While the two might again not be related, it was odd that a Volvo had crept into all of these random crime scenes. Sudhir decided it was worth looking into and made the drive down to San Francisco that afternoon to see what he could find out. He talked to the local authorities, who gave him the flimsy file and said he could do with it as he pleased. The two murdered individuals were crack-heads, in and out of trouble on a consistent basis. Nobody would miss them. Sudhir thought to himself that at some point the two had families; and as misguided as their lives might have been, somebody somewhere was going to feel some pain at their no longer having a chance at recovery.
The one lone person to escape that night in the dark alley was a local bum who had been on the streets for more than the past 20 years. He lived in that alley for most of the past 10 and was well known in the neighborhood. He was an alcoholic, but a decent soul who never really bothered anyone. Even in his most inebriated state, he was a pleasant enough person. The local hoods left him alone as he had become somewhat of an icon, and he seemed to be beyond reproach from the police or any of the low-lifes that frequented the area.
He was the Switzerland of Market Street, and even the local establishments tended to give him scraps and keep him in good health. He apparently was well known to the area’s law enforcement, and most everyone liked the old guy.
Sudhir drove down to find the homeless guy, Samuel A. Adams, as he was known, and see if there were any further details that might have eluded San Francisco’s finest. Nothing against the San Francisco police force, mind you. They have a great reputation, and Sudhir did think highly of them (although that is an extremely generic thing to say about such a large group of individuals). But a case like this would be given little to no priority. If Sudhir was not concerned, nobody else would follow up.
Sudhir found Samuel A. Adams on a park bench, sitting two blocks from the infamous Orpheum Theatre right on Market Street. Sudhir found a parking spot, paid his exorbitant fee to stay there for a short period, and went wandering up the street so he could converse with his eccentric witness. He had been given a description, but it wasn’t hard to recognize Samuel—he held court for anyone who would listen that he had witnessed the next great San Franciscan killer. He and he alone was the sole survivor of what would be called the greatest killing spree of all time.
The crowd quickly dispersed upon hearing that Sudhir was a police officer, which allowed the two men to sit and talk quietly without interruption. Sudhir soon found out that Samuel was quite a talker. He had grown up on the South side of Chicago ,had been reared in the projects, and would have died there if it were not for boxing. He, at one time, was ranked as high as No. 7 in the light heavyweight division and would have gotten a title fight within a year if it weren’t for the one bad hit to the head that dislodged something or other; and after that, he was banned from boxing.
He had flailed around Chicago for a while; but quickly found out that if you were nobody, then you were truly nobody. People stopped caring about Samuel very quickly when he could no longer fight, and he also found out how cold Chicago could be in the winter. He left in November, hitched his way out to San Francisco, and had been here ever since. He loved this city like it was his own; and although he had never given anything back, he was careful to recognize how nice the people of this area had been to him. He didn’t cause any trouble, and he never once had urinated anywhere outside of his alley. He has a spot specifically for that activity, and he goes there and only there.
Sudhir couldn’t help but smile at the code of ethics that had found its way into Samuel’s thinking. Right or wrong, the man seemed genuinely good and had a decent heart. He was somebody that Sudhir felt he could grow to like; and if given a chance in another lifetime, would actually be a great person. It was easy to see how a community could have adopted him.
They finally got around to the night of the murders, and Samuel had the story well rehearsed. By this time it was Sudhir’s guess he had told the story north of 100 times, and he immediately jumped into a dramatic showing that was not just a story but a reenactment of the events of said evening.
“The night was dreary and cold,” Samuel started. “I sat in the confines of the local trash bin doing my normal search and seizure mission for my nightly nourishment. Two of the local hoodlums were trying to move in on my territory and were attempting to take what was rightfully mine. I told them there would be hell to pay. This was my alley, and everyone knew that. It was my territory, and by them invading my space they were sure to face the wrath of the Devil himself. He would swoop down upon them and strike them with his hammer and ensure that they did not see the light of the next day.
“They did not listen; but instead started to harass me and tell me that if I did not shut up, they would make sure that I had no means to instigate another conversation after this night was over. I sat in my trash bin, contemplating what to do, looking out of the crack in the side, devising my next move when he came.
“He walked into the alleyway. It must have been a little past 10:30 p.m. The night took on a quiet calmness, and the noise from the street seemed to fade away into the darkness beyond. I sat and watched him, seeing the gun protruding like an additional appendage from his hand. It was as if it were part of his body, another limb that extended out unnaturally as he wielded it.
“The two morons did not see him until it was too late. They paid me no attention when I tried to warn them, and I sat stoically by as he raised his weapon of choice and pulled the trigger. Three times in the first one and, then, twice in the second. The one gentleman did not even hear the first guy go down. He had no idea what was coming. The weapon was longer than normal for a gun of the hand-held kind. It had a long stick on the end of the barrel, and there was no noise except a slight swoosh as each round fired in sequence.
“He simply observed the two for a few minutes after they fell into place--watching them as you would a play or an enactment of historical proportion. It was as if he were committing the scene to memory so he could afford the luxury of replaying it over and over again in his mind in the safety of his home at a later date. After he had taken the surroundings in, he turned and walked back the same way that he had come--retracing his steps and slowly deliberately moving toward his escape.
“I stepped out of my bin after a few minutes and peeked around the corner to see him drive away in a Volvo SUV. I know it was a Volvo SUV as it is the same make and body type as the SUV on that billboard right overhead that has now been hanging there for the last several months. I know it was him that got into that car because I watched him for several minutes.
“He dismantled his weapon and placed it in the back underneath a mat, then removed his coat, and placed it in the back, as well. He, then, went to the driver’s seat, looked around, and got in. He started the car and slowly drove away as if nothing happened without a care in the world. The police asked me for a license plate number; but it was dark, and I could not see anything that clearly.
“I think it started with a KY, then something, then ended in a six, but that was the most that I got. I remember KY as it reminded me of Kentucky at the time. Isn’t KY the symbol for Kentucky? I think it is, anyway. The six is the age of my granddaughter that I will never see and miss more than I can ever tell you. You can’t miss a granddaughter more than one you have never seen. Every time I think of her, it is as if somebody is standing in front of me, ripping my heart into tiny little pieces.”
When Samuel finished his story, Sudhir contemplated what Samuel had said. It seemed like a professional killing, yet that did not make any sense. The two individuals that were murdered were nobodies who floated around and paused for a drink now and then. It is as if Sudhir’s killer had suddenly decided he no longer wanted to kill innocent women, but had now chosen a completely different path.
Was he randomly killing anyone or anything just for the thrill? Weren’t serial killers supposed to follow some sort of consistent pattern, maybe a mommy syndrome or hating thei
r ex-wife or having been abused by their father? Didn’t they look for individuals that fit a specific pattern, or at least kill them in a similar fashion?
His gut was again telling him this was the same guy, but he had no idea how to sell this to his captain. He again felt he needed the help of the FBI and, at this point, in time would try his captain again. If he refused, Sudhir would take matters into his own hands and ask for help—even if it were on the side, as they say.
He thanked Samuel profusely for the magnificent recounting of the event and gave him $20 for his trouble. He would have to come back and visit him sometime as he had thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon story session and had taken an instant liking to the old guy. He made the trip back to his office and pored through his list of names and registrations. As was expected in this baffling case, not one of his listed names had a license plate starting with KY.
It was as if this guy and his car did not exist. He found himself dreaming up images of the old cartoon character “Ghost Rider” and the recent movie with Nicolas Cage, “Next.” How had “Ghost Rider” gone exactly? You suddenly turned into a blazing inferno skeletal demon and started killing off people the Devil had told you to in some half-dream state of mind. You did all this with a whip of chain links that burned, as well, and laughed at everyone with your skull head.
Could it be possible that the motorcycle had been replaced by a Volvo and the chain whip with a revolver? Nothing made sense right now. Sudhir decided to call it a day and head home. He would call the FBI agent in the next few days, but he needed to get his story together for his captain and see if he could possible link the now four killings together somehow.
It seemed odd, even to him, and he knew it would be a tough sell. He would reserve the rest of his energy for the inevitable fight he was sure would be coming once he made it home. One thing in life on which he could always count: Janine being in a bad mood when he opened the front door.
Misdirected and Lost Within Oneself
Hannah woke up that Saturday morning to the familiar tune of the TV in the living room. Her two girls were already awake and had fed themselves on whatever they might have been able to scrounge up in the kitchen. It was difficult for her to get out of bed sometimes on a Saturday or Sunday morning. She at times lay in bed for a couple of hours, quietly crying to herself, as she lay lost, wondering what the next turn of events might bring.
Occasionally, her daughter Laura would find her in this state, and she would brush it aside and tell her it was nothing. She had simply had a bad evening. She knew that she could not effectively lie to Laura. She was too smart. She excelled in school and was well liked. She had a good, core group of friends and had managed to stay away from drugs and alcohol. Hannah was sure this would be a problem at some point. All kids in high school seemed to fall to temptation at one point or another.
Laura took after her mom in a lot of ways. She was a rebel at heart and might have been labeled a part of the hippie generation had she been born a few years earlier. Unfortunately, she could also be swayed by the masses, and it scared Hannah to think of her beautiful darling daughter succumbing to the advances of some pathetic high school wannabe. Her youngest daughter Stephanie was gorgeous, as well. They got along most of the time and relied on each other more than either would admit. She could also tell there was a level of normal sisterly tension that had built up recently as the two both reached their hormonal stage.
Hannah had also noticed that they had all managed to navigate to the same monthly cycle, so those three to five days every month, she tried to keep the household as calm as possible. They all held the same feisty attitude, and each of them could defend their positions quite skillfully when needed. She had not gotten into too many heated debates with Stephanie, but at times Laura would challenge her on some issues that were not worth challenging, yet, somehow always managed to be debated.
Dating was becoming more and more of a discussion; although as a freshman, she still probably had about one more year to go before it became a bigger problem. At times like these, she wished she had a man around if only to scare would-be aggressors. Try as she might, she was just not that intimidating to boys of any age, and she held no challenge for cocky 16 year olds with an attitude.
The good news about Burlingame High School was its core group of teachers, its curriculum, and its after-school activities. The bad news was that the core group of students were used to getting their way. As in all schools, there was the right side of the tracks and the wrong side of the tracks. Hannah was permanently cemented on the wrong side since childhood, and she no longer held out any hope that she would be moving over. This meant her kids would never truly be accepted in the cliquish school, but the education would be beneficial at a minimum.
Today seemed like it would be a typical weekend. She had some work to catch up on—she was continually given things to do during her “time off.” She did not get paid for the additional work, and she was an hourly employee rather than a salaried one. She was constantly reminded that she was lucky to have a job with her lack of experience and inadequate professional knowledge. She was not college-educated, and she was frequently reminded that there were other college-educated people out there looking for employment.
She would hang out with her daughters after doing her work, she thought to herself. She planned on going to church (they were Methodists), which they frequented about once a month. After church, Sarah had invited them over to her house for a swim in her pool. Sarah and her husband had a beautiful house in Pleasanton; and although Sarah hated the commute, she continued to work so she was not strapped with staying home with the kids all day, every day.
Sarah loved her kids, and she loved her husband Hank; but as with all suburban households, they had problems and issues that were never really discussed. Hannah had never told Sarah that Hank had hit on her one evening at one of the drinking bashes they had a few times each year. They had all been at Sarah’s house and had way too much to drink. Sarah had gone to bed and passed out. Hannah had planned on spending the night as she so often did.
After all the guests left, Hank sat next to her on the lawn chair by the pool. He was always a little overly flirtatious, but he was that way with every lady, not just Hannah. She thought it was innocent enough, but that night he tried to kiss her in an aggressively drunken way. He grabbed her head with his left hand and pulled her toward him.
He actually did kiss her. Hannah had let herself fall into dreamland— thinking this was all hers, and she did not have to make the trek back to her small apartment. She simply needed to go upstairs and lie down with her husband—she relished this suburban dream. She had kissed him backed for that brief second before sanity took control, and she pushed him away.
He had gotten a little belligerent at the rejection, but they had never spoken of the incident, and she had never mentioned a word of it to Sarah. Hannah was 100 percent sure that Hank was not a devout husband, and he most likely had hit on several other women, as well. After that evening she had simply been careful around him, and he with her. They were civil and polite, even friendly on most occasions, but there was always that tension. They both knew what kind of man he was.
This weekend had quickly passed, as all weekends do, and had gone basically as planned. The sun was just now starting to set, and she was amazed that it was only 5 p.m., as she watched TV with her two girls. She really did hate daylight savings time. The knock on the door came unexpectedly. She and the girls looked at each other and wondered who could be knocking on a Sunday evening.
Hannah got up and walked over to the door with her two girls in tow. They could not hold their curiosity and had to partake in the discovery. As she peered through the peephole, she did not recognize this man standing on the other side of her door. It was at times like these that Hannah felt most vulnerable. She was well aware how flimsy the door with the rattling handle was and how the brittle chain barely held itself in place. There was no way that it would keep out any intruder
with a minimum amount of strength.
She asked who it was and then stood there with her mouth open for a few minutes as she heard the answer.
“This is Duncan, the dad of a friend of Laura’s. May we talk?”
Hannah looked through the hole again and paused. Wearing biking shorts, holding a helmet and the plastic looking stick (Bike Pump), probably looked intimidating through that little hole. The sweaty clothes must have seemed a little unappealing, as well, but bike riding is big in the Bay Area.
Laura finally spoke up and said, “Mom, are you going to open the door?” Hannah brushed back her hair, closed her mouth, unlocked the chain, and opened the door.
I am not an extraordinarily handsome man, but I am not bad looking either. I work out but could probably still stand to lose a pound here and there.
Hannah invited me in, and I hesitantly asked if it would it be possible for me to talk to her outside. I could sense that she was leery, probably worried that Laura had done something wrong and that I was now here to collect what I was owed for her transgressions. She stepped outside, and I cutely and somewhat shyly (I thought anyway) said I wanted to ask her to dinner or for drinks if she would be interested.
I explained that I had wanted to do so for a while, but my daughter had forbidden me from speaking to Hannah. She was petrified of the possibilities of her dad dating the mother of somebody who was her friend. I went on to ask if Hannah would also ask Laura not to mention anything to my daughter. If she found out I was here, she would be beside herself; and I really didn’t want to go through the drama that this would elicit.
Duncan's Diary Page 14
