by Paul Seiple
“Good idea,” Reid said. “Michael, you’ll be too recognizable. We can’t take the chance of George seeing you with Rebecca. I’ll tail Rebecca and Barbara. You go back to the precinct.”
“No,” I said. “Four women have died and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. I’m going to make sure Rebecca is safe.”
“Rebecca will be safe,” Barbara said. “I’ll be with her and Rich will be our backup. You have to trust us.”
“Hey guys, I’m still in the room,” Rebecca said. “I’m not helpless either. I have a black belt in Shotokan.”
Reid started to speak, but was interrupted by Barbara turning the volume up on the television. It was a Breaking News report. Across the bottom of the screen in white letters on a red background where the words “Killer speaks. Calls himself Murmur.”
“I bet Sam’s got a boner a mile long,” Rebecca said.
Sam Watlington was the model of a perfect newscaster — tall, chiseled jawline, deep voice, well-spoken, and annoyingly impeccably-parted blonde hair. The shoulders of his gray blazer hugged his frame without a hitch in the fabric. Something that never happened for me. I blamed it on my lanky frame. We sat in silence; hanging on Sam’s every word, as if he were describing the end of the world.
“At approximately eleven am this morning a call came into WLNC. The male caller took responsibility for the rash of kidnappings. This caller referred to the four missing women as sacrifices and boasted that more would come. Before hanging up, he mentioned the third victim, Kat Nelson, by name. He alluded to a surprise at her house. We have a crew there now along with S.W.A.T. and the bomb squad. We will be going to Kaley Harris at the scene momentarily.”
“That bitch Kaley Harris,” Rebecca said.
“As we wait for Kaley to set up I want to share the caller’s final words.” There was a dramatic pause. “As he ended the call, he spat a few expletives about the world hearing his screams and signed off as Murmur.”
“He’s entered the bragging stage,” Barbara said.
“What?” I asked.
“One aspect of serial murder is empowerment. It goes back to what you said about your brother’s predictability. George feels so confident that he is now ready to show the world what he can do. In the end it will help us catch him. But at the moment he may not stick with his plan. Serial killers are motivated by many things — financial gains, sexual gratification, attention, or just for the thrill of it. Gacy was a textbook example of killing for sexual gratification. That’s not your brother. He is doing it for the attention and for the thrill of it. The way the television and papers handle this news could dictate his pattern,” Reid said.
“What do you mean?” Rebecca asked.
“If George doesn’t get the praise he thinks he deserves, he will take things to another level,” Barbara said.
“And if he gets too much attention, it will make him want more. No different than a drug addict,” Reid said.
We turned our eyes back to the television when Kaley Harris appeared. She was a short, brunette, a little stocky, cute but not stunning. Rebecca had nothing to worry about.
“What can you tell us, Kaley? It looks like a madhouse there,” Sam said.
“It’s impossible to get near the house at the moment, Sam. But what I can tell you is there are five victims inside.”
“Five?” Reid and I said at the same time.
“Do you know anything about this man that calls himself Murmur?” Sam asked.
“It’s too early for that. Even though detectives were investigating the missing women, they were not prepared for this,” Kaley said.
“Do you have anything on the scene inside the house?” Sam asked.
“No official word, but I did overhear a couple of detectives saying this is the worst crime scene they’ve ever been a part of.”
Sam grabbed his earpiece and lowered his head in dramatic effect. An obvious clue that Sam had studied at the William Shatner School of Drama. “Kaley, I’m hearing from another source that four of the deceased are the missing women,” Sam said.
“I don’t mean to interrupt you, Sam, but it looks like Captain Raines is about to speak,” Kaley said.
Captain Raines pushed through the sea of cameras and microphones to a makeshift podium on the trunk of a police cruiser. Captain always had a 'take no shit' expression, but now that was elevated to ‘do not dare speak to me, I’m doing the talking.’
“Good afternoon,” Captain Raines said. “I’m going to make this short. We have a lot of work to do. At approximately 11 am this morning we received an anonymous call directing us to 1458 Harp Lane, the address of Kat Nelson, who has been missing for two days. Upon arrival, officers discovered five victims,” Raines paused to clear her throat. “all deceased.” I can confirm that four of the deceased are the missing women, Ashley Harris, Maggie Hoover, Kat Nelson, and Laurie McGuire. At the present time the next-of-kin of the fifth victim has not been notified. I am not going to answer any more questions at this time. Quite frankly, we just do not have answers.”
“What about Murmur? Is the city safe?” a male reporter from the Gazette asked.
“It doesn’t seem that the victims were random. I assure you all of our manpower is devoted to this case. For citizens, I ask that you remain vigilante…”
Before Raines could finish, the medical examiner, Al Hartlowe came storming out of Kat’s house.
“What kind of sick bastard crucifies a goddamn detective? Bill Ash was a good man.”
“Cut the microphone,” Captain Raines said, “Cut the damn mic.”
“Bill?” I asked.
“You know him?” Reid asked.
“He’s my partner.”
Rebecca hugged me.
“Did you dream of your brother killing your partner?” Barbara asked.
I stared at the television. Microphones swarmed around Captain Raine’s head like they were wasps and the news of Bill’s death disturbed their nest.
“Michael, did you dream this?” Reid asked.
“No.”
“He’s deviated from his goal,” Reid said. “We need to act now. Michael, I need you to go to Kat Nelson’s house. George may be looking for you. You need to be a homicide cop. Don’t give him any reason to be suspicious.” Reid turned to Barbara. “Get Rebecca to the news station. Rebecca try to grab the story. I want you as visible as possible to George.”
“Kaley will not give the story up now,” Rebecca said.
“You let me worry about that,” Reid said.
“He murdered Bill,” I said. The words of the others were muffled, strung together in a low hum. The first day that I met Bill Ash came to mind. I was nervous, first day in Homicide. I expected a straight-laced, take-no-shit, hard-assed, partner. A partner who would spend the majority of his time trying to break the rookie who was not quite ready for the horrors that waited. But my first image of Bill was him sitting behind a leaning stack of manila folders, white powder from donuts lodged in his beard, cursing the air because he spilled coffee on his pants. His first words to me were, “Got a napkin?” Bill Ash was more than a take-no-shit partner. He was a friend.
“You hear me, Michael?” Reid asked, shaking my forearm. “You have to be a cop. Don’t give your brother any indication that you know who he is.”
I nodded, not because I agreed with Reid. His words were still masked by the fog the enveloped me. I nodded because the game had changed and it was time for a family reunion.
Chapter 41
Death scenes are part of the territory for homicide cops. The first few hit hard. The first time you see a man with his gray matter splattered against the wall for not being able to pay his debt. The first time you see a hooker beaten to death by her pimp for not delivering the goods. It never gets easy. The magnitude of tragedy is never lessened. But to survive you have to become immune to violence. That seems cold. But the fact is — violence exists, it will always exist. Without evil, good would have no definition. For those that prote
ct, violence is the enemy. Fearing it, turning away from its destruction only gives it more power. Bill taught me early on not to shudder in the face of evil. It’s like turning your back on a wild dog. But the thought of a crime scene in which Bill was crucified and mutilated had me doubting my toughness. I wanted to remember my partner as the jolly guy spouting useless trivia facts while choking down a pack of powdered donuts, not the chew toy for a psychotic bastard.
Bill would be disappointed if I blinked in the face of malevolence. Truth be told, he probably died being disappointed with me. He obviously thought that I knew more about the kidnappings. Hell, maybe he thought I was behind them. Worse than that, when he needed me the most I wasn’t there. That’s rule number one — always have your partner’s back. I let him down. Killing my brother wouldn’t bring Bill back. It wouldn’t make up for not being there for him. But killing George would be cathartic. Revenge — an emotion you pledge to give up when you become a cop. I no longer cared about being a cop. Right and wrong didn’t have clear-cut definitions. There weren't two sides of the law, just a straight line leading to my brother. The only satisfying ending was the spilling of his blood. To cause him more excruciating pain than he placed on his victims. There was nothing that could stop me from going to the crime scene at Kat Nelson’s house. Not fear. Not the thought of the last image of Bill that I would remember would be horrific. I would witness the torture. The death. The pain that George inflicted on his victims, including my partner without blinking an eye. Fuck cowering in the stare of evil. It was time for me to pluck that bastard’s eyes out.
I made a quick stop by my house to change into acceptable detective wear — a clean shirt, matching tie, and sports coat. Stepping onto my porch I heard the screen door rattling in the wind. This happened sometimes when it didn’t latch properly. I didn’t give it another thought. The smell of coffee snagged onto me as I opened the door. My mind wandered to earlier when Rebecca walked into the bedroom, wearing only a T-shirt, holding a mug and smiling. It was hard to find anything shining during this dark time. But Rebecca’s smile refused to succumb to the black.
“You’re out of milk. I cannot stand black coffee.”
I jumped. Reached for my side. My revolver. It wasn’t there. I realized that in the rush of the morning I forgot my piece.
“What kind of cop leaves the house without his gun?” George said, sitting in the hand-me-down recliner my father used to unwind in every night. He pointed my revolver at me. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re my brother.”
George laughed. “Isn’t that sweet? You remember me. It’s the resemblance, isn’t it? A dead giveaway.”
Looking at my brother was like staring into a mirror. Something Father Abraham said shoved its way through the hate crowding my thoughts. He said, “Everyone is born with a choice between being good and being evil. Faith is a constant struggle between the two. The strength of one’s convictions will determine his fate in life.” Through my brother, Father Abraham’s words came to life. Physically, there was no difference between us. But mentally, the gap was infinite.
“I hate to say this, but I stopped being your brother a long time ago,” George said. “Now, I am death. Have a seat. Let’s catch up on old family secrets.”
“I think I’ll just stand," I said, surveying the room for anything that could be used as weapon.
George pointed the gun at me. “I’d be more comfortable if you sit.” He motioned to the couch.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked, sitting down, opposite of my brother.
“Happened to me?” George chuckled. “I wasn’t in a tragic accident. What happened to me, brother, was enlightenment.”
“You’re no different than Norman,” I said. “There’s is nothing enlightening about being a carbon copy of a psychopath.”
“Papa always said you were the red-headed stepchild, Mikey boy. You know he blames you for fucking up his life.”
“I didn’t know he existed until yesterday,” I said.
“Yeah, well, not one fucking day goes by that he doesn’t manifest his hate for you.”
“Norman is still alive?”
“Alive, well, and full of hate. Albeit, he is a bit crazy these days. He’s convinced that he is the Devil and God banished him to Earth.”
“And you’re not crazy?”
George smiled. “And you know what else? I think Papa thinks you’re God. The one who did this to him. You really fucked him up that day at the boat dock when you caught him burying that bitch.”
“You remember that?” I asked.
“Funny thing. Yesterday was full of revelations. I had a vision of you on your tricycle down by the dock catching Papa.”
Shit, he connected with me through the hypnosis, I thought. If he was there, he could know about Reid. Rebecca. “What else did you see?”
“I saw Papa kill mother because you were a fucking little brat that didn’t know how to obey orders.”
“He killed our mother,” I said. "That doesn't make you hate him?"
“Mother was a whore that didn’t deserve to live. Just like all these other whores.”
“You mean like Kat Nelson? Maggie Hoover?”
“Probably, but they were part of the plan. Papa called them fireflies. Said they were angels. Freeing the angels would give me power,” George put down the revolver and picked up the bloody knife that I had been hiding ever since he sent it to me. “He was right.”
“And Bill. Was he a firefly?”
“Bill was a nosey motherfucker that would have derailed my plan if he lived. You know, he thought you were taking the women. He broke into your house the other night looking for evidence. Glad he didn’t find this.” George pointed the tip of the knife in my direction. "Luckily, I was here to protect you. You can thank me later.”
“Ashley Harris, right? That’s her blood on the knife?”
George smiled again. “Maybe you’re not as shitty of a cop as I thought. Of course it’s her blood. Are you trying to get me to confess?”
I didn’t answer.
“OK, OK, don’t twist my arm. Yes, I gutted that little bitch.” George clenched his teeth and made a stabbing motion into the air. The clenched teeth morphed into a smirk. “She was powerful. There was much more to her than some common vagrant. Her death made me realize Papa was right. I am destined for great things.”
“What do you mean powerful?” I asked.
“You don’t know, do you? See, it’s a good thing you sat down. This may sting a bit. Sunshine was our sister.” George shook his head. “Papa is one cold-hearted motherfuck…”
I lunged at my brother. There was a loud cracking as my fist connected with George’s jaw, jamming his bottom teeth into the top. A piercing in my right side stopped my fist in mid-motion as I was about to hit him again. Followed by pain, so intense, I started to black out. The knife went deeper. George held my head. A strong scent of iron invaded my nostrils. Something wet dripped on my cheek. My eyes were heavy, but I knew he was bleeding.
“Why did you make me do that, brother?” George spit part of a tooth onto the floor. “You fucked up the plan and you fucked up my smile. Papa was right about you.”
The blade ripped through my flesh as George pulled it from my body. He released his hold on me, my knees gave out, and I crumbled to the ground. Pain was replaced by numbness. A state of unconsciousness wrapped around me, constricting, making me its prey. Hold on, I thought.
“Hang on, brother,” George said. “You have to be around to witness my final act.” He kicked me in the thigh, staving off the deep sleep that tempted me. “The stab wound throws a wrench into the plan, but I’ll make it work. I’ll shoot Rebecca Aaron with your gun. Put the knife in her hand as if she were defending herself. In the end, Michael Callahan, son of the late, great James Callahan will be the monster that terrorized this town.” George took a sip of coffee. “And I’ll be set free to infect the world with my disease.”
I heard
Rebecca’s voice. A hallucination? The last voice I would hear before dying?
“I have to admit the bitch does have some nice legs,” George said. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”
I fought to pry the fingers of sleep from my eyelids. Through blurred vision I saw Rebecca on television.
Chapter 42
“Captain Raines of the Twelfth Precinct has confirmed the death of detective Bill Ash. Ash was a twenty-year veteran of the homicide division after coming to Winston Salem from Louisiana. WLNC spoke with Captain Raines just a few minutes ago, she assures us that every measure is being taken to ensure that the killer is caught swiftly. Raines asks that if you see anything suspicious to call the police immediately. We will have more on the ten o’clock news. For now, be safe out there.”
Barbara and Reid waited for Rebecca to sign off the air.
“What this perp did to that cop,” Barbara said. “In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like that. He crucified him like Christ.”
“And he posed the victims like dolls,” Reid paused, “days after they were dead. We can’t afford to see what he does next.”
“So are you finally beyond this being about finding Norman Wallace?” Barbara asked.
“What?”
“I saw the way you acted during the hypnosis. You want revenge because you think Wallace killed your mother.”
“I know Wallace killed my mother. But this is about catching this killer.”
“Good,” Barbara said.
“I’m done here,” Rebecca said, dropping off an earpiece with a tech guy. “I don’t know what you said to get Kaley to back off the case, but you need to teach it to me after this is all over. That’s one bulldog bitch.”
“We need to make you visible,” Barbara said. “He’s waiting.”
“How can you be sure?” Rebecca asked.
“He’s like an addict. The high is wearing off from his earlier hit. He needs to feel the rush again,” Reid said.
“Rebecca, I’ll walk out with you,” Barbara said. “Act normal. I’ll scope the area for anything suspicious. I’ll hug you. You get in your car and head to yoga. Go the way you do every day. Reid and I will leave five minutes after you, so if a street light is yellow, stop. Stop a few extra seconds at a Stop sign. But don’t be obvious.”
