Night Mask

by William W. Johnstone

  They crossed over into Illinois before Lani spoke. “You’ve been working on that theory for several days, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. What about those recruited in the institutions? Are they still active? Are they still killing?”

  “Maybe. Some of them. But not very many of them.”

  “The twins and their half brother and sister killed them, didn’t they?”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  “Why?”

  “To permanently shut their mouths.”

  “All right. I’ll go along with that. What’s the total, so far?”

  “To this point on the map?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Forty-seven bodies.”

  “Now we’re coming up on that four-year gap between ’78 and ’82.”

  “Yeah. So when we get to Peoria, we start checking for mental institutions around the state, and we visit every one of them.”

  “Those goddamn shrinks aren’t going to tell us anything.”

  Leo smiled. “But disgruntled ex-employees will.”

  * * *

  Leo and Lani got the names of mental institutions around the state, rented a P.O. Box in Peoria, and ran an ad in several of the state’s larger newspapers. The ad claimed a class action lawsuit was about to be filed against certain (unnamed) mental institutions throughout Illinois, both state and private. Any interested parties should come to Room 103 at a local motel.

  “Talk about illegal and not worth a damn in court,” Lani groused, after reading the ad.

  “This case will never come to court, Lani,” her partner said bluntly. “These people will never allow themselves to be taken alive.”

  Lani had faxed the school pictures of Jim and Jack Longwood back to California, and had received a computer enhancement of what the boys would look like at various ages. The pictures were thumbtacked up in the room. The cops would ask no direct questions about the boys. They were already breaking enough laws without adding possible harassment charges to the growing list. They hoped that someone would recognize the pictures and volunteer information.

  Lani and Leo took down names and addresses and listened to dozens of complaints for two days, before a woman stared at the enhancements and blurted out, “My God! The twins from hell!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lani asked, trying to keep the excitement from her voice.

  “Jim and Jack Silverman,” the woman said. “Jack was released after being confined for about a year. Jim escaped from lock-down about three years later.”

  The woman was the last person waiting to be interviewed, and Leo quietly got up and removed the sign from the door.

  “Well,” Lani said, winging it, “to be perfectly honest, I think Jack is the one who is behind all of this. We don’t know much about it. We were just hired to do the interviewing.”

  The woman stared at the cops for a moment, then shook her head. “You must be mistaken. Those two despised us all. Someone else must be behind the lawsuit.”

  “It’s possible,” Leo said, sitting down with a fresh pot of coffee and three cups. “Like Lani said, we don’t know much about the particulars. The twins must have made quite an impression on you, ma’am.”

  “Impression? I would certainly say so. They were psychotic, delusionary, schizophrenic, and God only knows what else. Jack fooled the doctors into believing he was cured. Jim never denied what he was.”

  “Why were you discharged from the institution?” Lani asked.

  “I knocked the piss out of Jim Silverman,” she said bluntly. “He somehow got out of his room one night, and tried to rape me. When their father—he’s some rich man from back East—heard about it, he put on the pressure and got me fired.”

  “Well, that’s not fair!” Lani said, real indignation in her voice.

  “Sure as hell wasn’t. But,” she sighed, “that was a long time ago, and I’m sure those twins are either dead or confined in some mental institution by now. I would sure hope so. They’re both very, very dangerous men.”

  The cops gently led the woman deeper and deeper into conversation about Jim and Jack Longwood. Then they bought her a nice dinner at the motel restaurant and continued getting information from her. They learned that Jim and Jack were from New York State. The only visitors they had had was a half brother and sister. Their parents, to the best of her knowledge, never came to see the twins. The twins would be in their early to mid-thirties by now. But she was sure they were either dead, in prison, or confined in some mental institution.

  The next morning, early, Lani and Leo had checked out and were on the road, heading west.

  Chapter 8

  “We leave the Bureau out of this,” Leo said, as they drove. “We’ve broken and bent too many laws. If we went to court with what we’ve gathered thus far, the judge would take one look at it, throw it all out, and put us in jail.”

  The California cops stopped in Davenport and Cedar Rapids, before touching base with the PD in Des Moines. Eight more bodies along the bloody route from New York State. In Des Moines, in addition to the three bodies discovered back in ’82, they could now add ten more to the list, all with their faces cut away.

  “That’s either sixty-nine or seventy,” Lani said. “I’m losing count.”

  “Where the hell are they picking up their money?” Leo said that night, sitting in Lani’s room after dinner. “Or are they? Are they working along the way? If so, what are they doing? What are they qualified to do?”

  “We haven’t found where they even graduated the eighth grade,” Lani said.

  “But we have found, thanks to those records you swiped back at that private school, that their I.Q.’s are astronomically high. Far and away above genius level. So let’s assume they’re self-taught.”

  “We know they both like old movies and old music. Along with several million other people. Or more,” Lani said glumly. “Including me.”

  “And me. My radio stays tuned to KSIN.”

  The cops looked at each other for a moment, then both of them shook their heads. Leo said, “I know all the people out at KSIN FM. Remember all those public service announcements I did last year? I got to know them all pretty well. But I guess we could check them out, when we get back.”

  She nodded her agreement and said wearily, “Wichita, here we come.”

  * * *

  Counting the man and woman who were found in ’83, eight more bodies had been uncovered over the years. That brought the Wichita count to ten ... at least. There were no radio stations in Wichita that played music from the ’30’s and ’40’s, and no theaters that showed classic movies. They angled up to Denver and found the count was now sixteen in and around the city.

  “Counting all the smaller towns and cities we didn’t check,” Leo said, “the death count is probably well over five hundred nationwide. We’ll never know.”

  The cops drove down to Albuquerque and then over to Phoenix. Then they headed north to Salt Lake City. In Leo’s room at the downtown Holiday Inn, the road-weary cops tallied up the count.

  “I make it one hundred and thirty,” Lani said. “Give or take a couple. And that’s not counting those in our own backyard.”

  Leo nodded and called into the station. He listened for a moment, then hung up. “Add one more,” he said grimly. “A Tammy Larson was just found.”

  “Minus her face?”

  Leo shuddered. “Minus more than that, kid. The Ripper has added a new twist. She had been completely skinned.”

  * * *

  The cops had been on the road for weeks, and they were worn out. After arriving back in La Barca, they checked in with Sheriff Brownwood and then drove out to the Potter mansion.

  The multimillionaire was clearly shocked at the news. “A hundred and thirty-one dead?” he managed a whisper.

  “That we know of,” Leo said. “We figure the total is probably over five hundred.”

  “Good God!” the man blurted. “This is ... mons
trous!”

  “The problem is—” Lani said, “one of many—is that most of the evidence we’ve managed to piece together, we did illegally. It would never stand up in a court of law. It would never reach a court of law.”

  Dennis Potter looked first at Lani, then at Leo. His eyes were very, very bleak. When he spoke, his voice was clear and cold and flat, utterly devoid of emotion. “It is my opinion, that in some cases, justice is much more important than adhering to the strict letter of the law.” He turned his back to them for a moment, staring out a window. “Keep and use the credit cards whenever you need them. These ... monsters must be stopped. I don’t expect you two to do that tomorrow, next week, or even next month. But you’ll find them, eventually, and you’ll stop them. One way or the other. You have proven yourselves to be very fine police officers. I compliment you both.” He turned and picked up a picture from the fireplace mantel. A color eight by ten of his dead daughter. Dennis went to the cemetery every Sunday afternoon and placed a dozen roses on his daughter’s grave. He had lost his wife only a couple of years back. His other children were all married and gone. Dennis Potter was a very rich, very lonely man, in a lovely mansion. “You two both know your way out,” he said softly, not taking his eyes from the picture of his daughter. “Thank you for all you’ve done. Please keep me informed.”

  Lani and Leo left the study and let themselves out. They stood for a moment on the wide porch. Lani said, “I counted about five different messages in that little talk of his.”

  “At least. Let’s go look at what’s left of Tammy Larson.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  * * *

  Both cops were badly shaken as they left the morgue late that afternoon. The M.E. had said, that in his opinion, it had taken the Ripper many hours to carefully and completely skin the victim. And there was no dirt imbedded in the tissue, so it was, again in his opinion, done in a fairly sterile environment. In a home, probably. And whoever had done the skinning had used very sharp knives, and knew something about the human anatomy. Might have had some medical training.

  “I’m going home to get reacquainted with my wife,” Leo said. “Providing she hasn’t changed the locks on the doors.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Leo.”

  Instead of going home, Lani went back to the station, got the key from the personal effects room, and drove out to Cal Denning’s place. She carefully tossed the den first and found nothing. She went into the master bedroom and looked at the small pile of personal effects on the bed. A money clip containing twenty-eight dollars. A wallet filled with the usual stuff. Some change, a key ring, and a folded slip of paper.

  She unfolded the paper and felt the blood rush from her face. Printed on the page were the words: Tammy Larson.

  * * *

  Since Cal was still in the hospital in a coma and sure as hell wasn’t going anyplace, Lani waited until the next morning to drop it in Leo’s lap.

  “No way,” her partner said. “Not Cal.”

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Yeah, I can. When Ruthie Potter was killed, Cal was attending an engineers’ convention in Las Vegas. When the third girl was killed, Cal was in San Diego on a three-day weekend. He was shacked up with George Benson’s wife.”

  Lani’s mouth dropped open. “The Episcopal priest’s wife!”

  “Yeah. She and Cal have been a quiet item for several years.” He grinned. “See? There are goings-on around here you don’t know about.”

  “Smart-ass,” she muttered.

  “Cal may have been bumpin’ uglies with Tammy, too. Cal likes the ladies.”

  Lani grimaced. “You have such a quaint way of describing the sex act, Leo.”

  “That’s what Virginia said last night. Twice.”

  “Now you’re bragging. It isn’t becoming,” she chided him. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Tammy’s friends.”

  * * *

  The lounge door was locked, but they could see people moving about, cleaning up. The door was opened at Lani’s knocking.

  The waitress shook her head at Leo’s question. “No. I don’t think Tammy even knew Cal Denning. He wasn’t a customer that I know of. And I’ve been here ever since Tammy opened for business.”

  They drove over to Tammy’s apartment. Cal’s name was not in Tammy’s address book. Leo sighed as only a cop can. “Well, we check out every name listed here.”

  Lani thumbed through the pages. “Ho-ho,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Dick Hale and William Jarry. Look here.”

  Leo looked. “Dick Hale couldn’t be Jim or Jack Longwood. He’s too old, and he’s lived here all his life.”

  “BJ the DJ hasn’t.”

  “True. Jesus, I can’t believe Tammy was humpin’ Dick Hale. Talk about a jerk-off. That’s the most obnoxious prick in the county.”

  “He came on to me one time,” Lani said, making a terrible face at the memory.

  “You should have shot him!”

  “I thought about it.”

  They ran a check on William Jarry. In 1990 he’d been working in Phoenix. But nothing else about him fit what they knew of the Ripper. William was thirty-eight years old, and a native of Texas. They couldn’t find that he’d ever been east of the Mississippi River.

  “Oh, sure,” William said to the cops. “Tammy and I dated lots of times. We stopped seeing each other about six months ago. We were still good friends and all that, but strictly on a social basis. She was dating some guy from Morro Bay.”

  “Henry Sparks?” Lani prompted.

  “Yeah. I think that’s the guy.” William smiled. “You don’t think I’m the Ripper, do you?”

  “Tammy was killed between the hours of 6:00 and 10:00 P.M. on a Wednesday night,” Leo said. “Where were you?”

  “On the air. Check the logs and the engineer on duty.”

  Lani smiled. “We already have. Thanks for your cooperation, BJ. I enjoy your show.”

  Back in the car, Leo said, “We handle Dick Hale with kid gloves. He doesn’t wield as much stroke as he thinks he does, but he’s got enough to make things uncomfortable if we work it wrong.”

  Dick was all winks and good-ol’-boy talk and gestures. “Oh, sure. Tammy and I got it on a few times. You know how it is, Leo. Man’s got to have some strange from time to time.”

  “No,” Leo said, his dislike for the man extremely difficult for him to conceal. “I don’t know. But you understand that we have to check out every name in her address book?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Stupid broad shouldn’t have had my name in that damn book. This could be embarrassing.”

  “We’ll be discreet,” Lani said drily.

  Dick picked up on her dislike and flushed. Bitch! he thought. Ought to be home taking care of babies and leave the police work to men. He smiled at her, but it was forced.

  Under questioning, Dick finally admitted that he could not prove where he was between six and ten the night Tammy was killed and skinned. “I was just driving around,” he said. “No law against that, is there?”

  “No, sir,” Leo said, and the two cops then left Dick’s office.

  Back in the car, Lani said, “God, how I dislike that creep!”

  “I don’t think he had anything to do with Tammy’s death, Lani, but let’s run him.”

  It didn’t take long and both cops looked at the printout with renewed interest. “Premed in college,” Lani said. “Studying to be a surgeon. Wonder why he didn’t finish?”

  “He had to come back here to take over the radio and TV stations,” Sheriff Brownwood answered that question, standing in the office door. “After his parents died. You two actually think Dick Hale is the Ripper?”

  “No,” Leo said quickly. “But this could be a bad copycat. It’s the first time in more than one hundred victims that the entire body was skinned.”

  Brownie came in and sat down on the edge of the desk. “Lay it all out, gang. Tell me what’s on y
our mind.”

  “How did Tammy get the money to buy that lounge?” Lani asked. “She went from a cocktail waitress to a club owner overnight.”

  “Did Dick give or loan it to her?” Leo asked. “Was she blackmailing him?”

  “Neither one of us think Dick killed her,” Lani said. “But there are some questions that need answering.”

  “Then find out,” the sheriff said. “I know how you both work. You’re not going to ride rough over Dick. I—”

  He stopped at the ringing of the phone and motioned for one of them to take it. Lani did and listened for a moment. “Look, give me your name. I ... ” She fell silent and began scribbling on a note pad. “Wait a minute, sir! Wait. Don’t hang up.” She grimaced and hung up the phone.

  “What’d you got?” Leo asked.

  “A citizen who wouldn’t give his name. Said he saw Dick Hale and Tammy Larson together about seven o’clock on the evening she was killed. Said they appeared to be arguing. Said they were in Dick’s Cadillac and heading north out of town, up into the hills. Said he was sorry, but he didn’t want to get involved. Then he hung up.”

  Before Brownie could speak, another detective walked in. “Tammy’s bank records. I just got them. For the last two years, a thousand dollars every month from Dick Hale’s personal account.”

  “Thanks, Ernie,” Leo said, taking the statements. To Lani: “Before we pull Dick in for another chat. Let’s have one more go at William Jarry. I want his reaction to Dick screwing Tammy.” To Brownie: “Get us an order to impound and let forensics go over Dick’s car?”

  “You got it,” the sheriff said, and left the office.

  Lani stood up. “Let’s go see BJ the DJ.”

  Chapter 9

  William Jarry was clearly shocked. He sat down hard on the couch in his apartment. “Tammy was having an affair with Dick Hale? God, that’s too gross to even think about.”

  “William, does anybody like Dick Hale?” Leo asked.

  The DJ shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I can’t think of a single person who would spit on him if he was on fire. Now I can figure out where Tammy got the money to buy that lounge. From Trickie-Dickie.”