What Doesn’t Kill Her

by Max Allan Collins

  “Pryor.…”

  “At the very least we need to alert them. But what we really need is a citywide task force, spanning all the suburbs and surrounding towns.”

  Kelley’s clipped laugh was a pit bull’s bark. “I wonder if the FBI will appreciate the free advice? The way I appreciate being told how to operate courtesy of a rookie detective.”

  “Not my intention, sir. Just providing input. The day you welcomed me to the detective bureau, you said my input was always welcome.”

  “That was one ‘welcome’ too many,” Kelley said. “I must have been in a really good mood. I was in a good mood, briefly today, when you told me you’d bagged that pervert. But do you think I’m in a good mood now?”

  “Possibly not, sir.”

  Kelley smiled, or anyway pretended to. “All right, rookie—you want a task force? Fine. You think we have another Mad Butcher? Okay.”

  The Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run, Cleveland’s most infamous serial killer, had murdered at least a dozen people in the nineteen thirties. The Butcher had worked for years, undetected, before police realized the scope of their problem. In the end, though suspects emerged, no arrest was ever made.

  “Now,” the captain was saying, “how are we going to pay for it? And what cases are we going to pull detectives off, what crimes do we have them ignore, all so they can hunt a monster that no one on the planet but you thinks exists?”

  That was a lot of questions, but Mark knew enough not to answer any of them.

  Kelley let out a long breath, pushed back in his chair, away from the desk a little. “Look, son… you’re smart. That’s how you went from uniform to plainclothes so quickly.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But are you smart enough to know what I need, to be able to take your theory upstairs?”

  “Evidence,” Mark said.

  “And what do you have?”

  “A pattern.”

  “That overstates it. I’d call it… a hunch. You think you might have a pattern. And you know you have no evidence yet.”

  “But I’ve uncovered information, facts, that may lead us to actual evidence.”

  “I should hope so. Or do you think the chief or the mayor or God almighty is going to let me set up a task force based on a rookie detective’s hunch?”

  Dejection washed over Mark, mingling with the mustard, crud, and pervert’s sweat that stained what was left of his suit. “Sir, this is the third time I’ve brought this to you.”

  He nodded. “Actually the second. Last time you let that poor bastard Pence risk his pension on it. And frankly, that you sold Bob Pence on this thing is probably why this conversation has gone on as long as it has.”

  “People are dying. Someone has to care.”

  The implication of that, of course, was that Kelley didn’t care. Mark felt the way he had as a kid and had overstepped with his dad. An explosion would likely follow, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  But Kelley was only looking at him, hard and unblinking. It took forever for the words to come, but they came: “You’ve got two days to get your shit together, then bring it in to me, Detective. I’ll look at it and if you’ve got something, we’ll kick it upstairs.”

  Elation flooded through him. “Yes, sir.”

  “But if you don’t convince me that there’s something to do, you’re never going to bring this up again. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  A bony finger pointed itself at him. “And, Pryor, that goes for even efforts on your own time. If there’s nothing there, you will leave this shit alone, forever. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself crazy with this kind of shit, or worse… me. Agreed?”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “Now, get the fuck out of my office.”

  Mark did so.

  Driving home, Mark was on automatic pilot, his mind racing. He was exhilarated by the opportunity he had practically forced from his captain. But he knew he lacked objectivity. He knew that he had… what was it, a blind spot? A sore spot? Whatever it was, it dated all the way back to high school, and a girl he still loved though they’d never even kissed.

  He had been working up the courage to ask Jordan Rivera out on a date when his hopes and dreams were interrupted by her family’s slaughter. Those brutal, tragic deaths had sent her to St. Dimpna’s as a mental patient. High school senior Mark had felt helpless, unable to do anything but follow the unsuccessful investigation in the newspapers.

  Somewhere along the way, he must have said to himself, I could do better than this. But he had no conscious memory of it. Still, he knew very well that the Rivera tragedy had sent him down the path to law enforcement.

  He had stayed close to home after high school, enrolling at Case Western Reserve University in downtown Cleveland. During Mark’s senior year, the famous thriller writer David Elkins had suffered a tragedy similar to the Rivera girl—the rest of his family shot, then mutilated.

  The case made national news, though only the local papers covered the police efforts to find a connection between the Rivera and Elkins homicides. Captain Kelley may have thought Mark picked up MO from TV, but actually the press coverage had provided him that—the differing modus operandi having discouraged investigators from continued pursuit of any link between the crimes.

  Jordan’s family had been knifed while the Elkins family had been executed by gunfire, the latter victims disfigured by knife slashes almost as an afterthought. The Riveras’ door had been forcibly thrown open, but at the Elkins residence there had been no sign of illegal entry. Elkins had, in a later magazine interview, gone so far as to mention unlocking the door when returning home with a pizza.

  In his early days on the PD, Mark was discouraged to find he still had no access to either the Rivera or Elkins case files, and no way to investigate either. He approached the detective who was in charge of the still open Elkins case and had been told to ef off.

  But now he was in plainclothes, a detective, and he could do things and go places denied to a uniformed cop. Still, if he were to call the Strongsville PD, and ask to talk to the detective there, Mark figured Captain Kelley would hand him his butt.

  The Strongsville murders—the closest he had come to a fresh crime scene—were just the latest in a string of such crimes that were not several cases, but one collective case—his case.

  A year and a half ago, a family had been killed in O’Fallon, Missouri. Again, similarities—family murdered, one survivor, a son this time. Like the Riveras, Frank and Carol Northcutt had been stabbed to death, and as in the Elkins killings, the pair had been slashed postmortem. But no shootings, and the surviving son, Lyle, was in his twenties and hadn’t lived with his parents for several years.

  But that surviving son was why the case had attracted Internet notoriety—Lyle Northcutt, “Buck Knife” to his friends and fans, was bass player in a cult-favorite metal band, Throbbing Meat Whistle.

  Speculation ran high that Buck Knife’s music had played a major role in the slaughter of the musician’s parents. Long before the killings, such songs by the band as “Fuck ’Em All” and “Kill the Bastards” had inflamed the debate about metal music, and post-tragedy, brought out self-appointed arbiters of popular culture who insisted that Buck Knife had no one to blame but himself for the deaths of his parents.

  Internet stories provided a look into the musician’s parents, who apparently were white bread, All-American, churchgoing. Their only sin, their only break from Middle American conformity, was their pride in their son’s music and success.

  Even Lyle had been a normal kid. Frank had coached Lyle’s Little League team and Carol had run the concession stand at those games. Members of the PTA, Frank and Carol helped organize the Planned Parenthood book sale every year and volunteered weekly at the local food bank.

  Unlike the Elkinses and Riveras, who were very well off, the Northcutts had been firmly entrenched in the lower regions of the middle class—they were both retired teachers.

  Th
e Northcutts of Missouri, along with half a dozen other families scattered across the United States, had made it into Mark’s growing printout folder and expanding computer files.

  Funny, or perhaps odd or even ironic, but the name Lyle summoned a memory of an event that had been minor in the great scheme of things but had a major impact on Mark’s formative years.

  Elementary school bully Kyle Underwood, a mean-hearted little son of a biscuit, was responsible for Mark’s enduring aversion to swearing. The kid had sworn like a fourth-grade sailor himself, and maybe that’s where Mark had heard the words. He sure hadn’t heard them at home.

  Bully-boy Kyle had prodded and picked on Mark, day after day, making a habit out of stealing the boy’s lunch money, and that of many of his friends. One day, after school, Mark had simply snapped.

  Balling up his fists, he stood up to the bully and snarled, “Fuck you, Kyle! I’m not taking your shit anymore!”

  But instead of fighting, Kyle had simply started laughing and pointing. When Mark turned, his father had been standing there. Usually Mom picked him up, and she always waited in the car. But here Dad was, frowning.

  “That’ll be enough, boys,” Dad had said, and dragged Mark off.

  Kyle Underwood would get his comeuppance another day, at the hands of another kid. This day was a black one in Mark’s memory. He thought maybe his dad would understand, even compliment him, for standing up to injustice. But all Dad did was ground him for a month, accepting no explanations or excuses, making Mark swear to never swear again.

  For some reason, that took… and Mark got a lot of kidding over the years, even to this day, for having such a goody-two-shoes vocabulary. Had he learned anything from the experience? Maybe that fighting injustice wasn’t a license to otherwise break the rules. Or maybe he had just been so ashamed at disappointing his dad that he was still trying to make up for it.

  Even though Dad had been gone, for how many years?

  The houses around Mark now were part of the suburb of Strongsville. He knew little about the Sully family, who had lived in a nice white house on Cypress Avenue, just west of I-71 and the Mill Stream Run Reservation.

  As he pulled to a stop in front of the Sully residence, Mark noted the police tape still X-ed across the front door. He got out of the car, trying to get a feel for the neighborhood. At dusk, the lights were on in neighboring homes, a breeze promising a cool night, with not another soul on the street except for a middle-aged woman walking her corgi two houses down on the other side.

  A predominantly white neighborhood, where everybody on the block knew everybody else, yet a killer had managed to infiltrate, murder the Sullys, and take his leave. And all the while, no one heard or saw a blessed thing.

  Why this house, when they all looked so much alike?

  Why this family?

  Why this street?

  Why, why, why?

  Mark asked himself those and a thousand other questions, not getting one g.d. answer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jordan sat barefoot in the lotus position on the hardwood floor in the middle of her studio apartment. Wearing a plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, black hair ponytailed back, eyes shut against the sun filtering through the venetian blinds, she endeavored to clear her mind.

  The past two weeks had blurred by, leaving the young woman exhausted, and not just physically. So much had been heaped upon her since seeing that news broadcast in the Dimpna dayroom that she had been able to do little more than simply cope.

  Dr. Hurst had been a big help, especially those first few days, going well beyond doctor/patient counseling and group therapy—no denying that—even driving Jordan to see her parents’ attorney.

  Family friend Stephen Terrell might have been intimidating with his barrel chest, Brooks Brothers suit, and severe gray-framed glasses. But the warmth of his smile and that sprinkling of salt in his pepper-colored hair made him at once accessible. Of course Jordan remembered him younger, though the twinkle in his brown eyes made him seem like your favorite uncle.

  When Jordan had first entered St. Dimpna’s, Terrell had visited frequently, but that trailed off due to her lack of communication. His last visit had been probably eight years ago. Now, as his secretary opened the door for Jordan and gestured her in (Dr. Hurst waiting in the outer office), the attorney beamed in a manner usually reserved for long-separated family members.

  It touched Jordan so much that she actually smiled at him.

  But when he came around the desk with his arms extended for a hug, she backed away, smile vanishing. The attorney clumsily held out a hand for her to shake, as an alternative, and when she didn’t take it, he clasped his hands at his chest and bowed slightly. Such a big Buddha of man, making that little awkward gesture, made her smile again. Briefly.

  “Jordan, wonderful to see you,” he said, as he nodded toward one of his two client chairs. “I think of your folks every single day.” He got himself seated behind his big mahogany desk. “It’s a tragedy that none of us will ever get over.”

  What could she say to that?

  “But I was thrilled to learn,” he went on, “that you’re out under God’s blue sky again, ready to meet whatever life brings.”

  That had a rehearsed sound and she couldn’t compete with it. So she just gave him a curt nod.

  He raised his eyebrows, and his smile asserted itself for just a moment before disappearing, as if to say, So much for small talk. Down to business.

  Flipping open a waiting folder, he said, “I don’t have to tell you that your parents were good people.”

  Then don’t.

  “But more than that,” he said, “they were conscientious people. Jordan, you should be proud—your mom and dad, they provided very well for you.”

  She said nothing. This was his show.

  The attorney’s forehead frowned while his mouth smiled. “Jordan, what I’m trying to say is… you’re a very wealthy young woman.”

  Her eyes tensed. “My parents were doing all right, Mr. Terrell. But we sure weren’t rich.”

  “Jordan, your father carried extensive life insurance policies on himself, your mother, and both of you kids.”

  “News to me.”

  “It’s not something he would have talked to you about, not until you were a little older.”

  “I was in high school.”

  “Your grandfather on your dad’s side died of heart disease in his early sixties. And your grandmother, your dad’s mother, died at fifty-seven of breast cancer. That family history made your father, an insurance man himself, cautious.”

  She said nothing.

  He plowed on. “With the payouts for your parents and your brother, the interest accrued over the last decade, and the sale of the house—”

  She sat forward and sharpness entered her tone. “Our house was sold?”

  He swallowed and nodded. “With you in St. Dimpna’s, in a state of mental health that precluded your participation, I—as executor of your parents’ estate—had to act in your best interests. I had no way of knowing when… or even, if… you would ever get out of that hospital.”

  “So you sold our house?”

  “Maintaining the place was a financial burden you didn’t need. Indicators were that housing values were going down, so I acted while you could still benefit from a relatively friendly marketplace.”

  “You sold it.”

  He nodded. “At almost twice what your father bought it for. And the mortgage had already been paid off. Your dad had a windfall about fifteen years ago—”

  “I can’t go back to my room.”

  Do I want to?

  “With taxes and insurance, and utilities, Jordan, it was a financial drain. I discussed this with Dr. Hurst and she agreed that the money could be better used for your future, whether in St. Dimpna’s, or… out in the world. And, frankly, I didn’t imagine you would want to go back there.”

  “It was our home.”

  The intruder had taken their live
s. Now added to that was their home.

  Terrell looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I apologize if I have done anything that contradicts your wishes. But, frankly… and I mean in no way to be unkind, Jordan… but for two years I came to visit you, and you never made eye contact with me, let alone expressed yourself in words. As someone entrusted, by your father and mother, with your welfare, I had to use my own best judgment.”

  Tears were flowing, warm and wet on her cheeks. Damnit!

  Terrell opened a drawer, produced a tissue, and half rose to hand it across the expanse of the desk.

  “Thank you,” Jordan said, dabbing her cheeks.

  “I know this is difficult,” Terrell said. “It’s difficult for me, too. Is it all right to discuss the specifics of your financial situation?”

  Jordan nodded.

  She had never really thought about having a “financial situation.” Never even wondered who had paid the freight at St. Dimpna’s—the state, she supposed. Now she realized it was more like her parents’ estate.

  The attorney, who looked as shaken as she felt, was saying, “Your parents left you in a very comfortable position, monetarily speaking.”

  Not really caring, wanting to hurry this up so she could get out of this office and be anywhere else, she asked, “How so?”

  “Well,” Terrell said, “your net worth is not quite three million dollars.”

  “… What?”

  “You heard right, young lady.”

  “But how?”

  “Mostly insurance,” Terrell said, glancing at the folder on his desk. “A million-dollar policy on your father, half a million on your mother, plus another hundred thousand on James. Just under four hundred thousand, after closing and various other costs, on the sale of the house. The rest is from interest and dividends from existing investments. With no other relatives, it’s all yours now.”

  Jordan shook her head slowly. Though the money meant nothing to her—she would gladly trade it to have any one of them back, Dad, Mom, Jimmy—the size of the sum was staggering.

  “I would not blame you,” Terrell said, “if you considered me negligent for not maximizing these funds. I am not a financial planner, and your parents obviously could not have anticipated a situation where they would be gone, and you would be hospitalized and out of communication for a decade.”