You Fit the Pattern

by Jane Haseldine

  “Jesus, he’s coming,” Christy said.

  “You can do this. Be calm. Lock the doors and get out of there.”

  Christy pounded the door lock, jammed the key in the ignition, and floored the gas just as the man entered her parking lot. She drove in the opposite direction and tried to get a good look at the man’s face, but he was still too far out. She skidded as she looped around the length of the lot toward the park entrance and the second lot, where she saw the man’s vehicle.

  As she tore through the gate to the street, she swung a quick look into her rearview mirror at the car.

  “Holy shit,” Christy said as she realized the car was the old Buick she had seen at the Magic Stick last night.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Magic Man Killer’s uniform stuck like Velcro to his body as sweat seemed to drip, drip, drip, from every pore, hermetically sealing his polyester blue pants and shirt to his skin. His eyes darted in a nervous pattern: rearview mirror, the road in front of him, and then a ticktock to the left and right to spot other cars, specifically the police, and then he started the round-robin all over again.

  The sharp pitch of police sirens sounded in the distance, and he bit his lip, sinking his teeth down deep until he tasted blood. He pulled the Buick into the lot of a Meijer grocery store, parking next to a large minivan he hoped would work as a blocker to the street. He breathed out hard when a sheriff patrol car sped by with its lights flashing and then shot down the road.

  He waited in the grocery store lot for a few more minutes, his thoughts screaming over his spectacularly failed attempt to snatch Christy King. He reached down to the cup holder and kneaded the baseball he had snatched from Ben Gooden’s grave.

  MMK then reached into his pants pocket and cursed out loud when he realized what he was looking for was gone: a small blue-velvet satchel that he was going to leave in Christy’s hand after he killed her. It contained the clue for his next victim, a miniature skyscraper. Not an exact replica of a city landmark that held the true meaning, but he couldn’t be too precise. He realized the satchel must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he raced back to his car after Christy got away.

  Julia Gooden had to be the one who tipped the singer off. Christy wouldn’t have torn out of the park like a screaming demon from hell otherwise.

  Julia wasn’t supposed to figure it out. His hints were just a little tease, after all. Raven’s Poe was an obscure indie band, with no trail of breadcrumbs left behind on the Internet for Julia to connect. He had made sure of it before he left Julia the letter in the book.

  When Christy ran in the park a few days ago, he followed her and spotted the flyers on the passenger seat of her car announcing her new band’s name and the date of her appearance at the Magic Stick. Being the meticulous planner, he spent hours searching for any mention of Raven’s Poe online, including her band’s website, which still listed her group as Detroit Riot. He even went down to the Magic Stick to be sure Christy hadn’t put up any of the flyers on the bulletin board by the bathrooms. But there was nothing about Raven’s Poe. Anywhere.

  So there was no way Julia should’ve made the connection.

  But his girl was smarter than he’d thought.

  The killer felt a stinging fury rise up inside him as he played through his ruined plan. Christy ran at the park every Friday morning, stupid thing, thinking it was okay to jog alone when the sun was barely up. What was wrong with these women anyway?

  He knew his police uniform would’ve initially gained Christy’s trust and later he would’ve reaped her appreciation when he warned her the police were closing in on the killer, who they believed was going to snatch his next victim in that very park. Christy’s eyes would have shot open wide and she would’ve looked back at him with such gratitude for possibly saving her life. He might have reached for her hand to comfort her and suggest she should go on home to her son, purposely dropping that personal little factoid, and he’d watch in satisfaction as the first warning bell sounded in her head.

  He’d smile at her then, and she’d think it was just a coincidence, her mind making it fit, since she had a child’s booster seat in the back of her car.

  When she started to ease up on her guard again, he’d tell her to be careful, and then drop another bombshell of a personal tidbit. He’d ask if she liked her job at the bookstore, or whether the rude customers who ignored her while she was ringing up their purchases annoyed her to no end.

  When the realization and panic spread across Christy’s face, that’s when he’d grab the green-and-black knife from underneath his shirt and press it against her neck.

  He always got an enormous erection when he stuffed the women in his trunk.

  At least Christy King would’ve been famous in death instead of making barely more than minimum wage ringing up customers at Barnes & Noble and singing to drunks in bars.

  God, he was sweating so much, he was sure he was going to spontaneously combust in the stupid Buick. He was positive Christy had seen his car in the park, and now the cops would be looking for his vehicle. If he could just get home and stick the Buick in his garage, he’d be okay. Even if the police had some way to trace every old Buick in the city of Detroit and the surrounding areas, he should be safe. His grandmother had given him the car, unofficially anyway, with no title transfer. When she went into the nursing home with dementia, he took the keys, and that was that. No cop would be looking hard for an eighty-one-year-old woman who didn’t know her own name and spent her waking and sleeping hours in a diaper.

  He had to get home. He started the Buick and took a quick right on Twelve Mile Road, deciding that he was better off on the side streets than on the highway, where the cops would spot him, easy.

  He breathed out slowly and did a check of the speedometer. He was driving just one mile below the speed limit. He couldn’t risk attracting attention to himself.

  A black SUV flashed its lights behind him and the killer calculated his move, always a precise planner, and decided he’d rather give the cops chase than ever give in without a fight. A knife was his preferred weapon of choice, but he spared no details when it came to preparation. He reached down on the passenger floor for his duffel bag that contained his Smith & Wesson, but the SUV passed him in the left lane and tore up the road until it was out of sight.

  The police were going to be scouring the parks for him now, if they weren’t doing so already. He was going to have to change up his perfect plan. It was his canvas, his picture that he drew, the beauty and the destruction, all of it his creation.

  He’d have to find a new hunting ground to snare his victims. But that would be easily worked through. MMK knew their routines, where they lived, when they left for work and got home, even where they shopped and their favorite Starbucks. He could still come up with a new face for each kill, representing someone who was close to Julia. For April Young, he had turned himself into the runner whose son Ben had died. For Heather Burns, he transformed into an old lady, just like Julia’s housekeeper. And today, he was a cop, a link to her beat and the guy she was screwing.

  Julia probably didn’t even appreciate all his creativity and the excruciating hard work that went into it. But she would. They all came around eventually.

  The Magic Man Killer kept his breathing tempered, in and out, in and out, until he reached his home. He pulled past his estranged wife’s car, into their garage, and quickly closed the door.

  His chest began to ache, and he wondered if he was having a heart attack. He was fit, in his early forties, and there was no way he’d let this fear beat him. As his heart beat triple time, he stripped his uniform off and stuffed it into a garbage can.

  His new plan swirled in his head as he stood in the middle of the garage in his white underwear briefs. He’d tell his wife the car needed repairs, so she’d drive him to get a rental.

  God, he was so furious . . . yet so, so proud of his Julia for locating and then warning Christy King before he could kill her. MMK pulled on a pair of gy
m shorts and a T-shirt from his duffel bag, quietly slipped back into the parked Buick, and called Julia, knowing he’d need to make it lickety-split quick.

  “Julia Gooden,” she answered.

  “You weren’t supposed to find Christy King. How did you do it?” MMK said as he let his rage simmer just below the surface of his voice.

  “Because I’m smarter than you. So are the cops.”

  “No, no, no,” MMK hissed. “Time-out, Julia. It’s time for you to listen, not speak. The cops aren’t even close to your brilliance. This time, with Christy King, I’m willing to forgive, only because it’s you. But you broke our line of trust on this one. The clues I’ll plant for my next victims, even my most bright and shiny girl, my Julia, won’t be able to piece them together. Nothing is easy from here on out. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Five is a magical number for me. You are number five and that’s all the time I have, five seconds, before my call is traced. Good-bye, Julia. Write my story for me.”

  The Magic Man Killer ended the call as he heard the sound of the door that connected the garage to the house unlock.

  God, his wife was a nosy bitch.

  He exhaled one more time and settled his expression on his face. The happy, normal guy was back in the house.

  The door opened, and his mind crept back to one more thread of his new plan before he pushed it down until later.

  He put on a real smile as he thought about Julia.

  What he was going to do next would just kill her.

  CHAPTER 19

  “It’s okay, Christy. You’re safe. I’m pulling up to your house right now. Two police officers I know are here, too. I’m hanging up now, but I’ll see you in a minute,” Julia said, and jerked her car to a stop in front of Christy King’s Royal Oak address just as she saw an incoming call from an unknown number.

  Julia quickly dug into her bag for her cassette recorder and notebook when she heard MMK on the other end of the phone. She hit the play button and scribbled down what the killer said before he abruptly hung up.

  Julia held tightly to her recorder and notebook and ran up Christy’s path to catch up to Navarro and Russell, who were about to ascend the porch steps.

  “MMK just called me. I recorded it,” Julia said, and held out her cassette player to Navarro.

  “What did he say?” Navarro asked.

  “Listen for yourself. It’s only a few minutes.”

  Julia hit the play button and the three huddled around her recorder, listening to the brief conversation.

  “He’s mad at you for saving Christy,” Russell said. “And he likes the number five.”

  “MMK left behind clues in his first call. The number five probably means something,” Navarro said.

  “Okay, hold on,” Julia said, and turned the number around in her head. “Maybe the number represents five victims. He killed April Young and Heather Burns. So that’s two. Christy King slipped away, so maybe he’s planning to kill two additional women, or maybe three, if he needs to make up for losing Christy, to get to five,” Julia said.

  “Or maybe he’s just batshit nuts,” Russell said.

  “See if we can get a location for the call,” Navarro said to Russell.

  “It probably won’t do any good,” Julia said. “MMK knew just how long he could stay on the line without the cops being able to track him.”

  “Make the call, Russell.”

  Russell walked back down the path to the street to call into the station, leaving Ray and Julia alone.

  “I’m going to need that tape, Julia, just like the last one,” Navarro said.

  “Only if I get a full transcript of both calls. I have my notes, but that’s not enough.”

  “Fine, but we got this. You shouldn’t be here. Washington is letting you in on the investigation, but she told me no interviews,” Navarro said. “The Royal Oak PD are combing the park, and Russell and I are going to talk to Christy.”

  “Christy trusts me, and she’s scared out of her mind right now. If you want any kind of answers from her, she’ll be more willing to talk if I’m there.”

  “Just so we’re clear on things, do you plan on writing a story about this?” Navarro asked.

  “Yes. But I’m not going to use Christy’s name. I’m not here to interview her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Russell joined his friends and shook his head. “Julia was right. MMK didn’t stay on the line long enough for our guys to trace the number.”

  “Okay. You’ve got five minutes, Julia, and then I need you out. Chief Washington is on her way. It’s not going to look good for any of us if you’re hanging around when she shows up,” Navarro said. “You made Washington a promise. She’s fair, but she may pull your privileges on the case if she finds you here. Five minutes, Gooden. And I need the tape.”

  Julia popped the small cassette out of her tape recorder and handed it to Navarro.

  “Let’s go,” Navarro said.

  A woman who looked to Julia to be in her midsixties, with a dark brown bob and square-framed glasses, cracked open the door a few inches and peered with guarded scrutiny at the company on her front step.

  “I’m guessing you’re Julia,” the woman said.

  “Yes, I’m Julia Gooden.”

  “I’m Christy’s mom, Ellen. You really think that man in the park was going to kill my daughter?”

  “We have reason to believe that. I’m a detective with the Detroit PD and this is my partner,” Navarro said, gesturing to Russell. “Can we come in?”

  “All right, but my grandson is still sleeping. If Clay wakes up and scoots into the kitchen, I’ll need everyone to keep a lid on your conversation until I can get him out of there.”

  Ellen led the three visitors to the kitchen, where Christy King sat at a round wooden table with her sneakers beating a fast rhythm on the brown-tiled floor beneath her.

  “Christy, there are some people here to see you,” Ellen said. “Two police officers, and this is the woman you told me about.”

  Christy jumped up from the table and threw her arms around Julia.

  “Thank you. If you hadn’t called, I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened,” Christy said.

  “You don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  “I realize you’ve just gone through something traumatic, but we need to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?” Navarro asked.

  “I’ll try. I’ll be honest with you. I’m totally freaking out right now. If I didn’t have to keep it together for my kid, I’m pretty sure I’d lose it.”

  “You’re stronger than you think. Most people would’ve lost their cool and panicked back in the park, but you were smart and got out of there in time,” Julia said.

  Julia put her arm around Christy’s shoulder and led her back to the table, where Julia took a seat next to her. “When we were talking on the phone, you said you thought you’d seen the car that was in the park before.”

  “I did. It was an old Buick. I think the color was gray or tan. I’m pretty sure I saw the same one in the parking lot of the Magic Stick last night. I was changing clothes for the gig in my car because I was late, and I think the guy driving the Buick might’ve seen me with my top off. Is that what this is all about?”

  “No. We think he’s probably been following you for a while,” Navarro said. “Did you get a look at the car’s license plate?”

  “No. I just wanted to get out of there. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re doing fine. Do you remember what the man in the park looked like? Maybe his hair color or build?” Navarro asked.

  “Not really. He was far away.”

  “Julia said you told her the man started running toward you when you got in your car,” Russell said. “So he was getting closer to you. Maybe you saw something. Take your time.”

  Christy grabbed a bottle of water on the table in front of her with a shaking hand and took a drink.

  “Okay. The man was wearing a dark blu
e uniform. I told Julia this already. I figured he might have been a cop. But I didn’t see a badge. God, I’m so sucking at this,” she said, and then closed her eyes like she was trying to get a handle on the memory. “He was white, medium build, I think, and his hair was light brown. Or dirty blond maybe. Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Sometimes memories take a while to come. I’m going to show you two pictures. Do you recognize either of these women?” Navarro asked. He slid a picture of April Young and Heather Burns across the table.

  “I’ve never seen them before. Who are these women?”

  “We believe the man you saw in the park killed them. They were runners, too. Do you usually run in that park?” Navarro asked.

  “It’s the only place I run. I go there every Friday morning, early, before my son, Clay, wakes up, and sometimes during the week if I can fit it in. The park is five minutes away from my mother’s house. I’m a single mom with a kid, a full-time job at a bookstore, and I sing in a band at night, at least whenever I can pick up a gig. There are better jogging trails, but since pretty much every minute of my life is accounted for these days, the park by my mom’s is convenient.”

  “Have you run any marathons in Detroit or Oakland County?” Navarro asked.

  “I did before I had Clay. But that was six years ago. Like I said, I only run a couple of times a week if I’m lucky, so I wouldn’t be in any kind of shape to run a marathon even if I had time.”

  Navarro took a quick look at his watch and gave Julia a subtle nod.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you, Christy, I’m not supposed to be here. I just stopped by to be sure you’re okay. The police need to finish interviewing you without me here. Navarro and Russell are friends of mine, so you’re in good hands. Just so there are no surprises, I mentioned on the phone that I’m a reporter. I’ve been writing stories about the man you saw in the park.”

  “The Magic Man Killer. What a freak,” Christy said.