“Not to my knowledge, but I’m not an expert on the subject. There also are not too many cases in which the serial killer was actually part of a team, as is the case here. Most serial killers act alone.”
“Let’s take a call from Cary in Arvada. What do you make of all this?”
“It’s very frightening. If the killer is actually using the show to select victims, can the show be held liable? I heard that the show was taken off the air to limit their liability.”
“That’s a question for an attorney,” said Larry. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the victims’ families tried to connect those dots. These days, people will try to sue for just about anything.”
“Cary, do you think they should shut down the show?” asked Red.
“I do,” responded Cary. “If there really is a connection, how can you not shut it down? If the killer gets all the ideas from the show, I say, eliminate the source.”
“Too simplistic,” replied Larry. “Remember, we’re dealing with a deviant mind. I don’t think that the killers identify with the show. It’s just a convenient source for leads. If you have a killer loose and you shut down this information source, they’ll just find another source, like complaints from the Better Business Bureau. Remember, I said earlier that there’s no guarantee the killers won’t begin targeting another segment of the population. Maybe tomorrow, they decide that politicians are evil, and they’ll go after them. They’re not killing because of the show; they’re killing because they have a need to kill, and the taste for blood feeds on itself. I’m not sure there has ever been a case in which a serial killer stopped on their own. They don’t grow tired of it. Typically, they’re caught, and that’s why they stop.”
“And what about the gossip that some people suspect Bob himself?” asked Red.
“I’m not going down that road with you, Red. Too many landmines.”
“But I’ve had callers say they think Bob’s behind all this.”
“Speculation like that is dangerous. But believe me, the police have probably considered him and checked alibis and other pieces of evidence.”
The last caller brought Jackson up again. “The guy is a fanatic. Have you heard his show? He hates these people. And I just heard they took him off the air. Guys like him create division in society.”
“What about the fact that Bob protected our community from scammers?” responded Red. “Doesn’t mean he’s one of the killers, though.”
“Maybe not. But did you hear that he was just involved in a street brawl in downtown Denver? I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up being one of the killers.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Yet, who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
—William Shakespeare
A lightning bolt lit up the sky and was immediately followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. The house shook, causing the woman to reconsider the wisdom of tonight’s plan. Not much in life frightened her. She had grown up a tough girl—a tomboy, according to many of her classmates. She was always the one willing to try any new stunt, from taking jumps on her bicycle to fighting with boys or girls. But lightning was something altogether different. As a little girl, when lightning storms passed through, she would run to her room and hide under the bed, whimpering. Her parents couldn’t extricate her from her hiding space until the storm passed. The fear had abated over the years, but only slightly. As a thunderbolt struck in the distance, she stepped back from the window, convinced that if it struck nearby, she would become toast. The man knew about her long-standing fear but usually laughed it off. He could see the fear in her eyes now and wondered if it would be problem.
“Are you sure we should go through with this? Maybe we could do this another night,” she suggested softly.
He wasn’t going to let a little lightning derail the plan. “What a wimp,” he replied with an obvious tone of derision. “It will be fine. The rain will keep people off the streets. It’s actually better this way. We screwed up the last time, and those kids saw us. We need to be more careful.”
“I’m not worried about the rain; it’s the lightning that has me worried.”
“Odds are like a million-to-one. You won’t get hit.” He laughed.
“But I could,” she whimpered back at him.
“You won’t,” he said, more forcefully.
“Someone will notice us. The only people out on a night like this are up to no good.”
“No one will be watching. They’ll be standing clear of the windows, just like you. Just get dressed. We’re going ahead with the plan.”
So far, everything was falling into place for him. Each murder had gone off like clockwork. Even the kids seeing them hadn’t created too much of a problem. But he had to admit that they were lucky. If the kids had paid more attention, they might have been able to identify the car to the police. When they were on missions, they did use fake license plates, but it still would have been a problem. But the kids weren’t more observant, so they’d dodged a bullet.
Everything he had said was working, just like he’d said it would. The police were stymied and frustrated by the lack of evidence. The city leaders were exerting more pressure on the police department, and that was creating tension. And tension wasn’t going to help further the investigation. He had dropped fake clues, and they had been effective. The police knew from the blonde hairs that a woman was part of the team, but since it was from a cheap, dime-store wig, it wasn’t going to do them much good. The footprints were another brilliant idea. He made sure one was big and one was small, indicating a man and a woman, but they weren’t the right sizes. Both he had his accomplice wore shoes two sizes too big and made sure they left prints both in the carpet and the blood. Nothing left at any crime scene would have any of their DNA on it. He was sure of that.
He was brilliant. Ever since he was a kid, everyone who’d met him said so. This led to his confidence. He could do anything he set his mind to. Everything was accounted for, and nothing was left to chance—even down to the number of murders necessary to accomplish his goal. And tonight—if all went according to plan—would be the last murder.
“You always have to be the big shot. Always giving orders,” she snarled at him, bringing him back to the present.
He rolled his eyes. He was tired of her constantly questioning his plans. He was in charge because he was a brilliant tactician. How else could you explain the fact that the police were completely stymied?
“Look, this thing was my idea from the beginning, and all the planning has been mine, and we’ve done just fine. So, shut up, and let’s get going.” Then, he paused. “Are you really afraid of getting struck by lightning?”
“It could happen,” she replied sheepishly.
“Okay. I told you, the odds are, like, a million-to-one. It’s not going to happen. Now, quit being a baby and get ready.” He stormed out of the room before she could offer any more objections.
“I hate you,” she said to his back. She motioned like she was stabbing him in the back with a knife. She would never really hurt him, but she liked to fantasize about it.
He heard her comment and ignored it. She can be just like a little kid, he thought. What he didn’t need right now, though, was an argument with her. Focus was critical at this time. A loss of concentration would lead to a mistake, and a mistake was not acceptable. Numerous books and articles written by police investigators and educators that he had read talked about how criminals made mistakes—usually, due to uncontrolled emotions and carelessness, and, of course, stupidity. That wasn’t going to happen to him. Being apprehended was not an option. Prison was not going to be in his future. In fact, if it came down to it, he would sacrifice her to save himself. Loyalty and friendship only went so far.
Alone with his thoughts in the bedroom, he reached down and lifted his duffle bag onto the bed. A quick inventory confirmed he had everything they needed. He made sure the taser gun had a full charge. So far, they had been luck
y, and all the victims had been surprised and had gone down without much of a fight. But he was worried that he might have been overconfident. They couldn’t afford to tangle with one of their victims. The point was not to give one of their targets even the slightest chance of fighting back. Surprise, speed, and ruthlessness was the mantra.
She stayed in the living room and watched the lightning storm from what she thought was a safe distance away from the window. It didn’t stop her from having visions of being struck. She had read about people getting hit and getting sent flying with their shoes still sitting on the ground, while others were burned beyond recognition. The thoughts gave her goosebumps. But, she was tough, and she wasn’t going to let him humiliate her. She would go on the damn mission, but she decided she would let him carry all the metal objects. If anyone was going to get hit, it would be him. Not such a bad idea, she thought.
Still unconvinced it was entirely safe, she exited the house well behind him. She had decided to keep plenty of distance between them while they were outside. That way, if he got hit by lightning, she would survive. She boarded the passenger side without hesitating outside any longer than she had to. The house they were renting was in a rural neighborhood with homes spread out. No one ever saw them coming or going.
Lightning struck again, testing her resolve, but it was difficult. Panic wanted to control her, but so far, she was fighting it off successfully. But with each new lightning bolt, she would jump in her seat, wondering if she could still maintain her courage. The only thing keeping her in her seat was some fact she thought she had read that it was safe in a car during storms. She wasn’t sure if it was an urban myth or not, but it gave her some comfort. He could see her tensing up after each thunderclap and had the good sense to stop teasing her.
They drove on quietly to their target for the evening, Clark Roberts. Roberts lived a short drive from the home the Revengers had rented, but with the rain cascading down like a waterfall, the drive was slow. With few other cars on the street, it was also uneventful.
Mr. Roberts was the owner of Interstate Transfer and Storage. The firm was known as a discount moving and storage company—with an emphasis on discount. No competitor ever quoted a lower price than ITS. Of course, ITS never actually honored their price, either. They rarely put a quote in writing, and when they did, they covered themselves with paragraph after paragraph of fine print, legalese that no one ever read or could understand, which gave them every right to jack up prices upon delivery. No job was ever delivered at the quoted price, and, in reality, they were never the lowest price when it was all said and done. Some clients would refuse to pay the “adjusted” price, but Roberts didn’t play fair and would just hold their goods hostage. And it was all legal. The industry was basically unregulated, and Clark was legally within his rights. His terms were final payment upon delivery, or he would hold the buyer’s possessions for ninety days. After that, if they still didn’t pay, he’d sell the goods at auction. If they sold for more than the bill, the buyer got the difference—with, of course, additional fees for handling. It was a profitable business. Customers generally realized their mistake before it went to auction and paid his price. A bad reputation should have destroyed the scam, but Clark created a number of companies that he operated under. When one company alias got too hot, he would shut it down. Not exactly a unique or creative scam; the industry was full of them, but Clark had honed it to a science.
Social media was making it tougher for his scam to work, though. Customers were catching on, and business was starting to drop off. Even if the customer realized they screwed up by not reading the fine print, they still complained, and complaints were piling up for all his companies with the Better Business Bureau—and, of course, the Consumer Champion. Clark never bothered to take calls from the Consumer Champion. Why should he? He knew what his scam was, and he knew there was no defense for it. So, he ignored them. With offices now in five states, business was good, because there was always a new sucker he could take. Repeat business from satisfied customers was not what his business model was built on.
Business was, in fact, better than good. Clark lived an extravagant lifestyle with a mini-mansion in Cherry Creek. Although it was an exclusive neighborhood, his neighbors kept to themselves, and Clark preferred that. He was single and had no desire to get close to his neighbors. He was a party animal and didn’t think his snooty neighbors would approve, anyway.
The Revengers had selected him weeks ago and had been watching him to get a feel for his routine. They noted that he dated quite often, but his dates didn’t always stay overnight. The man was concerned that he was unpredictable, and there was the possibility they might have to deal with an innocent bystander, but ultimately, he decided that Clark was still the perfect target.
Most homes in Cherry Creek were protected by one security company or another, but Clark was cheap, and rather than go with a legitimate firm, he chose instead to steal a sign from one of his customers. Clark felt that home security companies were a rip-off, and he wasn’t going to get taken. He knew from his surveillance that the house was unprotected, and the sign was fake.
Lightning cracked as he drove by the house. It was getting late, and a couple of lights were still on. Confident that Clark would call it a night soon, he parked a few blocks from the home. They sat in the car for a few minutes and went over the details again: One, to ensure they were on the same page; and two, to give Clark a little more time to retire to his bedroom.
“He’s usually asleep by now, so I’m sure it won’t be too much longer. He doesn’t have a dog, so we should be okay waiting in the backyard until he goes to sleep. Once he’s upstairs, we slip in the side door that leads to the kitchen.” He handed her some gloves and booties. “We’ll find something in the kitchen to hit him with.” He always preferred to use something in the victim’s home as the murder weapon. “If we run into any trouble, I’ll stun him with this taser.”
“Do I get one?”
“No. I only got the one.”
She looked disappointed. “Where did you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter; we only need one. He’ll go down like a ton of bricks, then you can bash him with a frying pan or a lamp or something.”
The prospect of crushing Clark’s skull with a pan seemed to satisfy her, and she almost forgot about the lightning storm.
“Okay. Fine.”
“I brought enough duct tape to wrap him up like a package.” He had purchased a large package of generic duct tape and had made sure not to touch it without gloves. “Then, I want to hang him off the balcony.”
She smiled. This one sounded like fun.
Lightning struck and lit up the area, reminding her of her fear. “Can’t we park closer tonight?” she whined.
“Definitely not. Someone might see our car out front. We almost slipped up at the last one. Damn kids,” he complained. “But we lucked out. Don’t worry. You’re not going to get hit by lightning. I told you, that almost never happens.”
Almost? She wasn’t convinced, and part of her hoped he would be that one-in-a-million that did get struck. Maybe the battery in his taser gun would attract a lightning bolt. But, just in case, like before, she wouldn’t get too close to him.
Rather than abating, the storm was increasing in intensity. Now, there were more lightning strikes, and the thunder was louder—neither of which improved the woman’s mood. Even he wondered about the advisability of continuing the mission. But he was determined to finish out the killing spree tonight—even though the chance of being spotted increased each time lightning lit up the sky.
The rain was still coming down in torrents—a contingency he had not planned for. Their clothing was drenched before they reached the house, and they were starting to feel the chill as the rain soaked through their clothes. Still confident that no one would be out during a storm this powerful, he was sure the likelihood of being spotted was minimal. The lights in the house were still on as they made their way to the backyard. T
he gate was unlocked and offered little resistance, and any sound it might make opening and closing was drowned out by the rain.
The man took a position in the yard behind a large, wooden hot tub, while the woman took cover behind some hedges, making sure to leave plenty of space between the two of them. Their communication headgear was operating, but poorly in the rain and painful when lightning struck. From their vantage points, each could see into the living room, where Clark was sitting in a leather chair, watching TV. They watched Clark for a few minutes, until they were convinced he was alone. He appeared to be watching a movie, although neither of the killers could tell what the movie was. As the rain beat down on them, with occasional lightning strikes off in the distance, he wondered whether it was time to abort. He wasn’t worried about being spotted anymore, as the yard was protected from the view of any neighbors, and there was no way Clark could see from a lighted room into the dark yard. But they were getting soaked to the bone, and the cold rain was giving both of them a chill.
For the most part, Clark stayed glued to his chair, watching the TV, but every now and then, after a lightning bolt struck, he would rise out of his chair and look out into the yard. And each time he did that, they scrambled back to their hidden positions. The man wondered what would happen if Clark saw them. If Clark peered out at just the right time, he might. And, in fact, after a succession of strikes, the man was nervous that he and Clark had made eye contact. When Clark casually moved away from the window, the man sighed in relief. Surely, if Clark had seen him, there would have been more of a reaction. He radioed the woman and instructed her to remain hidden and stay calm. Her reply, although garbled by the rain, was clear. She was not happy and was starting to panic. The frequency of the lighting was weighing on her ability to stay the course. Between the cold and the lightning, she was shivering uncontrollably. He pleaded with her to hang tough.
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