Stress Fracture: Book One in the Dub Walker Series

by D P Lyle

  “So, who is he?” Luther asked. “What kind of person are we looking for?”

  “I called Mort Canfield. Profiler with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. An old friend from when I was there. I ran all this by him to make sure I was putting things together right.” I propped one hip on the windowsill. The warm breeze that came through the cracked window felt good against my back. “The scenes are primary, not secondary dump sites, and overall give a mixed presentation. On the one hand, this guy is careful, methodical. Doesn’t just rush in. Plans and likely cases each victim. Maybe even a trial run or two. All this suggests an organized offender. Mature, clear thinking.” I scratched an earlobe. “If you just go on these facts, the profile would be late twenties to early thirties, employed, might be married, might have a family. He would be sociable, have friends, and basically seem normal to anyone who knew him.”

  “But?” Luther said.

  “There’s always a but, isn’t there? And this is a big one.” I heard a truck rumble by on the street below. “The mutilations. The complete overkill. Particularly the postmortem stuff. Except for wearing gloves, he makes little attempt to hide his crime. Doesn’t move or dump or try to conceal the bodies. A disorganized scene. Immature and impulsive. Here the profile would suggest that he was late teens to early twenties, unemployed or working in a low-paying, menial job. Probably lives alone or with a female relative. A mother or sister. A loner, with few if any friends. Maybe even truly schizophrenic.”

  T-Tommy looked up. “If this guy is schizo, how does he plan all this shit?”

  I shrugged. “That’s the problem. If he is schizophrenic, he’s more or less high-functioning. Until he gets a corpse in front of him anyway.”

  “If he’s already killed the victim, why do all this other stuff?” Scotty asked.

  T-Tommy grunted. “Because he had to.”

  “Bingo,” I said. “If this guy’s as unstable as the crime scene suggests, the killing isn’t the goal. It’s what comes after. It’s how he deals with his demons.”

  “He kept it together long enough to break into the Erskine,”

  Luther said. “That was no walk in the park.”

  “Which reminds me.” I looked at T-Tommy. “You have the security cam tapes from there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I get a copy?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Got a buddy over at NASA. Wendell Volek. Helped design the VISAR system.”

  “Think he can help?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Do it,” Luther said. He looked at me. “What else?”

  I pushed away from the window and crossed my arms over my chest. “What bothers me the most is the quick kill.”

  “Why’s that?” T-Tommy asked.

  “Serials don’t typically kill that way. Some do … like Berkowitz … the Son of Sam … but most are hands-on killers. They need to control, humiliate, and demean their victims before they kill. The preamble is the thrill. The actual murder is often an afterthought. Necessary to silence the witness. Many say they don’t enjoy the actual killing. And Drummond said there was no sexual assault in any of these cases.”

  T-Tommy nodded.

  “That’s troublesome,” I went on. “Most serials kill out of some bizarre fantasy. The victims are part of a complex sexually motivated script known only to the killer, probably imprinted early in life. That’s why they don’t typically cross ethnic lines or mix sexes. Whites kill whites. They choose either males or females, not both.” “All the victims are male,” Luther said.

  “Jeffrey Dahmer, Randy Kraft, and John Wayne Gacy liked men. Ted Bundy and the Buono/Bianchi duo preferred females. None of them crossed sexual lines.”

  “Why is that?” Scotty asked.

  “Remember, these guys are fantasy driven. Fantasies that take years to tweak and perfect. That are very specific. Sex, size, hair color might all be important in victim selection. Bundy chose women with long dark hair, parted in the middle. Very specific. But our guy isn’t in the sexually sadistic category. There was no sexual assault or genital mutilation. His victims are as different as can be. An old man, a young gay man, and … Mike. These are not likely the objects of a fantasy.”

  Luther laced his fingers and rested his chin on the tips of his index fingers. “I’m confused, Dub. Is this guy a serial killer or not?”

  “I’m as confused as you are. Not really sure what he is. Our boy’s wires are crossed, but not the same way most serials are. Some might classify him as the mission-oriented type. These guys have a goal. To right some wrong or rid society of ‘undesirables.’ Whatever he defines that as. Remember Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer? His mission was to rid the world of prostitutes. A group he felt didn’t deserve to exist.”

  “But, as you said, these victims are all different,” T-Tommy said. “What is it about them that attracted this guy?”

  “When we know that, we’ll be on our way to identifying him.” I uncrossed my arms and shoved my hands into my pockets. “You guys know me. Know I’m not big on psychobabble and labels. I think each killer is different. With different motivations. Sure, serial murderers have common elements, but prematurely shoving any one of them into some predefined pigeonhole can screw up an investigation in a heartbeat. This guy doesn’t fit into any of the traditional pigeonholes anyway. He’s a hybrid … for lack of a better term. Part spree, part serial. Probably more spree. He’s filled with rage, not fantasies, yet he seems to have a sort of cooling-off period between killings. Uses that time to plan the next one. If he just moved from place to place, killing strangers, he’d be a more typical spree type. Doesn’t look like he’s doing that. His attacks are planned.”

  “That’s a pleasant thought,” Scotty said.

  “He’s been angry a long time,” I said. “He didn’t just hatch a few weeks ago. Been existing in a sort of lunatic fringe. Probably for years. I don’t know what put a weed up his ass, but based on what I’ve seen so far, it’s not some wild sexual fantasy that he recruits unwilling players into.”

  Luther bounced the point of a pencil on his desk. It made sharp clicking sounds. “More rage than fantasy.”

  I shrugged. “Look at the scenes. Pure unadulterated rage. Stripped of all morals, all conscience. As if he were trying to dehumanize or completely obliterate the victims.”

  Luther dropped the pencil. “I hate these psychos.”

  “Then you’ll really hate this,” I said. Luther looked up at me. “He’s just getting started. He’ll keep killing as long as he has a target for his anger.”

  Luther raised an eyebrow.

  “He likes it,” I continued. “Got a fever for it. The killings, the mutilations, they satisfy something inside. He won’t … can’t might be a better word … stop.”

  “Great,” Luther said.

  “It gets better,” I said.

  Luther sighed. “You’re just full of good news.”

  “He knows the victims.” No one said anything, but I had their full attention. “He knows the layout of each location. The habits of the victims. Knows he has all the time he needs at the scene to kill, mutilate … to eat cookies … to clean himself up. He knows he’s not going to be interrupted.” I paused for a minute and let that sink in, then said, “This means he’s probably already selected his next victim and is planning the kill right now.”

  “You’re giving me a headache,” Luther said.

  “Sorry. You did ask for my opinion.”

  “I thought you were going to say we had another plain-vanilla loony. But this?” He massaged his temples. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Find out what sparks him,” I said. “His trigger. How and why he selects his victims.”

  T-Tommy nodded. “We’re digging into the victims already. Who they are, who they know, where they go, what bank they use, who mows their lawns, who calls them, and who they call. Everything. Maybe we’ll find the connection.”

  “Look at violent crimes in the past
year or so,” I said. “These killings aren’t our boy’s first trip out of the box. He probably has a record.”

  Luther glanced at his watch. “What should I tell the press and public? That he’s a spree killer? A serial killer? Something we don’t have a name for?”

  I thought about that for a minute. “We want to warn the public and recruit their eyes and ears. Right?” Luther nodded. “Then call him a serial killer. Remember the movie Jaws? The mayor told Sheriff Brody not to mention that a shark attack had occurred since that would scare the tourists away at the height of the season. He said if they used the word barracuda, everyone would say, ‘What?’ But, use the word shark, and a panic would ensue. Not that we want a panic here, but we do want to get the public’s attention. A little fear can be a good thing. Saying spree is like saying barracuda. Serial killers are sharks.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Luther stood, indicating the meeting was over. “Press conference in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER 18

  MONDAY 3:54 A.M.

  BACK IN HIS APARTMENT, BRIAN CHANGED INTO SHORTS AND A T-shirt and snagged a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. He turned on his computer, and while it finished the booting process, removed a binder from his pack. He pulled out the last three pages and spread them on the desktop.

  He rested his fingertips on the first page and read the name at the top. Carl Petersen. He remembered climbing the stairs at the Russel Erskine and then standing in the quiet hallway in front of Petersen’s door. Rage and fear warred inside him, one pushing him forward and the other causing him to glance toward the EXIT sign at the end of the hall. He wanted to run to it, down the stairs, back to his Jeep, a safe cocoon where he could subdue the impulses that drove him. He could still feel the apprehension that had prickled his skin.

  He had hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Even through the gloves he wore, it felt icy cold. Moment of decision. Run or go inside? He knew that once he crossed that threshold, violated Petersen’s home, there would be no turning back. The rage would win.

  And it did.

  When he stood above the sleeping man and felt the solid wooden bat in his hands, the rage took over. When he raised the bat and struck the first blow, an electric surge of power, suffocating in its weight, swelled within him. When the old man fought back and cried out, his fear rose, but fell silent as his frantic blows struck their mark. Later, after his anger had dissipated, after returning home, he crawled into bed, curled beneath his blanket, shaking with cold fear, and swore he would never give in to his rage again.

  Yet, deep inside, in that dark corner where the dragon lived, he knew it was a promise he could never keep.

  His gaze shifted to the next page. William Allison. Again, the unlocked door an invitation. He could see the young man asleep and vulnerable. He remembered thinking he seemed soft and delicate and not at all as he imagined he would be. On the phone his voice had been deep and masculine, his language vulgar and aggressive. The person before him appeared too passive. He thought so right up until he exploded his head with a 9 mm round.

  Next page. Savage. That was the best. The rage had reached new heights, the release a new intensity. He closed his eyes and called up the images. His breath quickened. The dragon stirred. He pulled himself back. Not now.

  A knock at the door. Hard and aggressive.

  He slipped the pages back into the binder and stood. Through the gap along the edge of the window curtain, he saw Carl Millonzi. What did that jerk want? He pulled open the door. Carl was tall—maybe six-three—but thin. Very thin. His baggy jeans rode low on his hips and his pale blue T-shirt appeared a couple of sizes too large.

  “Where was my wife last night?” Carl asked.

  “Ask her.”

  “She lies.” The veins along the side of his neck looked like ropes. “I called three times. Between midnight and two. She didn’t answer.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “It could be. Was she over here?”

  Brian felt the heat inside flare. His fist automatically balled at his sides. “Like I said, ask her.” He started to close the door, but Carl stopped it with his shoe.

  “I’m asking you.”

  Brian stepped toward Carl. He grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him forward. He placed his lips near Carl’s ear. “There are six billion people on this planet. I’m the last one you want to fuck with.” He shouldered Carl in the chest. Hard. Carl stumbled backward and collided with the porch railing. “Now get the fuck out of here before I hurt you.” He closed the door.

  CHAPTER 19

  MONDAY 3:56 P.M.

  I STEPPED OUT OF THE DOOR ON THE SOUTH SIDE OF THE COURT-HOUSE, shaded by the white-columned portico that wrapped around the building. Luther had set up a podium at the top of the stairs. Below, nearly two hundred citizens and reporters milled around the sidewalk. The hum of their collective voices sounded like a swarm of bees.

  The Madison County Courthouse filled the downtown square. The modern building, which had replaced a more traditional Southern courthouse—one of those stately structures with massive columns, broad steps, and a four-faced clock cupola—had long been a source of controversy. Many residents thought the nine-story gray monolith was downright ugly. They weren’t exactly wrong.

  The history of Huntsville lived around the square. To my right, Alabama’s first bank, now the Regions Bank, anchored the southwest corner and overlooked Big Spring, the 1905 birthplace of the city. The square’s west side had been Cotton Row, where tons of the staple had changed hands every year. To my left, on the southeast corner stood the gray, three-story Schiffman Building, another slice of Huntsville history. The birthplace of Tallulah Bankhead, one of Huntsville’s most famous daughters. Said so right on the metal marker that topped a pole near the entry.

  I remembered standing by that marker with my father. I was maybe eight or nine at the time. He told me about Tallulah. I had never heard of her. An odd name and, as I later learned, a world-famous one. I remembered reading the plaque. Tallulah was born in 1902. Died in 1968. Daughter of former Speaker of the US House of Representatives William B. Bankhead. I remember it listed a few of her movies. My favorite was Lifeboat. I’d watched it half a dozen times.

  I later learned that Dad had edited out all the good stuff. Tallulah was as well known for her antics as for her acting. Particularly the things that came out of her mouth. More than her habit of calling everyone “Dahling,” she was a repeated embarrassment to her father, once saying of him, “My father warned me about men and booze … but he never said anything about women and cocaine.” I wished she were still alive. I’d love to sit down over a bottle of bourbon with her. Bet Claire would, too.

  I saw Claire, standing near the Channel 8 truck that sat against the curb across the street. She wore a navy blue Channel 8 jacket and was chatting with Jeffrey, her cameraman. She looked up, waved, and headed in my direction. I met her at the bottom of the steps.

  “Reminds me of Packwood,” she said.

  The last time this many people had gathered on this spot to hear the sheriff speak was the first press conference we held in the Billy Wayne Packwood case. This had an eerily similar feel.

  “Quite a collection.” She waved a hand toward the gathering. “Met a guy down from Nashville, one from Atlanta. Even Blaine’s here. Not much can pry him out of the office.”

  Blaine Markland was the Huntsville Times city editor. He didn’t do much street reporting anymore, but this story brought out the big guns. “You got that right.”

  “Anything new?”

  I shook my head. “What are you hearing out here?”

  “The usual BS. That Sheriff Savage’s murder was a Mob hit. Or payback from a parolee. One said that he heard a satanic cult did it.”

  The rumor mill. Nothing like it. “I think Luther plans to put a halt to all that.”

  “He going to say it’s the work of a serial?”

  “Yeah.” The buzz began to die, and the crowd turned as one tow
ard the podium as Luther approached. “You going to hang around after this?” I asked.

  “Sure. For a few minutes anyway. Do some on-the-scene shots for my report tonight.”

  “I’ll find you after this is done.” I climbed the steps and took a position behind Luther, next to T-Tommy.

  Luther adjusted the wad of microphones before him, bending them upward to accommodate his height. The reporters and citizens jockeyed for position. I saw Claire slide into a prime front-row spot.

  Wouldn’t have expected anything less.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Luther began. “Thank you for coming. I have a brief statement to make, and then I’ll answer a few questions. Most of you already know that retired Sheriff Mike Savage was murdered last night in his home. We have no suspects yet, but our investigation is ongoing. We have established a joint task force that will be run out of my office. Heading the investigation for the sheriff’s department will be Deputy Scotty Simpson. For HPD, the lead investigator will be Investigator Tommy Tortelli. Also, I’ve asked Dub Walker to consult on the investigation.”

  Several reporters fired questions, but Luther waved them away.

  “I know you want to know why a task force is being put in place.” He cleared his throat. “Some of you may have speculated that last night’s murders are related to other recent murders in the county. I can tell you that we have evidence to suggest that that may be the case.”

  The crowd became an agitated beehive. Several reporters snatched cell phones from their pockets and purses and began punching in numbers.

  “I don’t want you to overstate or sensationalize the facts, and I beg that each of you be responsible in your reporting. I don’t want a panic … but … the public has a right and a need to know the truth. It is possible … and I emphasize possible … not confirmed … that a serial killer may be responsible for these deaths.” The buzzing increased. “In view of this, the public should take certain precautions. Keep your doors and windows locked. Leave lights on in and around your homes. Report any suspicious persons immediately. Do not, under any circumstances, confront a stranger yourselves. Now, I’ll answer a few questions.”