Mrs. Kropp had left the back door unlocked, so I didn’t have to break in. I resisted the urge to enter with gun in hand. I didn’t want to scare her to death if it turned out she was simply hard of hearing.
First, I smelled the rotten stink. Then I heard the buzzing flies.
Mrs. Kropp had been slimmer and nicer-looking than Mrs. Porter, but I judged she was about the same age. She lay on her bedroom floor with multiple wounds—paired punctures—on her face, neck, hands, and arms, and legs. Maybe on the rest of her body, too, but her yellow pull-over and baggy tan walking shorts made it hard to tell.
It was scary to realize that the snake or snakes that had bitten her might still be in the house. But the lizards crawling on the walls spooked me just about as badly.
I told myself they couldn’t be the same animals that had followed me around outside. They hadn’t really come through the hole in the screen, then raced through the house to watch my reaction when I discovered the corpse. No, obviously these were different lizards, camped out here to eat the insects that came to eat the body.
I exited the house even more cautiously than I’d entered, then called in the death. Along with the usual ambulance and investigators, Animal Control showed up to look for the snakes. They didn’t find them. The reptiles had killed their victim and escaped back into the great outdoors.
I caught the Animal Control officers when they were tossing their snake-catching equipment—poles with hooks on the ends and sturdy canvas bags that looked like mail sacks—into the back of their van. “I think I know how the snakes got in and out,” I said. “Want to see?”
The shorter of the pair, a redheaded, freckled guy who smelled of cigarette smoke, shrugged and said, “Okay.”
I led them around to the side of the house. No lizards followed us. Maybe the activity centered on the corpse was more interesting.
“The way I see it,” I said, “a snake could probably climb up on top of the air-conditioning unit, then move from there onto the windowsill. It could press its nose against the screen until it broke, then crawl on in. There’s a chair on the other side of the window, so when it was ready, it could climb back up and out.”
The freckled guy frowned. “I guess a snake could do all that. But I don’t think it would.”
“Me neither,” said his partner. He was missing the last joint of his ring finger, and I wondered if an animal had bitten it off. “A snake will come into a house if it happens to find a way. But climbing, then forcing a way in? I just don’t see it. I don’t know, maybe if the hole was already there. The hurricane could have ripped the screen.”
“Probably not,” I said. “It didn’t tear any of the others, and she would have had her new storm shutters down. But if my idea’s wrong, how do you think the snakes got in and out?”
“There’s a hole at ground level,” said the freckled man, pulling a pack of Marlboros and a disposable lighter from his pocket. “We didn’t find it, but it’s there somewhere.”
And that was that. Since they didn’t even like my snake theory, I didn’t see much point in telling them my crazy lizard story.
Snakes killed someone else the very next day, and that was when the local TV stations and newspapers decided to make a big deal out of the story. They had a point. Florida averaged five deaths by snakebite per year. Our little piece of the state had racked up almost that many in a week.
Herpetologists explained that it was simply a fluke. Snakes didn’t ordinarily hunt in packs, nor did they hunt humans. If we left them alone, they’d leave us alone and help us out by killing rats and other pests.
I imagine some of the local residents found the experts’ line reassuring. Others went hunting, to get the snakes before the snakes got them.
Whether or not that was an overreaction, it was largely an exercise in futility. The town was on the I-4 corridor and close enough to Tampa for commuters to drive back and forth, so the developers had us in their sights. But the area was still pretty rural—very rural, compared to what I was used to—with plenty of strawberry fields, pastures, barns, thick stands of palmetto, and creek beds. All perfect places for a copperhead or diamondback to live and, if need be, hide.
Since the damn snakes had nearly bitten me, and I’d been the first officer at the scene of Mrs. Kropp’s death, I got interested enough to find out the details of each incident. And after the fifth death, I reluctantly decided I ought to talk to my boss.
Chief Davis was a stocky guy with a ready smile, a receding hairline, and faded blue tattoos on his forearms that dated back to his tours of duty in Vietnam. He’d decorated his office with plaques and framed newspapers commemorating the department’s more notable achievements, which mostly involved either raising money for disadvantaged kids or busting meth labs.
He waved me to a chair. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’ve been thinking about the snakebite cases,” I said.
He snorted. “You and me and everybody else around here. It’s a crazy situation.”
“Yeah. But there’s a pattern to it.”
He cocked his head. “How so?”
“All the victims have been white women between the ages of forty and sixty, living alone. Mrs. Porter, the woman who almost got bitten, meets the same description.”
“I noticed that, and it is a funny coincidence. But then, according to the professors, this whole thing amounts to one giant funny coincidence.”
I hesitated, then took the plunge. “Here’s the thing. When you have several people with the same characteristics turn up dead in quick succession, it can be because you’ve got a serial killer on your hands.”
Now it was his turn to hesitate. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not saying that’s what’s happening, but maybe we should look at the possibility.”
“I don’t think there is one. You’re talking about a killer who uses trained snakes as weapons, right? And you can’t train a snake. They’re too dumb.”
“But what if someone figured out a way? It would explain the snakes hunting in groups and going after people so aggressively. Killing a dog to lure the owner out into the open—”
“That’s just your interpretation of what happened.”
“—then biding their time, waiting for a good moment to sneak up on her. Forcing their way into a house. The scientists say none of that is normal.”
“Okay, but when you had your run-in with the water moccasins, did you notice anybody standing back and giving them commands?”
“No.”
“Then that pretty much blows your theory, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe. But I’d still like to know: Has anybody noticed anything else unusual? Something that didn’t make it into the written reports?”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Maybe something involving some other kind of animal. Like, I don’t know, lizards.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back.
Because, although he’d been patient up till now, he finally reacted the way I’d feared he would. “John, I have to ask this. Have you been drinking?”
“No. I swear. I’ll take a breathalyzer if you don’t believe me.”
“That’s okay. I do. I guess I’d smell it on you if you were. But maybe you could use a day or two off.”
“Really, there’s no need. I’m not crazy. It’s just that weird things are happening, a couple of them right in front of me, and I’m trying to figure them out.”
He eyeballed me for another moment, then said, “All right, if you say so.” His voice got softer, the way you talk when you want to be gentle. “But you know, even if we did have a human killer running around, you wouldn’t be the guy in charge of catching him. You’re not a detective anymore. Maybe someday you will be again, but for now, you’re just a uniformed officer.”
“I know.”
“So, until they ask us for backup, let the wildlife officers worry about the snakes.”
I tried. I
didn’t want to lose my job, and, especially now that Davis had pointed out the weaknesses in my logic, my suspicions seemed crazy even to me.
But then snakes killed another woman. She was white, fifty-one, and had lived alone. And despite my better judgment, the continuation of the pattern pushed me into phoning an old friend in the FBI office in Philly.
After I asked him to do me a favor, it took Charlie a couple days to call me back. I was sitting on the couch watching a National Geographic Channel documentary about reptiles when he did. As I muted the sound, he said, “It took some work. You owe me.”
“What did you find out?” I asked.
“Back in 1996, they had a serial killer murdering middle-aged Caucasian women in the Orlando area.”
“How?”
“Jack the Ripper style, with a knife.”
“Did they catch him?”
“No, and after eight victims, the killings just stopped.”
“Were there any suspects?” On the TV, a python unhinged its jaw and started swallowing an antelope.
“A guy named Derrick Horn. He definitely fit the profile. Abused kid, wet the bed, set fires, tortured animals, bounced in and out of foster care, detention, and the mental health system. The psychologists who evaluated him said he pretty much hated everybody, but his late mother most of all. And the murders stopped after he got hurt in a car crash.”
“Sounds like they had a winner.”
“You’d think, but they could never pin anything on him. Anyway, after seven months in the hospital, he headed down I-4 and settled in your county. Maybe he didn’t want to stay in a place where local law enforcement was convinced he was a bad guy.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“What’s going on down there, John? Why did you want to know this stuff? I checked, and nobody seems to think you’ve got a serial killer running loose in your little podunk town.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll explain if I ever get it sorted out. For now, just tell me one more thing. Did Horn have anything to do with snakes or reptiles?”
“If he did, it’s not in the file, and the guys I talked to didn’t mention it.”
After I got off the phone, I sat and tried to figure out what I had. The answer was basically nothing. Whether or not he matched the profile, it was entirely possible Derrick Horn had never murdered anyone. Even if he had, that didn’t mean he was doing it now. He didn’t appear to have any connection to snakes, and in any case, as Chief Davis had pointed out, no one could train reptiles to wander around on their own and kill people of a particular race, sex, and age.
For maybe the hundredth time, I told myself to let it go. I’d already thrown away one life, drunk away one career and one marriage, in Pennsylvania. Wasn’t that enough for me?
As it turned out, maybe not.
Not long after, another middle-aged white woman got herself killed, despite all the public-service ads that had begun to appear telling people how to stay safe from snakes. None of them had warned her that half a dozen diamondbacks might hide under her car, wait for her to approach, and then lunge out all at once, with nary a rattle to tip her off to the danger.
And I decided it couldn’t hurt just to take a look at Derrick Horn. After all, I really was a cop. If I had a decent excuse and didn’t harass the guy, it wasn’t likely he’d call the station and complain.
As Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Kropp had, Horn lived on a sizable lot on the outskirts of town. His brown concrete-block house looked newer, though, and unlike its neighbors, it had a paved driveway and a ramp running up to the door. The dark green van parked in front of the garage had a handicapped sticker on the bumper.
Charlie had told me that Horn had gotten hurt. Apparently the crash had left him permanently disabled.
There were two ways of looking at that. The sane one was to realize that a crippled guy couldn’t possibly go roaming over rough ground and through brush to catch or give commands to a bunch of snakes. The crazy one was to think that injury could explain why a psychopath who preferred killing with a knife would switch to using trained animals instead.
I climbed out of the cruiser, headed for the ramp, then faltered. Because several lizards clung to the front of the house, and like their counterparts at Mrs. Kropp’s, they stayed put and stared at me as I drew near. A couple even scuttled toward me, as if for a better look.
I took a deep breath, then hiked up the ramp and rang the bell.
To my surprise, the door cracked open after just a second, even though the man inside was in a wheelchair. I assumed he must have looked out the window and seen me coming. He would have needed a head start to get to the door so quickly.
I studied him as best I could through the narrow opening. His accident had left him skinny as a pencil and twisted and lopsided to boot. Your immediate response was to feel sorry for him, until you noticed the narrow, mud-colored eyes.
They were cold eyes, guarded but not scared. As if he had something to hide but was confident he could keep it concealed from the likes of me.
Or maybe, after a lifetime of brushes with the law, he just didn’t like cops.
“Mr. Horn?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Santelli. Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“About what?”
“The snake attacks.”
“What about them?”
“Is there any chance we could talk inside?” I smiled. “It’s hot out here, and you’re letting the air conditioning out of the house.”
He hesitated for half a second, then said, “Okay.” The electric motor of the wheelchair whirred as he backed it down the entrance hall to make room for me. He maneuvered into the first doorway on the right and led me into his living room.
Which was a mess. Piles of books sat all over the furniture and the carpet, too. The musty smell of old paper tickled my nose.
Horn parked himself in front of the computer desk. “You can move something to make a place to sit. The maid service comes once a week, but I don’t let them clean in here anymore. I could never find anything after they did.”
I cleared a spot on the couch. “I imagine you know that a couple of the attacks occurred less than a mile from here.”
“Uh huh.”
“So we’re going around the neighborhood for a couple reasons. One is to make certain everyone’s being as safe as possible. Have you checked your house to make sure there’s no way for a snake to get in?”
“Well . . . not really. But I only bought the property and had the house built a few years ago.” With settlement money from the accident, I suspected. “I keep the AC on and the doors and windows shut. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“It’s still a good idea to take a look. I can do it for you if you’d like.”
He frowned. “I can do it myself if I decide it’s worth the trouble.”
“Whatever you say. The other reason I’m here is to ask if you’ve seen any snakes. If we could find them, we could kill them.”
“Sorry, no.”
“What about dead animals in your yard? Or, are there animals you’re used to seeing that you haven’t seen lately?”
He snorted. “Since you thought I needed you to inspect the house for me, you can probably understand that I don’t spend a lot of time outside.”
“Sure.” Since I had a bad feeling about Horn, I wanted to prolong the conversation, but I was running out of questions. I glanced around. “Anyway, reading all these books must keep you busy.”
“Yes, it does. So if there’s nothing else—”
I picked up books, looked them over, and got a surprise. Under other circumstances, I might have dismissed the volumes as superstitious bullshit, meaningless as a supermarket horoscope or an issue of the Weekly World News, but they were a little more unsettling if you happened to come across them in the home of a suspected homicidal maniac with weird lizards crawling around outside. Still, I tried to look as if I were simply curious. “Dead Gods. Inhabit
ants of the Crooked Hours. Something in French, I think, with what looks like a half man, half jellyfish stamped on the cover. What is all this stuff, anyway?”
He shrugged. That was vaguely unnerving, too, because one shoulder hitched higher than the other. “Mythology. History. Philosophy.”
Against my better judgment, I gave in to the urge to push him at least a little. Grinning like I was kidding, I asked, “Not devil worship?”
He sneered. “Are you religious?”
“Not me.” Which was true, give or take that higher power the program tells us to trust. “But I imagine you’ve got some Baptist and Pentecostal neighbors who’d be upset if they saw these. They’d figure you practice black magic and perform human sacrifices.”
He eyed me for a moment, maybe trying to decide just what, if anything, my reference to murder actually meant. I kept on doing my best to seem like I was just making conversation.
Eventually he said, “I know. That’s why I keep my interests to myself.”
“So, are these books about black magic?”
“If you’re talking about something connected to Satanism and Christianity, no. But since ancient times, a few people have held a view of the universe completely unrelated to any of the major world religions.”
“You mean, they believed in different gods.”
“Partly. Some that lived in outer space or inside our own brains. One hibernating at the bottom of the ocean.” He smiled. “A dragon king to rule over cold-blooded creatures and all the things that crawl.”
That last example startled me. I hoped he hadn’t noticed. “And I guess people prayed to those gods just like the Baptists and Pentecostals pray to theirs.”
“And got the same answer: none.”
“Not that I believe in this stuff or anything, but do you know that for sure?”
“Well, let me put it this way. If you were to study enough of this material, if it really got inside your head, you might find yourself tempted to experiment, at least in a harmless, half-assed kind of way.”
“And then, when nothing happened, you’d know the ‘dead gods’ aren’t real.”
“Right. Although the true believers always had excuses for when the magic didn’t work. The worshiper didn’t have enough willpower or didn’t perform the ritual with the necessary precision to break through the wall between realities.”
Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies Page 12
