City of Echoes (Detective Matt Jones Book 1)

by Robert Ellis

  “Millie Brown was her daddy’s pride and joy,” he said. “And Congressman Jack Brown was a righteous daddy—a used-to-be fringe politician who switched parties every time his district was redrawn. Now he’s been radicalized. He’s a full-blown fanatic. You know how it is with liars, Matthew. They won’t meet you halfway, because even when they’re wrong they’re always right.”

  “Okay, so he’s a piece of shit. I know who he is. He was a piece of shit the day he was born. But his daughter didn’t do anything. She was completely innocent.”

  “He’s more than a piece of shit, Matthew. He influences people. He shapes the world we live in. He infects it with his ignorance and his lack of decency and taste. Pull away the veil and Jack Brown is pure white trash. And that’s why I became so curious. How did Jack come into all that money? Just like you, he and his wife came from humble backgrounds. Their only income is from a congressman’s salary, yet they live in a multimillion-dollar home in Los Angeles. How is that possible?”

  “Why do you care? It must be part of your illness. You’re broken.”

  “Easy, Matthew. Mind your manners. You want to know what happened, and I’m willing to talk about it while I get Anna Marie ready for her dance with the fates.”

  Matt tried to lift his head, but the room started spinning. Baylor noticed and laughed.

  “Dizzy, huh?”

  He didn’t respond. The anger coursing through his veins was impossible to manage. A torrent of fire and rage, but also a sense of overwhelming despair. Matt tried not to let his mind linger too long on the girl’s dance with the fates and looked back at the doctor.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. How did the shithead congressman get so rich?”

  “It took me a while to figure it out. I watched the man for almost a year. I went to fund-raisers and listened to his perverted ideas. I made him my mission until one day, when I was sifting through his desk at the house, it became clear. I found out his secret.”

  “What secret?”

  Baylor paused a moment, then turned to meet Matt’s eyes. “As you might expect, it’s not very creative. It’s not even very new. In fact, it’s quite ordinary. If I had been born a cynic, which I’m not, I’d say it went with the job.”

  “What is it? What’s his secret?”

  Baylor shrugged. “He’s taking money under the table,” he said. “And it’s a lot of money. He’s taking kickbacks for writing a bill that passed in his second term. Here’s Jack’s logic. If you give billions of dollars to a corporation that’s already making billions of dollars, that’s not welfare, that’s a subsidy. Even better, that’s a contribution to his campaign from every executive in that corporation. But if you pay for a lunch program for kids in school who can’t focus or learn because they’re starving to death, if you’re standing on a hill with a loaf of bread and manage to feed the crowd, that’s called what? Tell me, Matthew. What do the stupid people in this world call that? What words do they use to express their ignorance and hatred?”

  The doctor’s eyes flared up like a bonfire. He was seething. Matt remained quiet, watching the surgeon wrestle with his demons, his madness.

  “I wanted to punish him,” Baylor said, still pulling himself together. “I wanted to punish him when I discovered that he was taking food out of hungry people’s mouths and had been doing it for almost sixteen years. I wanted to punish him for living a life that he’d stolen while masquerading as someone who was honest and forthright. A life built on the backs of others—the poor, the weak, the least able to speak up for themselves—anything it takes for Jack and his cunt wife to claw their way to the top of the shit pile. I wanted to hurt him in some fundamental way for living a life that he didn’t earn. A life that hadn’t even been handed down to him by his loved ones, his family, but instead was a crime. A felony. An outrageous lie. I wanted to deliver a mortal blow, Matthew, but I didn’t know how to go about it. You see, one of the problems with people like Jack is that they have no real sense of the difference between right and wrong. They have no conscience, no manners, no feeling of guilt, no understanding of what’s true or what’s false, no ability to feel anything at all, no matter what they’ve done or who they’ve hurt. They’re manipulators. They’re sociopaths living in a place where everything has been dumbed down and facts have no meaning anymore. They’re narcissistic. They think that the world spins around them and only them. And unfortunately people like this, people like Jack, are everywhere right now. So trying to come up with a punishment, something bold enough that he would actually notice, was a difficult process. But then a few weeks later I saw that his house was being remodeled. This time I went in through the front door. I pretended to be a building inspector from the county and walked in with a clipboard for a quick look around. And that’s when I saw her. That’s when I saw Millie. She was with Jamie Taladyne, whom I recognized from his rape trial. She was trying to seduce Taladyne in her bedroom. She was holding her blouse open and giving him a good, long look at those tits of hers—that is, until her dirty daddy came home.”

  “That’s how you got the idea to commit multiple murders, Doctor? Watching Millie Brown try to seduce Taladyne? Watching a teenage girl interact with her father?”

  Baylor seemed to relish the memory. “All the pieces were right there, Matthew. The victim, the fall guy, and the sacrificial lamb. All three of them were standing right in front of me. Like I said, Millie Brown was her daddy’s pride and joy. And if there’s any truth to the saying that in every great woman there’s a bit of whore, she was on her way to becoming one of the best.”

  “Then you knew about Ron Harris?”

  “Her science teacher? No, I didn’t. Harris came as a complete surprise. I was talking about my time alone with her. We spent several days together before the freshness wore off and I became bored.”

  The thought of Baylor spending several days with his victim made Matt’s blood curdle, particularly because he doubted that any of the doctor’s victims were ever conscious. He wasn’t sure if he could continue to listen to a maniac talk about right and wrong or what it means to be a sociopath in the modern world. He wasn’t sure if he could keep all these bad thoughts in his head. He tried balling his hands up into fists but didn’t have the strength. He tried to feed off the image of Baylor posing as a building inspector and walking into the Browns’ home. He could picture the congressman loosening his tie as he headed upstairs to change. He could see the doctor eyeing him as if he were prey. Millie Brown had been murdered eighteen months ago. Matt hadn’t seen her father’s name in the news lately and wondered why.

  “Her father,” he said. “How did he take the loss of his daughter?”

  “You don’t keep up with current events, do you?”

  Matt didn’t respond. He read the paper as often as he could, in print and online. Still, there were days and even weeks and months when he had worked narcotics that life became too grueling, too harsh, and he needed distance between himself and the world.

  “How did he handle it?” Matt repeated.

  Baylor flashed a thoughtful smile. “It took a month or two, but Jack Brown eventually stopped showing up for work. He lost the fortune that he’d stolen in a divorce settlement that became so ugly, so perfect, I’m disappointed that you didn’t hear about it. He lost everything—his money, his home, his wife, his seat in the House, and yes, he lost his not-so-innocent daughter, Millie. He lost it all, Matthew. They both did. Their lawyers took everything. I can’t say that I’ve paid much attention to his wife since the divorce, though I’ve heard rumors that when she hit bottom it wasn’t a soft landing. As for Jack, let’s just say that he’s become something of a professional drinker these days. Jack’s a regular at a dive bar in the Valley called the Lucky Star. I go there for a cocktail from time to time because I’m still monitoring his progress. Last week Jack fell down on the sidewalk. I sat with him and smoked a cigar, but the man never came to. He just laid there, mumbling to himself and pissing himself in his pants. Afte
r a while the smell of urine got to me, so I left.”

  A moment passed—the weight of the horror settling into the greenhouse like an infection that had gone global and had no cure. Matt remained quiet while he gathered his thoughts. The doctor’s insanity. His will to punish and hurt. The severity of it all.

  “And what about Faith Novakoff?” he said finally. “Was it her mother or her father? What did they do to deserve your wrath?”

  The doctor became quiet and seemed put off. Matt figured that it was his use of the word wrath, another one of the seven deadly sins, that slowed him down. As he watched Baylor return to the girl’s makeup, Matt remembered Dante’s description of vengeance as a love for justice where only revenge and spite remained. A love for justice that had become wicked and depraved.

  Matt cleared his throat. “It is what it is, Doctor. What did Faith Novakoff’s parents do to deserve your wrath?”

  “It was her father,” he said quietly. “Maybe you’ll read about him someday.”

  “Is he another politician?”

  Baylor looked up at the glass ceiling, as if struck by an idea. “No, of course not,” he said, breaking into a Southern drawl. “And he doesn’t run a health insurance company either. He’s a TV evangelist from Kentucky. He wears a .45 on his belt and strokes the barrel like it’s his cock during sermons. He performs miracles on country folk and likes to dress up in odd clothing. You’ve probably seen his show a hundred times.”

  “Never once, Doctor. What’s his name?”

  Baylor got up and sauntered over to the French doors. Matt couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he was gazing at the lights shimmering off the lake. His face was awash in a fiery mix of orange and red hues, and it seemed like he was in some sort of trance.

  “David Novakoff,” the doctor whispered. “Davy . . . Novakoff. His show is called A Sunday Sermon: I Can Hear God’s Voice.” Baylor looked over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling in the red light. “And if you send him a check, Matthew, you can hear God, too. You’ve got Davy’s pledge. His personal guarantee.”

  Matt noted the doctor’s smile, took in another deep breath, and exhaled. “I still don’t understand why you care about these people,” he said. “None of them make any difference. They’re background noise. They’re clowns. They’re crackpots and knuckle draggers swimming in a small pond. These girls couldn’t help who their parents were.”

  Baylor turned and gave him an odd look, almost as if he were seeing through him from a hundred miles away. After a few moments, he walked back to the stool and reached for something in his makeup kit.

  “You’re right about that, Matthew. They couldn’t help who their parents were, and I never would’ve even known Davy Novakoff existed. Unfortunately, the preacher has expensive tastes. He likes to vacation on the Riviera. He likes to throw his money around, sort of the quintessential ugly American. He’s rude and crude and he stood out. Naturally, once I found out what he did for a living I saw the hypocrisy and took an interest in him, just as I did with Brooke Anderson’s mother. Over time my interest grew, along with my personal commitment. The preacher’s got a horse ranch outside Louisville on one hundred of the most beautiful acres I’ve ever seen. He breeds racehorses and holds an annual summer camp for wayward boys. But his church only has one real charity. If you call the number at the bottom of the TV screen and send in a check, everything goes to the ranch. Everything goes to Davy.”

  “You were there?”

  Baylor nodded and appeared saddened by the thought.

  “What about here at the coroner’s office?” Matt said. “Did you watch him identify his daughter’s body?”

  Baylor shook his head. “The connection to Millie Brown hadn’t been made yet. I wasn’t invited. But I managed to see him walk out of the building. I was sitting on the steps next door.”

  “Was it worth it, Doctor? Did you see what you wanted to see?”

  “I did, Matthew. I did. Even better, I followed him back to Kentucky. By chance we sat across the aisle from each other on a red-eye flight to Louisville. Two first-class seats, with the cabin to ourselves. The preacher wasn’t very talkative. Apparently, his daughter, Faith, was the only thing he really loved in this world, and now she was gone. I’m sure you missed it, because you’ve been busy this week, but his Sunday sermon has been dropped by the cable network. Davy got caught smoking crack cocaine and sodomizing one of his boys from the ranch. A fifteen-year-old with a pretty face and a skinny ass in the backseat of his Mercedes. According to the newspaper, the child required medical attention that included a small surgical procedure. They don’t go for that kind of thing in Kentucky. It’s still a bit early, and I’m not sure Davy has the courage, but it’ll be fascinating to see what he does with that gun of his, don’t you think?”

  Baylor had slipped into a Southern drawl again as he described the preacher’s disastrous fall. Even worse, he seemed absolutely delighted with himself. Matt remained quiet, watching the beast finish the girl’s makeup and open a tube of dark red lipstick. It seemed clear that the doctor had no respect for anyone or any living thing. It seemed more than clear that he was lost in a world of darkness and that the killing would never end, because no matter what reasons he might conjure up, no matter what societal icons caught his eye, it was the killing that turned him on. The idea that he had the power to save a life cut against the idea that he had the power to take one, too. Matt could see Genet’s impending dance with the fates, her rape and murder, going down as if he had become part of the nightmare. The doctor had a location in mind. A place that he’d scouted over the days he’d held her. She was obviously sedated. After packing her up in the body bag and making the drive, he’d turn her naked body facedown, stake her to the ground, and butcher her face. Matt imagined that the big moment came just as consciousness returned, no doubt by something injected into her body at exactly the right moment. And that’s when he’d violate her. That’s when he’d show her what he’d done to her face. It seemed inescapable at this point. That’s why the mirror was there. The doctor didn’t need to beat or kick any of his victims in order to get them to scream.

  All he needed to do was show them.

  All he needed was a flashlight and a mirror to ignite the terror. Once they cried out into the night, once they began to wail in the moonlight, their wounds would burst open like a dam break. And then their blood would spill over the mirror and into the ground until their bodies were completely drained.

  The Glasgow smile. The Chelsea grin.

  It was a crime like no other crime. An atrocity so horrific in scope, so mean and cruel, that he wondered if Dr. Baylor wasn’t more of a fiend than Jeffrey Dahmer, the Milwaukee Cannibal, who during a period of more than a decade raped, murdered, and ate seventeen boys and men.

  Matt looked back at Baylor and watched him color the girl’s lips. “What about this girl, Doctor? Anna Marie. You’re punishing her father because he runs a brokerage house. What did he do to deserve this? Why do you want to hurt him?”

  Baylor laughed but shrugged and remained quiet.

  Still, the thought settled in Matt’s mind. What crime could the girl’s father have committed that singled him out? Particularly when he worked in a profession where all but a few held sacred the words uttered by the fictional character Gordon Gekko in the movie Wall Street.

  “Greed is good,” Gekko chanted. “Greed is good.”

  What moral crime could Genet’s father have committed that caught the doctor’s eye when this was their universal prayer? Even more, why did the doctor choose a man who ran a brokerage firm in Chicago? Why not New York? Why not the eye of the storm? Why not the place where his own father worked? Dear old Dad. Why not some prick on Wall Street?

  Matt tried to make another fist as he chewed it over. The anesthetic’s grip had loosened some. He couldn’t lift his arm, but he could move his fingers.

  “What about you?” he said. “Look at your house, Doctor, your address. If it’s all about money and g
reed, why don’t you do the world a favor and take yourself out?”

  Baylor shook his head, painting over the lipstick with a cherry-red gloss. “Now you’re disappointing me again,” he said in a quiet voice. “Nothing we’ve spoken about has had anything to do with how much any of these people have or don’t have. And I couldn’t care less about their political affiliations, or even who or what they pray to. It isn’t the what that stands out here, Matthew. It’s the method. You’re smart enough to understand that, aren’t you? You couldn’t be your father’s son and not be bright enough to see the hypocrisy. To see the way things really are.”

  The way things really are . . .

  Matt let it go. His body was coming back to life. He could bend his knees. He could unfold his arms and feel his back lift away from the stainless steel table as he stretched. Unfortunately, Baylor looked over and noticed. He crossed the room, snatched Matt’s pistol, and slipped it behind his belt.

  “Easy, Matthew,” he said. “Relax.”

  Matt gave the doctor a long look. The brain fog was lifting. He could feel the rush of energy surging through his arms and legs and flowing into his mind.

  He moved his hand over the catheter and began pulling away the dressing as he watched the doctor lift Genet up and lower her into the body bag. He kept his eyes on the doctor’s eyes. The surgeon was distracted by his victim. He was studying her face through the plastic, examining her hair and makeup, evaluating the job he’d done, until his preparations were just right. When he reached inside to make an adjustment, Matt ripped the catheter out of his arm and wrenched his body up and off the table.

  But he wasn’t quick enough. Not even close. Baylor took a step forward, pointing the .45 at his chest.

  “Don’t make me do it, Matthew. I will if I have to. There’s not much time left.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The doctor jabbed the muzzle of the gun toward him. “Time’s running out,” he said.