The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  “Sure thing, Stan,” Shard said, and sulked off.

  He returned to the paint department, known in the HomeMart vernacular as the paint pod. His entire job consisted of mixing paint, eight hours a day, five days a week. He didn’t actually mix the paint. A computerized machine did. He merely entered a color code on a keypad, and the tints were automatically dispensed. It was so easy, a monkey could do it. No, he thought, if a monkey could do it, HomeMart would make smaller aprons.

  He was absurdly overqualified. He hated his job but desperately needed it. Like anyone, he had bills to pay. As long as he sloshed paint, his daughter Audrey got the care she required.

  A woman waited for help at the counter. She chatted on her phone. When Shard asked what he could do for her, she slid a color sample card across the counter. Cranberry Red. “A gallon,” she said, “and don’t get any on the can.” She never even looked at him.

  Shard turned and faced the wall of paint cans. How much longer could he take this? He stood there, frozen.

  “Hey, mister, do you think I could get that paint today?” the woman said. “I’ve got yoga in ten minutes.”

  His face flushed. He set the paint on the mixer and keyed in the color code. When the tints finished dispensing, he hit the override key and added a shot of black. The woman wouldn’t know it was a bad match until she got it on the wall and it dried. That would teach her.

  He cursed himself. You pathetic loser! You compare yourself to Torquemada?

  His head throbbed, and a vein bulged on the side of his neck. A metallic taste filled his mouth. An electrical spasm seized his body. The faces of the customers blurred and whirled. As he fell, he grabbed for the mixing machine. His hand fell short, hitting the can of paint and spilling it onto his toppling body.

  His dark world went black.

  CHAPTER 86

  When Shard came to on the floor behind the paint counter, his boss hovered over him.

  “You okay, buddy?” Larkin said.

  Shard propped himself up on his elbows. Cranberry Red paint covered his face and chest. He knew the convulsions always looked worse than they were, so he milked the situation.

  “I guess so,” he said, “but I think I better go home.”

  “Not till the safety officer has a look at you.”

  “I’ll be fine, really,” he said, getting to his feet. “I just need to rest.”

  “Suit yourself,” Larkin said. “I’ll clock you out.”

  “Thanks, Stan. You’re all heart.”

  He’d forgotten to take his medication. The seizure was a stroke of luck. Now he had some free time.

  He’d spend it with Jordan Sinclair.

  Outside in the HomeMart parking lot, Shard hurried toward his van. When he spotted the woman who had set him off at the paint pod, he changed directions and approached her. There was room in his torture chamber for two victims.

  She saw him and looked away. Her pace quickened. Shard knew the red paint on his face made him look the madman he was. Snatching her was too risky.

  That’s it, baby, rush off to yoga. This is your lucky day.

  Shard hopped in his van. He was only minutes from Sea Breeze Mini-Storage. He felt giddy.

  His collection of medieval torture instruments had begun innocently enough as a harmless hobby. But if it was so innocent and harmless, he used to ask himself, why had he kept it a secret? Why had he felt ashamed?

  He had acquired his first piece—the Scavenger’s Daughter—by accident. Twenty years earlier, while on shore leave in the Navy, he had wandered into a junk store in Genoa, Italy. Neither the shop owner nor Shard knew its function or worth. All Shard knew was that the mysterious metal frame stirred something deep inside him—from his stomach down through his groin.

  Shard smuggled the Scavenger’s Daughter back to the U.S. inside his footlocker on the ship. When he discovered what he had, he was hooked. He read everything he could find about medieval torture devices and the Spanish Inquisition. He taught himself Latin so he could read the records kept when heretics were compelled by pain to confess.

  Little by little, he amassed his collection. He started with smaller implements: a spiked necklace, a Cat’s Paw, a Shrew’s Fiddle. They were cheaper—and easier to conceal.

  The Inquisition had spread from Europe to the Spanish territories in the New World. With the inquisitors came the torture devices. Many of them ended up in national museums throughout the Western Hemisphere. But countless other instruments of death had found their way into antiques stores and junkyards, from Lima to Los Angeles.

  Shard scoured the land for his prized devices of pain. When he found them, he paid cash, and never used his name.

  The Internet age made his quest easier. He shopped for medieval torture instruments from the privacy of his computer. He discovered a whole new world of sellers: auction houses, other private collectors, online catalogs. He’d once bought a self-mortification belt on Craigslist. He used fictitious business names and took delivery at mail drops scattered around San Diego.

  The Web also allowed him to connect with other medieval torture fanatics. He was stunned to learn how many were out there. It made him feel less freakish. He contributed often and at length to blogs and online newsgroups. The replies and comments that his postings prompted convinced him that he was an expert without peer. But Shard had guarded his anonymity, always writing under the alias Mr. Hardware.

  After he married, he hid his torture devices from his wife, locking them inside his basement workshop. When the collection outgrew the workshop, he rented the storage unit. The added space meant he could acquire the larger pieces: the stretching rack, the spiked interrogation chair, the hanging cage and the Judas Cradle. They were expensive, but he’d earned them. They were the fruits of his hard work.

  When his hardware business went bust, Shard took a job moonlighting for a catering company in order to pay the rent on his storage unit. He never thought to sell his beloved collection. He’d sooner lose a leg than a leg iron.

  For years, his interest in medieval torture remained almost academic. His passion turned pornographic only after the birth of his daughter. His wife, afraid to bring another handicapped child into the world, denied him sex. He turned to his hideaway for his needs.

  A fantasy life took hold. Inside Unit 67, he looked at pictures of torture victims and imagined he had killed them. He had a life-sized rubber doll that he positioned in his contraptions of pain. He would taunt the doll as he worked himself into sexual frenzies.

  Deep in his dark heart, he knew that his wife’s celibacy was only an excuse. He’d made the link between pain and pleasure long ago. As a boy, he tortured small animals in the canyon behind his house. He had his first orgasm after igniting a firecracker in the rectum of an opossum. His arousal upon seeing the Scavenger’s Daughter in the Italian junk shop only confirmed what he’d struggled for years to deny: He was a sadist.

  Over time, it took longer and longer for the tortured doll to get him off. The intensity of his fantasy sessions diminished. He was like a junkie, forever chasing the rush of his first high. He knew he had to make the doll human.

  The doll eventually became Nina Tate, his first victim. The downtown developer triggered his transformation from closeted fetishist to monstrous butcher. Her role in his economic downfall was a blessing. She had helped marry his sense of revenge to his lust for blood.

  Even then, he struggled to rationalize his wanton cruelty, casting himself as a latter-day Torquemada. In this modern version of the Inquisition, the elite were the new heretics. He would target those who had personally ruined him. They would come to see the error of their ways as he rejoiced in their agony.

  It was easy to come up with other logical victims: Mayor Stanton, Dr. Lindblatt, Tiffany Samples. They had destroyed him. Even Dick Cameron and his ridiculous reality show offended his sensibilities.

  But by the time he’d dispatched Adore and Reggie Wilkinson, he’d run out of rationalizations. He wondered wh
ether his perverse pleasure even needed a reason.

  It occurred to him how much he hated the elite in general. The privileged class made the rules, then lived above the law. Crooked financiers, corrupt politicians, arrogant celebrities, lazy trust-funders—they took what they wanted, when they wanted it. They were the true psychopaths. But they had learned to disguise their power lust as a virtue, and the public applauded their “success.”

  Why should the pillars of society have all the fun?

  Now, as he raced toward his torture chamber to kill Jordan Sinclair, he asked himself a question: If I’m being honest, did I ever really intend to let her live? He was surprised by the swiftness of his answer: No.

  What a revelation! He felt liberated. He had finally fully transitioned from Luther Shard to Friar Tom. The self-actualized serial killer. At last.

  He merrily tapped his hands on the steering wheel to a U2 song on the radio. It’s a beautiful day/Don’t let it get away.

  “I promise you, I won’t, Bono,” he said out loud. “I intend to make every moment count.”

  A motorist talking on a cell phone cut him off. He didn’t care. Nothing could spoil his mood.

  It was Friday. TGIF. No catering gigs until next week. He’d call the babysitter and spend the next three days in his torture chamber with Jordan Sinclair. He hoped she was strong enough to last the whole weekend. He wanted to play with all of his toys.

  He’d give her a taste of the Scavenger’s Daughter, but release her before the cramping became too debilitating. He’d move on to the ripping trestle, the garrote and the Spanish Spider. He vowed to exercise restraint. He couldn’t just go crazy. He’d have to pace himself, save the serious stuff for Sunday night. For the ultimate climax, he’d break her with the wheel. After braiding her pulverized limbs through the spokes, perhaps he’d roll the whole bloody mess onto Tyler West’s home putting green.

  Ah, what fun!

  Shard saw the freeway interchange ahead. He switched lanes, preparing to merge onto the I-5. When he glanced in his side-view mirror, he saw something upsetting: Tyler West’s car. He recognized the green ’59 Chevy Impala convertible from the night he snatched the reporter’s wife from it.

  Shard pounded his fist into the van’s ceiling three times, bellowing, “No!” But he knew this was no time to lose control. He couldn’t lead West to his storage unit. Breathe, he told himself, inhaling deeply. Just breathe. That’s it. Maybe that bitch at HomeMart is onto something. Maybe I should take up yoga.

  Shard doubted West could track him all weekend. He’d find a way to ditch the reporter and get to the torture chamber.

  The killer didn’t take the I-5 onramp. He instead turned north on Morena Boulevard.

  He stopped at a taco stand.

  CHAPTER 87

  Each weekday, Helen Tway picked up Audrey Shard from her special ed school and stayed with her at the girl’s house until her dad returned from HomeMart. The widow lived next door to the Shards on Moultrie Avenue, in Clairemont.

  Tway had cared for Dana Shard, during her losing battle with cancer, and now she watched the daughter, who suffered from cerebral palsy. She didn’t charge Luther for her time. She liked the five-year-old girl. Plus, the more time she spent in the house, the sooner Luther might finally pay her some attention.

  It was dark outside when Shard rushed from the attached garage through the pantry door and into his house. With red paint splashed on his face and clothes, he looked a fright.

  “My goodness, Luther!” Tway said, rising from the couch. “Where have you been? Your boss called to check on you. He said you’d had another one of your spells.”

  “I stopped to fill a prescription,” Shard said. That’s what he’d tell Stan Larkin if he asked.

  “I was so worried.”

  “All better now, Mrs. Tway.”

  She had tried for months to get him to call her Helen, but he never would.

  “Is Audrey still awake?” he said, striding toward the woman.

  She had never seen him so revved up, and she wondered if he was high on something.

  “I just put her to bed,” she said, timidly. “I know she’ll be thrilled to see you. But, please, sit down. You don’t look so well.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Tway. Outstanding, a hundred percent, tip-top. I’m my old self. No, check that, I’m a new man.”

  “Sit down, Luther, please. Let me fix you something to eat.”

  He kept walking toward her.

  “No, thank you. Not hungry. I just want to let Audrey know I’m home, then wash up.”

  “Well, I’ll just make myself a bed on the couch. If you or Audrey need anything in the night, I’ll be right here.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Tway,” he said, now standing toe to toe with the woman. “We’ll be fine. Thanks for everything. You’ve been a big help. Goodnight.”

  Tway, who had longed to be this close to her neighbor, found herself backing away from the tall man. She had always considered him thin, but she now saw he had a sculpted, sinewy body.

  She grabbed her purse from the coffee table and hoped he didn’t see her trembling hand.

  “I’ll drop by tomorrow to see how you and Audrey are doing.”

  He crossed the room, closing the gap between them, as the woman continued to back toward the door. When she bumped into it, she fumbled behind her back for the knob. He kept coming at her.

  “I won’t be needing you anymore,” he said.

  Shard extended an arm toward her. She flinched and felt a knee buckle. She watched his large, strong hand come at her.

  He reached around her waist and grabbed the doorknob.

  “Let me get the door for you,” he said.

  She sagged with relief. Her legs shook as she stepped aside and let him open the door.

  “I’m taking Audrey to L.A. in the morning,” he said. “She’s been accepted to the Peterson Center. It’s the finest facility on the West Coast for kids with cerebral palsy. She’ll finally get the care she deserves.”

  His words produced the desired effect. The woman now looked petrified and wounded. Man, it feels good to hurt people!

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Tway,” he said with fake sincerity, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  He closed the door and turned off the porch light before she reached the end of the driveway.

  Shard bounded the stairs. Audrey’s door was cracked open, a night-light glowing inside.

  “Are you awake, precious?” he whispered. “Daddy’s home.”

  The girl squealed with glee in the half dark.

  He flipped on the light and sat on the girl’s bed, knocking a throw pillow to the floor. His late wife had embroidered the words PRECIOUS ANGEL onto the pillow in needlepoint.

  He used a handkerchief to dab the drool that had collected in the corners of his daughter’s mouth.

  “Hello, angel,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  The girl saw the red paint on her father’s face and said, “Daddy clown.”

  “Yes, precious,” Shard said. “Daddy is a clown.”

  He gathered his crippled daughter into his powerful arms and rocked her gently. She felt so fragile and weak in her pink, flannel pajamas. She smiled and slurped and cooed.

  He sang her a lullaby his great-grandmother taught him. She came from Hungary to live with his family when he was a baby. She was blind. Whenever his father beat him, he climbed into the lap of the big, blind woman, and she rocked him and sang to him until he stopped crying. When she died, there were only the beatings.

  He held Audrey and sang softly. To him, she was perfection. He looked past her mangled body and saw only her sweet, innocent smile. He never saw her as damaged. It would only add to his list of failures, and that would be too much to bear.

  It was a pity he was a poor man. He would have liked to have put Audrey in the Peterson Center—if such a facility existed.

  He laid Audrey back down in bed and picked the pillow up from the
floor.

  CHAPTER 88

  I walked out of HomeMart feeling helpless.

  While Shard mixed paint, Jordan was locked in his dungeon. I wanted to break into his house and free her. But what if his dungeon wasn’t in his house? Or what if it was, and the house were booby-trapped?

  It was a job for SDPD. But I still needed more to convince Walton that Luther Shard was Friar Tom.

  I pulled my car around the side of HomeMart. I slid down in the seat and watched the employee entrance.

  Shard walked out a little after four o’clock. Something was up. He had red paint on his face and clothes. He appeared to be stalking a female customer across the parking lot. Then he suddenly cut through a row of cars and got into a white Ford Econoline panel van. It looked like the van from the Tiffany Samples abduction photo. It was the perfect snatch vehicle. No side or rear windows, so nobody would ever see victims thrashing inside.

  I started my car and pulled closer to the van. It had a vanity license plate: AUTODFE. I got the pun. Auto da fé was Portuguese for “act of faith.” But in the context of the Spanish Inquisition, it meant the burning of a heretic. Friar Tom was seriously twisted, and he’d been hiding in plain sight.

  I followed him out of the parking lot. He headed west on the I-8. I hoped he’d lead me straight to Jordan. I couldn’t let him see me, so I stayed five or six cars behind.

  As we neared the I-5, he changed lanes. I had to swing out around several slower cars to keep up. I couldn’t lose him. Jordan’s life depended on it.

  He exited the freeway and drove north on Morena, a frontage road that parallels the I-5. I followed him through several traffic lights, passing various carpet, lighting and tile outlets and warehouses. When I saw the van’s right-turn signal blink, I pulled to the curb. I grew excited. Was I about to uncover Jordan’s location?

  But my heart sank as I saw the van pull into an Ernesto’s drive-thru taco stand. I waited for the van to reach the front of the line. After Shard paid for his food, he parked. He didn’t get out of the van. I figured he was eating his tacos.