by Jack Kilborn
Made sense. Most people never encountered a serial killer, but everybody had loved ones. Why worry about Norman Bates going after you when a more realistic concern was Dad finding out what you’ve been doing, or Rita from the day job tattling to everyone at work?
Unfortunately, there was a Norman Bates-type psycho killing webcam models.
So how was he finding out where they lived? And did he know their real names?
Was this maniac targeting webcam models named Kendal?
The phone rang, pushing Tom out of his mental stream. He was pleased to see the name JOAN on his iPhone.
“Hey, babe. Did you eat?”
“Not yet, and I’m starving. Trish is a machine. She’s like the Shopinator; can’t be reasoned with, can’t be bargained with, no pity or remorse or fear, won’t stop until I’m dead from exhaustion. Oh, and I realized that while I was in LA I left my credit card at the airport when I was checking in. So I had to borrow your card.”
Tom didn’t understand. He had his Visa on him. “From my wallet?”
“Not that one. The Mastercard you had on your desk. It was just sitting there, you’d already left, I figured it would be okay. Was it okay?”
That was Tom’s new card. The one he hadn’t used yet, because he needed the entire balance to afford Joan’s engagement ring—something he’d planned on buying weeks ago in preparation for her visit.
“Of course it’s okay,” he said, wincing.
“Also, Roy’s card didn’t work for some reason, so Trish used yours, too.”
The wince became a full blown grimace. Tom’s credit had gone to hell in the past few months. He’d been late on the mortgage, twice, due to forgetfulness rather than lack of funds, but it had harmed his credit rating. It was unlikely he’d be approved if he applied for a jewelry store card. If the women had maxed out his new one, there went his proposal.
“No problem,” Tom said. “Are you still doing the spa at three?”
“I don’t know if I’m up for it.”
The best laid plans of mice and men. Tom had been planning to use Joan’s time at the spa to get the ring. Not that it mattered if he couldn’t afford the ring.
His phone buzzed, and he saw ROY on the other line.
“Is that your other line? Is it Roy?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. Joan was eerily prescient sometimes.
“Are you going to get it?”
“I should. But I don’t want you angry with me.”
“It’s your job, Tom. We’re not in high school, and I’m not some catty, passive-aggressive teenager who wants to control you.”
“Okay. So, to be clear, I should answer the phone?”
“Answer the phone, Tom. And call me if you’re going to cancel lunch.”
“I’m not going to cancel lunch.”
“Sure.” Joan hung up.
Tom couldn’t be sure, but Joan’s tone seemed a bit catty and passive-aggressive. He connected to Roy.
“I got something. You free?”
“I’m on vacation. And you know what I was planning on doing today.”
“What?”
“I was going to propose today, Roy. I told you about this.”
“When?”
“A month ago. At the Tap Room.”
“The Tap Room? We got annihilated at the Tap Room. I don’t even remember how I got home.”
“I put you in a cab. After I told you I was going to propose to Joan.”
“I have zero memory of that. But you gonna marry Joan? Congrats, brother! You free now?”
“I’m meeting Joan for lunch.”
“You poppin’ the question then?”
“No. I don’t have the ring yet.”
“So you free now?”
“What do you want, Roy?”
His partner’s voice got lower. “We got a witness, Tom. Someone saw The Snipper.”
Tom twisted this info around in his noggin. It could be the break they needed. “Was it a good look?”
“Gonna talk to her now. Thought you’d want to be there.”
Tom didn’t want to be there. But his job meant he had to be there.
“Where is the wit?”
“In my office.”
“I’ll see you in ten.”
Tom clicked off, then stared at his phone. Feeling like the worst boyfriend in the world, he texted “Got to cancel lunch. So sorry. I love you.”
When he sent it, Tom realized he probably wasn’t husband material. Joan deserved better. Maybe proposing was a bad idea.
After South Carolina, Tom had told Joan he was quitting the force. He and Roy had talked about opening a fishing charter business. They’d even gone so far as to shop for boats and investigate loans.
Then Roy had met Trish. Trish had various reasons she didn’t want to move away from Chicago, and Roy had various reasons—most of them sexual—he wouldn’t leave Trish to head for the coast with Tom. Tom couldn’t blame him; he’d had his heart set on a fishing charter in order to be near Joan. So dreams were put on hold, and life went on.
Tom considered his former boss. Lt. Jacqueline Daniels was now retired, having given up police work to raise a daughter. She’d managed to walk away from The Job and stay away from it, for the most part. Tom wondered why he couldn’t pull the trigger like that. How bad could working in the private sector be? More money. Fewer hours. A much reduced chance of getting killed. He didn’t really like LA, but he loved Joan. There were worse things than giving up your career for the one you loved.
His phone buzzed. He was almost afraid to look at the text, but he did. As expected, it was from Joan.
Text me when you cancel dinner.
Tom made a face, then began to dress. Maybe, if the witness was good, they could catch The Snipper and prevent what Tom was sure would be another murder.
Perhaps the murder of a girl named Kendal.
CHAPTER 6
Kendal Smith switched off the shower camera using the wall switch. The green light on the camera’s base blinked, then became red.
She hung a hand towel over the lens, just to be sure, and then turned on the water in the shower and waited for it to warm up. Kendal checked her cell, even though she’d checked it only a moment ago.
12:18.
The Abnormal Psychology test was in thirty-one minutes. It took exactly eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds to walk to the quad—1252 steps—and depending on campus activity between four minutes forty-four seconds and five minutes nineteen seconds to get to class in the Herschell Building. That meant seven minutes to finish showering, another seven to dress and leave the sorority house.
As these thoughts ran through Kendal’s head, she’d also been doing a count to thirty-five; that’s how long it took for the water to heat up in the shower. Once she reached her count she checked the spout.
The perfect temp.
Then she checked it again.
And again.
Kendal knew how silly it was. And when the cameras were on, she could mostly control herself. But the bathroom was the only true private place in the house, and it was where she indulged in her compulsions. In fact, that was the main reason she turned off the cameras when she showered. Kendal was less concerned about strangers seeing her naked, and more concerned about them seeing her act like a crazy person.
Well, that was partly true, at least. The thought of someone watching her as she showered was a pretty awful thought.
I am so screwed up. If OCD wasn’t bad enough, I have to be a prude as well.
Thanks for that, father.
Kendal checked the water temp three more times even though she knew it was perfect, then disrobed and climbed into the shower. As Kendal shampooed she willed herself not to count the tiles on the wall.
Her will broke after fifteen seconds, and she began to tick off tiles with her eyes, counting the soap dish as two since it took up two spaces. After shampooing three times, Kendal finished with her shower in exactly three minutes. She toweled and dress
ed a bit ahead of schedule so she counted to ten before pulling the rag off the camera and turning it back on.
Okay, pretend to be normal. You can do this.
Kendal walked out of the bathroom, conscious of every camera on her. They felt like eyeballs, and gave her the same sensation as when a stranger is staring at you from across the room. She hated them. Hated hated hated them, with all her heart.
She hated them even more because she needed them. The cameras were paying for her college.
Kendal’s partial scholarship wouldn’t have been enough to cover her tuition without the supplementary income the cameras provided. No one on campus knew about the cameras. And even if they knew, they couldn’t watch; the webcams were blocked from everyone in the state of Illinois. But the other forty-nine states, and the rest of the globe, could tune into http://www.hotsororietygirlslive.com and spy on the sisters at Epsilon Epsilon Delta twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, as long as they had a working credit card.
Some of the sisters performed for the cameras. Of the six that lived in Double-E-D, two were attention grabbers, and two were certifiable exhibitionists. Only Kendal and Linda—Kendal’s only real friend and the one who got her into the sorority—were more reserved. They didn’t bring their boyfriends back to the house (not that Kendal had a boyfriend) to secretly make-out for the cameras, like the other girls. They didn’t strip or masturbate—though Linda did flash her boobs in accordance with her Free the Nipple stance. They both (Kendal mostly) kept their client chats non-sexual, even though they’d make more in tips if they cut loose a little.
Kendal wasn’t the cutting loose type.
She left the house at exactly 12:29, counting the steps in her head as she walked to the quad. While walking, her mind went over the review sheets for the test today, which covered two sections of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition.
Kendal knew more about mental disorders than any nineteen-year-old on campus, and probably more than many of the seniors taking Advanced Abnormal Psych. She’d lived with obsessive compulsive disorder, and with the more extreme mental disorders of close family members, for her entire life.
They’d recently been studying gender dysphoria, and disruptive, impulse-control, and conduct disorders. The latter was a particularly relevant section for Kendal, because it was where the DSM-V categorized antisocial personality.
In other words, it was where they put the psychopaths.
Psychos—particularly Theodore Millon’s tyrannical subtype who got off on the pain of others—freaked Kendal out.
With good reason. Kendal had known sadists. She had the scars to prove it. Both mental, and physical.
Oddly, the psychological damage done to Kendal hadn’t turned her into a total shrinking violet, and while she erred to paranoia, she was a long way from how she used to be, living in constant fear. She had learned to trust people again. She dated, occasionally. Kendal also sometimes read horror novels; as long as they involved a monster or demon or supernatural element. But she stayed away from torture porn, or serial killer thrillers where the maniac wanted to punish women.
Who thought up sick shit like that and called it entertainment?
At five hundred and two steps Kendal had to swerve to avoid a spider on the sidewalk. Ick. Those things grossed her out, big time. Too many legs. Too many eyes. Curved fangs. Immobilizing victims in webs to suck their blood. She shivered. Awful creatures. And Kendal read, somewhere, that the average person swallows eight spiders a year while they sleep. They’re attracted to carbon dioxide, or something, and crawl into your mouth.
As far as the animal world went, Kendal couldn’t think of anything worse.
Unfortunately, in the human world, there was worse to be found. Much worse.
But Kendal didn’t want to think about that.
At six hundred and eight steps toward the quad, Kendal felt a tingle on the back of her neck.
Someone’s watching me.
Kendal knew the feeling well. She lived with the feeling every day, at the sorority house. Eyes were on her, and it made all the tiny little hairs stand out straight on her forearms. Kendal stopped; something she never did when walking to the quad. Then she cautiously looked over her shoulder.
There.
Down the street.
A dark cargo van with tinted windows.
Half a block away, moving much slower than the 25mph speed limit.
Almost as if it was stalking Kendal.
The vehicle stopped a moment after she did, taking up the whole lane. Kendal could hear the engine rumbling, probably a bad muffler or a hole in the exhaust. A car behind it honked, but the van didn’t move.
Kendal tried to take a step forward, but had a momentary brain freeze because she’d lost her step count.
What’s my count?
I forgot my count!
Kendal had once tried to explain counting to a friend, back in junior high. As the syndrome described, Kendal was obsessed with counting her steps, and the need to do so was irresistible. It was impossible to hold your hand over an open flame, even if you wanted to. Reflexes would make you pull it away. In the same way, it was impossible for Kendal to stop counting. It wasn’t a question of willpower. Without counting, Kendal was overwhelmed by fear and dread, convinced she’d done something wrong. This led to shaking, crying, holding her breath, and eventually passing out. She couldn’t control it. The fear of not counting was stronger than any other fear.
Including her fear of that black van.
Kendal’s mind seemed to bisect, half thinking about some creepy driver intent on doing her harm, and the other half struggling to remember the number she’d left off at.
Her hands trembled. Her bladder clenched. She couldn’t breathe, and felt helpless just standing there, waiting for bad things to happen, unable to get away.
Wait! It’s 612! I’m at 612.
She blew out a stiff breath. Then Kendal stared at her feet and willed them to move, somewhere between a brisk walk and a jog.
640, 641, 642, 643…
Kendal chanced another look behind her at step 666—a number she loathed due to her strict, religious upbringing—terrified that the van would be right next to her.
But that wasn’t the case.
The van was gone.
Leaving Kendal to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.
Am I seeing things again? Having a relapse?
Kendal couldn’t worry about that now. She couldn’t be late for class. Being late gave her panic attacks.
She got to the quad in 1231 steps, but felt no relief. It always took 1252. Always.
Already flustered, Kendal risked looking stupid and spent thirty absurd seconds walking in a circle until she hit the number 1252, and only then did she step onto the quad and hurry to the Herschell Building, unaware that the person in the van had parked up the street and was watching through binoculars.
CHAPTER 7
The witness was a tall, sturdy woman in her late teens or early twenties. She had pale skin, high cheekbones that sported too much rouge, a strong jaw, and thick black hair with severely short bangs, like she’d taken a picture of Bettie Page to her hair stylist and they’d gone too far. She sat across from Roy at his desk, her shoulders slumped forward, her posture betraying depression, or exhaustion, or both. But her eyes were bright and alert, and they darted to Tom, locking on him as he approached.
“Detective Mankowski, this is Tanya Bestrafen,” Roy said.
Tom offered a hand. Though her expression was meek, the handshake was strong, confident.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, in a throaty voice a lot like Tina Turner’s.
“Thanks for coming in.” Tom took the chair next to Roy.
“You guys are in charge of this case?” Tanya asked.
“We report to our superior, but we’re the lead detectives, yes.”
Tanya lowered her eyes. “I saw what happened to that girl. On the news. The Snipp
er murder. Why do they call him The Snipper?”
Tom mentally thanked the media for being so helpful in giving serial killers such delightful names. On the backlog, Tom and Roy were investigating an ongoing series of scalpings that appeared to be gang-related. The local rags had christened the perp The Scalper. Big surprise there.
“He cuts off the victim’s eyelids,” Tom answered.
Tanya nodded slowly, then said, “So she has to watch what he does to her.”
Tom hadn’t thought of that. Good insight. Also, creepy as hell. “My partner says you may have seen the murderer?”
“Yeah. After four am.”
“Are you normally up at four?” Roy asked.
“Sometimes. I work at home, keep odd hours. I’ll go for walks, go grab an energy drink at the nearby 7-11.”
Tom glanced down at the witness statement form Roy had started, and saw Tanya lived a few blocks away from Kendal Hefferton.
“Is that what you were doing that night?” Tom asked.
“Yeah.”
He picked up a pen and began to take notes. “What did you see?”
“I’d just gotten a Red Bull, and was walking back to my place. He came out of the building, almost ran me over.”
“Like he was in a hurry?” Roy asked.
“Like he was in a helluva hurry.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Tom asked.
Tanya nodded. “He was white. Forties. Handsome. Like that Ukrainian guy on that reality show. Maddoks Chmerkolinivskiy.”
Tom stopped taking notes after writing a single M. “Who?”
“Mad-doks-im Ch-mer-ko-li-niv-skiy.”
Tom had never heard of him. “Uh, how is that spelled?”
“I think Maddoks is with a K and S, not an X, and ends in I and Y.” Tanya stuck her hands into her oversized jacket pockets, searching for something. “I forgot my cell. Does yours have Internet?”
