Diary of a Serial Killer

by Ed Gaffney

  So he went to the end of the room, and he randomly arranged his eight targets on the far wall. They were all about the size of a human head, and were designed to be used with Velcro, so they could be moved easily. When hit by the beam from his laser pistol, they would register the successful shot by making an electronic-bell sound—ding.

  He had also purchased a special feature, which was what made this system so perfect for him. The targets were designed so that at a predetermined interval of time, a random one would emit a buzzing sound. That target would be the active one, and the only one that would register a successful hit.

  Now he set the time interval for thirty seconds, turned the targets on, and walked about fifteen feet away from the target wall. Then he stood with his back to it, and his hands raised above his head, as if surrendering. The laser pistol was in his right hand.

  A buzz sounded over his right shoulder. He said, “I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you—” and between the words chance and to, he turned and fired.

  Ding.

  Excellent. When he had first started training like this, it was impossible for him to hit on his first couple of tries. But he was getting steadily better. Now he turned around again, away from the targets. Again, he raised his hands, and waited.

  This time, the buzz came from over his left shoulder, a little higher, he thought, than the one before.

  “I was hoping to get a chance”—ding—“to speak to you…”

  Yes. Another hit.

  He turned again, standing with his back to the targets. Practice makes perfect. And for the next fifteen minutes, he took thirty shots.

  And hit every one.

  EIGHTEEN

  WHEN ZACK HAD CONSIDERED THE POSSIBLE conflicts of interest he might encounter in representing Alan Lombardo in a motion for new trial, he never imagined that he might face a choice between—on the one hand—protecting his father from getting disbarred, impeached as a judge, and charged with a felony, and—on the other—doing the right thing for his client.

  But here he was, sitting in the office with Terry, researching the Canon of Ethics, the Massachusetts criminal code, and case law defining conflicts of interest. Because Zack had to know the stakes. He had to know that if he did blow the whistle on his father, he was truly representing his client’s best interests.

  Not that he was anywhere near making his decision.

  It was all too miserable.

  “Here’s a fun one,” said Terry. “Commonwealth v. Baldasian. In this case, the defendant’s attorney not only got his fee from the defendant’s brother, but he represented both the defendant and the defendant’s girlfriend, who were both charged in a shaken-baby case where the only real question in the case was which one of the two of them did it. What a genius.”

  The specific question Terry was trying to answer was whether Zack’s father’s financial scam actually put him into a conflict of interest when it came to Alan Lombardo’s trial.

  At first glance, it didn’t. George Heinrich was already paying Nehemiah Wilson to represent Alan Lombardo. So Heinrich obviously wanted Zack’s father to handle Lombardo’s trial. The fact that Alan also paid to have the same lawyer handle the trial certainly didn’t seem like it created the kind of conflict of interest that entitled defendants to new trials.

  Terry put down the book he was reading. “You are aware, of course, of our ethical responsibility to report any ethical violation that we discover.”

  Zack nodded. “Oh yes. I am fully aware that even if my asshole father didn’t put us into a dilemma between turning him in or selling out Lombardo, he’s put us into the dilemma between turning him in or violating the Canon of Ethics ourselves. Man, does this suck.”

  A moment passed, and then the phone rang. Terry answered.

  “Oh, hi, Vera. I’m good. How are you?”

  The big guy leaned back at his desk, and then sat bolt upright. “No fucking way,” Terry exclaimed.

  That got Zack’s full attention, and he came over to sit at one of the chairs in front of Terry’s desk. Terry scribbled new letter——serial killer on a pad, and now he shoved it in front of Zack.

  “Okay,” he said, grabbing the pad back. “Sure. He’s here. Fire away.”

  Terry began to write on the page. Zack read it upside down, as Terry wrote. ARE. YOU. Then Terry said into the phone, “B-e-e, like honey bee, or b-e, like I am going to be really pissed off if this asshole doesn’t stop sending you letters?” There was a pause, and then he said, “Okay,” and wrote BE. Next he wrote down WHY, listened again, and then asked, “S-e-e, like ‘Who do I see about kicking this guy’s ass?’” He waited for a moment, then said, “Oh, okay,” and wrote SEA.

  Then Terry looked at the pad. “Let me read these back to you. Ready? Are. You. Be. Why. Sea. Is that it?” There was a pause, and then he said, “What? Okay.” He read again from the pad. “Are. You. Be. Why. Sea.” Then there was a much longer pause before he said, “Are you kidding? I didn’t do anything.” Another pause. “You’re sure?” A pause, and then, “Okay. And by the way, is it just me, or is it extremely fucked up that a serial killer is writing you letters? I’d still like to do something about that. I don’t exactly know what to do, but whatever it is, I’d still like to do it.” Terry nodded. “Okay. Well. Good luck, I guess. Talk to you later.” And then he hung up, scratched his head, and turned to Zack. “So, that was weird.”

  “What?”

  “Well, first of all, that was Vera.”

  Zack closed his eyes. “I got that much.”

  “Right,” Terry said. “Anyway, she called because she got another letter from that Eternally Yours freak, and supposedly tomorrow there’s going to be another murder unless they can figure out some clues this guy left in a new letter she got. I can’t believe this psycho is actually sending her letters. Jesus Christ.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody’s got to do something about that. Anyway, Vera and her partner were stuck, so they figured since we helped them the last time, maybe lightning would strike twice.”

  “And?”

  Terry pushed the pad back to Zack. “And so she read me these words, and I wrote them down, and just to be sure I got them right, I read them back to her. And then, she asked me to read them again, which I did, and then she started laughing and thanking me and telling me how great I was.”

  “Damn,” Zack said. “Wish I’d picked up that phone.”

  “Shut up. Anyway, whatever I did—”

  The phone rang again. Terry almost jumped on top of it to answer. “Hello?”

  This time, there was no grabbing for a legal pad, no scribbling notes, in fact, nothing at all from Terry, except a lot of smiling, a few yeses, a sure, an “I can’t help myself,” and an absolutely. Then he said, “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” and, “Are you kidding me? Of course.” And then he said good-bye and hung up.

  “Well?”

  “Well, it looks like I got a date with Detective Demopolous tonight.”

  Zack smiled, got up, and moved back to his desk to read some more. “About time, Elvis.”

  Stephanie knocked on her neighbor’s front door, but instead of letting her in, the old woman called out from inside: “Come on in, dear. Use your key. My hands are full.”

  If the reason Mrs. G.’s hands were full was because that lazy son of hers had found another month-long project for his mother to do, Steph was really going to give him a piece of her mind the next time she saw him. Steph found the emergency key her neighbor had given her, inserted it, and walked into a darkened house. No lights were on, and no curtains were open.

  Something was wrong. Mrs. G. never kept her home dark. This was not good. But before Steph could even call out, the lights suddenly flashed on, and a chorus of voices shouted, “Surprise!”

  Stephanie was so stunned that she just stood there in the entryway with her mouth open, and said nothing.

  Mrs. Giordano approached from the kitchen, and her hands were indeed ful
l. With a birthday cake, topped with an embarrassing number of flaming candles.

  Her father and his odd little Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, Thomas Prieaux, appeared with big, bright smiles on their faces.

  Thomas launched into a chorus of “Happy Birthday,” and the other two joined in.

  At least it gave Steph another few moments to pull herself together.

  During that part of Steph’s childhood after her mother died, birthdays became pretty painful affairs. Although there were times when Malcolm forgot or ignored them completely, those missed occasions seemed like blessings compared to the few times he did remember, because that’s when things always went really sour. Either he was so distracted and overwhelmed by his wife’s death that he would get his little daughter a present she already had, or he’d get so drunk that he would cook her a dinner and bake her a cake that were absolutely inedible.

  And then he would make both of them feel even worse by extensively and tearfully apologizing.

  Now he stood beside her, holding a shopping bag full of wrapped presents, looking like he was nine years old. They finished the song, Thomas ending it with a dramatic flourish, and Steph went over to blow out the candles.

  Everyone applauded, and Steph stepped back from the cake. She was having some trouble bringing her father’s face into focus, but it was clear enough that he had opened his arms to her for a hug. As she held him, she realized that she was crying a little bit. It was stupid, but, then again, it had been a long time since somebody had bothered to give her a birthday party, and—well, it felt good.

  What didn’t feel good was the uncomfortably hard thing that was pressing against Steph’s ribs through the breast pocket of her father’s jacket, but before she could mention anything about it, Thomas said, “Hey, let’s not hog the birthday hugs.” Suddenly, Stephanie was hugging the little man, and he leaned up and whispered in her ear, “Your father is so proud of you, I think he might just burst.”

  By now Mrs. Giordano had brought the cake back into the kitchen and called for them to join her at the table there. “I’ve got coffee and tea made already,” she said. “And now, young lady, I believe it’s time for you to cut this cake, and maybe open some of your presents.”

  It was all simply wonderful. Ridiculous, but wonderful.

  Her father had gotten her a writing journal, a book about Shakespeare, a gift certificate to an entire day at an award-winning spa, and two tickets to a Red Sox–Yankees game. Thomas handed her a package and said with a ludicrously obvious wink and total disingenuousness, “This has nothing to do with the fact that I’d love for you to come see our show.” It was the soundtrack to the original Broadway performance of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

  And Mrs. Giordano presented Steph with the most delicate-looking earrings she’d ever seen, explaining that her mother had given them to her more than fifty years ago. “She said they would guarantee that I had good luck in love.” Then she smiled. “I’m not giving away any secrets when I tell you that with my Joseph, well, they worked very well.” Then her smile broadened. “So I wanted to pass along some of that luck to you. Maybe you’ll find some time for a boyfriend.”

  They all laughed. Clearly Mrs. G. had been talking to Malcolm. It was all just too nice.

  And then, as if breaking the spell, Steph’s cell phone chirped. She took it out of her purse, and checked the caller ID. “Oh no,” she said, pressing the off button and returning it to her purse.

  “What’s the matter?” Malcolm asked.

  It was Russell Crane again. In what had to be one of the most perverse examples of—whatever—in the history of the world, ever since Stephanie had told the detestable Mr. Crane that she had intended to go to the premiere of his movie The Suspect’s Daughter, he had been calling regularly, asking if he could escort her to the red carpet event the studio was throwing in Boston. Unbelievable. And talk about gross.

  “Nothing,” Steph half-lied. “Wrong number again. I’m going to have to get a new phone.”

  From the look on his face, Malcolm wasn’t buying her explanation, but surprisingly, he did not push.

  And despite the intrusion, the good mood of the party-goers overcame the negative energy generated by creepy Russell Crane’s intrusive phone call.

  Until they had left Mrs. Giordano’s house, and were standing on the sidewalk next to Thomas Prieaux’s car, saying good-bye.

  Because that’s when Stephanie again felt the large and very hard object pressing into her through her father’s jacket pocket as they embraced. She pulled back from the hug, and gently tugged on her father’s lapel. “What is that?” she asked, smiling. “I don’t ever remember you carrying your wallet in your breast pocket.”

  But before she could get a good look, her father stepped back abruptly, and shifted his eyes away from her. “It’s nothing,” he said.

  If Malcolm had been holding a sign up that said, I’m lying about something important and dangerous in my jacket pocket, he wouldn’t have been any more obvious.

  “Um, excuse me,” she said, stopping her father from getting into the tiny car. “Now I absolutely need to know. What is that in your pocket?”

  Still, her father would not meet her gaze.

  She looked over the roof of the car at Thomas, who stood, frozen, holding open the driver’s door. “Thomas, do you know anything about this?”

  The best he could do was say, “Stephanie, dear—” but nothing came to him beyond that.

  What could they possibly be hiding from her? It couldn’t be a bottle of alcohol. There was no way that Thomas would be a party to her father’s descent into that misery again. And then it came to her.

  “Do not tell me that you bought a gun.”

  Thomas and her father looked at each other guiltily, and then back at her. Neither spoke. The pair of them were the worst liars in the world.

  “Oh my God,” she said, quietly. “What is going on here?” She looked at her father. “How could you?”

  And then she turned to Thomas. “And how could you let him? Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone found out about this?”

  Thomas swallowed, almost audibly, and Malcolm cleared his throat. “I don’t disagree,” he began, “but circumstances, er…”

  Steph couldn’t remember the last time her father was at a loss for words.

  “Did you buy that thing because you’re still being followed?” she demanded. “Because that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do. First of all, you have no idea how to use one—”

  “Stephanie, dear, I should explain,” Thomas interrupted.

  And then Malcolm found his voice. “No, Thomas, it should be me. Earlier today, I received a package in the mail. It looked like it might contain books. But when I opened it, all I saw were those little plastic pellets they use to take up the extra space in boxes.”

  “You know. Packing peanuts,” Thomas offered, with a hopeful smile. Steph did not react.

  “And so I dug my hand into the box so the peanuts didn’t spill all over the floor, and when I touched what was inside, I just pulled it out.”

  And in a stage whisper, Thomas leaned over the top of the car, and confided, “You were right, Stephanie. It was a gun.”

  NINETEEN

  JUST AS VERA HAD HOPED, TERRY WAS RIGHT on time, and dressed in a sharp, dark gray suit and red tie. He looked terrific.

  She and Ellis had been working very hard for weeks, and they had finally gotten a break, figured out the message the serial killer had sent in his letter, and tomorrow, they were going to catch that monster.

  So Vera figured that she owed herself a very nice night off. She had put on her best little black dress, heels and everything, and was going out to a fancy restaurant with a person who really made her feel good.

  She got in Terry’s slick car, and off they went.

  Terry took a folded piece of paper off the console between them, and slid it into the breast pocket of his dress shirt. “I just have to swing by
Zack’s place and drop this off, if that’s okay,” he told her. “It’s one of those things that’s really stupid, but really important, and it has been such a pain in the ass to get all the signatures we needed. I wanted to show it to him as soon as I could. His house is right on the way.”

  “No problem.” To tell the truth, there wasn’t much that could be a problem for Vera this evening. She just felt so good about so many things.

  And tomorrow, when they put that creep away, she was going to feel even better.

  “So I thought we’d go to a place called The Harvest,” Terry said, “which is not only very chichi, but I know the chef, and he loves making special dishes for people with nontraditional diets. I called to make reservations, and when I told him you were diabetic, he almost burst into tears of joy.”

  “I have to admit that’s a reaction I do not usually get,” Vera said, smiling, as they turned into a long driveway toward a big old Victorian. Terry’s partner, Zack Wilson, was pushing a seven- or eight-year-old on a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard.

  As soon as he saw them emerge from the car, the little boy jumped out of the tire. Terry bent down, opened his arms wide, and called out across the yard, “J-man, hit me with a hug.”

  The dark-haired kid flew across the lawn and into Terry’s arms. “Hey, Terry! Want to go on my new swing?”

  “Not right now, my man. I’m on my way to dinner.”

  “To Largeburger?”

  Terry laughed. “Justin, say hello to my friend, Vera Demopolous. She’s coming with me. Not to Largeburger. Vera, this is Zack’s son, Justin.”

  Justin held out his hand to shake. “Wow,” the little boy said. “You are so pretty.”

  “Hi, Justin,” Vera said, smiling. “That’s a very nice thing to say, but you know, I don’t usually dress up like this. You know what my job is?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m a policewoman. Isn’t that cool?”

  Justin nodded enthusiastically. “You get to wear a police uniform?”