The Murderers' Club

by P. D. Martin

  She is the woman every man lusts after.

  DialM: Yes. You have certainly accurately described her, Psycho.

  NeverCaught: Can’t decide…the exotic beauty or Cindy the slut. Might just have to have both.

  BlackWidow: Cindy’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she’s hardly a slut.

  NeverCaught: Whatever.

  DialM: Every person has his own likes and dislikes, Never. That’s why we’re individuals. Society would crumble without individuality. And leaps in science, math, technology and infrastructure would be impossible. And art, music… they might not exist.

  NeverCaught: And you think they’re boring?

  7

  Monday morning hits without any developments in the case. Stone had no luck at the university IDing our John Doe or the girl from the sketch and the university was a total blowout for me too. I sat at the crime scene for nearly an hour yesterday, hoping a premonition or a flashback would come to me but, just like before, this gift seems to have two purposes—to frustrate me or to scare the hell out of me. Neither option is appealing.

  I’m making my way up the stairs with a tray of coffee when my phone rings. I juggle the coffees and fish my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. “Anderson.”

  “Why am I getting a request from you on your vacation?” It’s Barry Evans, the VICAP consultant.

  I laugh but ignore the question. “Just tell me what you found.” Barry would have been able to perform a much more detailed search than Darren and I.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh. Definitely no matches?” I’m both relieved and surprised.

  “Definitely no matches. Are you thinking serial or one-off?”

  “I don’t know. The body was naked, posed postmortem with the handcuffs behind his back. And there was that heart.”

  “Yup, I saw that.”

  “I was kinda leaning toward serial, but I must be wrong.” Hunches aren’t always right, even mine.

  “This could simply be the first kill,” he says. “Tucson might get another one in a few months’ time.”

  “True.” I pause. “What about hits on female killers, male victims?”

  “Got a few on that. Including one killer we’ve been tracking for some time. But the MO and scene are all wrong. Your vic matches the profile, but this killer takes them to a motel room, handcuffs them to the bed, has sex with them and strangles them.”

  “Some elements match.”

  “Yes, but she leaves them there. She likes them to be discovered in some seedy motel room. Plus there’s no love heart on the chest, and they’re handcuffed to a bed, not cuffed behind their back.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I climb the last step and my breathing is slightly irregular.

  “Did I interrupt something, Anderson?” I can hear the innuendo in Evans’s voice.

  “No! I’m climbing steps, you jerk.”

  “Just making sure. I know what I’d be doing if I was on vacation.”

  “Goodbye, Evans.” I hang up and make my way through to the Homicide area. Stone sits at her desk looking expectantly at Darren, who’s on the phone and looking animated. News. He puts the phone down and looks up, his eyes wide with excitement. “We’ve got an ID on the John Doe!”

  Stone and I crowd him.

  “The vic’s name is Malcolm Jackson. He was arrested on a possession charge in 2003. Marijuana.” Darren pauses to pick out his coffee from the tray. “In Chicago.”

  “Chicago?” Stone says. She also takes her coffee, leaving my caramel macchiato in the tray.

  “Could have moved here in the last few years,” I say before taking a sip and letting a small amount of the hot, sweet drink trickle down my throat. I know coffee is a stimulant but it’s also soothing somehow.

  Darren grins, a big grin. “Either way, we’ve got an ID.”

  “Now we’ve really got something to investigate,” I say.

  Stone shakes her head. “You’re not enjoying the Tucson sights? Was the museum that bad?”

  “I had a great time,” I say, but it’s a partial lie. The museum was amazing, but I couldn’t keep my mind off the brunette from my dream.

  Darren puts his coffee down and his grin disappears. “The parents.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I sit down. No one likes being the bearer of bad news, but telling someone their child is dead…

  Darren opens a window on his computer.

  “And the ME’s office got back with some of the lab work,” Stone says. “Blood-alcohol level was 0.05 and no other drugs or toxins in his system. The meat substance in the stomach has been identified as ham, and the heart shape was body paint. The lab compared its chemical composition with some of the major manufacturers and got a hit. It’s Stage F/XTube Makeup from FX Inc. Color’s red, obviously.”

  “Is that a common brand?” I ask.

  Stone nods. “Retails at $2.95.” She pauses. “The sand and wood are still with trace.”

  I move my attention back to Darren’s computer screen. A couple of seconds later Malcolm Jackson’s details come up.

  Malcolm Jackson

  Illinois driver’s license: 4583-1254-5001

  Date of birth: 01/15/1985

  Brown eyes

  6’ 4”

  215 pounds

  212 E Randolph Street

  Oak Park, IL 60601-6401

  Traffic offences:

  Speeding 05/05/2002, 70miles/hour in 60 zone

  Criminal record:

  10/05/2003 Arrest for possession of marijuana

  Darren turns around to face us. “I guess I’d better call Oak Park.”

  8

  The next day we arrive at the station at 12:30 p.m. for the scheduled 1:00 p.m. conference call with Detective Hamill from Oak Park Homicide. Yesterday Hamill was going to inform the parents and gather as much information as he could about the victim for our one o’clock phone hookup. We arrived early to give Darren time to follow up on the sketch of the girl from my dream, even though we probably would have heard from someone if she looked familiar.

  He heads off, sketch in hand, while I hang out at his desk. We decided it would be quicker for him to do it himself, given he knows everyone in the station.

  “Feel like you’re having a vacation?” Stone asks me, with disbelief in her voice.

  “Sure. We’ve even been up to Mt. Lemmon this morning. It was gorgeous.”

  She nods and seems relieved that the morning was spent on tourism and not the case. “Pretty spot. I go hiking there sometimes in the summer.”

  I can easily imagine Stone’s stocky frame bounding up a hiking track to the summit.

  “Are you managing without Carter?”

  She snorts. “Well, I’m hardly without him.”

  “A couple of hours here and there…” I haven’t added it up, but since I arrived last Friday, Darren certainly hasn’t been full-time on the case.

  “True.” She leans back in her chair. “It’s not too bad actually. I think he’s overrated.” The sarcasm is obvious.

  We both laugh. Darren’s a good cop, and no one would seriously contest that.

  While Stone continues to work, I use Darren’s computer to check my e-mail—both my FBI account and my personal one. I spend most of the time typing an e-mail to a good friend back home, Lisa, who’s a TV journalist for Channel 10 in Melbourne. At five minutes to one, Darren appears.

  “Any luck?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing.” He pauses and moves in close. “Maybe it’s time we tried again. Tried to help you remember that dream.”

  I grimace from the memory of the beautiful young woman’s panic. But Darren’s right. I had that dream for a reason and I should do something about it. I need to snap out of this complacency. I nod. “Okay. This afternoon at your place.”

  “Good decision.” He gives me one of his best reassuring smiles. Easy for him to say. He doesn’t see it all in his head and, worse still, feel it.

  An hour later, we’ve got a much
better picture of who Malcolm Jackson was, although we still don’t know what he was doing in Arizona.

  Malcolm lived alone, in a one-bedroom apartment in Oak Park. He worked as an upscale male escort and was last seen just over a week ago. He hadn’t been reported missing because he’d told his family, friends and employer that he was going to NewYork for a few weeks.

  Hamill also told us that the parents did not approve of his work at the escort agency, Rendez-Vous, but that he was saving money to go to college.

  Darren looks at me. “Think we should fly up to Chicago?”

  I shrug. “We need to work out what he was doing here, that’s for sure. What the connection is.” I stress the word connection, hoping Darren will pick up my double meaning—his connection to Arizona and his connection to me.

  Darren gives me a quick single nod and then turns to Stone. “Stone, any luck on campus?” Stone had been back canvassing the students yesterday.

  “No. No one recognized him or the girl from the sketch. And we managed to get through lots of students.”

  Darren stands up. “Okay.”

  A beat of silence.

  “How much would it cost to fly to Chicago?” I ask.

  With his hands in his pockets, Darren gives me a small shrug. “Couple hundred I guess.”

  “I’ve never been to Chicago…”

  Stone shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “No, just…involved.” If being around Malcolm’s body triggered my initial vision, maybe being at his house will be as powerful, if not more so. I haven’t exactly got lots of options here.

  “It’ll be cold in Chicago.” She looks up at me and smiles, a genuine smile.

  She’s got a point. I hope my packing can handle the extra chill.

  We drive back to Darren’s house, ready to spend the rest of the afternoon off duty…and to try to find out more about my dream. We sit in the lounge and Darren takes me through the relaxation process. After about ten minutes, he gets me to think about the dream, the woman. At first the dream replays in my mind quickly, as flashes: the girl being dragged by her hair, a knife, blood.

  “Go through the dream again and try to slow it down,” Darren suggests. He waits several seconds, then asks, “What’s happening?”

  I start from the first point I can remember. She’s running. Then he’s got hold of her. “He’s taking her into a room. Oh God.” It’s only a memory, a re-creation of the dream, but still panic engulfs me and my heart races. I clench my fists tightly and rub them up and down my thighs, hard.

  Darren takes hold of my wrists. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  He gradually brings my rubbing motion to a stop. “Did you hear anything in the dream? Did he say anything?”

  The memory had been silent, but I concentrate on my senses, including my hearing, wondering if maybe the original dream included sound. Suddenly in the re-creation I can hear her screams as well as see and feel them. The noise is a bloodcurdling, desperate but futile cry for help. Please let the dream be something that hasn’t happened yet. Something that I can stop.

  I realize the killer spoke in the dream. “He said something.”

  “What?” Darren asks in a whisper.

  I recall that part of the dream, but his voice is faint. “I can’t make it out… Never?”

  “Try to remember, Sophie. Focus on his voice.”

  I try to tune into his voice but the victim’s screams drown out everything else. All I can hear are her screams; all I can feel is her terror. “I can’t hear him. I don’t think I heard him in the dream.”

  “Okay, go back to the start again. Go back to the girl running.”

  I hesitate, not wanting to replay the chase, not again. But I do. I have to help her. “Okay. I’ve got it.” The images start from the beginning.

  “Is he saying anything now?”

  “I can’t hear anything.” I’m back in the abduction and it feels so real that my skin breaks out in goose bumps and once again my heart races. “He’sgotaknife.” Istruggle for air, the fear comes in a strong wave again.

  “Keep going.”

  But what Darren suggests is the opposite of what I want to do. Every part of my body is screaming run. It’s my natural reaction, and hers, too.

  I shudder. “He’s running the knife along her body.” And for an instant I think I feel the cool hardness of metal on my stomach. Another shudder, followed by an instant of blackness and then she’s tied up on a bed. Either my memory has jumped or the original dream jumped. “I’ve missed something. She’s tied up on a bed now. Naked.” I start to cry. “He’s raping her.” I open my eyes, unwilling to witness the rape. I hug my arms around my body and can’t stop the tears that trickle down my cheek.

  Darren’s eyes are fixed intently on mine. “I’m sorry, Sophie.” He leans in and gives me a hug and his touch, in the here and now seems to center me, to ground me. My heart slows down, the tears stop as abruptly as they started, and I’m the one who pulls away from the hug.

  I exhale loudly. “What are you sorry for?”

  “For making you go through it so vividly. Especially knowing what I know, especially after…” He trails off.

  We’re both well aware of how the sentence would have finished and it’s not somewhere I want to go. It was bad enough remembering the dream of the brunette, I don’t want to remember what the Slasher did to me. I fight the tears.

  “If the visions and dreams are back, I should use them to help people. I want to help this girl.”

  He nods. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, even though I’m not sure. Not sure at all. But can I really walk away when this girl is counting on me?

  “Was there anything else?” Darren asks. “Anything else you saw or noticed?”

  “I’m pretty sure that was the whole dream.” I smile. “It worked, Darren. I remembered more of the dream.”

  He smiles back at me. “Yup.”

  My heart rate is back to baseline, and I suddenly feel cold. “I’m just going to get my fleece.” I go into Darren’s spare bedroom and grab the red fleece I bought a couple of years ago in New Zealand. I slip into it and the warmth comforts me. I’m halfway between the bedroom and the lounge when I hear Darren’s cell ringing.

  He picks it up as I enter the room. “Carter… Really?” Darren stands up and looks at me. “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.” He touches a button on his phone. “Okay, Stone. Sophie can hear you now too. Go on.”

  “Forensics came back with something. It’s the dirt under the vic’s fingernails. They’ve come up with a very specific match. It’s from the desert, from the Mojave region.”

  New York must have been a cover story, and the Mojave certainly raises more questions. What was he doing in the desert? And how did he get from there to Tucson, Arizona? It would be a hard lead to track down, too. We certainly can’t go door-knocking—or tent knocking—in and around the Mojave with a photo of Malcolm, in the hope that someone will recognize him.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “That’s it. No DNA, no prints, and nothing at the crime scene. If there was evidence, it was probably left at the primary crime scene.”

  “And the wood from the head wound?” Darren asks.

  Pages flick in the background. “Here it is.” Stone takes a breath. “Walnut, treated with several coats of varnish. They’re thinking a piece of furniture.”

  “Anything more specific?” I ask. It’s possible, even if unlikely, that the varnish is some obscure make or that there’s some other identifying matter in the wood itself.

  Stone dashes my hopes. “’Fraid not.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Stone. Let me know if anything else comes in.” Darren hangs up. “What do you think?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I mean, how does the Mojave tie in?”

  Darren nods. “And where does the woman from your dream fit?”

  That’s the question I want answered.

  BlackWidow: Ma
ybe we’ve gone too far.

  AmericanPsycho: All’s fair in love, war and serial killing.

  NeverCaught: How true. Those recordings were made for torture.

  BlackWidow: Cindy was a mess. The recording for her was evil, Psycho. I don’t think I approve of you bringing up her childhood assault.

  AmericanPsycho: They were made to disturb. And they did.

  BlackWidow: Mmm…

  DialM: As Oscar Wilde said, “Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attraction of others.”

  NeverCaught: Danny’s was awesome. What a jerk. Did you see him looking around when he realized we knew about the dishonorable discharge?

  DialM: He indubitably did look perturbed. I thought Susie’s was clever. “Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none.”

  NeverCaught: What the? I WOULD use a dagger.

  AmericanPsycho: Shakespeare, Never.

  DialM: Thank you, AmericanPsycho. Good to know someone in here is properly educated.

  BlackWidow: Telling Susie she’s never going to make it as an actress is a metaphoric knife.

  NeverCaught: She won’t make it…she’ll be dead.

  AmericanPsycho: It’s time to choose the next lucky victim.

  NeverCaught: I love Wednesdays.

  BlackWidow: Let’s get rid of Danny.

  NeverCaught: The next one should be a woman. Fair’s fair. What about Cindy? The dumb **** actually blabbed to her roommate.

  BlackWidow: What are you going to do about the roommate, Psycho?

  AmericanPsycho: Don’t worry, she’s already been taken care of.

  DialM: Excellent.

  AmericanPsycho: Decision time. Drum roll…

  AmericanPsycho: Cindy it is. But who will get the honors?

  9

  Darren and I touch down in Chicago, Illinois, on Wednesday morning. Given I’m due back at work in another few days, it looks like I’ll be spending the last of my vacation days in Chicago. We check in for our car and soon we’re sitting in a shiny rental with that unmistakable new smell, an overpowering, pungent odor of chemicals.