Sheila combed a hand through her hair.
“That’s our house, all of ours, and I don’t want to forget Karen. After George died she did the only thing that made sense, she kept her Daddy alive for her. That’s what I’m going to do and I’m going to do it in my house.”
“Mrs. Braddock,” Dunham said. “Mr. Wilson is right, you can’t go back to your house. At least not right now.”
100.
The scenery blazed passed Conrad. The rental turned out to be a shitty little Toyota. He wanted a bigger car, a luxury car, but the Toyota was one of the only things left. So he had grabbed the keys, given a muttered thank you, and took off.
A quick call on his cell had given him the address of the San Ignace police station and his GPS barked out commands every now and then, keeping him on the correct path.
His headlights cut through the blackness. Chicago was never this dark at night.
The road he was on couldn’t exactly be called a freeway, though that’s what the signs claimed. It was a little four lane track that ran around the mountains. Conrad thanked God that it was dark and there was no way to see how far the drop-off was.
According to his GPS, taking this route was going to shave an hour off his trip.
“Not soon enough,” he muttered.
The radio was on, but it was only there for background noise. So the car felt a little less like a tomb. Conrad took a turn and looked up at the high cliffs that rose on the opposite side of the road. In the brief flash of his headlights, he could see sand and tangled brush. It looked like the perfect place to stash a body.
You’re not hiding them anymore, Conrad thought. You’re changing things up aren’t you?
It was him; he knew it had to be him. Sure, California was a long way from Chicago, but that was the point wasn’t it? The bastard had wanted to get away. It’s not like it was the first time he’d moved, but still, why California? What was so special about it, other than the distance?
Conrad had brought some FBI reading material on the plane and learned the basic facts of the case. There were two family members left, both female. That made sense; he always left the girls for last. The dad was first, then the male children, then the females. Once the mother had been last, the other time it was the oldest daughter.
Conrad drove on but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. For a serial killer he didn’t follow a lot of the basic rules that they seemed to set out for themselves. The first family had all been killed at once. He had broken into their homes and murdered the father while he slept. The mother had been bound to the bed; her mouth had been taped so as not to alert the three children.
According to the Philly CSI, the killer had gone into the boys’ room next. Their throats had been slashed and they’d been left to die. Billy, the ten year old, died before police arrived. Ryan, the six year old, had somehow made it to a phone without the killer knowing.
Conrad had heard the 911 tape and it still affected him emotionally. The boy could barely talk. His voice had a watery quality. Conrad wished he could tell himself that it wasn’t the blood, but he knew it was.
The 911 tape contained the only real evidence that they could collect, a description. Ryan had used the word kid; he’d used the word, bald. Ryan died while on the phone. This was something that Conrad didn’t know when he first heard the tape. He had asked the Philly boys for all the information that they had on the first killing. No one told him, he just had to hear it, the final gurgles of a little boy choking on his own blood.
After leaving the boys’ room, the killer went to the daughter’s room. Jessica Spencer had been awake when he came in, awake when she died. Her body was found on the floor of her closet, there was no trail of blood that would suggest she had been dragged there.
When Conrad had brought up that the killer could have dragged her to the closet to kill her, the lead detective on the case had shaken his head.
“Not unless he thought to make sure that she tipped toed on the carpet into the closet. Her carpet was deep, it left toe imprints, and no others.”
Jessica had only been eight years old.
After that, he went into the bedroom and raped and murdered the mother.
Then, there was Chicago. Conrad’s own backyard. That was when he’d become interested in the case. It was what he’d been looking for since he’d joined the F.B.I. Conrad was the first to suspect serial murder. He had begged to consult Chicago PD, but Director Milton refused. So, Conrad talked to a few friends in homicide. He got all the info he needed.
The description in Chicago had come from a witness. A man walking his dog that saw a bald kid dragging a young girl into a backyard.
The girl had been Lisa Stine, a fifteen year old that lived at the house. The police raced to the address but didn’t find Lisa.
They did discover something in the house though. Mr. Stine, dead in the kitchen. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. The rest of the Stine clan was nowhere to be seen.
Apparently, the killer had broken in and tied the family up. The Dad had been killed first, and left in the kitchen to rot. M.E. report said he’d been dead for at least two months. The bodies of the mother and son had been buried five miles apart from one another. The mother, ironically, in a shallow grave at Forest Lawn cemetery, the boy in another grave by the side of the highway.
Cadaver dogs had located those two, but they’d stumbled upon Lisa almost by mistake. One of the detectives on the case had been trolling through a park near the house, looking for any possible hiding places when they saw an opossum digging at the ground. Lisa’s hand was visible through the dirt.
But Conrad knew the case wasn’t over for him. He scoured records for three months, looking for murders committed by bald men in their early twenties. That was when he’d stumbled unto the Philadelphia case. Conrad knew that it was unlikely the killer would strike in Chicago again, it was one of the only Mos he seemed to conform to. So, he’d modified his ViCAP system to look for certain things in unsolved murders reported around the country. Throats slashed, families killed, and, of course, a bald kid.
“So now you’re not hiding the bodies. And now you’re killing them one at a time. Are you trying to test yourself? Or maybe you’re just experimenting. Either way it’s going to end now. Because I’m coming to get you asshole.”
101.
Bentley saw the house. It was a long way off. From his spot on top of the bluff he could see the whole street. It looked small down there. There were two police cars. One was parked across the street from the house, the other one was four doors down. They weren’t marked but Bentley knew them for what they were, and he knew there were probably other police that he didn’t see just yet.
None of it mattered though. The bitches weren’t there. They were somewhere else. Somewhere he was going to have to find, because there was only one way this could end.
Bentley sat down and pulled a sandwich from his pocket. It was wrapped in a piece of cellophane. He took a bite. It was dry and tasted like shit, but most hospital food did. Yet, hospitals were the best places for free food. All you had to do was go in, find a floor where they kept the sick bastards and bitches and find the pantry. All hospitals had them, but the bigger the hospital, usually the better the pantry.
Some little cunt (there were very few bastards working in the pantry) would open the door and ask if she could help you. Then you’d tell her that you were visiting your grandmother and ask if there was something that you could eat. Nothing big, mind you, just a sandwich or a piece of fruit.
The little bitches usually cooperated, just so they could get you out of there, and hand you something.
Bentley made himself swallow the sandwich. He didn’t especially want to eat, his only appetite was for the hunt, but he knew he needed to eat if he didn’t want to pass out somewhere. That would be bad.
Also, the hospital was a great place to replenish his supply of cutlery. His backpack jingled with his freshly got
ten gains.
“You won’t stay away forever will you? No, of course you won’t. None of us can. We all come back to the place that’s ours. When you do, I’ll get you.”
Bentley threw the rest of his sandwich on the ground and walked away, he had to find a place to sleep tonight and it was already so late.
102.
Wilson insisted that they meet at his precinct and Dunham hadn’t had the energy to complain.
They sat around the table, Wilson and some young kid with bushy black hair, Dunham and Frank and a bored looking guy from San Stephan named Snyder. Apparently, San Stephan didn’t feel this case warranted the loss of two detectives.
“Okay,” Wilson said. “The reports have come back from our lab.”
“And?” Dunham asked.
“Nothing, same as yours. Of course, we know why there’s no hair and it’s easy enough to conceal prints. As for the lack of fibers,” Wilson shrugged. “I guess our boy is too careful and besides what good would it do us. According to officer Klefus here, the guy stole clothes from the kid whose identity he took, so even if they were there, it wouldn’t mean much.”
“What did you guys find in San Stephan?” Dunham asked.
“We found the shack where the suspect was apparently staying,” Snyder said. He had a thick white mustache that made him look like Wilford Brimley.
“Our guy killed a hobo and a dog there. As well as attempted the murder of Detective Miles. Based on the M.E.’s estimation the bum had been dead for several weeks. We didn’t find any useful forensic evidence there.”
“You’re telling me that this guy lived in that shack for several weeks and didn’t leave any evidence?” Dunham asked.
Frank tapped his finger on the pad of paper in front of him. Dunham looked over and then looked back to Snyder.
“Frank says that there was a urine smell in the place.”
Snyder shook his head. “We did not discover any urine. Could it be that the Detective is mistaken?”
Frank shook his head. He bent and scribbled more on his pad.
“He says that it was there,” Dunham said. “He’s sure of it.”
“We could send a team back there,” Snyder said. “But at this point, I’m not sure we could get anything out of it.”
“Also that only helps if he has a DNA file on record,” Wilson said.
“But it’s something,” Dunham said. “It’s something more than we’ve got now. Right now the only thing we know is that he’s bald and he’s young. We suspect that he’ll continue to go after this family but we don’t know for sure.”
The door to the interrogation room opened and a tall man with Sandy blonde hair walked in. The five men turned to look at him. He wore a long jacket, not at all in season for a California fall.
“Oh good, this is good,” the man said. “Your dispatcher told me that you were meeting in here.”
“Who the hell are you?” Wilson asked.
The man smiled. “I’m Special Agent Bill Conrad. I’m from the FBI and I’m here to help you track down Bentley Grimes.”
103.
Katie flipped through the channels on the television. There was nothing on unless you wanted to pay eight dollars to see The Avengers.
The sink in the bathroom, which had been running, shut off and Sheila came out with her clothes sticking to her still wet skin.
“What did you find?”
“There’s only pay-per-view.”
Sheila shrugged. “It’s not our money,” she said. “Find a good movie.” She took a seat next to Katie on the bed. There was only one bed in the room, but it was a king.
Katie turned and looked at her mother. “Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine dear; I just want to watch a movie and then go to bed.”
“Bed? You can’t tell me that you actually think you’re going to sleep tonight.”
Sheila smiled. “I am.”
“Mom,” Katie’s eyes puddle and her bottom lip quivered. “Karen…”
Sheila put a hand up. “Katie, this has been a hard couple of months. We’ve gone through things that no family should ever have to. I love your sister and you more than anything in the world. Right now, I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you told the police that you didn’t want to forget Karen that it was a mistake to forget Dad.”
“I know,” Sheila said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I know what I told them, but maybe I was wrong. Things are easier when you just let stuff go. I love you.”
Sheila leaned in for a kiss and Katie smelled it. The pungent, oaky smell of whiskey.
“Mom, have you been drinking?”
“Why?” Sheila asked. “Do you want some, cause I’ve got a lot, it’s right in the bathroom.”
Katie shook her head, tears flowed freely now. She wouldn’t have believed that there was any moisture left in her body for it, but they came anyway.
Sheila grabbed the controller from Katie’s hand. She ran down the list of movies and picked a comedy, something with Will Farrell, Katie didn’t see the title, but it didn’t matter.
As the movie snapped on the screen, Sheila leaned back on her pillow. Katie inched to the other side of the bed; there was a gulf of box springs between them. The movie played but neither one really paid attention to it.
104.
Wilson looked pissed. Dunham allowed himself a small smile. No one seemed to be looking at him; they were all staring at the fed.
“This is what we have on him,” Conrad said. “He’s killed families in suburban Philadelphia, Chicago and now Los Angeles.”
The other five studied the folder, one by one. Most of it turned out to be review, except for the letter of course. The folder circled counter clockwise and Frank handled it last. As he poured over the information, Conrad went on.
“Bentley has been refining his technique. What we are seeing right now is a serial killer in progression.”
“Excuse me,” Wilson said. “Am I mistaken or is murder now a federal crime?”
“No,” Conrad said. His voice was low and his tone suggested that he chose his words carefully. “Murder has always been a state crime.”
“So, if I’m not mistaken, then the only other police outfit that would have jurisdiction over this case is the California state police.”
“That is correct.”
”Well I called Sheriff Myers. He told me that we are more than equipped to deal with
this problem, and unless we specially requested help, we could run our own investigation.”
“You misunderstand,” Conrad said. “I’m not here to run this investigation. I’m only
here to consult. The FBI has been consulting on serial killer cases for over twenty years.”
“What confuses me,” Wilson said. “Is that in most cases, doesn’t the local law enforcement request such help?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone request you?”
“No, but…”
“Then you really have no authority to be here do you?”
“Lay off him,” Dunham said. “This guy knows the case, he knows the killer. Hell, look at all the info we’ve already gotten from him. Instead of being petty about this, why don’t we think about the little girl that’s dead? It seems to me that this guy can help us catch him and that’s good enough for me.”
“Yes,” Snyder said. “I think agent Conrad’s help is appreciated.”
Wilson shook his head. “Fine, he can help.”
Dunham chuckled. He didn’t know Wilson that well, but he knew the type. This man had to have the final word on anything, no matter what.
Frank tapped Dunham on the shoulder. Dunham looked down and saw Frank’s blue pen scrawl on his paper.
“Frank has something to say,” Dunham said. Dunham held up the paper, saw the look of confusion in Agent Conrad’s eyes and stopped. “Frank met your Bentley. He cut out his tongue, so now he writes.”
Conrad nodded, seemingly unfazed by t
his information. Dunham held up the paper again.
“Agent Conrad, why do you think there’s such a variance in the MO of Bentley?”
“What are you talking about?” Wilson said.
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“All of them were murdered with a knife; they were all families, all in suburbs of large cities. How much more similarities do you want?”
Frank grabbed the paper and wrote again. He worked fast and Dunham could see the anger in his face. He gave the paper back and leaned forward in his chair.
“It’s not the similarities that bother me, it’s the differences. Many serial killers have used a knife; almost all of them have targeted larger cities because of the huge population to choose victims from. The fact that Bentley is choosing families is the only significant similarity. What concerns me is that the first family was killed together. He broke into their house specifically to kill them, the report states that the only things missing were some money and clothes, like at the Mullins’ house. The second family was killed together as well, but then strategically buried. Now he’s trying to pick them off one at a time.”
“I have two theories on this,” Conrad said. “First, as I said, we are seeing the evolution of a serial killer. He’s refining what he does and how he does it. Also, I believe that he’s challenging himself.”
“How so?” Williams asked.
“The first family, he spent little time with. He came in, killed them and then left. The second family he stayed longer. Based on the level of decomposition of the father, a couple months or more. Long enough for the girl to nearly escape, which is perhaps why he hasn’t chosen the home invasion angle again. Now, he’s trying to stalk them one at a time. Each way is more difficult than the last. He’s quickly becoming bored; I think he wants to push as far as he can until he gets caught.”
Beneath the Mask of Sanity Page 20
