megan, leave a message."
She knew the voice. He knew the voice. It came from the speaker at a higher pitch than normal. There was excitement. The room suddenly changed
. She grabbed her pants. Zipped them up. Snapped the snaps. He pulled his pen, wrote with a shaking hand. She grabbed her gun off the counter, shoved it into the shoulder holster. She grabbed her purse. He threw the front door open and she followed him out. They were in such a hurry that neither of them heard the last thing Andy said.
"…his name is Isaac Graham."
CHAPTER 65
John stared at the photos, his mind reeling with the incomprehension of the situation. How could he let this happen? He had come to like Marcus, and now this. He could grab the photos and rip them to shreds, but he knew Marcus still had the negatives.
"Who took these?"
"I did," said Marcus. Then he added, "Look, the last thing I want to do is hurt you, but you have to admit, something's going on here. I just want to know if it has anything to do with the Bedroom Killer case."
"No," John said, and he looked away from the photos and over at Marcus, sitting in a chair at John's kitchen table. The living room was still a mess when he arrived, and Marcus noted the books and map pieces strewn about the room. He took note and would wait until the right moment to ask about them. For now, he'd just walked in, stepped over everything, laid the photos out on the kitchen table, and sat down.
"So did you know them before…" Marcus trailed off.
John waited, but he knew where Marcus was going.
"No. I'd never met either one of them before."
He looked at the photo of himself and Megan outside the Greenwood Library. It was the same night they had first made love. It seemed so long ago. So much had happened in the following weeks that he had a hard time believing it himself. They met. They made love. They talked about the killer. They made love some more. They met with the mothers of the young girls—and they made love.
And then came the day at the book store, when everything changed.
And Marcus was there.
Like a shadow.
John wanted to kill the little twerp, and at the same time, he wanted to tell him everything. Get it all out in the open. Talk about it. See where everyone and everything stands.
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