Diary of a Serial Killer

by Ed Gaffney

  Now that Zack knew what Alan meant, he didn’t understand how he could mean it. But Terry had already jumped in.

  “Wait a minute. You don’t want us to look for support for an issue that would guarantee that you’d get a new trial?”

  “That’s just it,” Alan said. “Nobody’s going to believe there was a conflict of interest, or any other ethical problem. Attorney Wilson was one of the top lawyers when he represented me. And now he’s a judge. A federal judge. There’s no way in the world any court is going to decide that something he did, twenty years ago, was bad enough to disbar him, and give me a new trial. There’s no way in the world that is going to happen.”

  He had a point—it was certainly possible that no court would have the guts to throw a popular judge under the bus at the same time they were letting the Springfield Shooter get a new trial. Zack leaned forward. “But even if that’s true—and I’m not sure it is—I don’t see any reason not to try.”

  “From everything that I know, I only have one chance at this motion,” Alan told them. “If we don’t win this, I’m going to die in here, for crimes that I didn’t commit. And that means that whatever judge is going to decide this motion has to believe that my claims are serious. If he thinks that I’m trying to disbar a federal judge for something that happened in a case twenty years ago, he’s going to think I’m insane. I absolutely don’t want you to argue that there was a conflict of interest.”

  Zack took a deep breath. “So what do you want us to do?”

  “My life is in danger here in prison,” Alan said, “and there’s nothing anybody can do about it. I know you think waiting for some miracle problem with your father is the silver bullet, but I don’t have time to wait for something that I think won’t work anyway. I want you to mark the motion up for a hearing as soon as possible. I want this thing over. If it takes too much longer, it won’t matter. I’ll be dead.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  A LOT OF POLICE WORK, EVEN WORK WHERE lives were at stake, like tracking down a serial killer, was dreary, and time-consuming. Until yesterday, Vera and Ellis were wading through all of the material in the original Springfield Shooter case to see if there was anything they could use to help them in this investigation, and desperately checking to see if there were any connections—any common threads—that linked the lives of Corey Chatham, Iris Dubinski, and Laurence Seta. Thanks to Lieutenant Carasquillo, they had been able to pass on the seemingly endless job of checking into the people who might have known that “Welcome to my world” was Alan Lombardo’s special greeting to a host of other officers.

  But there were days, like today, which made all of that drudgery worth it.

  Because today was the day Vera was going to take this sick murderer down.

  If only she didn’t have to do it pretending to be a little old lady.

  She was sitting alone in the living room of Ruby Cee, wearing a gray wig, fake glasses, and old lady clothes over a bulletproof vest.

  The Eternally Yours killer had told Vera that Ruby Cee was his next victim, and Vera was going to ambush him as he made his attack.

  Ellis was on the second floor, in a bedroom down the hall, ready to tear down the stairs at the first sign of trouble.

  Both of them were wired so that Lieutenant Carasquillo and three others from the station who had set up surveillance in the house across the street were able to hear everything, and move in at a moment’s notice.

  Plainclothes officers were stationed in a wide perimeter around the house, both to spot anyone suspicious approaching Ruby Cee’s house, and to close in after the suspect had been identified to assist in the arrest.

  Cruisers were strategically positioned, all within sixty to ninety seconds away.

  And a state police S.W.A.T. team was on standby.

  Whenever Vera went into the field on a dangerous operation, the world got clearer. It was almost as if all of her senses sharpened—colors were brighter, sounds were crisper. She loved it, and lived for it. She would have preferred to go without the fake glasses and the wireless earpiece she was wearing, which interfered with both her heightened vision and hearing, but they had to play this one by the book. They didn’t want to take any chances and scare this guy off. They had no idea how long he had been watching Ruby, and no idea how familiar he was with her looks, clothes, and patterns of behavior. So Vera needed to be very careful about her appearance, and how she acted, right until the moment they sprang their trap.

  And there was no way she was going into this thing without being able to communicate with her support.

  “Test one two. This is Ellis. Do you read, Vera?”

  “Loud and clear, Ellis. Do you have us both, Lieutenant?”

  “I have you both, Vera and Ellis. Let’s go over it again,” said the lieutenant, as Vera went into the kitchen, pushed the wig back from her forehead a little—talk about itchy—and got herself a glass of water.

  And for what must have been the fifteenth time that afternoon and evening, Vera and Ellis repeated the procedure they had set up.

  The plainclothes officers would alert them all to anyone approaching the house. When the suspect came up to Ruby’s door, a sharpshooter stationed with the lieutenant would take aim. The porch light had been left on so the sniper would have a good view.

  Meanwhile, Vera would wait in her living room, pretending to watch television. Apparently, Ruby was a huge fan of M*A*S*H reruns.

  When the doorbell rang, Vera would go to answer it, checking through the curtained window at the side of the door. She couldn’t pull back the curtains, in case he had a good idea of what Ruby looked like. If she saw any weapons, Vera would begin to turn the doorknob back and forth, explain that the lock was sticky, and that she’d have the door open in a second.

  That would be the signal for everyone to move. Ellis would come down the rear stairs, out the kitchen door, and around to the front. The lieutenant and his backup would come in from across the street, the cruisers would block off the street, while plainclothes officers would converge on the scene.

  Within seconds, the killer would be surrounded. And if he made a single suspicious move with a weapon, the sharpshooter would drop him on the spot.

  If there was no weapon visible, Vera would ask, “Who is it?” to the person at the door. She’d repeat whatever answer she received, so the team would be able to hear how the killer was identifying himself, and then she’d begin to open the door.

  Depending on when the killer entered the house, the lieutenant would make the call for the cruisers and plainclothes officers to approach, and prepare for an assault. And Ellis would monitor everything from upstairs, just out of sight.

  Once the killer was inside, the operation was in Vera’s hands. She had a gun in the pocket of the dress she was wearing, but it wasn’t as easy to get to as they would have liked, so there were plenty of contingency plans. If she wanted assistance but felt that it would be dangerous to call for it overtly, she’d use the code word “grandmother,” and Ellis would make his way downstairs, weapon drawn, while the other officers would come right in the front door.

  And naturally, if there was an emergency, Vera would just shout for help.

  Of course, she hoped it didn’t come to that. In fact, she was kind of hoping that this jerk would figure that a little old lady would be an easy mark, and that he’d be sloppy, pull out a roll of duct tape, giving Vera enough time to draw her weapon, and initiate the arrest.

  That was her best-case scenario for today.

  And speaking of best-case scenarios, last night really worked for her.

  Terry was wonderful, the dinner was wonderful, and the time afterward at her apartment was wonderful. He left that night, very, very late, and in his words, very, very happy.

  Just like Vera.

  And Lieutenant C. had given Vera and Ellis the morning off, knowing that they’d be working late on this bust this evening. Which made everything that much better. A good day’s work, after a good night’s play
.

  “Lieutenant, this is Cordero, on Pinewood. A delivery van just turned down Amelia, heading your way.”

  “Got it, Cordero. Vera, do you copy?”

  “I copy, Lieutenant. Ellis?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Vera went into the bathroom, adjusted her wig, and then sat down in the armchair facing the television, and turned it on.

  Hawkeye and BJ were arguing with Major Winchester about something, but Vera couldn’t concentrate on the details. She was wearing her grim suit. It was time to stop a murderer.

  “I’m confirming a delivery van heading right for the house, Vera,” the lieutenant said. “White van, license number Two-X-ray-Tango, Three-Four-Alpha. We’re running the plate now. It’s pulling in front of the house. Aw, shit. He parked right in our way. You still have a shot, Isaac?”

  The words of the sharpshooter, Isaac Greene, came through Vera’s headpiece with amazing depth. Isaac had the lowest voice Vera had ever heard. “Clean view of Vera’s front door, Lieutenant,” he confirmed. “Van’s no problem.”

  “He’s getting out now,” the lieutenant said. “A white male. Looks young—maybe twenty-five. Empty-handed—No, wait. He’s opening up the back of the van.”

  Vera desperately wanted to go to the door, but she needed to play this absolutely straight. She was Ruby, and Ruby loved M*A*S*H. Ruby probably wouldn’t even have known that there was a van parked in front of her house, so there would be no reason to go to the door and watch as the delivery guy headed up the walk. Especially while Colonel Potter was talking to Major Houlihan.

  The fact that the killer was holding himself out as a deliveryman was brilliant. That certainly explained why people who didn’t know him opened their doors to a stranger. Who would suspect anything out of the ordinary from your friendly FedEx or UPS guy?

  “He’s closing the back of the van now,” the lieutenant reported. “Heading for the front door. Looks like he’s got one of those overnight envelopes in one hand, and something else in his other. Goddammit, I can’t see what’s in his other hand. Can you make that out, Isaac?”

  Klinger burst into the office wearing a mink stole and big earrings.

  “Negative, Lieutenant,” boomed Isaac. “His back is to me, and he’s holding his hands in front of him. He’s moving around to the other side of the van now. I’ve lost visual.”

  Ellis did not like what he was hearing. “I’m standing by, Lieutenant,” he said, from the top of the stairs. It sounded like he was about one and a half seconds from charging down to the first floor and opening fire.

  “I’m okay, Ellis,” Vera said.

  “Roger, Ellis. Hold your position. Suspect is almost to the door, Vera. Still cannot make out what’s in the other hand. Stand by, everyone, he’s reaching for the bell. Any questions at all about what’s in that hand, Vera, I want to hear about that sticky lock.”

  “Roger that, Lieu,” Vera said, quietly.

  The doorbell rang, cutting through the sound of a commercial for dishwashing detergent. It was silly—Vera practically knew what side the killer’s hair was parted on, and still, when she heard that bell, she almost jumped out of her skin. Probably the adrenaline. Better keep that under control. No need to add to a tense situation by twitching out every time somebody scratched their nose.

  Vera was ready for this. She muted the television, just like she believed that Ruby would have done, and she got up from her chair, slowly, and headed for the door. Ruby was seventy-one years old. These things took time.

  The bell rang again.

  “Coming!” Vera called out, in what she hoped was an old-lady voice. And then she was at the door.

  Vera put her hand on the dead bolt thumb turn as she peered through the curtained window on the right side of the door, finally face-to-face with her adversary.

  As the lieutenant had said, he was a young white man, younger than she expected, judging from the unwrinkled, fair skin of his face, the immature mustache, the hints of acne on his cheekbones. In fact, with the baseball cap, the polo shirt, the matching shorts, dark socks, and sneakers, he looked decidedly nonthreatening.

  But that was, of course, all to his advantage. Once he got into the house, everything would change.

  He had what looked like an overnight envelope in one hand, but the way he was holding it blocked Vera’s view of what was in his other hand.

  Vera hesitated, hoping to see something more, and then, the guy moved slightly, and for just a moment, she got a look. It was dark, and shaped like a handgun, although Vera had never seen a gun so big. But it might have been a Taser, and she didn’t have any more time. She had to make the call now. If she didn’t open the door immediately, he’d get suspicious.

  “Just a minute,” she called out, in her old-lady voice, as she rattled the doorknob back and forth and pulled on the locked door. “This lock sticks. I’ll have it open in a minute.”

  “That’s a go!” shouted the lieutenant. “Go, go, go!”

  Vera heard Ellis thundering down the back stairs and going out the kitchen door. She yanked her wig off, reached into the pocket of her dress, withdrew her weapon, pulled open the door, pointed the gun at the kid, and shouted, “Police! Freeze!”

  At that very moment, Ellis came tearing around the front of the house, shouting, “Police! Freeze!” and the lieutenant and three other cops were running up the lawn to the door. The sirens of at least two cruisers wailed as they approached.

  “Kneel down, and lie on your face!” Vera shouted at the deliveryman as Ellis came up from behind him. As the suspect complied, Ellis grabbed the letter from one of his hands, and Vera grabbed his weapon from the other.

  But it wasn’t a weapon. You could hold it like a gun, and there was a trigger, but it wasn’t a gun, and it wasn’t a Taser. It had a keypad on the back, and a display…

  It was a scanner. This kid really was a delivery guy. “He’s not the killer,” Vera said.

  By now, Ellis had the suspect cuffed, and was reading him his rights. The lieutenant was asking her if she was all right, but she couldn’t do anything but repeat, “He’s not the killer.”

  And then, suddenly, she knew.

  Taking care to hold it by the edges, Vera picked up the overnight envelope from where Ellis had thrown it to the ground. It was addressed to Detective Vera Demopolous, c/o Ruby Cee, 1235 Amelia. He’d known she would be here.

  She looked up and down the block, checking to see if this sick bastard was watching their pathetic little scene. But there was no one in sight except an embarrassing number of police, and a few neighbors.

  Then Vera turned the envelope over, and found the little mailing sticker she knew would be there. The mailing sticker that read, “Welcome to my world.”

  Eighteen Seconds

  AS ZACK FOUGHT THE DIZZINESS AND STRUGGLED to his hands and knees to get up again, he felt a change in the room, as if something important had happened. It wasn’t the sensation that everything was happening in slow motion—that remained constant. He knew that things were progressing as quickly as ever—it just seemed that they were taking forever to unfold.

  But whatever transformation had occurred, he was going to have to work through it, because he had to get to that shooter.

  And then, as Zack rose, he realized suddenly what had changed.

  The gunman had heard him fall and, instead of facing the gallery full of panicked people, had turned to face him, and was now raising his weapon, preparing to shoot Zack again, this time head-on, from ten feet away.

  Zack had not planned for this. If he had been closer to the gunman, he would simply have rushed him, assuming that he would be able to at least tackle him, even if he took a fatal bullet in the process. That was not Zack’s first choice, of course, but it just might give the people in the courtroom, including his son, enough time to escape.

  But Zack was still ten feet away from the shooter, with a bullet in his leg. And he had no idea if he could close the distance before a gunshot stopped h
im.

  As the muzzle of the pistol rose slowly toward Zack’s chest, he turned to look to see if the rolling chair he’d been using to propel himself across the room was still within reach. Maybe he could shove it at the shooter and distract him. Or maybe he could dive behind it and buy himself a second or two.

  But as he looked, Zack saw that the chair had rolled several feet to his right. It was now too far away to grab, or to use as cover.

  And as if things weren’t bad enough, there was a brief lull in the sounds coming from the room, a slight break in the otherwise incessant screaming and crying. And then, a little boy cried out. As clear as a beam of sunlight through a break in a cloudy sky, the child’s voice shouted, “Daddy! Look out!”

  It was Justin.

  And instead of shooting Zack, the gunman swung his weapon toward the crowd, aiming right at the little boy wearing the very bright, ever-so-easy-to-target, white T-shirt.

  Andre L. Englewood

  IT WAS 11:23 A.M. ON SEPTEMBER 15, WHEN Andre Englewood answered the door for the last time in his life.

  Andre was frustrated that someone was disturbing him just now, because he had a lot to do before tonight’s rehearsal. He was stage manager for the Longmeadow Players’ production of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Right after revising the rehearsal schedule, which he was smack in the middle of, he had to run over to the theatre to check on the sets, then he had to drive an hour out to Kathy’s house and figure out what they were going to do about the ridiculous costume Gymnasia needed. Then he had to get back here, write a giant memo with all of the notes from the past three rehearsals, print it out, bring it to Kinko’s with the new rehearsal schedule, get enough copies made for everybody in the cast and crew, stop and grab something to eat, and then get back to the theatre, all before six-thirty, because the director said she was getting there a half hour before the seven o’clock rehearsal began in order to go over a few things with him.