by Tim Dorsey
“Are you?”
“No. What makes you think you can catch him this time?”
“He’s reaching that age. Serial killers have a poor shelf life. Burn out, slip up. Or worse: Their personalities split, and we think we’re now tracking a second killer when it’s the same guy.”
“What’s our first move?”
“He’s been quiet. Too quiet. We flush him out.”
“How?”
“Go to the fish wrappers—”
“The what?”
“Newspapers. Find a reporter willing to play ball. Then we bait the hook.”
On the other side of the wall from Mahoney: a third office. Another psychiatrist sat in a chair. His suede jacket had leather elbow patches to make up for an inferior college.
Someone was weeping in the chair across from him. A young newspaper reporter named Jeff McSwirley.
“I can’t take it anymore!”
The newspaper didn’t provide trauma counseling, and it didn’t pay much, so Jeff was forced to seek budget mental-health care.
“You’re really on the cop beat?” asked the doctor.
The reporter nodded, hands still covering his face.
“Ever seen a dead body?”
“I always get there too late.”
“Darn.”
“I tell my editors I’m bad with directions, but I’m really doing it on purpose.” Jeff raised his head and sniffled. “I keep seeing their faces.”
“The dead people?”
“Survivors. Hundreds of them. Even when I dream.”
“What are they doing?”
“Crying. Some grab for me.” Hands covered his eyes again. “I can’t take it.”
The psychiatrist looked down at a brimming folder of newspaper clips. Death, death, death. The top article was about a landscaper. The psychiatrist whistled. “Shoving palm fronds through the grinder and finger got caught, sprayed into the mulch cart.” The doctor raised expectant eyebrows. “Did you get to see it?”
“I was late.”
The doctor frowned and looked back down. “Here’s another landscaper article.”
“Routine in Florida. I’ve covered seven.” He lost composure again. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“But it’s the job you wanted,” said the doctor. “It’s what you went to school for.”
“Not this. I trained to do investigative work. But all reporters have to pay their dues. They said the cop beat shouldn’t last more than six months, twelve tops.”
“How long’s it been?”
“Three years.”
“Why don’t you request a different assignment?”
“I have.”
The doctor stroked his goatee. “This is clearly taking its toll. You might consider a different line.”
“But it’s all I know how to do.” Jeff blew his nose. “I was hoping to hang on until they transferred me to the government beat, but it doesn’t look like they’re ever going to let me off cops.”
“Why not?”
“They say I’m good at getting interviews.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“How good?”
“I scoop everyone. People who’ve slammed doors in all the other faces—I get in. Circulation’s way up.”
“Listen, I don’t want to suggest anything unethical,” said the doctor, “but what if you tried not to get interviews?”
“That’s how I get them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“At the scene of every tragedy, reporters swooped like vultures. Survivors screamed to be left alone. Some even took swings. I detested myself for being part of it. But I didn’t want to get fired. You have to at least ask for an interview or you’ll get in trouble back at the office. So I asked. And that’s when the problem started. Guess my anguish made me look sympathetic. Got invited inside while they kept the rest at bay on the front lawn. The more interviews I landed, the sicker I felt, which meant more exclusives. That’s when I started the sabotage you mentioned: ‘I really don’t think it’s right to be bothering you, but I’m supposed to ask or I don’t eat. So now I’ve asked. Sorry for your loss. Bye.’ Just made it worse. I was practically yanked into living rooms.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said the doctor. “Certain psychological types withdraw in grief; others need a shoulder.”
“I don’t want to be a shoulder,” said Jeff. “You should see these people, showing me baby photos, telling incredibly private stories that rip your heart out. I’m starting to gain weight.”
“How’s that?”
“They keep giving me casseroles.”
Full circle, back to room one.
“Serge, please look at me.”
“Wait….”
“You can’t just keep staring back at the clock.”
“Yes I can.”
“If you turn around, we’ll talk about your hurricanes. You mentioned it was something that made you happy.”
Serge turned around. “You’re manipulating me.”
She smiled and shrugged. “It’s my job.”
“I’ll bet you got straight A’s.” Serge reached in his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper. “Just received this year’s list of storm names. Aren’t they the weirdest? You’ll never hear such a combination in the real world unless someone’s taking attendance at a wine tasting: Alex, Bonnie, Cristobal, Danielle, Esteban, Fay, Gaston, Hermine, Isaac…” He twisted in his chair. “What’s the clock say? How much time do I have?”
“Forget the clock.”
“You deliberately put it back there and then say forget about it?” He grabbed his head and rocked manically in distress. “Another conspiracy! The clock. You thinking I’m crazy. Mail-in rebates that are like applying to fucking law school…”
“Serge, we’re off the clock. I’m here to help. I’m your friend.”
He covered his face. “I’m at the end of my rope.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t keep it in any longer.” He stopped rocking. “There’s something I need to talk to someone about. It’s extremely private and embarrassing.”
The doctor leaned forward. “You can tell me.”
“I’ve been wanting to buy a Porsche.”
She sat back in puzzlement. “You want to talk about a car?”
“No, it’s the oddest thing. I don’t even like Porsches. And I really hate Porsche people, and people who can’t afford to be Porsche people so they buy Porsche sunglasses, and people who can’t afford those and buy counterfeits, and the whole pronunciation debate….”
“What do you suppose triggered this?”
“I feel sick just thinking about it. I…turned forty-four.”
“You’re entering mid—”
“Don’t say it!”
“It’s completely natural.”
“It’s completely stupid. I’m not going to turn into one of those male-menopausal freaks with a sports coat over a black T-shirt and the barely legal girlfriend.”
“How do you explain the Porsche?”
His shoulders fell. “I can’t.”
“Serge, I wouldn’t worry about getting old. You should be more concerned about growing up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like a job. You have one?”
“Yes, but it’s not recognized.”
The doctor wrote something in her notes. “I think it would be constructive for you to find full-time employment. Something with a regular paycheck.”
Serge bit his lip. “That’s not original.”
“Your life needs the structure.” She looked up from her writing. “By our next appointment, I’d like you to have at least submitted some applications.”
“Can’t waste the time,” said Serge. “Mortality’s breathing down my neck. I’ve starting doing all kinds of desperate things.”
“Like what?”
“I sort of began looking into…religion. Doc, what’s wrong
with me?”
“Nothing.” Her voice filled with encouragement. “That’s very positive. Faith has provided many people with a lot of answers.”
“I’m just getting more questions.”
“What denomination?”
“My parents raised me Catholic, so I’m starting there. In order to cleanse my mind of physical illusion, I’ve decided to become celibate.”
“Like priests?”
“If you’re just going to make jokes…”
The doctor smiled. “Go ahead.”
“I was thinking of celibacy more from an Eastern aesthetic, or when you’re a young Catholic boy and can’t get any—until you hook up with the right Catholic girl. Shazam! Don’t be fooled by those plaid skirts. You would not believe when the floodgates of repression finally blast open….”
“Serge…”
“…Every hole’s a party!”
“Serge!”
“What?”
“You’re getting off track again. How long have you been celibate?”
“What’s today? Tuesday?” He looked at his watch. “Eight A.M. and—no, wait, after breakfast and again on the roof. Ten o’clock? Let’s call it an even ninety minutes.”
“Hour and a half? That’s it?”
“Didn’t realize it would be this rough.”
“You mind me asking how old the woman was this morning?”
“I don’t know. Nineteen? Twenty? Real sweet kid. The entire stripping thing is completely out of character. Made me promise to call her this afternoon. That’s when the celibacy started. Think she’ll buy it?”
“Let’s get back to religion,” said the doctor. “Besides not wanting to call this girl, have you been having any other spiritual feelings?”
CHAPTER TWO
TAMPA BAY
The mandatory evacuation order had just been issued.
The problem with mandatory evacuations in Florida is that everyone knows they’re voluntary. The orders have no teeth. Authorities don’t possess nearly the resources to knock door-to-door, and the best they can manage is canvassing barrier islands in emergency vehicles, broadcasting last-chance pleas from rooftop bullhorns. During these final passes, the civil-defense trucks have the roads to themselves; anyone stubborn enough to still be there ain’t budgin’ now. Then the bridges are closed, and nobody can leave even if they want to.
That time was rapidly approaching.
A lone vehicle rolled down an overcast residential street near the Gulf of Mexico. Madeira Beach to Indian Rocks. The empty lawns usually saw a smattering of egret and heron, but nature had given them intelligence. An amplified voice echoed off waterfront houses:
“You are under a mandatory evacuation. Proceed at once along designated routes. This is your final warning. Shelters are open. You don’t want to be like those pinheads who held a party for Camille and the sole survivor floated out a third-story window on a mattress. Do not panic. Bring necessary medication and dietetic provisions. There’s still time. Or maybe not. The hundreds who washed to sea in the Labor Day Storm of ’35 thought they had several more hours. So I could be way off….” Cars screeched backward out of driveways and raced for safety. The antique bullhorn strapped to Serge’s roof continued blaring: “…Six thousand vanished in the Great Galveston Storm of 1900. Entire city blocks erased…. Serge’s Disaster Fun Fact Number Fifty-three: The word ‘hurricane’ comes from the Mayan god of wind and rain, Hurakan…. Another two thousand lost in the unnamed storms of ’26 and ’28. Whole houses flicked off foundations like bugs…. Serge’s Hurricane Tip Number Sixty-two: Public shelters are generally icky. Top-shelf alternative? The international airport. Open twenty-four hours, even in storms, for stranded out-of-towners who have to curl up on the floor waiting for runways to reopen. You’re not supposed to use it as a shelter, but they’re not allowed to kick you out either. Just pack evacuation supplies in American Tourister and pretend you’re from Akron…. Donna peaked at two hundred miles an hour, overwhelming morgues….” More cars sped by for the mainland. “…Don’t forget to bring playing cards and board games. Remember Operation? I loved that one. ‘Remove wrenched ankle.’…”
LANDFALL
A cold, gray wind howled up the soulless mouth of Tampa Bay. No more time. Direct hit.
Everyone was inside. Just the satellite trucks and reporters in bright rain slickers lining the lips of the bay at Fort DeSoto and Anna Maria Island. Their job was to illustrate why nobody should be where they were.
If power was still on, so were TVs: color Doppler in repeating loops, Egmont Key under the pulsing, orange-and-red radar blobs. The upper-right rotation of the storm’s forward path shoved a massive tidal surge toward downtown. Leading rain bands churned straight for the Sunshine Skyway. Rogue waves crashed against the bridge’s pylons, sending columns of white spray hundreds of feet.
The bands passed, and the bridge broke into the eye. Shafts of deceptive sunlight hit the yellow, string-art suspension cables and swept down the bridge’s apron to the causeway. An engine started.
A dark SUV pulled out from behind the windbreak created by a dense nest of Australian pines. It eased onto the road and accelerated toward the Skyway. Ahead: flashing amber lights and concrete barricades. Bridge closed. The vehicle took a ser vice road to Maximo Park and the fishing pier, also blocked off.
The driver got out, black scarf concealing his face to the nose arch. Matching black gloves opened the vehicle’s back doors and wrestled to remove a device that was cumbersome, complicated and unrecognizable. He wheeled it to an open stretch of shore near the anti-erosion boulders. A series of levers deployed arrays of spring-loaded kickstands. Other buttons swung out the actuating arm and sighting mechanism.
The driver returned to the SUV. One of the passenger doors opened. Black gloves grabbed a pair of rope-bound ankles. The hostage hit the ground sideways on his rib cage. The trailing eye wall passed over the mouth of the bay, and the wind returned.
FOWLER AVENUE
It looked like a river, if you didn’t already know it was a street. A lone Jeep Grand Cherokee drove blind through the flood, creating a generous wake. Wide four-by-four tires sent twin cascades of water up past window level.
Bang.
The driver jumped. “What was that?”
“Something hit the door panel again.” The front passenger lit a joint. “I’m hungry.”
“Still looking for a place.” The driver leaned over the steering wheel for a closer view of the rain.
Bang.
“Left fender,” said someone in the backseat, reaching for the jay.
“Maybe you should turn on your hazards.”
The driver pressed a button on the steering column. Taillights began flashing. The bumper had a University of South Florida parking sticker.
Another passenger took a hit and looked out the side window. “Nothing’s open. Is it a holiday?”
“Don’t think so.”
The vehicle fought its high-profile tendency to lane-drift with wind gusts. The driver slowed at the next intersection.
“What are you doing?”
“Where’s the traffic light?”
“There it is. Sitting on that curb next to all those sparks.”
The driver sped up again. “It’s almost as if something’s going on that we should know about.”
Smash!
Heads jerked back. Large cracks snaked across the windshield. “What the hell just hit us?”
A passenger pointed at a glass-repair shop. “Another windshield. That’s like irony.”
“Shut up.”
“I wouldn’t get mad.” The joint was offered. “There’s no deductible for windshield replacement. Insurance companies believe it’s ultimately more expensive to let cheap people drive with busted glass.”
“I forgot to pay my premium,” said the driver.
“Then there’s a deductible.”
Bang.
“Why can’t we find someplace that’s open? There’s a hu
ndred restaurants on this street.”
“Wait,” said the driver, snapping his fingers. “I got it. The one place that’ll definitely be open.” He accelerated.
Sure enough. Five blocks later, light from a yellow-and-red sign filtered though the sheeting rain. The Jeep’s occupants saw the first evidence of life since leaving their dorm. A line of idling vehicles wrapped around the side of the building. It alternated between students ordering takeout and news trucks interviewing the kid in a safety-orange poncho working the drive-though window.
A radio-station van pulled up. A waterproof mike poked out. “Why are you still open?”
“The owner wants to make money.”
The Jeep parked in a handicapped slot a few feet from the front door. They were drenched before they got inside.
The driver wrung out the front of his shirt on a welcome mat. “I told you they’d be open.”
“And it’s a buffet!”
The buffet was the reason the restaurant was always jammed, being so close to the university. Football weekends were big, but that was nothing compared to tropical storms and hurricanes, when it became the only option. Employees double-timed it restocking stream trays. Others mopped up student drip trails. More kids arrived; the one at the cash register was paying with loose change organized in separate dollar stacks on the counter.
A small frame hung on the wall behind the cash register. The first dollar bill the owners had made. It was that kind of bar. Lots of faded photos over the liquor bottles: a onetime mayor, other semi-famous customers and the Little League team they’d sponsored in 1983. Shriners gumball machine. A red lamp with fringed paper shade. The lamp flickered. Then the thunder.
Serge turned a limp newspaper page and waved for the bartender. “Could you turn up the TV?”
The man threw a towel over his shoulder and aimed a remote control. Serge leaned forward on elbows.
Coleman peeled the napkin off the bottom of a frosty mug. “What are you watching?”
“Hurricane coverage.”
Coleman pointed another direction. “Why don’t you just look out the window?”
“Because hurricane coverage is hilarious,” said Serge. “These idiots stay out far too long. Theoretically all their clothes get ripped off in a category four.”
