by Unknown
'Look, I spent a couple of months setting up the perfect defence for Stampler. Multiple personality disorder. Aaron was the innocent genius-boy, Roy was the evil twin doing the bad stuff. It worked. But that day, on the way out of the courtroom, Aaron - Aaron, not Roy, and I could tell the difference - Aaron turned to me with this funny, almost taunting, smile and said, 'Suppose there never was an Aaron.' And he laughed as they took him away to Daisyland.'
'Oh, come on, it was probably his sick way of joking,' she said with a shrug.
'Maybe. But what if he wasn't kidding? What if it was all a con job?'
'Come on, Martin, you were just lecturing me about having an attack of conscience. Did you think he was faking?'
'No. Nor did the psychiatrist, Molly Arrington.'
'Then why worry about it? Besides, you can't tell anyone that. It is a confidential remark made by your client. You could be disbarred if you went public with it.'
'What if he is directing these killings in some way?'
'That's pure hunch, Counsellor. Based on incredibly circumstantial evidence. You need a lot more to go on than a chance remark, some circumstance, and an attack of conscience. Besides, you just told me he's in maximum security at Daisyland. Hasn't had any contact with the outside world in all these years. How could he do it?'
Vail shook his head. 'I have no idea,' he said.
'I just remembered something sweet, old Jack Yancey told me once. He said when he was a young lawyer he found out during the course of a murder trial that his client was guilty. He went to the judge and wanted to quit and the judge said no way, it would cause a mistrial and make a retrial impossible. Besides, it was confidential between Jack and his client. He was told to do the best he could and he did. He won the case, for a change, and his client took a hike.'
'What did Yancey think about that?'
'All he said was "Justice can't win every time." So forget it, Counsellor.' She smiled and stroked his cheek.
Flaherty, St Claire, and Stenner arrived a minute or so later, ending the conversation. They were properly apologetic.
'Good to see you again, Abel.' Jane smiled and offered her hand. 'It's been a long time.'
'Read about you a lot,' he said.
'This is Harve St Claire and Dermott Flaherty,' Vail said, completing the introductions. They moved the dishes off the dining room table and shoved the flowers back to make room for Flaherty's package.
'Nice flowers,' Flaherty said, taking the reports and photographs from his shoulder bag. 'Your birthday?'
Jane smiled. 'Nope' was all she said.
'Have you filled Ms Venable in, Marty?' Stenner asked.
'Up to Dermott leaving for St Louis. What've you got?'
'Okay,' Flaherty began. 'First, there's no question in my mind that it's the same killer. Same MO as the Balfour kill.' He spread some of the photos of Lincoln on the table. 'Same variety of stab wounds, same mutilation we had with the male victims ten years ago. The messages on the backs of the heads…'
He hesitated for a moment and Vail looked at him and said, 'Yeah? Go on.'
'The victim was Alexander Lincoln.'
Vail was surprised, although later he felt foolish that he hadn't guessed it sooner. 'The last of the Altar Boys,' he said.
' 'Cept fer Aaron Stampler,' St Claire said.
'Could there be more than one person involved?' asked Jane.
'I think this answers that question,' Flaherty answered. 'This was in the box Alex Lincoln was delivering when he was murdered.'
He handed a Polaroid photograph to Vail, who looked at it and whispered, 'Jesus!' Jane took it from him and stared at it with disgust. It was a photograph of the bloody remains of Linda Balfour, her terrified eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
'My God, who is this?' she asked.
'Linda Gellerman Balfour,' said Flaherty. 'Obviously taken immediately after the killer finished his work. You can actually see the blood spurting from the neck wound.'
'So he or she wants us to know.'
'That's right, ma'am. What we got here's a bona fidey serial killer at work.'
'I want a twenty-four-hour guard on Jane starting right now,' Vail said.
'Y'think he'll be after her?' St Claire asked.
'Who the hell knows? He's cleaned out the Altar Boys, it seems logical he'll go after the principals in the trial next. I'll spend the night here for the time being. I can sleep in the guest room. That okay with you, Jane?'
Vail's question was casual enough. Stenner didn't say a word. He leaned over and smelled the flowers, a move that did not go unnoticed by the rest of them.
'Whatever you feel is appropriate,' Jane said innocently.
'It will certainly solve the logistical problem,' said Stenner. 'I can pick you both up in the morning and take you to work. We'll need two men assigned outside from nightfall until I come by in the morning, one in front, one in back.'
'I'd suggest a man inside the house during the day, too, just in case the killer resorts to an invasion,' said Flaherty.
'Good idea,' Vail said.
'Might not hurt to have a man in your digs, too, Marty,' added St Claire. 'Just in case this here killer decides to lay in wait there. Point is, it'd be nice to catch the son-bitch - excuse my French, ma'am - before he tries anything. Ambush him, so't'speak.'
'Anybody else?' Vail asked.
'Shoat?' suggested Stenner.
'He's on the state supreme court now. Seems like a long shot,' said Vail. 'Warn him and let him take appropriate action if he chooses to.'
'We may as well prepare ourselves,' said Stenner. 'Some people are going to think we're crazy.'
'Let them,' said Vail.
'How about the press?' asked Flaherty.
Vail scratched his jaw for a moment. 'Just a matter of time before they put it all together. But let's not give them any help.'
'Let's look at everything we know so far,' Stenner said.
St Claire looked at Jane and said, 'The first message was the quote from The Merchant of Venice: And here's the latest message from the killer.' He took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. 'It's from Hamlet, first act, scene five:
'I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair stand on end,
Like quills upon the fearful porpentine.'
Nobody responded for a few moments, letting it sink in.
'Well, he's got classical taste, I'll say that for him,' said Jane. 'As I recall, ten years ago he quoted Hawthorne and Jefferson; now it's Thoreau and Shakespeare.'
'He's already told some hair-raising tales,' Vail said.
He suddenly remembered the tapes of Molly Arrington's interviews with Aaron/Roy. He was a storyteller, all right, in either persona. He remembered the angelic Aaron, describing an early experience in his peculiar Kentucky accent.
'When I was - like maybe seven r'eight? - we had this preacher, Josiah Shackles. Big, tall man, skinny as a pole with this long black beard down't'his chest and angry eyes - like the picture y'see in history books, y'know, of John Brown when they had him cornered at Harper's Ferry? Have you seen that picture, his eyes just piercin' through you? Reverend Shackles were like that. Fire in his eyes. He didn't believe in redemption. You did one thing wrong, one thing! You told one simple lie, and you were hell bound. He'ud stare down at me. "Look at me, boy," he'd say, and his voice were like thunder, and I'd look up at him, was like lookin' up at a mountain, and he'ud slam his finger down hard towards th'ground and say, "Yer goin''t'hell, boy!" And I believed't at th'time, I sure did. Reverend Shackles put that fear in me. Thair was no redemptionr'forgiveness in Reverend Shackles' Bible.'
Then Vail remembered something else, the images slowly seeping from his memory. It was the first time Roy had appeared during a taped interview with
Molly Arrington. Aaron was off-camera and Molly was checking her notes. Suddenly she looked up. He remembered her telling him later that it had been as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She gasped for breath. And then a shadow appeared on the wall behind her and a hand reached out and covered hers and a strange voice, a sibilant whisper, a hiss with an edge to it, an inch or two from her ear, said, 'He'll lie to you.' He was leaning forward, only a few inches from her face. But this was not Aaron. He had changed. He looked five years older. His features had become obdurate, arrogant, rigid; his eyes intense, almost feral, lighter in colour, and glistening with desire; his lips seemed thicker and were curled back in a licentious smile. 'Surprise,' he whispered, and suddenly his hand swept down and grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, his fingers digging deeply into her flesh. 'You can't scream, so don't even try.' He smiled. 'See this hand? I could twist this hand and break your neck. Pop! Just like that.'
More chilling moments came back in a rush to Vail: Roy, finishing the Shackles story, no longer speaking in Aaron's curious west Kentucky patois, but in the flat, Chicago street accent of Roy, Aaron's psychopathic alter ego, although both were compelling storytellers.
'We were up at a place called East Gorge See. Highest place around there. It's this rock that sticks out over the ridge and it's straight down, maybe four hundred, five hundred feet, into East Gorge. You can see forever up there. Shackles used to go up there and he'd stand on the edge of the See, and he'd deliver sermons. Top of his fucking lungs, screaming about hellfire and damnation, and it would echo out and back, out and back. Over and over. He'd take Aaron up there all the time. That was the first time I ever came out. Up there. I had enough. He drags Aaron along, points down over the edge, tells him that's what it's gonna be like when he goes to hell, like falling off that cliff, and Aaron's petrified and then he grabs Aaron and shoves him down on his knees and starts going at him, like he was warming up before he started sermonizing. And when he started it was all that hate and hellfire and damnation, and all of it was aimed right at Aaron. So we ran off and hid in the woods watching him strutting around, talking to himself. Then he turns and walks back out to the cliff and he starts in again, yelling about how Aaron is hell-bound, and how rotten he is. I sneaked down on him. Hell, it was easy. He was yelling so loud he didn't even hear me. I picked up this piece of busted tree limb and I walked up behind him, jammed it in the middle of his back, and shoved. He went right over. Wheee. I couldn't tell when he stopped sermonizing and started screaming, but I watched him hit on the incline at the bottom. I didn't want to miss that. He rolled down to the bottom and all this shale poured down on top of him - what was left of him. It was wild. All that shale buried him on the spot.'
Vail should have known then, listening to that story. He should have known…
And certainly later, when Roy had described the night Archbishop Richard Rushman was slaughtered.
'Aaron was by the door to the bedroom and then whoosh, it's like the hand of God reaches down inside him and gives a giant tug and he turns inside out, and bingo, there I am. I had to take over at that point, he would have really screwed it up. I was thinking to myself, maybe this time he'll go through with it, but forget that. Not a chance. I hustled down the hall to the kitchen and checked the kitchen door. It was unlocked. I went outside on the landing and checked around and the place was deserted. I went back inside, took off my sneakers, and then got a Yoo-Hoo out of the refrigerator and drank it. My heart was beatin' so hard I thought it was going to break one of my ribs and the drink calmed me down. I opened the knife drawer and checked them out. The thick carving knife was perfect. Be like carving a turkey on Thanksgiving. I checked it and it was like a razor. I nicked my finger and sucked on it until the bleeding stopped. Then I went down the hall to the bedroom. He had the music way up. Ode to Joy. I could picture him standing in the bedroom directing that air orchestra of his. Shoulda been a goddamn orchestra conductor, maybe we never would've met him. That's just what he was doing. He had candles burning - cleaning the air, he called it - some kind of incense. His ring was lying on the table beside the bed. He always took his ring off before he took a shower. He left his watch on, I guess it was waterproof, but he took his ring off. Make sense out of that. So there he stood, the fucking saint of the city. His naked Holiness, conducting that imaginary band of angels. The music was building. I thought, Now it's your turn. So I went over and got the ring and put it on. His Excellency was out of it. Arms flailing around, eyes closed, unaware. I just walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder with the knife and he turns around and I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head when he saw the knife. He got the message real fast. I held out the hand with the ring on it and pointed the knife at it and he begins to smile. So I jabbed the knife towards the carpet and that wiped the smile off his face.
He got down on his knees and I wiggled that ring finger under his nose. The bishop slowly leaned forward to kiss the ring and I pulled away my hand and I swung that knife back with both hands and when he looked up, whack, I swung at his throat. I yelled "forgive me, father!" but I was laughing in his face when I said it. He moved and I didn't catch him in the throat, the knife caught his shoulder and damn near chopped the whole thing off. He screamed and held out his hands. I don't know how he even raised up that one, but he did. I started chopping on him, but I kept hitting his hands and arms. Then I cut his throat, switched and swung the knife up underhand right into his chest. It was a perfect hit. Didn't hit any ribs, just went right in to the hilt and he went, "Oh," like that, and he fell straight back and the knife pulled out of my hand. I had to put my foot on his chest to get it out. Then I took that big swipe at his neck. I couldn't stop. It was like free games on a pinball machine. Blood was flying everywhere. I know every cut I made, they were all perfect. Thirty-six stab wounds, twelve incised, seventeen cuts, and one beautiful amputation. I counted every one.'
'Oh yeah,' Vail sighed, half aloud, 'Stampler certainly can tell some stores that will make - how did Shakespeare put it? - "each particular hair stand on end like the quills of a porcupine"?'
'Close enough,' said St Claire. 'Question is, who's he talkin' to? Martin? Jane? I mean, who's this here serial killer leavin' messages fer, anyways?'
'Stampler was never a serial killer,' said Stenner. He ticked off his points on his fingers. 'He didn't pick his victims at random, he hid the crimes, he didn't collect what are known as totems - trophies from the scene of the murder.'
Vail nodded in agreement. 'When you look back at Stampler's killing spree, which lasted almost ten years, all the victims were individuals whom he thought had done him harm - and, arguably, they did. Shackles, the born-again madman, tossed over a cliff - the body was never found; his brother and ex-girlfriend, made to look like an accident; the hospital attendant in Louisville, cremated and the ashes thrown away.'
'Then you have Rushman, Peter Holloway, and Billy Jordan,' said Stenner. 'That's when he started leaving symbols. Following a specific MO'
'But he didn't hide the bodies and he didn't take totems,' said Flaherty. This new killer, he follows the MO to the letter, but he does remove items from the victim. Linda Balfour had a stuffed dolphin. It's missing. Same with Alex Lincoln's belt buckle. And the victims were meant to be found. So there are variables here.'
'So what yer sayin', this here new fella is a serial killer,' said St Claire.
'Enjoys it,' Stenner offered. 'Gets off on the killing. Aaron, Roy, whichever, killed for personal reasons. Anger, revenge, getting even for past hurts. This new one, he's killing for motive and the joy of it.'
'And Stampler's providing the motive,' said Flaherty.
'You don't think Roy enjoyed it? He certainly enjoyed describing the murders,' said Vail.
'But he had a specific motive fer everyone he killed,' said St Claire.
'These last two were specific victims,' said Flaherty.
'Not his victims, Stampler's victims,' said Jane.
'I
f Stampler's figgered out a way to trigger this here killer, what we got, we got a killer enjoys the killin' and Stampler providin' the victims,' said St Claire.
'Maybe it isn't that. Maybe it is a copycat killer. There was a composite tape of all Molly's interviews. It was the tape that was only shown in Shoat's chambers - to Jane and the judge.'
'A moment I'm not likely to ever forget,' she interjected.
'That tape is in evidence storage. I never got it out. Maybe somebody stumbled across it, maybe the tape is the trigger. The whole story's on that one tape.'
St Claire sighed. 'Well, here I go back to the warehouse. Talk about the needle in the ol' hay stack.'
'I'm guessing, sooner or later, Mr X is going to start picking his own prey,' Vail said.
'I don't know,' said Jane. 'Stampler could still have a few more victims on his list — you, me, Shoat… Maybe that's our edge.'
'What do you mean?' Flaherty asked.
'She means he's going to go after the other principals in the trial,' Stenner answered softly. 'Jane, Martin, Shoat…'
'Include yourself,' Vail said to Stenner. 'You were a powerful witness.'
'Well, it isn't our case,' said Stenner. 'Gideon police are ignoring it. St Louis has juris over the Lincoln murder.'
'So the question is, who's he gonna hit next?' St Claire said.
'And where?' said Flaherty.
'And how in God's name did he find these people?' Jane asked. 'Gideon, Illinois? Wherever, Missouri? How did he track them down?'
'And if Stampler is involved, how the hell is he doing it?' Flaherty said.
'Hell, maybe we'll get lucky,' said St Claire hopefully. 'Maybe St Louis'll nail this nutcase 'fore he works his way back here. That's what we're all thinkin', ain't it? That he's coming' here?'
'Don't count on it,' said Vail. 'We have to assume this killer is heading here. Maybe he's here already.'
