by Jacob Stone
He got the hunting knife from the bag and used it to cut off the wife’s pajamas. After that he went to work. As he did the terrible things to the woman that Trilling had paid him to do, he kept telling himself that this was only a job, but he knew he was lying to himself. This had become something else. This was something he’d have to live with, just like the other two women, and the two that he still had to butcher in the cruelest possible way. But it was also his way out. Given enough time and distance, these killings would become faint memories, possibly even memories he wouldn’t be sure actually ever happened. At least he had to hope so.
He methodically set about doing every single torture that Trilling had specified. Trilling wanted seventeen cuts and burns and the same number of nails pulled out to signify each year he had spent with his wife, and it was Blount’s idea to arrange the severed flesh and torn nails into a gruesome “17” at the foot of the bed. That was what serial killers did, right? Left twisted messages behind? It would leave the cops chasing their tails trying to figure out what it meant, and if any of them got the smart idea to see how many years Trilling and his wife had been married, they’d discover that they had only just had their fifteenth anniversary. While they’d been together seventeen years, they’d been married only fifteen.
Blount took almost two hours to complete the torture and killing. He didn’t rush it. If he was going to take on a job, he would damn well do it right. If the client wanted the victim woken up with smelling salts every time she passed out, then that’s what he did, even though it took longer to bring her back each time she lost consciousness. He also had to keep reheating the metal rod with a cigarette lighter after each burn. The only time he hurried things up and didn’t quite live up to the spirit of the deal he made was with the rat, but he felt he could be forgiven for that.
He was packing up when his client started moaning. It was a soft moan that showed he hadn’t fully woken up. Blount didn’t bother checking on him. Instead, he finished his packing and left the room.
Chapter 37
Los Angeles, November 14, 1984
Sam Brick’s commanding officer, Captain Jim Marshall, smiled as if he were waiting for a punch line that he was beginning to realize wasn’t coming.
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
“It adds up,” Brick argued stubbornly.
“Good God, man! You’re saying a contract killer invented the Nightmare Man so he could hide a paid-for-hire murder among the victims of a serial killing spree? Don’t you realize how insane that sounds?”
“Serial killers learn and adapt,” Brick said. “Their methods change as they grow bolder and need bigger thrills. This guy”—he pointed a thumb toward the sketch a witness had provided after the fourth victim—“had an elaborate methodology from the beginning that never changed.”
“We don’t know what he did before the Nightmare Man murders. He could be responsible for other deaths.”
“It’s possible,” Brick admitted. “But for him to then go from killing people in more mundane ways to becoming the Nightmare Man would be like a sports car going from zero to a hundred in seven seconds. Theoretically, who knows? I’ve just never heard of it.”
Marshall looked confused. “Are you talking about a sports car or a serial killer?”
“Either.”
“For all we know, this lunatic could have bodies planted throughout Death Valley. He could’ve been refining his technique for years.”
“Again, it’s possible,” Brick conceded. “But I don’t believe that’s the case. It’s more likely the client gave a hitman instructions for how he wanted his wife tortured and murdered.”
Marshall cleared his throat, which Brick knew meant his commanding officer was losing patience. “The client being Donald Trilling,” he said.
“He’s the one with enough money to hire someone to do this.”
“Sam, he’s also a victim. He was violently assaulted and nearly put into a coma. He’s lucky he didn’t suffer permanent damage. He’s also lucky he was found when he was. A couple of days tied up like that and he could’ve died from dehydration.”
“He was tapped with a leather sap,” Brick said, touching above his right temple to show where Trilling had been hit. “Just hard enough to knock him out, but not seriously hurt him. That sounds like something a mob connected guy would be good at. I also don’t think it was all that surprising how quickly he was found. Just a coincidence he had an early morning meeting scheduled the next day so his secretary would get worried and send the police to his house?”
“What evidence do you have that Mr. Trilling would want his wife murdered? A girlfriend? Life insurance policy?”
Brick shrugged. Trilling was wealthy—he didn’t need to kill his wife for additional money. Besides, you don’t have your wife butchered the way Marjorie Trilling was if money was the only motive. Trilling’s secretary was young and extremely attractive, but she seemed sincere about why she sent the police to Trilling’s home that early morning on October tenth. Or maybe she was just a convincing actress. If Donald Trilling was having an affair, Brick hadn’t found evidence of it yet, but he knew there had to be another woman, and he’d find her eventually.
“Sam, you don’t have any solid evidence—not of marital discord or anything, and you’re going to accuse Mr. Trilling of something this horrendous?”
“My gut’s telling me he’s our guy,” Brick said. “And Jim, I do have something. Marjorie Trilling’s psychiatrist told me about her rat phobia.”
Marshall cleared his throat again, making more noise than before. From the look he gave Brick, his impatience had given way to irritation. “A lot of women are afraid of rats,” he insisted.
“This went far beyond normal fear. According to Dr. Berman, the way she died would’ve been beyond excruciating. Jim, if you authorize a financial investigation into Trilling, I’ll bet my pension we find a money transfer he can’t explain.”
Marshall’s eyes glazed. “Sam, I’m not taking your pension,” he said. “Find me something. Not just idle speculation, but something real. If this killer is a hired gun like you think, then find me evidence. Until then, keep away from Mr. Trilling. That’s an order. The poor guy has suffered enough.”
Marshall wasn’t going to give Brick a chance to argue any further. As far as he was concerned, they were done, and to prove the point, he picked up a report from his desk and pretended to read it. Brick accepted that he was fighting a lost cause. He took the police sketch of the Nightmare Man and left Marshall’s office, managing as much dignity as he could muster.
He knew it would be a tough sell given all the sympathy Trilling had been generating in the press. As far as the media was concerned, he was the poster boy for victim of the year given that the Nightmare Man not only murdered his wife but left him beaten and hogtied on the same blood-soaked bed as his wife’s mutilated corpse. When Brick interviewed him, Trilling gave him all the right answers, even managed to squeeze out a few tears as he struggled to bravely hold it together, but Brick picked up an underlying smugness. There was something off about the guy, something very wrong. He was sure of it. But suspecting something and proving it were two different things, and so far he had gotten nowhere. The mob informants who saw the police sketch claimed they didn’t know the killer, which didn’t mean much. They could’ve been lying, or if the hired gun had ties to the mob, the man might’ve been known only to Salvatore Penza and a handful of other higher-ups. Joe Penza, Sal’s big ox of a kid, would probably know him also.
Brick’s gaze wandered to a framed photo on his desk of Ruthie, Morris, and Esther that had been taken earlier in the year. He’d seen so little of his family since getting the call about the first victim, missing Morris’s baseball games and Esther’s big dance recital and barely spending any waking minutes with his wife. He decided he deserved some time with them now, even if it was only with their photo. He
pushed the chair back and swung his feet onto the desk. He soon found himself chuckling thinking of little Esther. Such a firecracker. She’d been furious with him for missing her recital, and she made sure he knew it. Most days she’d already be asleep when he got home, but those few times when he got home early enough to see her, she made sure to give him the silent treatment. He chuckled again. His daughter could hold a grudge. He had no doubt that she was going to be a handful as a teenager. Not like Morris at all. That kid was as even-keeled as they came. He had gotten a call from his son’s coach just last week about a scout from the Dodgers being at the game. When the scout talked with the coach, he singled Morris out, telling the coach Morris had all the tools to play pro ball someday, that all he needed was a growth spurt. That night Brick made sure to get home early enough to see his kids, and when he took Morris aside to tell him what the coach had said, his son shrugged it off as if it were no big deal.
His gaze focused on Ruthie. He’d hit the jackpot with her, no question about it. A beautiful woman and a gentle soul. But she wasn’t a pushover, that was for sure. As sweet as she was, she was also a rock who held the family together and did everything that needed to be done whenever Brick found himself submerged in one of his investigations. He also knew he frustrated her. He had walled off this part of his life from his family, and she wanted to be let inside. She was convinced that if he opened up to her about the job, she’d be able to comfort him, but he wasn’t about to let any of the sickness that he routinely waded in stain her or his kids.
“Hey, Sam, don’t you have a lunatic you need to be catching?”
Brick turned to see Lenny Girsten, a big smart-alecky grin stretched across his face. A moan eased out of Brick as he swung his feet from the desk.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“That’s not what it looked like to me.”
Brick tapped his skull. “Just deep in thought, that’s all. You should try it once in a while.”
“Nah, I could hurt myself doing that.” Girsten was still grinning, but it turned sickly. “It’s been almost a month since that lunatic killed anyone. What do you think, is he done?”
Brick was sure the killing was over for now. The last victim had been found October twentieth, making it seventeen days from when the first victim was discovered. This was yet another reason to think it was a hitman. That “seventeen” stuff was too obvious, too neat, almost as if someone were trying to convince the police this was a serial killer. But that didn’t mean the hitman had retired the Nightmare Man for good. Brick could see the sonofabitch using it again if a contract required it, say if a woman’s death would bring too much heat on the client, even if the death were made to look like a suicide or accident.
“Hard to say,” Brick admitted.
“Then how about you catch the bastard so the good people of this city can sleep easy again?”
Girsten gave a quick salute and walked off. Brick’s gaze shifted to the thick file sitting on his desk for the Nightmare Man murders, for all the good it would do him. He was going to solve this when he found the hitman Donald Trilling hired.
He had to just keep digging. In his gut he knew Trilling was guilty as sin.
Chapter 38
Los Angeles, December 16, 1984
Donald Trilling had his shirt and pants off before he realized Blount was sitting in his bedroom.
“You don’t have to put your clothes back on for my sake,” Blount said. “I’ve already seen you with your pants down. You might as well be comfortable.”
“Thanks.”
Blount said, “I hope I didn’t startle you.”
Trilling’s skin color had turned a ghastly white as he stood by the dresser wearing only briefs and a pair of black ankle dress socks. Blount guessed he was trying to decide whether to run, fight, or pretend the visit was normal. The man had enough wits about him to see the futility of running or fighting, so all that was left was to act as if there was nothing unusual about the hitman he had hired showing up late at night in his bedroom. He walked over to one of the two walk-in closets in the room and retrieved a silk robe, which he slipped on and tied the belt to keep closed. Blount didn’t bother moving. He had already searched the house, and he knew Trilling’s only gun was kept downstairs in his private study.
With the robe now on, Trilling walked over to the bed and sat on the edge so that he faced Blount. He crossed a bony knee over the other.
“I hope you didn’t take offense at my not answering your asinine question,” he said, his voice and manner dripping with ice. A wealthy man trying to assert his dominance and take control of the situation. “I paid you what I owed you, even though I’m not at all happy that you cold-cocked me and refused to follow my instructions. Why are you here?”
“I followed your instructions to a t,” Blount said. “You asked me not to use chloroform on you, and I didn’t.”
“I also told you I wanted to watch you kill my dear Marjorie.”
“It had to look right. The crime scene boys would know the whole picture from the angle of the blow, so it had to be done the way I did it. I didn’t count on you having such a soft skull and being out as long as you were.”
Trilling looked mad enough to chew glass. It was an act. Blount knew he had to be terrified. And for good reason.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in the same ice-dripping voice from earlier.
“We need to talk.”
“Should we go downstairs? Perhaps talk over a glass of fine bourbon? I keep a bottle of Old Fitzgerald in my study.”
“Here is just fine.” Blount smiled inwardly at seeing Trilling hide his disappointment over not luring him to where he kept a .38-caliber pistol in a bottom desk drawer. He added, “I’m hearing rumblings that the cops are looking at you more closely for your wife’s death.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Maybe, maybe not. What matters is that things could get messy if they find out about your girlfriend. You’ve been careful, I’ll give you credit for that. You’ve at least been smart enough not to bring her here or take her any place public. But it didn’t take me long to find out you’ve been screwing the twenty-something blonde you’ve got shacked up in your Venice townhouse. Cops will figure it out eventually.”
This had an impact on Trilling. Blount could almost see the calculations churning in the man’s mind as he tried to figure out how much his girlfriend’s discovery could hurt.
“It wouldn’t matter if the police found out about Jasmine,” Trilling said. “It’s impossible for them to unravel the money transfers I made. They wouldn’t be able to prove anything.”
“Unless your girlfriend knows something.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She’ll need to convince me of that.”
Blount got off the chair, collected the shirt and pants Trilling had left carefully folded on his dresser bureau, and brought them over to him. Trilling stood dumbfounded.
“Get dressed,” Blount said. “We’re going to visit Ms. Jasmine Hennery.”
“At this hour?”
“She’ll make time for you. I’m sure of it.”
“How would talking with Jasmine help?” Dread showed in Trilling’s face as a thought occurred to him. “My God, you’re not going to come right out and ask her if she knew about my plans for Marjorie?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Blount said. “The three of us will have a friendly chat, maybe over some bourbon. I won’t be mentioning your wife, but I’ll have a good idea after a half hour whether your girlfriend knows anything or even suspects that you’re involved in your wife’s death.”
“What happens then?”
“If your girlfriend passes my test, she lives; otherwise, she disappears tonight. Free of charge. You won’t owe me a dime.”
Trilling’s eyes opened wide, a stunned look on his face. “What if yo
u think Jasmine knows something and you’re wrong?”
“You get yourself another girlfriend. It’s not that big a deal. But I’m a pro. I know what I’m doing. I don’t make mistakes. Now take your clothes and get dressed.”
Trilling did as he was told. He looked scared as he buttoned his shirt. Blount decided it wasn’t because his girlfriend knew something, but that he was afraid Blount would err on the side of caution. Maybe the coldhearted bastard had feelings for her after all and wasn’t just screwing her because she was a hot piece of ass.
Blount asked, “Did your wife cheat on you?”
Donald Trilling was stepping a leg through his pants, and he gave Blount a distracted look, no doubt deep in thought over what would soon be happening to his girlfriend.
“I’ve been wondering why your wife had to die the way she did,” Blount said.
“How’s that your concern?”
“It’s not. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”
“Are you married?”
“I am.”
“Then I’m sure you have a good idea already. These bitches know how to make you feel this small.” Trilling demonstrated by showing his thumb and index finger held one inch apart. “Nothing’s ever good enough, and they make sure to let you know in all these little ways how disappointed they are in you. I hated that bitch.” Trilling’s expression grew reflective, and he added, “Jasmine is all sweet and niceness now, but I’m sure over time that will change. It could be that you’ll be keeping me from ever seeing that side of her.”
Trilling finished putting on his pants. Then the idiot turned his back on Blount. The hitman stepped behind him and used the crook of his arm to put him in a choke hold and bent him backward so Trilling would be in too awkward a position to put up any fight. Ten seconds later he was unconscious. For some reason suicides by hanging seemed more authentic when the victim was disrobed, so Blount removed Trilling’s pants and shirt, then wrapped the silk sash from the bathrobe twice around Trilling’s neck and carried the unconscious man to the closet. He secured the two ends of the sash between the top of the door and the frame so he could leave Trilling hanging. Trilling sputtered awake at the end and clawed vainly at the sash around his neck. Blount could’ve held his arms and stopped him, but he didn’t bother. Suicides did the same. It was a natural reaction. Soon Trilling stopped struggling and his head drooped toward his chest.
