“Last year, in Juarez, Mexico, on Christmas Eve, they found a police detective’s head outside the police station wearing a Santa hat. Just his head. In his mouth, there was a list of ten other police detectives. It was a hit list. Half those cops are dead now and a bunch of the rest emigrated to America to escape the drug cartels. At least it isn’t that bad.”
It was every cop’s nightmare. When the uniform and the badge no longer held any fear, and all they had to hold order was the gun and the billy club, their lives wouldn’t be worth a vial of crack. Malcovich was right. It wasn’t that bad in Philadelphia, not as bad as they had it in Juarez, but it felt like it was getting closer. There was a psychopath hunting and killing cops. It may not have been an entire criminal organization, but what was the difference? Dead was dead. He told Malcovich to shut the fuck up and they drove the rest of the way without speaking another word. That’s when James decided he wanted off this case. Catching a madman wasn’t worth his life. The other cops would understand and if they didn’t, if they thought he was a coward, then they could go fuck themselves. He was done.
Malcolm’s arrogance in the face of the full might of the Philadelphia Police Department threatened to undermine the authority of the entire force. It threatened to reduce the badge to useless adornment. If for no other reason, Malcolm had to be made into an example. Malcovich wanted to see him on death row. James wanted to see him in a casket. Malcolm had long ago ceased to be a suspect. It was a war, he was the enemy, and it was kill or be killed.
Malcovich was eager to get back to the station. He wanted to look at the crime scene photos again, try to get a handle on Malcolm’s psyche. Maybe something in the files would give them a clue as to where Malcolm might be going, what he might be planning. His bubbly enthusiasm was annoying James. He just wanted to see CC again. She was being treated at Washington Hospital and was safe for now.
James parked in front of the station and he and Malcovich started up the steps. They had just entered the building when they heard the call go out over the radio. The safe house had been compromised. Natasha had been kidnapped, and Willis and Vargas were dead along with an unfortunate security guard who’d been disemboweled. James punched both fists into the sides of his head and clenched his teeth as if biting down onto something desperately trying to get away.
“My God! We can’t be as helpless as this guy thinks we are! This bastard is walking right through us!”
David Malcovich stared at his feet. When he looked up, James could tell he was searching for some words of reassurance.
“Save it,” James said.
James shook his head. Agent Malcovich still believed they would catch this guy, even with the scorecard lopsided in the Family Man’s favor. He hoped the agent was right, because right now, Malcolm was kicking their collective ass.
Half the station house poured out into their vehicles, heading toward the scene. James ran to the Intrepid. Malcovich followed.
“Whoa, partner you’d better find another ride.”
“I need to see the scene while it’s still fresh.”
“I’m not going to the scene. I’m going to the hospital. I need to see CC.”
If Malcolm had so quickly located and penetrated the safe house, then CC wasn’t safe either.
“Two detectives were killed and a witness is missing. We need to get over there!”
“Wrong.” James pointed a finger directly at Agent Malcovich as if he were aiming a gun, “You need to get over there. I need to see CC.”
James slammed the car door and nearly took off Malcovich’s toes as he sped away from the curb.
LI.
During the brief drive to the murder scene, Special Agent Malcovich once again ran the case in his head. Malcolm had a very unique and disturbing signature. It was rare to encounter a serial killer whose need to control and dominate others led him to take on more than one victim at a time. It was too difficult, too risky. Controlling one victim was hard enough, but two or more increased the margin for error. Those serial killers who assaulted multiple victims at once generally only did so once or twice at the end of their degenerative cycle when they no longer cared whether or not they were caught. There were, of course, a few exceptions.
David Berkowitz had gone after couples, and the Nightstalker, Richard Ramirez, had assaulted couples as they slept. But in both those cases, the males were killed quickly and were not part of the ritualistic rape/murder. A killer who hunted entire families again and again as a part of his signature was almost unprecedented. It indicated a megalomaniacal psychopath with an overwhelming need to control and dominate others. Malcolm was some bizarre hybrid of what the FBI termed the “anger-excitation killer” and the “anger-retaliatory killer.” In other words, Malcolm was a very pissed off killer who was turned on by death and believed he had a legitimate reason to murder. A serial killer on a mission.
The use of surrogate victims to substitute for the true target led Malcovich to label Malcolm as an anger-retaliatory killer. That and the over-kill stabbing and beating. The sexual sadism, the prolonged torture, the obvious planning and premeditation, the ritualistic mutilation and cannibalism were all the signatures of the “anger-excitation killer” who derives sexual gratification from rape, torture, homicide, and mutilation.
The way the parents were discarded face up and posed indicated a definite sexual motive to Malcolm’s crimes. Conversely, the children were all found facedown or with their faces covered as if, having sated his anger upon them, the killer was overcome with guilt. There was no sexual assault on the children, despite what in some cases were a profusion of stab wounds that would indicate the killer was in a complete homicidal fury. He was, in his meticulous cleaning of the crime scenes and removal of physical evidence extremely organized, even to the point of wearing condoms during rape.
Organized. Pre-meditated. Then, during his assault on Reed Cozen’s family: no condom, no attempt to destroy evidence, witness left alive, and, ever since, no attempt to hide his identity as if Malcolm didn’t care whether he was captured or not. Either that or he didn’t believe he could be stopped.
Malcovich thought about what Detective Bryant said about the first killings being signature killings and the rest being personal revenge killings. It made sense. If anything about this case could be said to make sense.
Agent Malcovich nervously checked the clip in his Glock nine millimeter as he pulled up in the parking lot of the Society Hill Towers where, upstairs on the top floor, the officers’ bodies still lay where they’d fallen. He watched the faces of the police officers who were busy handling the crowds of civilians and press. Their expressions ranged from anger to cool professionalism but, behind each pair of eyes, Malcovich could see the dark tint of fear. No one was safe anymore.
Malcovich clicked the Glock’s safety off as he climbed from the rented Plymouth Concorde and flashed his badge at the uniformed officer who rushed forward to guide him under the yellow police tape.
“This way, Special Agent . . .”
“Malcovich. Thanks.”
The same officer guided him into the building, past a bellaman who was speaking excitedly to a female detective hurriedly trying to scribble down his account of the incident. He led him to the stairwell where the body of the security guard was still crumpled on the floor of the lobby. Blood had pooled two inches deep around the body. The guard’s mouth had fallen open and his head was turned at an awkward angle so that his glazed, vapid eyes were looking backwards over his shoulder. The most gifted contortionist would not have been able to mimic the pose. The scene on the top floor was even worse.
As he entered the apartment, Malcovich examined the shattered window, the body lying amid glass fragments, the other body lying alongside the couch, and developed a pretty fair picture of how it had gone down. It was easy to imagine Malcolm coming through the window blasting away with the shotgun. Malcovich poked his head out the window and felt the powerful gusts that whipped around the building. He looked at th
e narrow ledge that led from the fire escape and thought how easily someone could be blown off. The man who’d risked a ten-story fall to come through that window and confront the two armed detectives had been recklessly, fanatically determined.
Malcovich began to scribble notes on his pad while trying not to think about how he’d been discussing the case with these very same detectives just hours before. It was hard to think of them as mere corpus delecti when he could still remember the sound of their voices. Once again, he found himself fearing for James’s safety and his own. Malcolm was like no serial killer he’d ever encountered. There was no telling what he was capable of.
LII.
Malcolm had changed cars again. He’d found another Impala parked in an empty lot with a “For Sale” sign on it. The ridiculously optimistic owner had tagged it with a twenty thousand dollar price tag. If Malcolm had had the money, he might have actually bought it because it was beautiful. A huge, eight cylinder, ’95 Super Sport with smoke tinted windows, black leather interior, and a burgundy paint job so black it looked as if it were bleeding oil and blood at the same time. The speedometer stopped at 160 miles per hour.
“Gangster!” Malcolm hissed as he ran his hands over the dash. It was a compliment.
He tapped his foot on the gas, revving the engine, marveling as the tachometer jumped from zero to eighty every time he even touched the pedal. Malcolm popped the trunk on the Impala, walked to the Mercedes, and lifted Natasha from the trunk. When her feet hit the dirt, she wobbled on unsteady legs and nearly fell. She turned angry eyes on Malcolm. Her chest heaved with each breath drawn between her clenched teeth. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to fight. She’d no doubt been lying back there gathering her courage, formulating a plan. Malcolm had no fear. He had her and there was nothing she could do to get away.
“You want to fight? I’m going to hurt you no matter what. Do you want the pain to start right now?”
He could see all the resolve drain out of her. Her bottom lip quivered with emotion and her face cracked and sprang tears.
“No, no, no, no, no. Please. Please! Just let me go. Let me go!”
Malcolm wrapped one massive hand around Natasha’s neck and dragged her to the Impala, tossing her headfirst into the trunk with so much force that she nearly flipped head over heels. Malcolm slammed the trunk lid down, almost catching her leg before she pulled it inside with her. He could hear her muffled screams as he walked around and slipped into the driver’s seat. He smiled, imagining hearing those screams in a more intimate setting.
Malcolm pulled the Impala out of the lot, jamming his foot down on the accelerator and whipping the steering wheel, fishtailing the tremendous vehicle into a violent turn before speeding off down the block with the 400cc engine growling like a dinosaur.
This car, he would keep.
Malcolm had one more risk to take, one more message to send to the PPD before he could finish things between him and Reed. He headed back down Eleventh Street, piloting the Impala through the bitter night, cutting the tense evening air, heading back toward the police station for another confrontation. He knew the detective would be in a panic to get to CC. He’d have no idea how Malcolm had found the first safe house and would figure that CC was also in danger.
When James leapt into the Intrepid and raced off toward Washington Hospital, Malcolm was watching. In his rearview mirror, City Hall receded. The statue of Ben Franklin shrank to the size of a toy soldier. Ahead, the Spectrum arena grew to fill the windshield.
LIII.
Reed was driving in circles and the voices in his mind had multiplied. He could no longer recognize most of them. There was now a great chorus, an ethereal choir of rage, howling for retribution. They were the voices of all the people Malcolm had murdered, disembodied spirits because Malcolm had slashed their bodies to gore-streaked ribbons. Now they possessed Reed, haunting his thoughts. They had chosen him as their champion, their avenger, and he was failing. Not only was Malcolm getting away, but he was killing more people, adding more souls to the maddening choir screaming through Reed’s head.
Kill him, Reed!
Kill that bastard, Daddy! Find him! Find him and kill him! He hurt us Daddy!
He’s hurting people, Reed! You have to stop him! Find him, Reed! Kill him, Reed!
There were dozens of them crying out their rage, their pain, their hatred. The inside of his skull resounded with their shrill cries, echoing like a cathedral. The noise was deafening, drowning out the sounds of city traffic, drowning out every coherent thought that attempted to surface when Reed needed his mind clear. He had to figure out where to find Malcolm. He gripped the Beretta tight, using it to anchor him to reality, to fend off the ghosts, as he steered the taxi through the somber Philadelphia streets.
Steam rolled from the gutters creating the atmosphere of a foggy London night from a Hammer Films horror flick. Reed could almost imagine Peter Cushing skulking through the dark alleyways. He caught the quick, furtive movements of sewer rats darting through the shadows and wondered what other beasts were lurking just beyond his sight. Reed’s paranoia was elevating. Every shadow seemed to resemble Malcolm. His finger repeatedly jerked on the trigger as he caught movements from the corners of his eyes that his mind hastily misinterpreted as potential attacks.
He drove nervously down Eleventh Street almost to the police station then turned around and started back. His eyes scanned the street for any sight of the Mercedes or Detective Bryant’s white Intrepid. He cut over to Broad Street and began driving aimlessly up and down, avoiding the pedestrians who tried to hail down the taxi for a ride. There was no sign of Malcolm. Reed was about to make another U-turn and head back up Broad Street, but he spotted a patrol car at the next intersection so he continued straight ahead. Getting stopped for an illegal U-turn would end it all. It would take all night to extricate himself from the cops’ tiresome questioning. Who knows where Malcolm would be by then?
Reed was trying hard to hold his mind together, but the longer Malcolm remained alive, the harder that task would become. Malcolm had to die soon. Reed wanted desperately to join his family, but first he had to wash his sins clean with Malcolm’s blood, wash away the years of neglecting Linda and his family, wash away the betrayal, his guilt, the smell of Crissy’s young pussy.
The tears were starting to flow again. Reed could hear weeping. But they weren’t his tears. He recognized the heart-wrenching sobs. They belonged to his wife. They were the tears she shed the night she found out about him and Crissy, the same tears she had shed the night she was murdered. Only Malcolm had ever hurt Linda as much as Reed, and he’d had to kill her to do it. Reed felt his heart crack open and spill out all its dreams. They boiled like a corrosive poison in his chest cavity. Everything he’d ever hoped for was now just more pain. He continued down the street, checking his rear view mirror for the patrol car. Linda’s anguished tears echoed through the haunted night. He let his own tears join hers as he hunted down Broad Street, chasing demons.
James was relieved to see the familiar sight of Detective Jones’s old LTD parked in the Washington Hospital parking lot. Matthew Jones was a veteran of the force, a timeworn soldier who the District Attorney’s office often called upon to guard Mafia witnesses before trial. He once protected a member of the Junior Black Mafia who’d turned state’s evidence. While Jones was out in the hall, his partner had allowed the witness to make a phone call to his cousin to tell him where the police were hiding him. His cousin was also an enforcer in the JBM and Jones had soon found himself in a shootout. When it was over, two ranking members of the JBM were dead and four others had been captured fleeing the scene in a bullet-ridden Lexus LX. Every single one of them was wounded. Jones had taken a couple slugs, too, but the witness had never been touched. His partner took one in his forehead, but miraculously the bullet traveled around the back of his skull and exited without touching his brain. He was back to work in a month, but not with Jones. Jones never worked with a partner again and he
hadn’t lost a witness yet. Just as relief started to settle in, James remembered again his own dire pronouncement to Reed just a few days ago:
A man who slit his own throat and tried to blow himself up isn’t gonna stop until he feels he’s avenged whatever wrong you’ve done him or until we stop him.
James was sick of trying to stop Malcolm. For one night he just wanted to forget about the case for a while. He wanted to lose himself inside of CC, but he wasn’t sure that would ever be possible. She was beyond traumatized. Her husband had been decapitated. She was in shock, physically, mentally, and emotionally if not forever catatonic and withdrawn from her last slender link to reality. She could blame James for everything. If he’d heeded Malcolm’s warning and backed off the case, her husband might still be alive, Baltimore might still be alive. If he had stayed out of her life, Malcolm might never have come in. But that was just James’s guilt talking. Being married to Rick had inescapably entwined her destiny with Malcolm’s long before James entered her life. Being a homicide detective just meant her destiny also entwined inexorably with his, even if it was his sexual addiction that brought him to her first. As James climbed out of his car, still mulling over the effects of destiny upon the outcome of this case, he couldn’t help but wonder which was the bigger rationalization, his guilt or his attempts to answer to it?
The second floor where CC had been moved from the ER and Trauma Center was well lit with no visible way to approach unseen. James scanned the parking lot quickly for anything that looked out of place. He was further encouraged when a patrol vehicle rolled into the parking lot and two serious looking police officers pulled up alongside his car and shined a light inside. James held up his badge. The officers lowered the light but didn’t turn it off.
Pure Hate Page 25
