“We are looking into every lead, Ms. Pinter,” the Sheriff stonewalled.
“Marshall Conrad, curious onlooker!” I shouted. “I have a question!”
Sheriff Neuman searched through the crowd as I pushed myself in front of the reporters. “Go ahead, Mr. Conrad,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m just wondering if anyone from the media knows the slightest thing about serial killers? The reason I’m asking is because I have to assume they know that serial killers are people who’ve killed on three occasions, or there is often a sexual ingredient to their obsession. Moreover, I’d like to know if the press can explain the value in suggesting that a serial killer resides in friendly neighborhood Greenfield, save for increasing the Examiner’s revenue. Seems to me that ain’t journalism. What do you think?”
“Mr. Conrad, are you a reporter?” asked Lara Pinter, obviously annoyed that I’d just made her look like an idiot in front of her colleagues.
“Ms. Pinter, do you get off at the idea of creating a panic all over the city? It’s not like I’m trying to tell you how to do your job or anything like that, but isn’t it true that you got canned by the Boston Herald for something about plagiarism? I mean, I know that Greenfield is a small city and you’re more than likely chomping at the bit to spearhead a series of stories about two gruesome murders, but I think most people would agree that Geraldo Rivera is an asshole, and you don’t have a mustache from what I can tell.”
“Are you a reporter?” she demanded.
“Are you a failed journalist?” I snapped back. “I think she’s a failed journalist—what does everyone else think? Hey Bill Sparks, get your damned camera on me. I want your story to be about the crackpot who raised a ruckus at the crime scene. You guys want headlines? I’ll take off my clothes and run around here naked if it will stop you from searching for gory details. Let the Sheriff do his job, for crying out loud.”
“Right on!” someone shouted from the crowd. “Let them do their job!”
“Exactly,” I said, as I winked at Lara Pinter, who discreetly gave me the finger as she scratched her left elbow. “Sheriff Neuman, you don’t have anything else to add to this scrum, do you?”
“Nope,” he huffed, as he gave me a suspicious look. “We do need to get back to the investigation here, folks, so if the media has any more questions they can direct them to our official spokesperson.”
I turned my attention to the crowd of onlookers.
“I’m going to ask all the people who live on this street if they would be so kind as to refuse any reporters’ questions,” I said. “If you’re going to talk to anyone, talk to law enforcement.”
The crowd began to disperse as the WGBC news crew began packing up their equipment when Stella Weinberg grabbed my arm and pulled me back to my car. “Just what the hell was that?”
I waved a hand. “You know as well as I do the last thing anyone needs at this point is a full-scale panic on our hands. Besides, the only news outlets that will report on my little outburst will be the bloggers.”
“You’re insane.”
“And reporters like Lara Pinter are goddamned predators,” I said, as I shook my head. “This is America, Stella. The graphic nature of these killings is going to attract the worst kind of journalism, and this city is going to become a circus.”
“You’re full of beans,” she snapped. “You’ve got other motives.”
“Yep.” I nodded. “Five minutes from now, a couple of Sheriff’s deputies are going to escort me past this barricade and into Don Neuman’s squad car.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because the Sheriff probably believes that a serial killer is on the loose and he’s been trained to recognize the fact that perpetrators like to hang out at crime scenes. Some are even brazen enough to offer their assistance to an investigation.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re trying to make yourself a suspect?”
“How else am I going to get my foot in the door of this investigation?” I shrugged. “Under normal circumstances, I could have prevented this homicide, but the old radar isn’t working for some reason, and that has me worried.”
“You should be more worried about being indicted for a crime you didn’t commit.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, as I watched Sheriff Neuman talking with a burly looking deputy from inside his squad car. “I think we can probably disclose the location of your rock collection too.”
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned. The look on her face told me that I’d better keep my mouth shut or she might put some kind of spell on me that would shrivel my pecker.
“All right then, your secret is safe with me,” I said, reassuringly. “I have a question, though.”
“What?”
“The last time we got together, you said that another murder had occurred. It couldn’t have been this one because I was at your place two days ago and it’s clear that whoever is underneath those blue tarps was alive and well at the time. Care to elaborate?”
Stella gave a heavy sigh as she put on a pair of dark sunglasses. “This probably isn’t the best place to discuss my source of information. When you’re done with the Sheriff, come back to my store and I will fill you in.”
“It sounds to me like you’re going to be introducing me to more of this unseen world.”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “It sounds to me like you’ve accepted that it’s real, and it’s about time.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll have to make some friends if you’re going to find the killer,” she instructed. “By the way, did you get that letter from The Guild?”
“Yep.”
“You’re not angry with me, are you? I had to contact them—you need to be seconded if you’re going to master your abilities.”
“I’m not angry.” I watched the burly deputy walk through the barricade in my direction. “I’m to meet someone who goes by the name of ‘Ruby.’ They didn’t tell me when or where I am to meet this person. Do you know who it is?”
“Beats me. If I knew, I’d tell you.” She glanced over my shoulder again. “Time for me to make my exit, that deputy is headed this way. Come and see me when you’re done talking to the Sheriff.”
“All right,” I said, as I turned around and began walking toward the deputy.
Chapter 11
The Sheriff’s Deputy kept a firm hand on my shoulder as he directed me past the police barricade and toward the Chevrolet Impala. The forensics team was setting up portable screens around each of the thirteen cars and one person dressed in a sterile bodysuit waved a Geiger counter over one of the spiral engraved rocks that rested in front the car closest to me.
“Pretty gruesome stuff,” I said to the burly deputy. “What’s with the guy in the radiation suit?”
“Shut up and keep walking,” he said, as he gave me a forward push. “The Sheriff wants to ask you some questions.”
“Okie-dokie then, but aren’t you supposed to arrest me or something?”
“Shut up.”
As we approached the Impala, the rear driver’s side door swung open and I could see Sheriff Don Neuman seated in passenger side of the front seat talking on the radio. “Climb in,” the deputy ordered as he pushed my head inside.
The blue vinyl interior of the car smelled of cigarette smoke, and there were empty coffee cups scattered on the floor. Sheriff Neuman lit a cigarette and slung the radio handset over the steering wheel, and then held his package of Winston’s over the edge of the front seat. “Want one?” he asked politely. “I was on the patch until this morning.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I thought Greenfield has a bylaw about smoking in city-owned vehicles.”
“That’s the least of my worries,” the Sheriff said, as he took a deep haul on his cigarette. “So tell me, apart from pissing off the Greenfield news media, what interest do you have in my investigation of this homicide?”
“Like I said earlier, I’m a curious onlooker
and it seemed rather unfair the press was trying to put words in your mouth.”
“They’ll do that regardless of what I tell them. Your name is Marshall Conrad, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve checked the residents list for this street and you don’t show up as a local. Either you know something about this homicide or you’re purposefully trying to impede an official investigation, and that, my friend, will get you five years behind bars,” he warned.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Beats me, do you think you need a lawyer?”
“Nope. I haven’t done anything illegal the last time I looked.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“You know, I could have just kept my mouth shut during your media scrum.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Come on, Sheriff.” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Haven’t you ever wanted to say what you really think when some idiot reporter starts asking dumb questions?”
He took another long drag on his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils. “You live clear across town according to your motor vehicle records. I’ll ask one more time, why are you at this crime scene?”
“I heard about the murder on my radio on the way home from the 7-11, and thought I’d buzz by to see what all the commotion was about.” I fanned the smoke away from my face.
“You seem to know a little bit about serial killers. We had one in Boston back in the 80s—the creepy sonofabitch liked to hang out at crime scenes and watch us investigate.”
“And you’re thinking that I might be one of those creepy people, is that it?”
“Something like that.” The Sheriff regarded me with obvious suspicion as he flicked his cigarette out the window. “There’s always a crowd at a crime scene, but nobody makes a public spectacle of themselves, so that tells me we should probably ask you some questions.”
“All right, then.”
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“I’m self-employed.”
“Doing?”
“Odd jobs—is my employment relevant to your investigation?”
“Just trying to get some background on you, Mr. Conrad. Your name rings a bell for some reason.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I said calmly. “I’m a person of no importance in the community.”
Sheriff Neuman raised his eyebrows. “Tell me about what happened at Lake Chebucto in nineteen eighty-two.”
“Why?”
“Because your name was flagged when we did a background check. You were questioned about an assault on a Pastor James Gregory when you were fourteen.”
“That’s right. The Pastor was a pervert who tried to have his way with me.”
“Go on?”
“There’s nothing more I can offer.” I looked at the twelve gauge shotgun resting in the cradle attached to the car’s dashboard.
“You like guns, huh? That’s a Winchester Defender—not exactly standard issue for law enforcement, but I am the Sheriff, and this is my car.”
“I detest firearms. I think that anyone who buys a gun that doesn’t hunt game for food is probably compensating for something deeply personal. Anyway, I imagine whoever is responsible for this homicide probably didn’t use a gun.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said the Sheriff. “I’m interested in learning why you know so much about serial killers. Care to explain?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. “I watch A&E.”
“Come again?”
“Anyone who watches cable will tell you that America has a love affair with bizarre crimes. A&E devotes about five hours a day or more to programs specifically about serial killers. Don’t you ever watch Bill Kurtis?”
“Nope.”
“Well you should. It might give you some insight into the killer’s motives.”
“Go on?”
I looked out the passenger window at the yellow police tape and decided I would start pressing the Sheriff for information. “Looks to me like whoever did this wanted to make a very public statement.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Come on, Sheriff—yellow police tape? Blue tarps covering up thirteen cars? Men in radiation suits? That’s powerful imagery. More powerful than the chopped up body parts those tarps are covering up. People see that on the news and it probably scares the hell out of them.”
“How do you know there are body parts underneath the tarps?”
“You wouldn’t be covering up graffiti some wayward teenager spray painted on those cars.”
The Sheriff looked surprised. “How did you know about the graffiti?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
He lit another cigarette blew the smoke in my face. “There’s graffiti on each of those cars, among other things. What do you know about the spirals?”
“The ones on the rocks you found?”
“No, the spirals the perpetrator painted on the hoods of the cars.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I tried to hide the panic that had just invaded my stomach.
“Not at all,” said the Sheriff. “Seems kind of interesting to me that someone who knows so much about serial killers would also know there was graffiti at both crime scenes.”
“You mean someone spray painted a spiral where Stephen Hodges died?”
“You betcha. Do you know anything about the spiral graffiti that’s popping up around town lately?”
“No,” I said. “Look, am I being arrested?”
“Let’s just say you’re a person of interest and leave it at that for now,” said the Sheriff, as he scribbled some notes in his pad. “You can go, but expect a call from my office in the not-too-distant future, and don’t leave town.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t leave town? Person of interest? Call me crazy, but that would imply you’re treating me like a suspect.” I tried to conceal my pleasure at having successfully inserted myself in the official investigation.
“We’re working on a profile of the killer. Someone from Quantico is flying in this afternoon.”
“If you’re calling in someone from the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI, then maybe the rumors about a serial killer are correct.”
“Maybe,” he said. “We found the first victim a week ago. Do you know anyone who can verify what you’ve been up to for the past seven days?”
“That’s going to take some time, since I work out of my apartment.” I shrugged. “I don’t get out much. Still, I could probably produce a number of transaction records showing that I’ve been hard at work designing websites.”
The Sheriff nodded as he scribbled something in his notepad. “Uh-huh, I’ll want to see those.”
“Sure thing.” I nodded. “Are you going to arrest me before I can get them for you?”
“Nope, we’re done for now but we’ll be in touch so don’t make any vacation plans just yet. You might also want to talk to a lawyer.”
Chapter 12
The cold rain ended as I stepped off the rooftop and into the night sky. My brain was stinging from the vision of what was about to happen on the poorly lit pathway outside the Humanities building at Chesterton College. It was a rare occurrence when I’d receive two visions the same evening. The migraine hit me just as the man who’d planned on robbing the liquor store and killing the cashier got out of his car. He shot at me with his 9mm Beretta, and the bullet grazed my right shoulder, leaving a burn mark on my leather jacket.
I didn’t actually punch the guy as hard as I’d intended. I think it was an instinctive response to have mashed his face that way—he did try to kill me, after all. I left him bleeding inside the trunk of his Dodge Magnum and took off into the darkness when I caught a glimpse of the German store owner running out the back door with a baseball bat in his hand. I’m certain he saw me because the last thing I heard as I darted into the air was “Überraschen!”, which I’m pretty sure means “amazing” in German.
As I soare
d over the culvert running past the Greenfield Waterworks, it occurred to me the person in my vision might be the same son of a bitch that Sheriff Don Neuman was pursuing because of the very graphic way he intended to end his intended victim’s life.
The six inch filleting knife he’d been hiding inside his trench coat would be used to carve up her face and remove her eyes. He felt some hesitation about raping her because he’d always experienced performance problems. Perhaps taking out her eyes would ensure that he would climax—something he’d never accomplished in his life.
He’d kill her slowly, of course. That was the easy part. Then leave her mutilated body on the path because he wanted the other women who’d rejected him to see what he’d done. He wanted his power back and this was the only way.
The vision flashed to his face. He was a white man and his neatly cropped hair slathered with gel gleamed in the moonlight. He wouldn’t hide behind a nylon stocking or a balaclava. This guy wanted his victim to know the identity of her killer, and he intended his face to be the last thing she would ever see.
“Faster!” I growled, as I tightened my fists and willed myself to increase my flight speed. The wind buffeted my body and I could feel the air currents bump against me as the ground beneath zipped by. I spotted the Humanities Building half a mile away. It was 11:34 PM.
“Shit, I hope I’m not too late,” I groaned, as I followed the bend in the pathway leading between a small copse of pine trees. I increased my altitude to get a clearer look at the potential crime scene when I noticed a lone female figure staggering along the pathway about thirty yards from the tree line where the male was hiding.
“Goddammit, no time, she’s gonna see me. Gotta move now!” I growled through my teeth as I dropped into a straight vertical dive directly above the attacker. He jumped out from the copse of trees and the woman screamed as she raised her arms to shield her face from the knife.
“Not tonight, asshole!” I bellowed, as I slammed into his midsection, driving him flat onto the paved surface of the pathway. There was a loud crunch as my left shoulder connected with his rib cage. His head bounced off the asphalt. I crushed his right wrist into granules and the filleting knife fell to the ground with a harmless clang.
Marshall Conrad: A Superhero Tale Page 8
