by Lee Hays
“Hey, Barb. Turn on a light, will you?”
She stopped suddenly for she now heard breathing, only it was coming from behind her. She turned quickly, just in time to see a hand shove the door shut and throw the bedroom into total darkness. Before she could scream or utter a word, he was on her, both hands to her throat and she sank into unconsciousness without being aware of who or what had attacked her.
At the Music Conservatory, Ken Fuller went carefully from room to room calling Peter Smythe’s name but the building was, as far as he could tell, completely empty. Only one room got his attention. He stopped short when he saw the wreckage of a grand piano standing forlornly in the middle of one of the practice rooms; he bit his lower lip and then hurried from the room and out of the building to his waiting car.
From the bottom of the stairs Jess called up, “Hey, Phyl? All locked up down here. How are you doing? Hey, Phyl? Are you there? Don’t play games, Phyl. This is Christmas, not Halloween.” Apprehensive, she started slowly up the stairs but was stopped by the ringing of the telephone in the living room. Nervously she looked up, then back down in the direction of the sound, finally made up her mind, turned around and walked back quickly to the living room, switching on a light and picking up the receiver at the same time. “Hello?”
The voice was like an electric shock; it almost knocked the phone from her hand, not from the decibal count but from the bizarre, disgusting sound that it produced on her already jangled nerves. It was a wild, animal scream piercing her ear, then sobs and finally a child’s voice, that of a little girl crying out in terror.
“Mommy! Help!” There was gagging, whimpering and then the voice spoke again, still that of a little girl. “Billy! Don’t do that! Ow! You’re hurting!” The crying was interrupted by the voice of an older woman, furious, almost screaming.
“I saw that! He put his hands between her legs! For Christ’s sake! You filthy little animal!”
There was gasping as though two people were locked in a mortal struggle and the little boy’s voice came on the line, pleading. “Don’t tell, Agnes, please don’t tell.”
Without a pause, not missing a beat, the voice changed once more to that of a little girl screaming out, “Nasty Billy! Nasty Billy!”
Just before he got into his car, Ken Fuller was hailed by a patrol car hurrying up to him full speed. A uniformed officer called from the window, “Lieutenant Fuller! That guy’s on the phone again, back at the sorority house.”
Fuller leaped into his car and switched on his two-way radio, signalling for Sergeant Nash.
Graham, still at the switchboard, was desperately plugging the jack into each lighted socket, hoping against hope that this time the caller would stay on the line long enough for him to make a contact and trace the number.
To Jess, standing tense, rigid with fear and anxiety, it seemed as though the caller had been talking for hours, changing personalities so fast that she could hardly organize her thoughts. Now he seemed to be a cat, meowing vigorously and then giggling madly, alternately wild beast and madman.
Again everything stopped and she, as well as Bill Graham, thought he was about to hang up. Instead, once more the whispering, pleading voice came over the wire. “Oh, God! Stop me! Please! Please stop me!”
This was followed by roars, growls and then moans.
By this time Nash had plugged the call into Lieutenant Fuller’s radio so that Ken was now picking up the one-sided conversation, too. He sat there watching the radio as though somehow staring at it would give him the answer to the problem.
The caller’s voice reverted to that of the older woman, as he cried out hysterically, “Damn it! I know what you did!”
A little boy answered her. “No, mommy. I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did! You put your hand down between her legs and then you killed her! You smothered my baby!”
Animal screams of anguish so horrified Jess that she almost slammed down the receiver at just the moment when Bill Graham’s expression changed from one of alert concern to an almost relaxed smile. He studied the board carefully, wrote down a number on a piece of paper and started rapidly leafing through a cross-reference telephone book.
Standing alone in the big room Jess listened to the call with distaste, wondering from time to time what had become of Phyl, looking toward the hallway and the stairs, wishing that Phyl would come down so that she could share (if that was the right word) her revulsion with another human being.
The soothing voice of the older man did nothing to assuage her disgust as he said, “Now, dear, don’t worry. We’ll find Agnes. She’s probably with Billy. Yes, that must be it. She’s probably in Billy’s room. Just calm down dear.”
There was a scream and the little girl cried out, “Ow! It hurts! Mommy! Mommy!” Her voice became muffled as she started to scream more desperately.
The sound was interrupted on Lieutenant Fuller’s radio by the voice of Sergeant Nash. “Lieutenant Fuller?”
Pushing a button, Fuller said, “Yes, Nash. What is it?”
“Graham’s on the other line, sir. He says he has got a trace on this one.”
“Great! Let’s have it.”
“He says the calls are coming from one-oh-six Belmont Street.”
“Dammit, Nash, you got it wrong! For Christ’s sake! That’s where the calls are going into.”
“That’s where they’re coming from, too, sir. I told that to Graham, but he said it must be the other—”
“Shit!” Fuller screamed as it came to him what was happening. He pushed another button and yelled into the microphone. “Jennings! Jennings!” Frantically he jammed the button. “Goddam it, Jennings! Jennings! Where the hell are you, Jennings!
When he got no answer from the plainclothesman who was supposedly on duty in front of the sorority house he switched back over to the squad room.
“Nash!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Nash, I can’t get Jennings. God knows where he went. Now this is an emergency, Nash. I want you to call that girl, Jessica Bradley. Call her as soon as I sign off. Now, look, Nash. Calm yourself before calling her, then tell her to be calm. Don’t tell her that the guy is in the house. Just tell her to put the phone down and walk quietly to the front door and out into the street. Tell her to go to Jennings in the car across the way. Now, listen to me, Nash. If you blow this one, I’ll kill you! Tell her to go outside. Tell her I’ll be there in five minutes. And as soon as you hang up try to raise Jennings and tell him to get his ass out of that car and get across the street to help her. Got that?”
He already had the car in gear and he was speeding away toward the sorority house as Nash answered him, “Yes, sir.”
In the meantime the caller had hung up and Jess, after putting back the receiver walked to the bottom of the stairs, obviously frightened as she called up, “Phyl! Phyl! Answer me, Phyl! Where are you? Phyl, please answer me!”
The phone rang again and she ran back to it almost as if it offered her only hope of contact with the world, grabbing up the receiver and crying out, “Yes, who is it?”
Sergeant Nash spoke very slowly. “Who is this?”
“Who is this? Oh, God, what’s going on? I’m Jessica Bradley.”
“Jess, this is Sergeant Nash from headquarters. Are you the only one in the house?”
“No. Barbara’s asleep upstairs. So is Phyl, I think. Why?”
“All right. Now, look, Jess, I want you to do exactly what I tell you without asking any questions. Okay?”
“But . . . I don’t understand.”
“No questions! Now put the phone back on the hook and walk to the front door and leave the house.”
“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Jess, please. Just do what I tell you. Walk out of the house and go across the street to the car parked there. Our man, Jennings, will be waiting for you.”
“Okay, if you say so. I’ll get Phyl and Barb.”
As she started to hang up the phone h
e yelled into it, “Jess! Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that! Jess. He’s in the house! The calls are coming from the house.”
She lowered the phone, turned and looked up the stairs, stricken.
Nash was screaming over the wire, “Get out, Jess, Don’t go upstairs. Just walk to the door and get out! The police are on the way.”
She hardly heard what he said. Her eyes were riveted on the second floor as she edged her way slowly toward the hall and the door which meant escape. Numb with fear she could not look away from the upstairs landing. She was having a terrible struggle within herself while her mouth was saying softly, “Barb! Phyl!” Her soft words, spoken almost prayerfully, were not heard and when she reached the door she called again, this time screaming out the names of her two friends, “Barb! Phyl!”
Only silence greeted her. She desperately wanted to run from the house but something held her there, some force, or perhaps her own will, her anger and hatred at what had been happening to her, to all of them. Suddenly she bolted back into the living room, ran to the fireplace and grabbed up the iron poker that leaned against the red brick. Warily she moved out of the living room and started up the stairs, her face white with fear, compelled to go forward, not to retreat.
At the top of the stairs, she called softly, “Barb! Barb.”
Down the hall she went to Barbara’s room, stopping in front of the partially opened door. “Barb!”
She pushed the door but it hardly budged. She shoved again and it gave a bit. Leaning against it she pushed hard and suddenly it gave way and she half fell into the room. With the door open the dim light from the hall cast enough illumination for her to see, sitting on the bed, the bodies of Barb and Phyl, their heads twisted around, their eyes bulging.
On her knees her mind would not register the ghastly sight she saw. For a moment nothing happened and then she heard a sound that sent chills through her whole body. She looked up wildly and saw standing in the doorway of the closet a dim figure. There was only enough light to make out his eyes but his words were clear.
“Billy’s a bad boy! Billy killed the baby!”
Slowly the closet door swung open.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Her fear galvanized her. Leaping to her feet she shoved the door back and was met by an outraged cry of pain. She ran out into the hall and took the stairs down two at a time, the poker still firmly in her grasp. The man in the room began to howl in rage as he started after her.
The sound grew louder as she struggled to unlock the front door which had become jammed. The stubborn bolt wouldn’t budge and the howling was punctuated with footsteps coming closer to the stairwell. Realizing the door would not open she looked around frantically. At the end of the downstairs hall was a door that led to the basement and she told herself, as the crazed man’s howl reverberated through the house, that she might be able to hide there.
She ran down the hall and into the cellar, pushing the door shut behind her. The door didn’t seem to have a lock but she found a bolt that fastened and she used it although she feared that it would be next to useless against the weight of the man who was, she could tell by his footsteps overhead, rushing about the house, searching for her.
She heard his footsteps in the hall on the other side of the door and suddenly his body slammed hard against the door as he screamed out in pain and rage. He slammed against the door again and again but miraculously the bolt held.
Slowly she backed down the steps, the poker in her one hand, the other guiding her along the railing. The door was buckling but not giving and she felt gratitude that it had been so well fastened. All at once there was a deafening silence as the man on the other side stopped his pounding against the door.
A step at a time she moved down the stairs, her eyes acclimated to the dark. When she reached the bottom she looked around and saw a boiler, a coal chute and bin and various odds and ends of junk piled about.
Stopping to listen for him she thought she could hear, in the distance, the sound of a police siren. Starting to move about she stopped when she heard her name being called. She looked up in time to see a pair of legs cross in front of the narrow cellar window. They kept moving but then stopped in front of another window, this one slightly wider. Clutching the poker and cringing she backed into a corner of the cellar. The body that she could see silhouetted from the moonlight on the snow knelt by the window and called her name again.
Wide-eyed, she stared up and saw a hand wiping the accumulated dust and mud from the window and peering into the cellar.
Her face reflected the horror that she felt when she realized that it was Peter!
Muffled and placating his voice came to her. “Jess, I know you’re in there. Let me in.”
She didn’t answer, but instead backed further away from the window and Peter Smythe. All at once there was a loud noise as she bumped into a stack of boxes and knocked several of them over.
“Jess!” Peter called. “Let me in.”
All at once he stood up and his foot lashed out, kicking in the glass and the entire window frame. It smashed onto the floor with a crash and then she could see him easing himself through the opening and coming to rest a few yards away from her on the cellar floor.
Very quietly, as he felt his way around in the darkness, Peter said, “Where are you, Jess?”
Wandering about, feeling into corners and behind boxes he said, “Jess. Don’t hide from me, Jess. I want to talk to you. Jess, we can’t kill the baby. It wouldn’t be right.”
Cowering behind the furnace she said, as he came toward her, “Don’t come near me, Peter.”
“Jess. I’m sorry, Jess.”
“Get away from me.” The sound of the siren was coming closer—and so was he. “I’m warning you, Peter, get away!”
Reaching out for her he said, “Jess, you know how much I love you. Why won’t you listen to me? Can’t we talk?”
Her arms raised involuntarily and as his hand brushed her hair she swung with all her might bringing the poker down across the side of his head with such force that he crumpled to his knees.
Looking stunned he reached up again for her and again the poker swung down on him; over and over again she hit him until finally he fell forward and was still on the floor in front of her.
Fuller’s car pulled up beside the one belonging to Jennings and Ken got out. One look through the window told him what had happened. “Oh, my God,” he said and started running toward the house as the squad car pulled up behind him and a policeman got out and followed him. The officer arrived at the front door at the same time Ken did and together they broke the glass and unbolted the door from inside.
Another policeman was running around toward the back of the house when he saw the broken window so he called out loudly to Ken, “The cellar.”
Inside, Ken found his way to the cellar door but it would not budge. Finally the uniformed officer returned with an axe and in a matter of seconds they had the door shattered. Fuller rushed down the stairs as a flashlight from the policeman outside played about the cellar, finally stopping on the body of Peter Smythe and Jessica Bradley, the poker still in her hands, standing above him. As the light hit Peter’s body she screamed and then fell forward, dropping the poker as she fainted.
“Apparently he made a phone call after every murder,” Ken Fuller was saying to Chris Hayden as the two of them stood at the far end of the bedroom where Jessica Bradley slept peacefully. A doctor was by her bedside and several policemen and two ambulance attendants moved past the lieutenant and into the hall as they spoke.
“Why, I wonder?”
“Who knows, Chris. I guess he really wanted someone to stop him. Poor bastard. Couldn’t help it, I suppose.” As Sergeant Nash came up to them Fuller said, “By the way, Nash, you’d better phone his parents and get them down here. I feel sorry for them. The trouble with a case like this is that you end up feeling sorry for everybody.”
The doctor r
eached over and checked Jess’s pulse again, then pulled back her left eyelid. “She’s way under,” he said. “What time do her parents get here?”
“They’ll be here in a couple of hours. They have to drive all the way from Unionville.”
“All right. I’ll stay with her until then.”
“Did anyone notify Pat Cornell?” Chris asked.
Fuller said, “Who?”
“Phyl’s boyfriend. No, I guess there was no way. Never mind, I’ll do it.”
Nash came back and whispered to Ken. “Lieutenant Fuller, I think we’re going to have to take these bodies to the morgue in Lincolnville. The hospital here doesn’t have the facilities for three more all at once, if we want an autopsy on every one.”
“All right. Notify the county coroner to start right away. The others can go on down and let Lincolnville know they’re coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nash stepped aside to allow Mr. Harrison, who had been standing by himself in the hall to step past the lieutenant and Chris. He watched as one of the ambulance attendants wheeled out a body covered with a sheet and then he started to follow the rolling stretcher down the hall.
Fuller said, “Everything about wrapped up here?”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Nash replied. “The state lab guys will be here in an hour or so. It’s hard getting people, it being Christmas. They said it would take an hour at least. I’ve got McCloskey out front. You want me to leave someone in here?”
“No, the doctor’s going to stay with her.”
“The station house is full of reporters. A couple of them are here, too. Downstairs. TV guys. They want pictures.”
