The Playing Card Killer

by Russell James

  Brian picked up the phone to call back to the crane. A black Charger pulled up to the main gate. A Tampa PD squad car pulled in behind it. Weissbard exited the Charger and headed to the guard shack at a brisk pace for such a fat guy. He had a look of immense satisfaction on his face. Two uniformed cops got out of the cruiser and followed right behind him. Brian dropped the phone. It missed the cradle.

  “Oh, hell.” His fight-or-flight reaction came on full force. The guard shack suddenly felt skin-tight, airless. He grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open. Weissbard blocked his exit. Both cops behind him had their hands on their guns.

  “Brian Sheridan, you are under arrest for the murders of Carla Alessandro, Keisha Valentiner and Meredith Viejo.”

  Brian dropped into a level of shock. Weissbard spun him around, and pulled Brian’s hands behind his back. Handcuffs ratcheted behind him and twin rings of cold steel clamped around his wrists.

  * * *

  The Tampa PD interrogation room scared the hell out of him this time around. Same table, same chair. But this time, shackles held Brian’s arms to the table and his legs to the floor. The door out of the tiny room seemed miles away. Weissbard towered over Brian from the other side of the table. The detective wasn’t the disinterested, then disappointed, listener he’d been during their last conversation. He’d transformed into an aggressive badass, out for Brian’s blood.

  “Did you really think we were that stupid? That you could come in here, tell us all about the murders you’d committed, and we wouldn’t know it was you?”

  “It wasn’t me. I couldn’t be.”

  “It could be, and it was. How else would you know all the details of the crimes?”

  “I told you. From my dreams.”

  Weissbard laughed. “Yeah, right. And a Ouija board and a crystal ball. Juries love to hear all that. They believe every word of it.”

  Brian imagined twelve incredulous faces staring at him from a jury box as he explained his visions. He didn’t like how it looked.

  Weissbard slid the picture of Brian from the internet café in front of him. “Are you going to deny that you contacted the tip line and told us where Keisha’s body was?”

  Crap, he thought. How could I think anonymous could really be anonymous in the Information Age?

  “Yeah, that was me,” Brian admitted.

  Weissbard pulled a piece of paper from a file folder and laid it on top of the picture. It was a call log of Brian’s cell phone. A call at 11:50 p.m. was circled in red.

  “And just before that, you received a call. We triangulated from the towers and it places you, coincidentally, at the site we found the murder victim. So if you see all this in visions, how come you had to be there in person?”

  “The visions aren’t completely clear, just the view through the killer’s eyes. I only see what he sees.”

  “Whoa!” Weissbard sprouted an I-hit-the-jackpot grin. “That’s even more convenient, and damning. So if you couldn’t see the convenience store, how did you find it?”

  “I knew where she was kidnapped, and started looking for the place the killer left the body.”

  “Hey, now!” Weissbard reached over and stroked the security-guard patch on the shoulder of Brian’s uniform. “You’ve promoted yourself from rent-a-cop, zoomed past police officer, and straight to detective. How did the Tampa PD ever miss the chance to recruit you? Oh, wait.…”

  He flipped open the file folder and thumbed through a few pages. Brian recognized his application, years ago, for the Tampa PD Explorers Program. Weissbard ran his finger under the Reason for Denial box.

  “Psychological instability. That was probably it.”

  Brian sagged in his chair. Weissbard pulled another page from the folder and put it in front of Brian. It contained timestamps and a list of websites and search parameters.

  “Another little tidbit. The day before, you did a few internet searches from your phone. Coincidentally, and that word comes up a lot with you, searches all about Keisha Valentiner. You aren’t going to deny that, are you?”

  There wasn’t any point. Brian shook his head.

  “So you start your killing spree, dropping bodies around the bay area. You leave your stupid playing card breadcrumb trail to get whatever sick credit you want for your handiwork. As soon as some idiot in the department leaks that part out, you drop by with your so-called ‘visions’ to make sure that we don’t miss a detail. But we hadn’t found Keisha yet, and it just stuck in your craw that you weren’t going to get that bit of sickness added to your resume.”

  Weissbard pulled an eight-by-ten-inch color glossy from the file folder and slapped it down in front of Brian. It was one of the CSI shots of Keisha’s corpse on the convenience store floor. Maggots crawled from her eyes, ears and nose. Her bloated, ashen face barely looked human. Dark bruises wrapped around her neck. Brian gagged and looked away.

  “Yeah, that’s what you turned that little girl into, you sick bastard. Take a long look at that.”

  Brian was glad he hadn’t taken the effort to see inside the convenience store. A picture was bad, seeing it in real life would have been unbearable.

  “So,” Weissbard continued, “you search the internet to confirm that we know she’s missing, then you check that no one has moved the body. Once you’re satisfied with that, you drop us a line so that we can tie all four killings together.”

  “No, she just deserved to be found, her family deserved closure.”

  “You’re worried about her family?” Weissbard pounded on the photo. “What about her?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Brian sobbed.

  Weissbard leaned back, dialed down his anger. “Prove it to me. Where were you the night she was killed?”

  “After work, I went home.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  “No.”

  “How about the nights Karen, Meredith, and Carla were murdered? I guess you went home those nights also?”

  “I don’t know, I guess so. I can’t remember. I don’t even know what nights you’re talking about.”

  “I can fill that in for you. On each of those nights, you left work. And on each of those nights, there’s no record of any phone calls, internet usage, nothing that places you in your house until late the next morning.”

  Brian didn’t doubt that was true. Since Daniela walked out, every night after work had been straight home alone. No calls. No internet.

  “We’re searching your house and car now. That’s only going to give us more evidence. But I don’t need it. I’ve gotten guys convicted with far less. If Polk County wasn’t so obstinate, you’d be charged with Karen Strong’s murder as well.”

  Brian hung his head. A thought occurred to him.

  “Motive,” he whispered.

  “Say again?”

  Brian raised his head. “Motive. If I did this, what’s my motive?”

  Weissbard smiled ear to ear and flipped the file folder shut. “Motive? You’re goddamn crazy, how’s that for a motive?”

  Brian imagined those same twelve jurors again, and thought that particular motive would sound pretty good to them. His chest constricted with anxiety. It doubled when the idea that a visit from Mr. Jitters might happen at any moment. There was no way he wanted to deal with that in front of Weissbard.

  “I think I need a lawyer,” Brian said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  No sooner had Weissbard stepped out of interrogation than Detective Sergeant Francisco descended on him like the cartoon version of the Tasmanian devil, but there was nothing funny about him.

  “You mind telling me what the hell is going on here?” Francisco’s beet-red face radiated heat.

  Weissbard seriously considered that the detective might lose control and start throwing punches. He consciously toned down his usual sarcasm. “There’s a break in the
case.”

  Francisco stormed over to the video feed of the interrogation room. Sheridan now sat alone, disconsolate, staring at the floor. “And who the hell is he?”

  “Brian Sheridan. One of those walk-in tipsters I had to deal with.” Weissbard figured he’d better work in somehow that this whole investigation wasn’t completely behind Francisco’s back, before the guy really blew a gasket. “Has way too many intimate details of the crimes.”

  Weissbard gave him a condensed version of Sheridan’s convenient knowledge of the Playing Card Killer’s activities. Francisco walked himself back a few steps from apoplexy.

  “I’ve got forensics, motive, opportunity,” Weissbard said.

  “How about a confession?”

  “Not yet.”

  Francisco smiled. Weissbard imagined the little wheels turning in his head. Francisco’s extraction of a confession would become the lead story, no matter who made the arrest.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Francisco said.

  Francisco turned for the interrogation room door. Weissbard put a hand on his chest. “Sheridan saw what was at stake and lawyered up.”

  “Son of a bitch. And why is it I didn’t know about this arrest?”

  “It all unfolded pretty fast. I was going to bring him in from his place of work. I wasn’t even sure he’d be there. It all happened quicker than I’d planned.”

  Francisco wasn’t buying that line of crap. Weissbard didn’t either, and he was the seller.

  Francisco’s eyes narrowed. “If Sheridan doesn’t pan out, it’s all on you.”

  And if he does, it will be all about Francisco, Weissbard thought. “He’s the perp. No question.”

  “Get him to agree with you. On the record.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next few hours passed in slow motion. Brian felt like he was viewing a tornado via television. Everything seemed to be flying all around, while he stood still and watched in utter dejection and disbelief. He got his one phone call, called his parents, and went to voicemail. The story of his life. Next stop was a holding cell with two dozing drunks.

  Anxiety bit him like a tiger and refused to let go. The confined space, the proximity of strangers, the seen and unseen filth of the cell, they all conspired to spawn a host of interconnected fears, all amplified by his complete sense of powerlessness. His body screamed to pace the cell and burn some of the energy that seemed to flare from every nerve ending. But he dared not wake the sleeping drunks, and instead rocked in one corner, wringing his hands until the skin felt raw.

  In the morning, a frazzled-looking public defender in a rumpled suit showed up. He arrived at his cell door to take Brian for arraignment and bail. He volunteered that he’d never tried a capital case before. Brian’s leg started to twitch.

  In court, Brian followed his pseudo-lawyer to the defense table. The gallery was full to standing room. The Tampa PD had caught the Playing Card Killer, and everyone wanted a peek. Brian wished he were dead. He and his lawyer took seats. The lawyer pulled a manila file folder from his bag. It had two pieces of paper in it. Brian didn’t think that would be enough to mount much of a defense.

  A silver-haired man with an aura of power stepped forward from the gallery. His pinstripe suit was so sharply cut it could probably slice paper. He stopped beside the table, towered over the public defender, and bored into him with two piercing blue eyes. The public defender’s jaw dropped in recognition. So did Brian’s.

  There probably weren’t many people in Tampa who didn’t know who Chance Monroe was. The offices of Monroe and Monroe advertised on nearly every taxicab in the city, as well as billboards in dozens of prime locations. His self-narrated TV ads always ended with ‘Monroe and Monroe. Take a Chance without taking one.’

  “I’ve got it from here,” he said to the public defender. He turned to Brian. “Your parents hired me.”

  The public defender scooted his chair straight back from between the two of them. “He’s all yours.” He dashed out of the courtroom like it harbored anthrax.

  Monroe took the chair and moved inches from Brian. “Okay. Say ‘not guilty, Your Honor’ when asked, and then shut the hell up.”

  Judge Enger entered and all rose. He was stout, with a receding hairline and a black robe that looked a shade too long. Just like a TV drama, the prosecutor read the charges, three counts of murder, three counts of kidnapping, and a host of lesser charges. The judge asked Brian for his plea.

  “Not guilty,” he answered. Given the list of charges and the evidence, it even sounded ridiculous to him, and he knew it was true.

  The prosecutor asked for remand, citing the heinous nature of the crimes.

  “I agree, Your Honor,” Monroe said.

  Brian looked at him in shock.

  “And when they find the person who committed these crimes,” Monroe continued, “that would be a great decision. But the Tampa PD has arrested my client with virtually no evidence. Nothing physical links him to crime scenes or the victims. In a rush to show progress on a high-profile serial-killer case, Mr. Sheridan was a quick, convenient scapegoat. He has no criminal record, no history of violence, but he does have a history of mental confusion.”

  Brian was about to dispute that, but remembered his instructions to shut the hell up.

  “The worst crime my client could be reasonably accused of would be spinning a fantasy to the police to gain attention under the influence of drug withdrawal. A police psychologist already diagnosed him as delusional days ago. I have multiple, credible grounds to dismiss much of their so-called evidence, as well as the charges themselves. I move for release to the custody of his parents, as well as a detailed psychological evaluation before returning to court.”

  An unkind murmur swept through the gallery. The judge banged a gavel for silence and paged through some notes. Brian figured he was screwed. The public would crucify a judge who let the accused Playing Card Killer loose on the streets.

  “Good points on both sides,” Judge Enger said. “This case is weak. One million dollars bond, released into his parents’ custody with electronic monitoring, and I’ll take you up on the psychological evaluations, Counselor. Both one from your psychologist, and one from the state’s.”

  He banged the gavel. The crowd emptied the gallery to spread the news. Brian still felt like he was watching a tornado, but now from the inside.

  * * *

  The police fitted him with an ankle monitor, which was only slightly less comfortable than having a brick duct taped to his leg. He was processed out of custody and Chance Monroe led him to the courthouse doors.

  “Keep that shut-the-hell-up thing going a little while longer,” he whispered.

  Monroe’s trademark white limousine waited at the base of a long set of marble steps. Between Brian and the car buzzed a swarm of reporters, television cameras, and the macabre-curious. Brian spent a lifetime trying to blend into a crowd. Having one waiting for him sent his adrenaline spiking.

  Monroe broke into a smile and stopped a few steps down at a conveniently placed six-microphone set up. TV cameras surrounded the microphones, looking like giant black eyes, like a pack of hungry Cyclops. Monroe addressed the crowd like a king, and pontificated about injustice, sloppy police work, and Brian’s obvious innocence. Then he hustled Brian down the rest of the steps and into the back of the limousine. Derek Sheridan was waiting for them in the spacious rear seat. Monroe pulled the door shut and the limo leapt from the curb.

  “Derek?” Brian said. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “Camilla took some convincing,” Derek said.

  Brian thought it more likely she still wasn’t convinced.

  “You two can catch up later,” Monroe said. He loosened his tie. His look shifted from beaming lawyer to something way more thuggish. “My retainer is deposited?”

  “As of nin
e a.m.,” Derek said.

  “No one talks to the goddamn press, and I mean no one. No social media posts, nothing. My office handles all of that.” He focused on Brian. “Don’t screw with that jewelry on your ankle, and don’t leave the house. I don’t care if it’s burning the hell down. You die in it.”

  Monroe pulled a flask from a pouch in the door and took a swig. He swallowed and pointed the container at Derek. “How are you fixed for security?”

  “The community has a private service of off-duty police. The neighborhood is secure.”

  “Not secure from people outside the house.” He waved the flask at Brian. “From someone inside the house. You need to keep your guard up. This kid’s probably guilty.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Since the birth of his sister, Brian had dreamed of getting out of his parents’ house. From about the age of sixteen, he longed for it, counting the days. Now, after only two years on his own, he was back. And the experience this time was far worse. Before, his restrictions were mental, internally limited by his anxieties, but with the distant hope for a future escape. Now, the restriction was physical, enforced by the state, and the only event that loomed in his future was confinement someplace even worse.

  The clock read past 11:00 p.m. as he sat in his father’s den. He wasn’t the only one still awake. Though the den was at the far corner of the house, it still wasn’t far enough away to miss overhearing Derek and Camilla’s intense conversation about his state-ordered internment.

  “We owe it to him,” Derek said. “He’s our responsibility.”

  “Owe it to him? What haven’t we already done for him? What haven’t we already sacrificed?”

  Brian rolled his eyes at Camilla’s definition of sacrifice. He’d never made himself an imposition over the past twenty years. He’d been closer to invisible.