All The Dead Girls

by Tim Kizer

  "You have a beautiful house, Richard," Norris said. "Again, I apologize for taking your time."

  "It's all right. You’re just doing your job."

  They went inside, and Richard asked if Norris would like something to drink.

  "Sure,” the detective replied. “What do you have?”

  “I suppose beer is out of the question?”

  “Yeah, no alcohol while on duty.”

  “How about iced tea?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  In the kitchen, Richard looked in the mirror to make sure there was a sufficient amount of anguish on his face. He would hate to arouse the detective’s suspicions by appearing happy and carefree.

  "You must be dying to hear the latest on your wife's case," Norris said when Richard returned to the living room with two glasses of iced tea. "I have to say there isn’t much to report, unfortunately. We have very few clues."

  "Some clues is better than no clues."

  Norris nodded. "True.”

  "I'm glad you’re working hard to find Mary.” Richard put his glass on the coffee table. “Do you think she’s alive? That’s all I really care about."

  "Can I ask you something? I like those blue flowers in front of your house. What are they called?”

  “Hydrangeas.”

  “Hydrangeas. Honestly, I’ve never heard this word before.”

  There was a short pause before Richard said, “Would you like to look at Mary's laptop?"

  Norris shook his head. “Not right now.” He took a sip of iced tea. “Ten years ago I read about a serial killer who buried his victims’ bodies in his backyard. He lived in England. He might be dead now. Can you believe it: he buried the bodies in his own backyard. He’s a real idiot, if you ask me. Who in his right mind would hide incriminating evidence so close to his house?"

  "Just so you know, I don't bury dead bodies in my backyard," Richard said with a sour smile.

  "I believe you." Norris grinned. "You have a pool, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s probably enough space around the pool to bury at least a couple of bodies.” Norris started rotating the glass in his hand. “That was a joke.”

  Richard nodded silently.

  "As for your wife... I’m going to be blunt here, Richard. I’m afraid Mary is dead.”

  “Dead?” Richard frowned.

  “I believe she was murdered."

  “Do you know who killer her?”

  Norris gave Richard a studying look. "I think it was you. You killed your wife."

  They stared at each other, saying nothing, for about five seconds. Then Richard asked in a cold voice, "Was that a joke, too?”

  “No, I’m not joking.”

  “I don't understand."

  "What don't you understand? I believe you killed your wife.”

  Richard folded his arms on his chest, unsure how he ought to behave.

  What the hell was this Columbo wannabe doing? What was the point of making an accusation without having any evidence to back it up at all? Hell, Norris couldn’t even prove Mary was dead!

  Was the detective trying to provoke him? Was it some sort of mind game?

  His eyes fixed on Norris’s face, Richard said, "Steven, I realize that you have a difficult job, that you’d like to close the case as soon as possible, and that the husband is a prime suspect when a married woman goes missing. But let me tell you this: I don’t appreciate your tone. I did not kill Mary. I completely reject your accusations.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “There’s something you’re forgetting, Steven. Mary went missing on the twelfth. And on the fourteenth, two days later, she called her brother’s girlfriend.”

  “So what?”

  “I think this proves that I didn’t kill my wife.”

  “I disagree. How do I know it was Mary who called Lisa Chapman?”

  “Lisa told me she was sure it was Mary’s voice.”

  “It could be an imitator. It’s not that hard to imitate voices on the phone.”

  “An imitator? And why did this person decide to call Lisa?”

  “Maybe you asked her to do it.”

  “Why?”

  Richard felt gooseflesh rise on his back.

  “To make it look like Mary was alive two days after you murdered her.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m speechless.”

  Norris stroked his chin, and said, “All right, let’s suppose Mary did call Lisa on the fourteenth. What could have prevented you from killing her after that?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So when do you think this murder took place?

  “Probably shortly after you reported Mary missing.”

  After a short pause, Richard said, “There’s a witness who saw Mary alive just two days ago. Would you like to talk to her?"

  "Really? Someone saw your wife two days ago? Why didn't you tell me about that before?"

  "I'm telling you now. Do you want to write down her number?"

  "Who is she?"

  “Her name’s Jane Porter. She’s a friend of Mary’s.” Then Richard dictated Jane’s phone number to the detective.

  "I’ll give her a call.” Norris put his notebook back in his jacket pocket.

  “Can I ask you why you have a problem with me? Did I offend you somehow?”

  Norris made a wry face. “I don’t have a problem with you, Richard. If you had an alibi, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You don’t have an alibi, that’s what bothers me. And please don't get upset. I’m just explaining what my suspicions are based on.”

  “I read somewhere that only criminals have alibis.”

  “I’ve heard that saying. It could be true, but it’s not the official position of our department.”

  “Is there any evidence that Mary’s dead?”

  The detective sighed. “You don’t need physical evidence or a dead body to start a homicide case.”

  “But you don’t know when Mary was murdered, do you?”

  “You probably killed her sometime after the fourteenth of May.”

  “So you want me to have an alibi for the entire last two weeks?”

  “That would be great. Unfortunately, you don’t have it, do you?"

  “What about Jane? She saw Mary two days ago.”

  "I haven't spoken to her yet. So I’m going to use only the facts that I currently have.”

  “Call her now. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind meeting you today.”

  “I’ll call her tonight, don’t worry about it.”

  He’s going to say I paid Jane to lie for me, Richard thought. Or, worse yet, he’ll say I’m fucking her.

  "By the way, have you heard about this new serial killer?" Norris's tone suddenly became friendly, or so it seemed to Richard.

  "What killer?"

  "The one that chops off ears."

  So Susie had been murdered by a serial killer?

  Richard felt a chill in his stomach when he remembered Susie lying naked on the floor in a dark pool of blood, her head looking grotesque without ears.

  "No, I’ve never heard of him. I'm not interested in things like that."

  "Really? I thought everyone’s heard of him. Well, at least most people. It’s kind of a big story."

  "I guess I'm in the minority."

  "Yes, you are. I mentioned him because I believe that this guy may have killed your wife. Killed and buried her somewhere. Or cut her to pieces and ate."

  “Is he a cannibal?”

  “We don’t know. It’s possible.”

  "How many people has he killed?"

  "A few. But I think he buried some of his victims, so the actual number is probably higher."

  6.

  At ten minutes to eight in the evening, Richard called Jane. It was Jane’s husband, Alex, who answered the phone. Richard almost fell off the sofa when Alex told him the news: Jane died. She had been run over by a car three hours ago.
The car had left the scene of the accident without stopping. Jane had died before talking to Norris. She had abandoned him. Who was going to save him from this idiot detective, who couldn't wait to put him in prison for Mary’s murder?

  Richard drank half a glass of gin to calm his nerves. One thought was spinning in his head: Jane was gone and he was absolutely alone, with nobody to defend him.

  Now, having lost Jane, he realized with stunning clarity that the damn detective was not as harmless as he seemed.

  Norris was after him.

  Richard suddenly realized that Norris was hell-bent on getting him convicted of Mary’s murder. And he was sure the detective would be able to fabricate enough evidence to make it happen. He would find false witnesses. He would force Bob Logan to identify some female corpse as Mary. Bob was an ex-convict, so Norris would have no trouble making him dance to his tune. He would get Bob to say that Mary had fights with her husband on a regular basis.

  Norris would have everything necessary to put him behind bars for twenty years. He would have Mary’s body, witnesses who would testify that they had seen Richard Brower kill his wife, the tire iron that had served as the murder weapon. And he would have the motive, too. Richard Brower found out that his wife was fucking some guy with a big dick, became jealous, and decided to kill her. He made careful preparations, ladies and gentlemen! He purchased a tire iron, for cash, and hid it under the driver’s seat. Then he took Mary out of town and smashed her skull with the aforementioned tire iron. After that he dumped the body in the lake. What a disgusting monster!

  God, please help me!

  Why are you doing this to me!

  If Jane were alive...

  Richard's heart twisted at the horrible thought that had just come to him. Jane’s death had not been an accident. Yes, it was highly unlikely for a cautious woman like Jane to be run over by a car. It couldn’t have been an accident.

  Jane had been murdered. She had been murdered by Norris. Her testimony was going to undermine Norris’s theory and let his main suspect off the hook, so he had decided to take her out.

  There was one problem, though. Norris was here three hours ago, and therefore, could not have killed Jane. The detective couldn’t have anything to do with Jane’s death because he had first heard about her after she had died.

  If it wasn’t Norris or his minions, then who was it?

  Someone else. Someone who wants to destroy me.

  Suddenly, gooseflesh broke out all over Richard’s body. A thought occurred to him that took his breath away.

  It was them. He had lulled himself into believing that they had forgotten about him, that he was out of the woods, but obviously he had been wrong. They had been looking for him this whole time, and, sad to say, they had succeeded in their search. They had been watching him very closely after tracking him down. They had been watching his every step!

  Yes, it must be the avengers. These people still wanted him to pay for the lives he had taken.

  What did you expect, partner? These assholes are out of their minds, they’ll never stop trying to get you.

  These people were on the hunt for him. They must have hatched another conspiracy to kill him, damn bastards. Yes, a conspiracy! These morons would stop at nothing to take their revenge on him. Norris must be with them. Otherwise, how would one explain the detective’s maniacal desire to punish him? Norris was involved with them.

  They had been watching him. They had learned that Jane had seen Mary, and killed her. There was an interesting implication here: if they believed that Jane had actually spoken to his wife, they didn't know the whole truth. They didn't know that Mary was dead.

  Thank God, there was at least one important thing about him they were unaware of.

  These people would stop at nothing to get him.

  Horror paralyzed Richard. For several minutes, he lay motionlessly, staring at the ceiling. Then he rose from the sofa and dashed to the entry hall to lock the deadbolt on the front door. After that, he locked all the windows on both floors. When he was done, he eased into a chair in the living room and stretched out his legs in front of him. He was still nervous. His attempts to relax by means of autosuggestion were failing.

  Mary. Jane. Norris. He felt as though the entire world leaned its weight on him.

  Was Mary dead?

  Jane had seen Mary alive. Jane had talked to her. Mary had hung the prints back on the walls. Mary had visited his house wearing blue jeans. She had the keys to the house, which meant she could have gotten in and out at will. She wanted to frighten him, to remind him of herself. What else had she done? What else was she going to do?

  Was Mary going to get revenge on him?

  Maybe it was her who had killed Jane? Was she in cahoots with Norris?

  Nonsense! Mary was dead. Her corpse was lying in the ground, eaten by worms.

  It was a pity he couldn't find her grave. It would have been nice to confirm she was still dead and buried.

  Could Mary have come back to life? Right now Richard was unable to give a definite answer to this question.

  7.

  At a quarter past midnight Richard headed for the master bedroom. As he climbed the stairs, a thought crossed his mind: sooner or later Mary would have to get a job. But what marketable skills did she possess?

  Richard laughed.

  How much money could she earn with her limited abilities? She would probably end up working as a cashier at a grocery store.

  He wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to find a sugar daddy.

  He entered the bedroom, switched on the light, and started walking to the bed. After two steps, he glanced around the room and froze.

  There was writing on the wall opposite the bed, which read: ‘You are a dead man. M.’

  The words were printed in large red capital letters. The letters were uneven, which indicated that they had been drawn by hand. Richard caught himself wondering if the perpetrator had used blood to write his message. That must have been the idea: to make him think it was blood.

  After quickly recovering from shock, Richard walked up to the wall and touched the letter ‘m’ in the word ‘man’ with his right index finger. The paint was still wet; some of it got onto his fingertip. He brought his stained finger to his eyes.

  Paint or blood?

  Richard smelled his finger. He detected no scent of paint thinner, which didn’t mean the inscription had been written with blood. Some watercolors had virtually no odor, so it could be watercolor.

  Richard was tempted to taste the paint (or the blood). In the end, he dropped this idea.

  Let’s assume it was blood. Was it human or animal blood?

  Human blood? Ha-ha, I’ve seen too many horror movies.

  When had this been written?

  ‘You are a dead man. M.’

  Was it a threat? Had the avengers begun to threaten him?

  Richard sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart pounding rapidly, a big lump stuck in his throat. He looked at the writing once more.

  So when had this been written? Who had done it?

  The last question was certainly the most important one.

  It must be a threat. They wanted him dead. They were going to kill him.

  They.

  It appeared that they hadn’t been sitting idle all these years. They had been looking for him.

  The scary thing was, they had no trouble getting into his house—completely unnoticed, mind you. The next time they came here, they might chop his head off.

  Why hadn’t they simply killed him? Why waste time writing this stupid threat?

  Maybe they didn’t want to kill him.

  It could be just a prank by local kids—unlikely, but possible nonetheless.

  When had they done this? It must have been after six—that was when he had last been in the bedroom.

  Richard stepped over to the dresser, pulled a tissue from the box, and wiped the paint—or the blood—off his finger.

  Watercolor or blood?
/>
  Or maybe it was ketchup?

  At the moment he was inclined to believe that it was blood. Animal blood. Perhaps cow's or pig's. Obviously, these guys had a weakness for cheap dramatic effects. They must have thought he’d be thoroughly impressed by the sight of blood.

  Should he start panicking? Richard didn’t know.

  If he freaked out because of this writing, they would win. They wanted him to lose his cool, he had no doubt about it. Therefore, he was going to remain calm. But he couldn’t ignore this incident. He would have to step up his vigilance.

  Richard noticed that his mouth was dry. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a can of diet Pepsi from the refrigerator.

  These primitive morons were trying to scare him with a stupid inscription in blood, but they failed. Yes, they disturbed his balance, he wouldn’t deny that; however, he quickly pulled himself together.

  Richard smiled. They had expected that he would faint with terror and then run to the police to confess to his killings. Like hell he would!

  What should he do now?

  He should paint over the writing first. Then he'd play it by ear.

  CHAPTER 13

  1.

  The phone rang, waking Richard up. His eyes still shut, Richard reached toward the nightstand, groped for the phone, found it, and picked up the receiver.

  "Hello," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "Richard, is that you?" a woman's voice replied.

  "Yes, it's me." He had trouble recognizing the voice.

  "Is Mary home?"

  "No, she's not. Who is it?"

  "It’s me, Doris. Mary's mom." The woman laughed.

  As soon as she told him her name, Richard remembered: yes, it was Doris Logan's voice. He moaned quietly and covered his face with a pillow.

  Doris was calling from Fresno. She said that she was about to board a plane to Seattle, and then asked Richard to meet her at the airport.

  Faking enthusiasm, Richard said, “Sure.”

  After he hung up, it occurred to him he should have asked Doris why she was coming here.

  2.

  Doris’s plane arrived on schedule. Richard positioned himself by the arrival gate and began looking for Doris. It was about ten minutes before they saw each other.

  "Richard!" Doris shouted, wrapping her arms around Richard. "It’s been so long since I last saw you. You haven't changed one bit.” She let him out of her embrace. “I'm so tired, you know."