by Paul Seiple
“This was on Kat’s doorstep and written in blood were the words, I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“I don’t know, Bill.”
“Bullshit, Mike. You’re not telling me something. There were lines through the O’s, just like in the letters you got.”
“I don’t know anything…”
Bill pushed me against the wall. “Tell me everything you know." He dig his elbow into my shoulder. "After you ran out yesterday I listened to the song you were playing. The song started talking about a wolf with red roses. And the words ‘I bet you say that to all the boys’ were in the song. And I find a fucking rose and those words at Kat's house. You better start talking."
I sat down on the couch.
“This is my family, Mike. Don't bullshit me.”
“The call I got yesterday. It was from the killer.”
“The killer?” Bill asked.
“He said Sunshine and Maggie Hoover were dead. And that he was going for number three last night. He gave me clues which were the lyrics to that song. But they led me to a dead end.”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?” Bill punched the wall sending flakes of plaster through the air. He pulled his hand back, leaving knuckle prints and a spider web crack in the wall.
“He said I had to go alone. I thought I could save them.”
That wasn’t true. But Bill was ready for blood. This was not the time to unload the truth on him. He punched the wall again, sending another shower of plaster to the floor. “You better hope to God Kat is not dead, Mike.” He stormed out and slammed the screen door hard enough to break a hinge.
Chapter 26
Parked across the street from Michael's apartment, George watched Bill Ash kick a trash can, nearly stumbling over it. How the hell is that fat ass a cop, he thought. The wheelchair guy could outrun him in a pursuit. George had no respect for Bill. No respect for mankind any longer. How dare the heathens steal the air meant for George? But seeing Bill visibly upset gave George pleasure. He knew that Bill was starting to suspect Michael had something to do with the disappearances. Originally, the idea of Michael squirming under the pressure of a doubtful partner seemed fun, but Bill was becoming a liability. In his current state, Bill might turn what evidence he has over to the precinct and have Michael arrested. Probably not enough evidence for the case to stick without having bodies, but enough to put Michael in jail for a little while. George couldn’t kill Michael if he was behind bars. Killing Michael was his destiny. And George wasn’t about to let a fat, past his prime, detective stand in the way of his glory. He waited for Bill to pull away and then he followed three car lengths behind.
Killing Bill wasn’t part of the prophecy. But as things played out, George was starting to learn to roll with the punches. He trailed Bill for fifteen minutes back to Kat’s house. Black and whites lined both sides of Carmichael Street. Television News crews were bouncing around from cop to cop like balls in a pinball machine. He thought about parking and weaving his way through the starving reporters. He thought about becoming Michael again. A blonde reporter stopped Bill, shoving a microphone under his chin. George couldn't hear what she asked, but by the eagerness in her expression, he knew she was pleading for any morsel of news. He recognized the blonde, she was a firefly. Number five. The one before landing the biggest catch of all — Michael Callahan. Talking to her now would be too risky.
Killing Bill Ash would get his mind off of the disappointment of not playing with Rebecca Aaron…yet.
Chapter 27
Bill needed to cool off. I didn’t want to press my luck with him. While I was taller, he was stockier and the last time I saw him I could have sworn smoke bellowed from his nostrils. I didn’t want to be merchandise in the china shop when he ran through. I took a shower. Trying to block out the apocalypse I lived through my dream. It was easier than I thought since my mind was stuck on victim number three. Kat couldn’t be saved. She was the third in a week. The killer had tasted blood and just like a shark, the hunger grew. Number four wasn’t far behind.
Number four was a short-haired brunette that the killer would take to a barn. I didn’t have any signifying factors to identify the barn’s location, which led to more frustration. When I closed my eyes I could see her face — full of youth and promise. I gauged her to be about twenty-one. He would take her just before an afternoon class at Piedmont Tech. He would be waiting by her car — a 1977 Oldsmobile 88, silver in color, probably her parents' car. Her parents would be distraught after getting word that he kidnapped her. Being a cop meant a lot of things. Mostly positive. Getting the bad guys off the streets was what kept me going, but having to tell a family that you couldn’t save their loved one from the monsters was a hell I wished on no one.
No matter how many times I woke in a pool of sweat screaming for the short-haired brunette not to talk to him. She always smiled and engaged the conversation. She always ignored me. She always ended up as his plaything.
As I stood in front of the mirror, straightening my tie, I came to terms with the fact that I couldn’t save number four. At first it was hard to look at myself. I could see the brunette holding onto my hand. Her nails digging into my palm trying to establish a better grip. The horror on her face when she realized that I wasn’t going to save her. The screams when I let go. My reflection stared back at me with an evil smirk, and mouthed the words, “You can’t save them. They are already dead.” The mocking irritated me, but the cockiness of the words pissed me off. The reality was without knowing anything about the brunette, she was already dead. I started thinking of the killer’s game as a chess match. I was finished being black. Second wasn’t going to win this match of Armageddon chess even if winning meant I only had to draw. A draw meant many more deaths. The short-haired brunette would be my gambit. A sacrifice. Saying that made me want to vomit, but I had no other choice. I could spend hours trying to trick my mind into telling me who she was; I could spend hours wandering aimlessly trying to find her on the Tech campus. Or I could use the time preparing for his fifth move — Rebecca Aaron.
The killer didn’t have a clue that I knew who the next victim would be. We were well into the middlegame. He would beam invincibility after the brunette. He would be vulnerable. Rebecca was my endgame. My only way to stop him. To be waiting to do to him what he had done to this town — strike fear by mainlining hopelessness directly to his veins. I had to stop being weak. I had to think like the killer to catch him.
Establishing a relationship with Rebecca was the first step. I picked up my phone and dialed WLNC. Rebecca did the weather in the morning, even though she wasn’t a meteorologist. I guess the station figured her looks would make up for any errors in forecasting. It took about five minutes, but Rebecca finally came to the phone.
“Rebecca Aaron.”
“Rebecca, this is Detective Michael Callahan with the Twelfth Precinct. You’re wanting a scoop on the kidnappings, right?”
“Of course.”
“Meet me for dinner and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Look Detective, I may be new here, but I’m not sleeping with you to get a story.”
“Last time I checked, they didn’t have beds at Luigi’s on Seventh. So, I think you’re safe there. I want to stop this guy and you can help me.”
“How’s seven sound?” Rebecca asked.
“See you at seven,” I said.
I hung up and gazed at my reflection, the evil smirk, replaced with a look of determination, beamed hope. Something I had lost a long while ago. The words of Friedrich Nietzsche echoed through my mind, “Beware that, when fighting monsters you yourself do not become a monster.”
Chapter 28
Captain Raines waited at my desk. She had her back to the doorway talking to another detective, Harry Reynolds, while clicking her heel. Raines rarely left her office. When she did grace the detectives with her presence there was a problem. The appearance of her hourglass figure usually meant someone’s time was running out.
>
Jennifer Raines was a forty-eight-year-old, former beauty queen, that didn’t look a day over twenty-nine. Accuse her of using the assets God gave her to get her position and she would plant your balls firmly in your gut. Not physically, Raines had a vicious tongue that could emasculate a man in a swift string of words. She was a hard ass, but fair. She believed in free will around the precinct, but if someone screwed up, Raines had no problem bringing the hand of God. And she had my father’s blessing. That alone gave her a deity-like status.
I looked for Bill, hoping that he had calmed down. No sign of him. I was foolish to think Bill would feel any different about the situation. I destroyed his trust in me. I practically fed his niece to the monster. Did he tell Raines that he suspected me? I considered cutting my losses and heading back home, but Harry Reynolds saw me.
“Callahan,” Reynolds said.
Captain Raines turned to greet me. She wasn’t wearing an executioner’s hood, but her emerald eyes didn’t hide the bad news. “Have a seat, Callahan.”
She pointed to my chair which, for a brief moment, looked like an ancient electric chair. Maybe I was wrong about that executioner’s thing. Before I could sit down she spoke.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the tragedy that hit Detective Ash’s family last night.”
I nodded.
“With the victim being Ash’s niece, I’ve decided to turn the case over to Reynolds and Baker.”
“Where’s Bill?” I asked.
“On personal leave,” Captain Raines said. “I’d like for you to get with Reynolds and catch him up on everything you have on the kidnappings.”
“I’ll do it now, Captain,” I said.
Turning the case over to Reynolds and Baker was a blessing. To catch the killer I had to think outside of the realm of a cop. That’s hard to do if I have to follow protocol.
“In a bit,” Captain Raines said. “Someone is waiting in my office for you.”
“For me?” I asked.
“FBI,” Captain Raines said. “Three kidnappings in a week lands you on federal radar.”
“Why do they want to see me?”
“I don’t know,” Captain Raines said. The aggravation in her voice escalated. “Just get your ass in there so I can get my office back. I'm not fond of the FBI sitting on my couch.”
Raines’s office was three doors down, but the walk felt like three miles. It was the closest feeling to the walk of a condemned man on the day of reckoning. The FBI was a different breed — veterans in the trenches of psychological warfare. Questions were given meticulous thought before being asked. Answering my partner’s questions without giving away deceit was tough enough. Fooling an FBI agent during an interrogation was damn near impossible.
Through the glass door I saw the shadow of one agent. I was relieved that he was alone. Taking on one had to be better than two, right? He was an older man, jet black hair with waves of grey. He sat, with legs crossed at the ankles, on the couch in Raines’s office reading a magazine. I closed my eyes, mentally gave myself a pep talk, and opened the door. The agent looked up from the Cosmopolitan magazine and took off his glasses.
“Did you know there are 99 new ways for a woman to orgasm?” the agent asked.
“Huh?”
The agent laughed. “Well according to Cosmo.” He rolled the magazine and pointed it at me. “But I have a feeling the writer was a bit of a wishful thinker.”
I chuckled. It was forced, and he knew it.
“No need to laugh when a joke’s not funny. Next thing you know you’ll give me false hope and I’ll be on stage somewhere smashing watermelons like Gallagher.” The agent pointed to a chair opposite the couch. “Have a seat.”
I eased into the chair with the cautiousness of a firewalker. I couldn’t concentrate on what not to do. Don’t fidget. Make eye contact. My body spoke so many languages. Too many to try and translate. The agent knew I was the guilty kid getting called to the principal's office.
“Relax,” the agent said. “First time meeting the FBI?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm Reid Hoffman with the Behavioral Research and Instruction Unit. But just call me Reid.”
I put the name to the face which seemed remotely familiar — Reid Hoffman, the country's leading authority on serial killers. Earlier in the year, a television special on the life of John Wayne Gacy aired after he was sentenced to death. An entire segment was dedicated to Hoffman and his ability to understand how the most evil people tick.
“I saw you on television,” I said.
“Pissed me off. The entire interview was from my bad side,” Reid said. “Another homicide cop with sleep problems, huh?”
“Pardon me,” I said.
Reid drew half circles under his eyes with his index fingers. “You bear the scars of an insomniac.”
“I haven’t been sleeping all too well.”
“This case eating at you?”
A vague question — the appetizer to the seven course interrogation headed my way. The FBI never comes unprepared. If you draw its attention, face value has no worth any longer. Reid wanted more. He wanted me to open up about the kidnappings in hopes that I would let something slip. But I wasn’t the killer. I couldn’t do anything to give him reason to believe otherwise.
“Too much Mountain Dew,” I said.
Reid laughed. “Addictive stuff. Probably harder to kick than cocaine.”
I nodded.
“Michael, right?”
“Yes.”
"Do you know why I'm here?" Reid asked.
"The kidnappings?"
“That's part of it. Have you ever heard of twin telepathy?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a scientific anomaly. One twin breaks his arm. The other feels it a hundred miles away. I read a case of a pregnant woman. Her twin had a dream the night before of going into labor and the next day the pregnant woman gave birth. Sometimes twins have the same dreams. Have you been having bad dreams, Michael?”
It was as if Reid had tapped my mind. The confidence in how he asked the question told me that he already knew the answer. I wanted to tell him. I wanted the weight lifted from me. But I had no twin. No siblings. Reid grabbed a folder that was sitting on top of the stack of magazines.
“Take a look at this,” he said, handing it to me.
Inside was a photo and rap sheet for Norman Wallace. Wallace was a savvy businessman who always seemed to be on the cusp of the next big thing. In 1951, he invested in a little known project what would become the first videotape recorder. In 1953, Wallace silently funded a design that lead to the first black box - flight recorder. And in 1959, he helped fund that invention of the internal pacemaker.
By 1960, Wallace had everything — a stunning wife, two growing boys, and the aspirations for a third child. Wallace also had a second life. He was a serial killer. The urges began when he was a teen. He never acted. Wallace always pushed them to the back of his mind. He grew up in a household that held Christian values above all else. Even family. When other kids were reading about Dick and Jane, Wallace’s mother made him read the Bible. He learned early on about the evils of the Devil. The thirst for blood that developed in him as a teen led Wallace to believe he was the Devil. A notion he finally embraced on a chilly, fall day in 1950.
Money and fame afforded Wallace a cloak to hide the monster. To shield the world from the horns that wanted to rip through the flesh of the unclean. On that October evening, he took the life of Mary Sue Bell. Murder wasn’t as glamorous as it was in fantasy. He choked the life out of her after she practically threw sex at him. In his eyes anyway, in reality she just said hello. But she was a whore. Nothing but a carrier of disease. Blight on the world. Even through disappointment, it felt good to send the whore to Hell where she belonged. Ten years later and with six murders under his belt, Wallace was the Devil.
“Do you know who that is?” Reid asked.
“Norman Wallace.”
“No, do you k
now who that is?”
“I’m not following you,” I said. “He’s an infamous serial killer who was never caught.”
“He’s your father,” Reid said.
I closed the folder and handed it back to Reid. “I’m sorry; you have me confused with someone else. My father was James Callahan.”
“James was the man that raised you. Norman is your biological father.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“Wallace disappeared in ‘63 after an anonymous tip pegged him in the abduction of Jane Kilby. They found Jane’s body three days later in a creek behind a cabin near Charlotte. A cabin owned by Norman Wallace. The remains of five more women were found buried near a boat dock.”
“I would remember if my father was a serial killer,” I said.
“You were young. The cops found you in a bedroom at the cabin. Your mother was missing. To this day, she has never been found. George, your brother, disappeared when he was nine.”
“I don’t have a brother,” I said.
“You didn’t know you have a brother. But you do. An identical twin.”
“I don’t believe you.”
But, I did believe him. For the first time, things that couldn’t be explained made sense. The killer in the dreams wasn’t me. It was my brother. I’d lied to Hoffman about my knowledge of twin telepathy. I read a story once about a man feeling pressure in his chest while his brother was having a heart attack, two thousand miles away. It was possible. Hoffman didn’t think I took those girls. This was my opportunity to gain an ally.
“I know it’s hard to take in all at once, but…”
I cut Hoffman off. “I’ve been having dreams. I see the killer. I thought it was me.”
“What have you seen?”
“Everything. I see him stalk the girls. Take them. Murder them.”
“You’ve seen the three missing girls in dreams?” Reid asked.
“Yes, and two more that he hasn’t taken yet.”
“Do you know the women?”
