by Ed Gaffney
Zack accelerated and merged into the traffic on the interstate. “I’m sorry, Dad, but I just came from a meeting with Paul Merrone. Mr. Heinrich’s—”
“I know who Paul Merrone is,” the judge interrupted. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“I was going over the Lombardo case this morning,” Zack persisted, “and I realized for the first time that in all of the computer records that the cops seized from Alan’s home, not one item had anything to do with the Heinrich accounts, despite the fact that Alan was their accountant, and Heinrich was by far his biggest client.”
His father made a noise of disgust from the other end of the phone. “I don’t know why you continue to pester me with this, Zachary, but I swear to God, whether you are my son or not—”
“The reason Alan had no record of the Heinrich accounts was because he didn’t keep any of the records,” Zack cut in. “Mr. Heinrich did. On floppy disks, which Mr. Heinrich, or one of his employees, brought over to Alan when Alan was doing work for them. They brought the disks, and stayed, while Alan did the work, then they took the disks away.”
“So?” The disdain in the judge’s voice was palpable.
“So Paul Merrone told me that Mr. Heinrich, and he, and any number of Heinrich’s employees had access to Alan Lombardo’s house, his computer, his computer disks. You represented a man for murder who might well have been framed for that very murder by your own clients. It’s a classic conflict of interest, and Alan Lombardo deserves a new trial. He might even be innocent.”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. “I had no idea of any of that,” the judge said stiffly. “No idea at all.”
“From what I learned from Mr. Merrone, that doesn’t sound very likely,” Zack said. “But as you know, it doesn’t matter. The conflict existed, and you’re going to testify to it. If you refuse to do so, Judge Blair will find you in contempt, you will be arrested, and you will end up being brought before the court in irons. I suggest you come under your own power. And bring a good lawyer. You’re going to need one, Dad.”
THIRTY-TWO
Dear Vera,
By now, you have probably found the latest casualty in this nightmare, and have figured everything out, so I suppose the first thing I should do is apologize.
Vera felt like screaming.
Was Ellis ever going to leave her alone?
The letter had come in today’s mail. The original was being examined by the lab, and a copy had been handed to her just as she was leaving the station house. Unlike the others, this one was handwritten. Of course. Why should Ellis continue to bother trying to hide his identity? Vera stuffed it into her pocket, climbed into her car, and started up the siren. She was on the way to this madman’s latest crime scene. She’d read his sick letter after she got there.
She hadn’t slept all night, trying to figure out where and when the next lethal attack was going to happen. And this morning, when she got in to work, she found out that she hadn’t had any more success than the guys at the lab.
Then, at about noon, she got word that a boy walking his dog around the Springfield Mall’s largest outdoor parking lot had become suspicious because the dog was barking like crazy at a car’s trunk.
And surprise, surprise, when they ran the license plates, they were stolen.
But the model and color of the car matched Ellis’s.
So there it was. Ellis had struck again. Hours, if not a full day ahead of when she, Terry, and Zack had calculated to be the time of the next attack.
So either they had made a mistake, or Ellis had been jerking them around again.
And now Vera was on her way out to that parking lot, to find the latest victim. The latest person she hadn’t been able to save from this monster.
Vera flew down the highway to the turnoff which would lead her to Ellis’s car, and his latest victim. She was going to get this guy. She was going to get him no matter what it took.
This was going to be the last corpse this monster would be responsible for.
She sped down the ramp to the parking lot, and easily spotted the car in question. Two squad cars were there already, as well as a tow truck from a local garage, to help them pop the trunk.
But Vera already knew what was in there. It was just a matter of discovering who.
She reached Ellis’s car just as the mechanic had finished unlatching the trunk. The smell hit her immediately. There was no chance that what was in there wasn’t a dead body.
The mechanic stepped back, holding a rag over his mouth and nose.
And Vera stepped forward.
The corpse had been thrown into the trunk headfirst, facedown. An adult male, somewhat overweight, wearing an inexpensive suit that looked like it had a stain on one of the sleeves. Vera and the other officers reached in to turn him over.
She grabbed hold of the dead man’s shoulder and arm—yes, his index finger was missing—and on the count of three, they rolled the victim onto his back.
And as the corpse revealed itself, his head limply rolled over so that he now faced the police who had arrived too late to save him. His blank, sightless eyes seemed to stare right through Vera, uttering silent accusations, and she felt her stomach tighten and knew she was very close to throwing up.
Because the man in the trunk of the car was Ellis.
And then a radio call came in, and the cruisers both went tearing off to the courthouse, to respond to a report of shots fired.
Leaving Vera alone with her dead partner.
Terry ushered Justin into a seat near the front of the gallery, on the right side, so that he would have a good view of his father during the hearing. Zack had hoped that by allowing Justin to witness the very controlled nature of a courtroom hearing, the little boy’s fears over Zack’s involvement with a convicted serial killer might be reduced. Terry thought the idea sounded nuts, but what did he know.
They were early—the assistant district attorney, the court reporter, the clerks, the court officers—none of them were in the courtroom yet. Terry decided to hang out with Justin, at least until Zack arrived. Terry showed Justin the door he expected Zack to use, at the front of the courtroom on the right side, so he could keep an eye on it.
There was a decent crowd in attendance—maybe as many as fifty or sixty—and people were still filing in steadily. Somehow the curious ones always knew when something interesting might go down at court. Maybe word that Zack’s father was going to be involved had leaked out, or maybe people were here just because it was a chance to get a glimpse of the notorious Springfield Shooter.
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t matter to Terry or Zack. They had a job to do, and the job didn’t change depending on whether they did it in a crowded room or an empty one.
Just then, Justin tugged on Terry’s sleeve, and held up a promotional game piece that he had received with his dessert at Largeburger. “How many of these do I have to get before I get a free milk shake?” the little boy asked.
Terry had no idea. He took the small, brightly colored cardboard rectangle from Justin. It had a picture of a crown on it—
“Justin, man,” Terry said hastily, handing the game piece back to him. “I’ll tell you in a second.” He had just found the missing key to the serial killer’s puzzle. “I’ve got to make a quick phone call. They don’t let us take our cell phones in the courthouse, but there’s a pay phone in the hallway right outside the doors back there. You want to come, or you want to wait here for your dad?”
“I’ll wait here.”
“Okay, kiddo. Be right back.”
By now, the gallery was quite full, and Terry had a little trouble walking against the flow of foot traffic coming in to attend the hearing. The aisle on the other side of the courtroom was just as busy. Zack’s dad and another man were making their way to some seats on that side of the room.
Terry had barely reached the pay phone when he heard the gunshot.
The Final Five Seconds
THIS WA
S IT. THE LAST MOMENTS OF ZACK’S life.
He took some comfort in the fact that because of the flood of adrenaline that was surging through his body, time was creeping so slowly he felt like he could see and feel the tiniest increments in movement, and experience the smallest measures of time.
He was four feet from the shooter, who was aiming his gun directly at Zack’s heart. His finger was slowly squeezing the trigger.
Zack was sure that the result of this confrontation was that he was going to be shot and killed. But what he also had to be sure of was that he wouldn’t die before he had brought the shooter down in a way that gave Justin, assuming he was still alive, a chance to escape.
So he dodged to his right.
Because he couldn’t bear any weight with his left leg, and because he didn’t want to give up any more ground to the shooter, Zack’s feint was only from the waist up. Like a somewhat awkward dance move, or a boxer trying to slip past a jab.
It almost worked.
The bullet struck him high and on the left side of his chest. Zack felt like he had been punched, hard, and his upper body swiveled back and to the left.
But he did not fall. His brain registered pain, but it was a like a message shouted to him from an enormous distance. He had a single focus, and that was to move forward. And now there were less than three feet between him and his target.
Because the light from the emergency flood lamp was still shining directly into Zack’s eyes, the shooter’s face was still entirely backlit. For an instant, a flash of hope surged through Zack that all at once, the lights would come on, and the gunman would get startled so that Zack would be able to take advantage of the shooter’s hesitation, disarm him, and survive.
But that didn’t happen. Instead, the gunman merely re-aimed the gun at Zack. He must have thought that all he needed to do was to plug Zack again with another bullet or two, and Zack would finally give up.
Obviously, the shooter didn’t have kids.
Because no weapon was going to stop Zack now.
He had hoped to use both hands to grab the shooter by the throat and wrestle him to the ground, but thanks to that last bullet, Zack’s left arm appeared to be in complete rebellion. He couldn’t move it at all. So instead, he raised his right fist above his head. Using his arm like a club, he brought it down with all of his force on the shooter’s outstretched hand.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The gunshot, the punch in the stomach, the gratifyingly solid contact between Zack’s fist and the shooter’s gun hand, or wrist, or forearm. Something that made the madman yelp with pain. Excellent.
There was a confused flurry of images—shadows, a flash of light, colors. Zack knew that he had finally achieved full contact with the shooter—he was leaning against him—but he also knew he was falling.
Sounds were registering clearly, though. The incredibly satisfying clatter off to his right must have been the shooter’s gun falling to the floor. The sound of the shooter’s breath leaving him with a whoosh, just as Zack felt himself crumple into a strangely soft collision with something.
No—he had crashed into the shooter, who had toppled backward with Zack on top of him.
And then there was a curious sensation of being lifted up.
Zack was a very pragmatic person, and a part of him knew very well that he wasn’t actually going anywhere, but that knowledge did not erase the feeling that he was actually traveling through time and space, back to that moment two days after Justin had come home from the hospital.
The moment when Zack was changing the little boy’s diapers, and each first saw in the eyes of the other what each truly had.
When they both realized that everything really was going to be all right.
Now, Zack decided that all he wanted to do was to pick up his son and hold him.
But strangely, he couldn’t move his arms.
And it was getting harder to see Justin.
Zack was fading away.
At least he had done something important with his life.
And then he was gone.
THIRTY-THREE
THE EMTS AND A CRIME-SCENE UNIT ARRIVED only a moment after the cruisers left. That was good, because Vera had been so stunned by the discovery of Ellis’s body that she was still fixed to the spot she was in when she first saw him.
As they began their vital but terrible work, Vera remembered the letter from Ellis.
Dear Vera,
By now, you have probably found the latest casualty in this nightmare, and have figured everything out, so I suppose the first thing I should do is apologize.
Tears started to well up in Vera’s eyes. Not only had Ellis been killed—she had wrongly believed that he was the killer himself.
I know I should have followed procedure and taken him in with the whole department, put him in the system, and let the courts take care of it, but I couldn’t. I was selfish.
Because for me, this was personal.
I lived on the same street as Carrie Bernstein, the seventh victim of the Springfield Shooter.
Carrie and I were in high school together. And I had the biggest crush on her.
And the day she was murdered was the day I’d decided I was finally going to ask her out to the movies with me.
I never got over that. When I saw what happened to Carrie, I decided to kill whoever did that to her. It’s the reason I became a cop.
But I hardly got a chance to work on the Springfield Shooter case before it was solved.
When I got the opportunity to help you on this case, I jumped at it. I felt like I’d finally have a chance to stop another string of murders that would destroy so many lives. And when it started to look like it was possible that Lombardo wasn’t really the Springfield Shooter, I realized that I really was going to get another chance to avenge Carrie’s death.
And then I figured it out.
Remember how he was writing all about games in that letter? That was the key to the puzzle. The “game” was chess. The focus was on specific words in the clues. The fifth word in the first clue was spawn—which contained the word “pawn.” And the fifth word in the next clue was crook—which contained the word “rook.” The other words we had to focus on—“knight,” “bi-shop” and “asking”—all contained other chess pieces: the knight, the bishop, and the king.
The one he left out was the queen. Queen Street.
And the number of squares on a chessboard—64—less 10 equals 54. The site of the next attack was going to be at 54 Queen Street. I don’t know who lives there, but at least I saved that person’s life.
Vera looked at her watch. It was 1:47. She had less than forty-five minutes.
Monster
THIS LAST ONE WAS PROMISING TO BE EVEN more exciting than he had expected.
Technically, he was supposed to wait until 2:30 before killing the old lady, but everything had been accelerated by the Ellis Yates development.
And since it was now going to be a double-header with Stephanie, he was going to need extra time.
Oh well. Vera would just have to adapt.
And realistically, even if she didn’t, her disappointment would be short-lived.
Because he was going to kill her, too.
Philomena Y. Giordano
IT WAS 1:49 P.M. ON SEPTEMBER 21 WHEN Philomena Giordano answered the door to her home at 54 Queen Street for the last time in her life.
It was amazing how some days, the doorbell never rang, and others, it seemed like every time she turned around, Philomena was heading to the front hall. It wasn’t like she was complaining—she loved visitors. Especially her lovely young neighbor, Stephanie.
But when she opened the door, Philomena was startled to see a young man on her doorstep. Before she could even say hello, he had pulled open the screen door and shoved his way into her home. “Hey!” Philomena cried, stumbling backward, bumping into the little table where she liked to set her outgoing mail. The young man shut the door behind him. “Who are you? What are
you doing in here? Get out of my house right now!”
But instead of answering, the man shook his head. With an odd smile on his face, he took a roll of duct tape out of an oversized pocket in his jacket, and said, “Welcome to my world, Philomena.”
THIRTY-FOUR
STEPHANIE HAD CALLED IN SICK. THE LAST few days had been so traumatic that she felt she needed to sleep for about a week.
But until her father was released, and until they finally put this killer away, Steph was hardly getting any rest.
She’d spent the morning just taking it slow, but by the time lunch rolled around, she wasn’t feeling any better than she had for days.
It was funny, but when Steph had imagined finally hearing from the police that they were wrong, and that her father had nothing to do with any of these murders, she had expected to feel joyful relief.
But right now, she was so emotionally exhausted that all she wanted to do was not think about this nightmare for a while.
The doorbell rang.
An hour earlier, after unenthusiastically reviewing her microwave choices for today’s lunchtime—Chicken Teriyaki, Vegetable Noodle Supreme, or Turkey Pot Pie—she had opted for decadence: an everything pizza from Maxie’s.
She opened the door and paid for the pizza. The delivery guy started to explain that he was late because of the miserable traffic caused by the stupid roadwork—but Steph’s cell phone rang, interrupting his apology.
As she dug her phone out of her purse, she stood at her open door and dreamily watched the delivery person get in his little car and go on his way.
Too bad she couldn’t have ordered up somebody to have pizza with. Like that lawyer, Zack Wilson. Now that would turn lunch into something exciting. Unless she was reading him wrong, his eyes reflected the same intense interest that she had in him. Intelligent, friendly, charming, very good-looking in a kind of relaxed, self-assured way. Donna called guys like that “NFJF”—Not Flashy, Just Fine.
