Diary of a Serial Killer

by Ed Gaffney

  Under normal circumstances, Vera would have assured the kid that everything was going to be fine, and that he would very likely be released minutes after her backup arrived.

  But Vera’s faith in what she believed to be good and true had been so badly shaken that she wasn’t ready to assume anything.

  So instead, she got to her feet, disgusted with herself. And with just about everything else. She had been completely taken in by Ellis, and wasn’t ready to risk being taken in by this kid. She hated coincidences, and didn’t trust them for a minute.

  And for the same kid to show up twice at a potential crime scene, each time with a note from a killer, was one hell of a coincidence.

  Thankfully, the sound of sirens came to her from the distance. Vera really wasn’t in the right frame of mind to interview this boy.

  What she wanted to do was get her hands on Ellis and stop him before the next tragedy. And she had one more letter to work with. Sooner or later, Ellis was going to make a mistake. When he did, it would be his last as a free man.

  She read as the wail of the sirens grew louder.

  Dearest Vera,

  I had hoped to reveal myself to you under different circumstances, but, as the saying goes, “When life gives you lemons…”

  Life, as you so well know, is often unfair, so I do not carry undue guilt over my latest crime, even if it was unplanned. I would have enjoyed presenting you with a puzzle before taking action, but certain contingencies arose which required my immediate attention.

  At the appropriate time, I will reveal the location of Mr. Heinrich’s body to you. Until then, I will be returning to my previous schedule of events.

  And that means that we shall be working again together very soon—in fact, as an apology for removing Mr. Heinrich from the scene without so much as the slightest warning to you, I would like to present you with yet another diary entry. As you recall, the last one I gave you identified where I next intend to work. This diary entry is intended to help you identify when.

  September 16. Some would claim that comparing oneself to great figures in history—even with humility—is inherently arrogant.

  I disagree.

  And so I call out the names of men who, either directly or indirectly, helped bring about death and suffering on an inspiring scale: Osama bin Laden, upon his most brilliant and deadly attack; Kennedy, at his death in Dallas; Roosevelt, at his famed “day of infamy” speech; Washington, at his birth; and Columbus, upon his arrival on the shores of Hispaniola. I ask only that my meager accomplishments be seen in light of these pivotal moments in history.

  I am proud of my work, but not excessively so. I realize that it pales in comparison to the stupendous achievements of these legendary figures.

  My request is only that it be witnessed as one man’s effort to attain greatness, even if it be only fleeting.

  Dearest Vera, I am returned to you.

  I understand that our relationship has moved in a new direction, but I am still anxious to continue working with you.

  I hope the feeling is mutual. And as a sign of good faith, here are a few hints: this puzzle may take you down at first, and you might be tempted to try to escape from it, but you’d be better off trying to score two points.

  The format you should use is X-XX-XXXX.

  And 2011961973142.

  Until our next meeting,

  I remain,

  EY

  Oh no. EY. Shorthand for Eternally Yours.

  Or Ellis Yates.

  It was all so horrible.

  Just then, Lieutenant C. and about a dozen other officers and detectives showed up. Vera debriefed the lieutenant, while a pair of officers brought the delivery boy back to the station house and the rest turned Ellis’s house upside down for more evidence. And as soon as Lieutenant Carasquillo confirmed what Vera had found, he went public with the news that Detective Ellis Yates was a prime suspect in the recent killings. Within minutes, Ellis’s photo and description would be appearing on television screens, fax machines, and computer monitors all over New England.

  Vera offered to take the latest message from Ellis back to the station, make a copy, and then bring it to the lab, just in case there was anything else to be learned from it.

  Not that they needed to know much more.

  Terry was overjoyed that he was getting to spend some more time with Vera.

  But Jesus Christ. Who wasn’t a serial killer?

  First it was Malcolm Ayers. Then Russell Crane. And now it was Vera’s partner.

  Of course the good news was that it was pretty clear that Ellis had set up Malcolm Ayers. The cops weren’t going to release Ayers until they were absolutely sure that they weren’t going to step on their johnsons by letting him go, but from what they found at Ellis’s house, there really wasn’t a lot of doubt about it.

  So they got Malcolm to call Stephanie on her cell phone, and then Zack got on the line, and then Vera, and they all explained that her father was expected to be released based on new information. They all agreed that Steph would come in with whatever it was that she had, to help them piece the rest of the puzzle together. They assured her that regular patrols would pass in front of her house until any threat was eliminated.

  What wasn’t such good news was that for too damn long, Vera had been working side by side with one of the most dangerous criminals in America.

  After the conference call with Stephanie, Vera sat at a large table with Zack and Terry, and started going over the latest two messages with them. Now that Ellis’s true colors had been exposed, Vera was looking for any help she could get solving the puzzles that he had left her. She believed that they were going to identify where and when the next attack was to occur.

  Vera’s normally shining eyes were pretty dark. She was really upset about her shithead partner. The last time Terry had felt like Vera looked, he’d almost slugged Zack’s father, the federal judge. Not the best long-term career move.

  “I’m pretty good with history,” Zack said. “Want to try to work on this one?” He picked up a copy of the diary entry that referred to Columbus and Washington. “Whoa. What the hell is this number supposed to mean?” He showed Terry the endless string of digits at the end of the message.

  “Don’t look at me,” he replied. “I’m happy to report that I don’t think like a sociopath. Vera, remember that list of things you wrote down that you’d learned from all the old puzzles? Any help there?”

  Vera nodded. “I’m betting it’s about the things he left out again.” God, she was pretty even when she was pissed. Probably something to mention at another time. “I wonder if we’re supposed to be trying to find the numbers that he left out.” She looked away from the paper into the distance. “I cannot believe Ellis was behind all of this.” She shook her head. The betrayal she felt was so strong it was like there was a fourth person in the room.

  “Maybe we’re supposed to pay attention to the years that these things happened. He left those out. Like, 1492 for Columbus.”

  “And 1941 for Roosevelt’s speech, and 1963 for Kennedy’s assassination,” Zack added.

  “Bin Laden’s attack was in 2001,” Vera added, “but I have no idea when Washington was born.”

  Terry pulled out his new Web phone, and in less than a minute, read off the screen, “George Washington. Born 1732, died 1799. So now what?”

  “If he made this puzzle the way he made the others, we have to figure out what he left out, right?”

  Terry watched as Vera wrote the historical dates in a long string of numbers, one after the other: 2 0 0 1 1 9 6 3 1 9 4 1 1 7 3 2 1 4 9 2. And then, directly underneath, she wrote the other numbers—the ones that were included in the diary entry: 2 0 1 1 9 6 1 9 7 3 1 4 2.

  Then she crossed out the 2 in the lower string of numbers, and the 2 in the upper string. Then she crossed out the 0 in the lower string, and the 0 in the upper string.

  Then she did the same for the next two 1s in the lower and upper strings.

&nbs
p; “So you’re saying that when he wrote actual numbers onto the page, what he left out were some of the numbers from the historical dates,” Zack said.

  “Damn, Vera. That’s smart,” Terry said. “If you can call thinking like a serial killer smart.”

  By now, Vera had finished crossing out the numbers that were in each string. The list of historical dates now looked like this: 2 0 0 1 1 9 6 3 1 9 4 1 1 7 3 2 1 4 9 2.

  “Maybe I’m not so smart after all,” Vera told them. What does 0341129 mean?”

  “How about putting it in the format he had in the P. S.? “What does that do?”

  Vera wrote: 0-34-1129. She shook her head. “That can’t be it. The last time we—” She interrupted herself, obviously disgusted. “I thought it was we, but I guess it was really just me, since Ellis wrote the damn thing.” She took a breath. “The last time I worked on one of these things, as soon as I got stuck, the hint got me out of the jam.” She read from Ellis’s message: “‘This puzzle may take you down at first, and you might be tempted to try to escape from it, but you’d be better off trying to score two points.’ Whatever that means.”

  “‘Score two points’?” Zack said. “So suddenly, we’re playing basketball.”

  And then it hit Terry like a slap in the face. “No. We’re wrestling. Wrestling with the answer to the puzzle. The hint is full of wrestling terms. ‘Take down.’ ‘Escape.’ And he’s telling us we need to score two points.”

  Vera looked at him like he was insane. “You score points in wrestling? I thought you hit people in the head with folding chairs.”

  “That’s professional wrestling, not real wrestling. The only reason I know anything about it is because for about fifteen seconds, I was on our high school team. And to score two points, you need to do a reversal.”

  “So we do a reversal on the answer…Instead of 0341129…”

  Zack picked up his pen and wrote the number in reverse. “We’ve got 9211430.”

  “And when you put that into the right format,” Terry said, “you get what?”

  Vera wrote 9-21-1430. Then she put her pen down. “Unless I’m wrong, it sure looks like we just learned that Ellis’s next murder is going to take place on September 21, at 14:30. That’s tomorrow. At 2:30 in the afternoon. Less than twenty-four hours from now.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  September 21

  TERRY PARKED IN THE LINE OF CARS OF PARENTS who had come to pick their kids up. The students only had a half day because of a teachers’ conference. Justin’s school looked like the site of a minivan convention. Terry shuddered.

  About a minute after he pulled in, the doors to the school burst open, and a flood of children and backpacks and clamor came streaming down the front walk.

  Justin broke into a huge smile when he saw Terry’s car. He came running over, opened the back door, and threw in his backpack, shouting, “Hi, Terry! Where’s my dad?”

  But before Terry could answer, Justin slammed the door shut, and then opened the front door and climbed in. He was wearing jeans and a startlingly bright white T-shirt, and looked just like any other kid. But Terry knew better.

  The very fact that Justin had become Zack’s son was the result of a ridiculous string of coincidences, which Zack believed to be his personal miracle.

  It all started because almost eight years ago an old friend of Terry’s woke up early one morning with a blinding migraine. On a whim, she called Terry to ask if he’d fill in for her at District Court, where indigent defendants would be making their first appearance in front of a judge after being arrested the night before.

  Terry hadn’t done that kind of work for years, but he owed his friend a favor, and agreed.

  Even so, he never would have met Justin’s mother if the sixteen-year-old runaway hadn’t been busted the night before. And that never would have happened if the cop that picked her up for shoplifting had taken his normal route home, instead of detouring past the Store 24 to pick up a newspaper, where he spotted a teenager trying to sneak off with a free quart of orange juice and a bag of pretzels.

  And Justin’s mother never would have mentioned to Terry that she was two months’ pregnant with a baby she was going to give up for adoption if he’d had his normal breakfast the day he met her, instead of eating a muffin in front of her which triggered a violent bout of morning sickness.

  And none of that would have mattered except, the very day before he even laid eyes on the young, pregnant girl, Terry had been speaking to Zack about their future plans, and Zack revealed, totally out of the blue, that he was planning to begin looking into adoption as a single father.

  “Hey, J-man. Your dad had to run an errand before the hearing this afternoon, so he and I thought, if it was okay with you, that before we go to Criminal Law City, you and I might grab some lunch at, oh, I don’t know…” Terry took a dramatic pause. “Maybe, Largeburger?” He pulled out of the parking space, and headed down the street toward Justin’s favorite restaurant in the world.

  “Largeburger? No way!” Justin said, delighted. “Can I get a milk shake, too?”

  In his mock parent voice, Terry replied, “Well, I don’t know about that. Were you a very good second grader today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? You didn’t start any fires? Or do any robberies? Or commit any other serious crimes?”

  The little boy was laughing now. The idea that he would do anything like that was so absurd, it tickled him that someone would even mention the possibility. He was probably the sweetest kid Terry had ever known in his life. “Um, I don’t think so.”

  “I see. Well then.” Terry turned onto Main Street. Largeburger was only a minute away. “Are you sure you’re hungry enough for a largeburger and a milk shake?”

  “And apple pie!” shouted his companion.

  “Well then,” Terry responded. “I guess we’ll have to go to Largeburger.”

  Zack always flipped through his file one final time before going to court on an important hearing. The Alan Lombardo case was so big, though, that all he could do was review his notes, and some of the highlights. There was just no way to go over it all.

  Terry had told him that the judge assigned to today’s hearing was Susan “Clear-the-Air” Blair. No matter how trivial, Judge Blair always wanted to have a hearing, just so everyone could get everything out on the table.

  Unfortunately, Lombardo really didn’t have a chance.

  The technicalities Alan wanted them to press were far from significant enough to warrant a new trial. And even though Zack’s father had been blatantly and appallingly unethical in his dealings with Alan and George Heinrich, it was going to be hard, if not impossible, to convince the judge that the arrangement had any adverse implications for Lombardo’s defense. There was no question that then-attorney Wilson had taken advantage of the situation for his own greedy purposes, but it was also clear that George Heinrich, Alan Lombardo, and Nehemiah Wilson had all been on the same side—they wanted Lombardo to get the best defense possible.

  And thanks to the prosecution’s overwhelming case, the best defense possible wasn’t much.

  An anonymous tipster had spotted Lombardo’s car at the time and place of the final Springfield Shooter murder. The housekeeper had found a container of victims’ fingers in Lombardo’s freezer. And the police had discovered the chilling diary entries, describing each one of his nine murders, in graphic and damning detail.

  And even though it was now known that Ellis Yates was responsible for the five killings that had taken place over the last month, and some circumstantial evidence might even point to him as the original Springfield Shooter, the case against Alan Lombardo was so strong that it was extremely unlikely that he would be awarded a new trial.

  As Zack began to return the various folders and notes into the boxes that held the Lombardo file, something made him stop, and remove the file containing the police reports of the evidence seized in the search of Alan’s home.

  Zack opened it, and
reviewed the contents of the computer and the computer disks the police had taken. There were the diary entries, and an alphabetical list of accounting clients for whom Alan had made files on his hard drive or on disk.

  Five minutes later, Zack was on his way to the offices of Heinrich Contracting.

  For lunch, Justin had a burger, a large vanilla shake, and a piece of apple pie. Terry had the same except his shake was chocolate. And they split a mega order of fries.

  “Dude,” Terry said, as they were walking back to the car, “what’s the rule when I drop you off in the courtroom?” This was the third time they were going to have this conversation. But for Terry, there was no way he could be sure enough.

  “I stay where you put me, no matter what,” Justin answered solemnly.

  “And what happens when there’s an emergency?” Terry asked.

  “I need to talk to one of the court officers. And if it’s a super-big emergency, I can go right up to you at the front of the courtroom. But that’s only if it’s a super-big emergency.”

  They had reached Terry’s car. After they fastened their seat belts, Terry looked over at his friend’s awesome kid. “Ready, little man?”

  “To go to Criminal Law City?”

  “Roger that.”

  Zack had finished his meeting with Paul Merrone, and was headed to the door when he overheard the burly man take a phone call. The Heinrich employee said little, but from what Zack could gather, the police were calling, and they were calling with bad news.

  Zack had a few unpleasant calls of his own to make. He got in the car and started off for the courthouse. The first call was to Terry, to let him know that he should alert Judge Blair that she should expect his father as a witness today.

  And the second was to Angry Dad himself.

  “Hello, Zachary.” His father’s deep voice boomed through his cell phone. “I sincerely hope you’re calling to tell me what you already know is the case. I will not be attending your little hearing today. It will be a cold day in Barbados when I voluntarily walk into a courtroom and spill my guts to Susan Blair. That woman is the worst judge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”