by Jacob Stone
He had already thought of that scenario and quickly dismissed it from his mind. If that was what had happened—Blount telling his secrets to another prisoner only to have that person tell it to someone else in a demented version of the telephone game, the odds were that the Nightmare Man’s grisly formula would’ve been altered during the retelling. More importantly, the number of people they’d have to investigate would explode exponentially, and they wouldn’t have a prayer of catching the Nightmare Man in this way. It made sense to focus the investigation in a way that gave them a chance of catching the killer. Still, it would help getting that second list, and he promised Finston he’d work on it.
Finston’s voice lowered as she said, “You realize, Morris, you’re betting the farm that what Mr. Penza told you is true. Even if he’s right that Donald Trilling hired a contract killer, he could be wrong about Ed Blount being the one hired.”
“It’s a gamble,” Morris acknowledged, “but it’s all we got until we find a witness. Anyway, a bet with fifty percent odds is at least even money.”
“Those are the odds you’re giving on Mr. Penza’s information panning out?”
“Pretty much.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a betting person,” Finston said. “I’m not sure I’d be willing to take those odds.”
Morris had put the phone on speaker so Bogle could listen in, and after he got off the call, Bogle commented that the FBI profiler was being a Debbie Downer.
“More like the voice of reason,” Morris said.
He closed his eyes, hoping to doze off again.
Chapter 45
Lemmon found George Blount working at a plumbing supply store in Irvine. Blount had been twelve years old when his dad was arrested, and at forty-six he looked like a scrawnier version of the senior Blount’s mugshot photo.
Lemmon had talked to Blount earlier on the phone, so his arrival wasn’t a surprise. “We should talk someplace private,” he suggested. “My car is probably as good a place as any.”
Blount looked like he had questions he was eager to ask, but he held back, and after talking with his supervisor, followed Lemmon to the parking lot where Lemmon had left his car. Before arriving at the plumbing supply store, Lemmon had stopped at a doughnut shop, and he offered Blount coffee and a doughnut. Blount accepted the coffee but turned down the doughnut.
“I’m confused,” Blount said. “On the phone you said this is about a murder investigation?”
Lemmon had a mouthful of chocolate glazed, so all he could do was nod as a couple of crumbs tumbled out of his mouth. Unbelievable, I’m becoming Polk!
“How would that be possible? My dad died in prison in 1992. Is this about his conviction? Is the case being reopened?”
Lemmon held a finger up while he took a sip of coffee to wash down the doughnut. He wiped a hand across his mouth to brush away any further crumbs. If Polk only knew!
“No, these are for different murders.”
“Murders, as in plural?”
“Yeah.”
Blount looked crushed at that news. “Oh dear lord,” he moaned.
“This shouldn’t be much of a surprise,” Lemmon said. “You knew your dad was a hitman.”
Blount had put down his coffee so he could hold his head in his hands. “I knew he was convicted of murdering a lowlife pimp. That’s all I knew.”
The lowlife pimp Blount referred to had been the owner of a mobbed-up Hollywood massage parlor, and if Penza was right then Ed Blount had been framed for the murder, but it would’ve only confused the issue to mention that to the younger Blount.
“You never suspected your dad before his arrest?”
Blount lifted his head, his face showing a washed-out look. “I don’t know what I suspected,” he said. “Before my dad was arrested, we were planning to move to Michigan. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Grand Rapids. My dad was buying his own business, and then that arrest had to happen.”
“He’d recently come into a lot of money?”
That thought apparently stunned Blount. “I don’t know,” he said.
“How was your family financially after your dad went to prison?”
“We did okay.” Blount’s eyes took on a distant look as he must’ve been going back decades in his mind. “My mom worked, and my dad had saved some money. When he died there must’ve been life insurance, because there was money for us to go to college.”
Blount didn’t look too sure about this, perhaps wondering for the first time where the money had come from. The senior Blount would’ve charged a large sum to create the Nightmare Man, and that would explain a family-saving windfall, probably from an offshore account that Blount had told his wife about. None of this was definitive proof, but it added up.
Lemmon asked, “Is there anything that you can look back on now that makes you think your dad worked as a contract killer?”
Blount shook his head, but a shadow fell over his eyes, and that told Lemmon there was something.
“What was it?” he demanded.
“Nothing really.” Blount tried smiling at Lemmon, but it didn’t stick. “I was thinking of my dad’s workshop,” he said. “This was a room he had set up in the basement. It had a separate entrance, and he always kept it padlocked. Nobody but him was allowed inside. Not me, my brothers, or my mom. It was off-limits, and there would’ve been hell to pay if any of us ever went in there. I hadn’t thought about that room in years.”
“You ever sneak in there?”
“I didn’t have the guts,” Blount admitted.
“How about later when your dad was in custody?”
“The police had a warrant to search our home. I remember them cutting off the padlock. The next day I looked inside and saw the workshop was empty.” He managed a dismal smile. “I told you we were planning to move to Michigan. My dad had already cleaned it out.”
Suspicious behavior for being a hitman, but again, not definitive proof that the senior Blount had been the Nightmare Man.
“Ever see your dad bringing rats into the workshop?”
“What?”
“Live rats. In cages.”
“No, of course not.”
There was that shadow again.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, really,” Blount said. “My younger brother Jack was the baby of the family. A hell-raiser, and a defiant little bugger. The type who if you warn him not to do something, he’ll break his neck trying to do it. He bragged once about breaking into our dad’s workshop. I thought he was making it up.”
“He saw caged rats?”
“I don’t know. I have this vague memory about him saying something about rats, but I can’t tell you what it was. Or even if I only dreamt it.” He gave Lemmon an imploring look. “What’s this all about?”
Lemmon said, “It’s better that I don’t tell you in case we’re wrong.”
Blount’s expression became something brittle, almost as if he had guessed it was about the Nightmare Man.
“Could you be wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Chapter 46
Jamie Siegel smiled wickedly. She leaned forward and said, “There’s a guy eyeballing you like you wouldn’t believe.”
Jamie was Joplin’s best friend at work. The J&J twins, as their supervisor liked to call them, on that day had decided to walk to a bistro four blocks from the office. The place had a golden beet salad to die for, and Joplin had been jonesing for it all morning.
“Is he worth a look?” Joplin asked.
She was still thinking about Rosalyn. The idea of having a fling with the pretty and petite woman from the gym was both exciting and off-putting. There was definitely an attraction, and she hadn’t closed the door on the possibility, but she hadn’
t decided yet to open that door all the way either so she could step through it. If there was a hot guy showing heavy interest, why not consider it?
“He might be,” Jamie said. “Thirties, blond, preppy. Looks like he’s in shape.” She giggled. “He could give you a good cardio workout.”
A sickening feeling overwhelmed Joplin. Was it possible the creep had followed her to work and now to the bistro?
Jamie gave her a concerned look. She reached across the table and touched her hand. “It’s just some dude licking his chops. Come on, Joplin, what’s there to get so upset about?”
She sat paralyzed, as if any movement, especially looking behind her, would be impossible. Then a hot white anger flashed within her, directed equally at herself and at the man who might be the creep. It pissed her off that she’d give anyone that kind of power over her.
She was barely aware of looking over her shoulder and seeing that it was in fact the creep from this morning. The next thing she knew, she was on her feet and storming over to where the creep named Dale was sitting.
“Oh, hi,” he said, a grin breaking over his face as if they were actually friends. “So it is you.”
“You’re stalking me,” she accused.
He made a face, as if he couldn’t understand why she’d say that. “What? No, of course not.” The bastard winked at her. “I was minding my own business when I quite innocently spotted you, or at least someone who I thought might be the same infuriatingly rude but foxy-as-hell babe from the gym. Sweetheart, that’s all that happened.”
“I know what you did,” she said, her voice sounding strange to her own ears, as if it were coming from someone else. “I know you followed me here so you could spy on me. I know you’re nothing more than a creep who gets his jollies trying to frighten women like me.”
“You’re so wrong,” he said. “I was looking your way only because I was trying to figure out if you were really the same person from before. I thought if you were it would be kismet, like maybe we were meant to be.” He frowned at that. “It turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. The bastard was actually trying to act as if he were the aggrieved party. Without realizing it, her hands had clenched into tight fists, her knuckles bone white.
“You leave here now or I’ll scream,” she said.
“Sweetheart, you need help.”
“Don’t test me.”
He looked away from her, trying to act as if she wasn’t there.
“Leave me alone, you creep!” she screamed as loudly as she could.
That surprised the creep named Dale, and he appeared startled, as if that was the last thing he expected her to do. She felt immense satisfaction from his reaction. Then his expression changed, becoming something savage. His true self showing through. It only lasted a heartbeat, if even that long, but it caused Joplin to stumble several steps back from the table.
He was quickly on his feet, his wallet out. He flung a couple of twenties onto the table, then he was moving fast toward Joplin. She would’ve screamed again, except she was too frightened. He didn’t come at her to strike her, but so he could lean in and whisper something into her ear. After that he was rushing past her and out of the restaurant.
Oh my God. Did that really just happen?
The waitress and Jamie hurried over to Joplin. Her friend took hold of her hand.
“Sweetie, you’re as cold as ice. Are you okay?”
She struggled to fight back tears. What the creep had whispered left her shaking.
Chapter 47
Bill Schofield invited Morris and Bogle to join him for lunch. “I can make you boys ham and cheese sandwiches and coffee. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds awfully good,” Morris said.
“Much appreciated,” Bogle added.
Schofield, who had been the warden at Ashfield State Prison during the time Ed Blount was incarcerated, was in his early seventies. A tall, lean man, he had gray hair, a matching bushy mustache that mostly hid his mouth, and even bushier eyebrows. He looked pretty much the way Morris would envision the sheriff of this dusty town a hundred years ago.
They followed Schofield through his modest ranch-style home. The rooms were clean and neat and filled with pictures of Schofield’s family throughout the years, including a growing brood of grandkids.
He brought them into a 1970s kitchen with a faded yellow Formica countertop and what looked like its original appliances and cabinets. The former warden ordered Morris and Bogle to sit at the kitchen table while he prepared lunch.
“The missus is babysitting my youngest girl’s little ones, so we got the house to ourselves.” He peered out the kitchen window toward the backyard. “I figured it’s a nice day, so we’ll take lunch on the patio. Assuming you boys don’t mind some fresh air.”
“If you didn’t offer, I would’ve asked,” Bogle said.
Morris voiced a similar sentiment. He nodded toward a photo of a brindle-colored bull terrier attached by a magnet to the refrigerator. He’d already noticed the dog bed in the den and the water and food bowls in the kitchen so he knew the answer, but he asked anyway, “The bull terrier in the photo—is she yours?”
“Yep,” Schofield said. “That’s Queenie. She can be a handful with company, so I asked Mary to take her, which she would’ve done anyway. The grandkids adore the dog.” He gave Morris an appraising look. “Most people confuse her with a pit bull.”
“I’m a member of the club,” Morris said. He worked his phone out of his pocket, fiddled with it, and brought up a picture of Parker. Schofield came over to get a look. Morris handed him the phone.
“A fine looking fella,” he said.
“That he is,” Morris agreed.
Schofield handed the phone back and left to make the sandwiches. Somehow it seemed right when the former warden dug a loaf of white bread, American cheese, and a package of Oscar Mayer ham from his refrigerator. When he took out a jar of mayonnaise, Morris cleared his throat and asked if he could have mustard on his sandwich instead. Schofield gave him a disapproving look and muttered something under his breath, but most likely because Morris was a fellow bull terrier owner, he was willing to comply with the request.
“I got plain yellow,” he grumbled. “No Dijon or nothing fancy like that.”
“I wouldn’t want anything else,” Morris said.
That put Morris back in Schofield’s good graces. He raised an eyebrow at Bogle, who told him mayonnaise would be just fine. Once the food was ready and they were sitting on the patio, Schofield asked what their visit was all about.
Morris said, “As I told you on the phone, we’re investigating an active murder case that we believe is connected to one of your past inmates.”
“You see, that’s what got me curious.” Schofield might’ve been smiling from the way the skin crinkled around his eyes, but it was hard to know for sure without being able to see the corners of his mouth. “I retired as warden in 2006, and that’s had me wondering all morning how there’s anything I could tell you that’s worth a whit. Or are you here just grasping at straws?”
“We’re doing a bit of that too,” Morris admitted. He liked Schofield, and not just because of his choice in dogs. He recognized him as a straight shooter and saw no reason not to level with him. “We think one of your former prisoners might’ve committed the Nightmare Man murders back in 1984.”
Schofield was slowly and methodically chewing a bite of his sandwich when Morris said that, and if it had any effect on him he didn’t show it.
“There was another one just the other day,” the retired warden said once he was done with the bite of food. “First one in a whole lot of years if I remember right. A young gal. Very pretty from the photo they showed on the news. You think this former inmate is involved in this poor gal’s death?”
“Indirectly
. He died in your facility in ’92. The theory we’re working on is he passed along his secrets to another prisoner, and this is the one who’s continuing the killings.”
“The inmate’s name?”
“Ed Blount.”
“I remember him,” Schofield said. “Vaguely, but still remarkable given how many thousands of inmates have passed through Ashfield during my time as warden. A wolf in human skin. That was my impression. I don’t think I could say anything more about him.” He took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it thoroughly before asking, “How sure are you about this?”
“Everything we’ve got is circumstantial,” Morris said. “But there’s a lot of it, and more keeps dripping in.”
He wasn’t kidding about the last part. He’d already spoken to Lemmon and Walsh, and they both told him the same stories about Blount’s padlocked workshop. Lemmon had found that Blount’s former home had been torn down and a new house stood in its place, and the garage the hitman worked at had long since been sold, so there was nothing more to get there, but Polk was on a flight to Cleveland and would be driving into Toledo by five o’clock Los Angeles time so he could talk to the youngest of Blount’s sons. Morris was hoping that the hell-raiser, Jack Blount, had once snuck into his dad’s workshop like his two brothers believed, and that he’d be able to give them something to definitively prove Ed Blount was the first Nightmare Man. If not this still seemed like their best course of investigation, at least until a witness came forward or something else broke.
Schofield lay his half-eaten sandwich back onto his plate. “How about we get down to business then?”
Morris said, “On the way here we stopped at the prison to get a copy of Blount’s records.” He picked up the briefcase he’d brought along and pulled out a manila folder filled with freshly photocopied pages. “I was surprised to see that there’s no mention of him being diagnosed with cancer.”
Morris handed the folder over to Schofield. The former warden frowned as he flipped through the pages. His frown deepened as he found the page he was looking for.
