by D P Lyle
Luther massaged his forehead. “Let me guess. Warrant? Toss the place? Those kinds of options?”
I shrugged. “More or less.”
Luther turned to T-Tommy. “Anything you want to add, Tortelli?”
“I didn’t touch him. Didn’t even threaten him. Not with physical harm.” T-Tommy scratched one ear. “Boy seems to like his weed. Might’ve mentioned a visit from the narc guys. Something like that.”
Luther balled and relaxed one fist and stretched his neck as if trying to relieve a cramp. “Let me make this clear. I can’t have you two screwing up this investigation. Can’t have some citizen filing a complaint or going to the media with some police intimidation story. Clear?” We nodded. “We’re under the scope here. The public’s wound up tight. The mayor is up my butt. They expect us to track down this guy. They expect us to protect them. They don’t expect us to push them around.”
I had no response. Neither did T-Tommy. We did nod our agreement. I think mine was more sincere than T-Tommy’s.
“Get out of here,” Luther said.
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “Claire McBride wants me on tonight’s six o’clock news.”
Luther leaned back in his chair, his brow wrinkled. “What kind of questions does she have in mind?”
“Don’t know for sure. Probably about what type of person we’re looking for. Things like that.” I hesitated, but Luther offered no response. The crease in his brow did deepen a bit. “Another chance to get the public involved. Let them know who we’re looking for.” Luther pursed his lips, as if thinking it over. “Can’t hurt,” I added.
He gave me a sideways glance. “Right.” He did sarcasm well. He shook his head and looked right through me. “Don’t screw it up.”
“Will do.”
“Won’t,” T-Tommy said. “You won’t screw it up.”
“Yeah. That’s what I meant.”
Luther pointed toward the door.
CHAPTER 27
TUESDAY 6:02 P.M.
“QUIT CLOWING AROUND,” CLAIRE SAID. SHE PLAYFULLY THUMPED the back of my head.
She stood behind me. I looked up at her reflection in the mirror I faced. “It tickles.”
“You’re making faces, and if you don’t quit, Maria will never finish. We go on in eight minutes.”
“I don’t need makeup.”
“Trust me, Dub, you do.” She shook her head and then to Maria said, “We go through this every time he’s on the show.”
Maria Sanchez, who wore too much makeup for my taste, swiped the soft brush across my nose, causing it to do an involuntary waggle.
“It’s not really necessary. You just like to torture me.”
“That’s true,” Claire said. “Maria’s only adding a little color and taking off the shine. Otherwise you’ll look like a wanted poster.”
“I feel like a cover model for Transvestite’s Quarterly.”
“Not likely,” Claire said through a laugh. “Somehow I can’t picture you in lace and pumps.”
“Funny, I can picture you that way.”
She thumped my head again. “Play nice.”
“All done.” Maria removed the makeup bib.
I inspected myself in the mirror. A layer of tan makeup covered my face, and my lips reflected a faint red cast. Jesus. I looked like one of those guys from KISS.
I followed Claire down a hall and into the studio just as the anchorman tossed the feed to a commercial. Some guy with headphones clamped over his ears led us past light stands and cameras and over a dozen or so electrical cords that spider-webbed across the floor. He sat us behind a desk to the left of the two anchor reporters and clipped small microphones on our lapels.
“You ready?” Claire asked.
“I look like a clown.”
“Not to them.” She nodded toward the camera.
The intense lights pulled beads of sweat onto my forehead. Maria suddenly popped up in front of me and dabbed my face with that tickly brush again. She stepped back, examined her work, flashed a smile and a thumbs-up, and disappeared beyond the curtain of glaring lights.
To our right, the anchorman said, “And now back to our top story, the series of murders that have occurred here in Huntsville. With her report and special guest is Claire McBride. Claire.”
Claire spoke to the camera, seeming impervious to the lights. I felt like a chicken on a rotisserie.
“Tonight, we are fortunate to have with us a man many of you know from his books and from past appearances on this and other news programs. You might also remember that Dub Walker helped with the capture of Billy Wayne Packwood, a notorious local serial killer. Now he is working with the joint sheriff’s department and HPD task force to help track the brutal murderer who has claimed the lives of three people. Dub, thank you for being here.”
“Thanks for having me.”
“Let me first ask … is the task force any closer to apprehending the killer?”
“The crime scenes have yielded some evidence that we believe will ultimately lead to his capture. Let’s say we’re cautiously optimistic.”
Claire had on her professional face and had locked in her reporter’s voice. At Sammy’s or in any other social setting, she was tough, witty, and at times more than a bit crude. Her speech took on its natural drawl. Particularly after a couple of drinks. But here, at work, her face, voice, body language, everything changed. A pro in every respect. Of course, I pictured her with a bourbon in her hand. Or maybe in lace and pumps.
“We talked before we went on the air about the type of person who could commit such murders. This killer is different from most serial killers, isn’t he?”
I nodded and looked into the camera. “In many respects. Most serials capture their victims by force or by employing some ruse, incapacitate them, and take them to a remote area where the murder takes place. They then hide or dump the bodies, usually in an area where they won’t be easily found. Like Packwood did. The individual perpetrating these killings, however, sneaks into the victims’ homes at night, kills them as they sleep, and makes no attempt to cover his crimes.”
“What does this tell you about the killer?”
“That he’s either socially incompetent or a coward. He doesn’t have the skills to sweet talk his way into someone’s home, and he can’t confront his victims out of fear.”
“You believe this guy is a coward? Afraid of his victims?”
“Two of the three victims were shot in the head. The first victim, Mr. Carl Petersen, a frail, seventy-year-old man, wasn’t. The evidence indicates that Mr. Petersen put up a heck of a fight. I believe this scared the killer, since the other victims were shot before they had a chance to fight back. To me, that’s cowardly.”
Claire nodded and glanced at the notes she had before her. “From my research, I understand that most serial killers are driven by some deranged sexual fantasy. But you feel that this killer isn’t. Why is that?”
“There have been no sexual assaults of any of the victims,” I said. “I’d suspect that this guy is driven more by rage and anger than by some warped sexual fantasy. He has many of what we call spreelike features.”
“What do you mean?”
“A spree killer is one who kills several people in different locations in a more or less frenzied fashion. Like Andrew Cunanan. The guy who killed Versace. The problem with classifying this guy as a spree killer is that he seems to have a cooling-off period between his murders. Unlike the classic spree killer, he doesn’t rush from place to place and kill folks. He plots and plans. More like what we call an organized serial. I’d suspect the guy we’re after is a mixture … part serial, part spree. At least that’s my reading of the information we have so far.”
“What else should the public know about the killer?”
“He’s six feet to six feet two, around two hundred pounds, and right-handed. He is likely very strong and might work as a manual laborer or perhaps works out with weights.”
“How do you k
now that?”
“I can’t give any details. Let’s just say the crime scene evidence suggests that this description is accurate.” Claire started to ask another question, but I went on. “I would add that he’s most likely sexually impotent and may be a latent or practicing homosexual. I say this because his target victims are men.”
Claire hesitated for a beat, looked at me, and then said, “How could an impotent coward, as you say, kill so brutally?”
“Make no mistake, this guy is big, strong, and filled with rage. Probably has a short fuse and is easily angered. Probably lives alone or with a family member. His outbursts wouldn’t be tolerated by most people. He probably has a history of violent acts.”
“He sounds scary.”
I nodded. “All that and more.”
“Any advice for the public?”
“Until we catch this guy … and we will … keep your doors and windows locked. If you have an alarm system, use it. If you see any suspicious activity, notify law enforcement. Under no circumstances should you confront a stranger. This guy is as bad as it gets.”
“Thank you, Dub. You’ve given us a lot to think about.” She turned to the camera. “You can pick up Dub Walker’s latest book, Multiple Murderers: Nature or Nurture? at your local bookstore.”
The anchor jumped in and began to introduce the next segment. We made our way back through the cameras and cables. I followed her to her office. She tugged the door closed and turned toward me.
“What was that all about?”
“What?”
“Don’t game me, Dub. I wrote the book. All that homosexual stuff. I thought you said this wasn’t a sex-driven creature.”
“He’s not.”
“Then what the hell was that?”
“Look, we’ve been on the defense here. I wanted to lob a grenade in his direction. Maybe knock him off balance.” “He is off balance.
He’s full-tilt nuts.”
“And if we can stress him, maybe he’ll screw up. That’s our best chance of getting this guy.”
She blew a wayward strand of hair from her face. “You should have told me. I wasn’t expecting it, and I don’t like on-air surprises.”
I smiled. “You handled it well.” She frowned. “Besides, he might not even see it. Maybe he’s not a fan.” Her frown deepened. I was pushing my luck. Time to drop it. “Can I wash my face now?”
Claire couldn’t stop the smile that crept across her face. She never could stay mad at me. I didn’t think so, anyway. “Please do. Don’t want you scaring the kiddies.”
CHAPTER 28
TUEDAY 7:35 P.M.
BRIAN KURTZ LAY ON HIS BACK ON THE WORKOUT BENCH. TWO fifty-pound metal plates gripped each end of the thick iron bar that rested against his chest. With a grunt, he shoved the 225-pound barbell upward and, resisting the weight, slowly lowered it. He quickly went through his third set of bench presses, mentally counting the reps, each punctuated with a grunting breath. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. He settled the bar in its cradle and sat up. His two-hour workout completed, he went through his stretching routine, then sat at his desk for several minutes cooling down, wiping sweat from his face with a dark blue towel.
Kushner’s file sat on the desktop. He flipped it open and read each page for the fifth time. It contained more information than he needed. Much more. The caller had left out nothing. He closed the file, stretched out on the floor, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.
Who was the caller? How the hell did he know so much? What was the payoff? He had learned long ago that there was always a payoff. No one did anything just for the hell of it.
Brian knew he could have done this without this guy’s help. No problem. Doesn’t take a genius to break into a home and kill someone. Of course, Petersen was a bit of a trick. Getting in and out of the Russel Erskine had been dicey. No doubt the guy helped there. Knew the right time. Knew the best route. All laid out for him. Still, he could have managed. It only takes the will to do it. Focus and determination. That’s what his basic-training DI always said. Keep focused. Keep moving forward. Never lose sight of the mission.
Maybe that was it. The caller didn’t have the focus, the determination, the guts to do it. Sure he could plan, write up detailed scripts, draw little maps. Who couldn’t do that? But … to go inside … into the kill zone … to do what was necessary? To stay focused while your heart thumped against your chest and your brain twisted and squirmed and screamed for you to get the hell out? That was the hard part. The scary-fun part. The part that fed the beast. The caller was simply using him to do what he couldn’t.
Still, he had to admit, this guy, whoever he was, made things easier. Even if he was an arrogant prick. Like the Kushner situation. He had told … no, actually ordered … Brian to stay away until he said so. Said that Kushner was out of town until tomorrow and maybe tomorrow night would work. That he’d decide when and let Brian know. What did he think? That he was just his errand boy? Fuck him. If he wanted to check out Kushner himself, he’d do just that. If this dude didn’t like it, well … let him come over and complain. Brian would like that. See how arrogant the bastard was face-to-face.
CHAPTER 29
TUESDAY 7:43 P.M.
I STOOD IN THE KITCHEN AND TORE LETTUCE INTO PIECES, PLACING them into a large wooden bowl while T-Tommy fussed over a pot of his famous bolognese sauce. I added sliced mushrooms, chopped olives, diced tomatoes, and a handful of caramelized pecans to the salad. Crumbed blue cheese, a homemade vinaigrette, and a good tossing followed.
I had invited Claire and T-Tommy for dinner. T-Tommy said he’d come only if he could cook. He had been at it for an hour. Claire sat at the table on the back patio, sipping wine and absorbing the fading sunlight, now only a reddish glow to the west. She tapped on her laptop, a new MacBook Air, probably putting together her next broadcast.
My small two-bedroom cottage-style house clung to the western crest of Monte Sano Mountain, one of the last bumps of the Appalachian chain. Heavily wooded, Monte Sano looked down on the city of Huntsville. As did my backyard and the deck where Claire sat.
The house sat where Old Church Road ended in a tight loop around a hundred-year-old live oak tree. The other end branched off Monte Sano Boulevard, a tree-shaded two-lane road that wiggled its way across the spine of the mountain, ending at busy Governors Drive to the south and serpentine Bankhead Parkway to the north, the only two connections to the city below. The stone remnants of the antebellum church that gave the short lane its name sat at the intersection of Old Church and Monte Sano. It had burned nearly a hundred years earlier, and now only a chimney remained, the stone still blackened from the fire.
As T-Tommy fed fresh fettuccine into a pot of boiling water, he said, “Your birds are attacking your ex.”
My birds were Kramden and Norton. Two crows that I had rescued from a neighbor’s pine tree after their mother disappeared. Probably killed by a hunter. Dropper feedings, then mushed-up worms and grains, and they grew into annoying young adults. That’s when I opened the walk-in cage I had built for them and let them take to the sky. They now roamed all over the county with others of their kind but managed at least one visit a day here. Usually for food or to bring some shiny object they had picked up. Crows are natural thieves and love anything with a gloss to it. Norton was the best thief; Kramden was the fat one. And the noisy one.
I looked out the window. Kramden hung his head over Claire’s computer screen as she worked the keyboard. Norton stood to one side, eyeing her.
“She can handle them.”
She did. She scratched Kramden’s head and gave Norton a cracker from the tray of cheeses and crackers I had prepared earlier. Norton snatched it and bounced across the table and out into the yard. Kramden followed and a squabble erupted. Once they devoured the cracker, they swirled into the sky, still going at each other, and headed west, their silhouettes starkly black against the red-orange sky, their cawing echoing off the trees. Time for them to fi
nd a roosting spot.
With the food ready, we settled on the deck table and began to eat. The pasta was great, as usual. T-Tommy knew his way around the kitchen. Learned it from his mother. Old family recipes. We washed it down with some Biale Black Chicken Zinfandel.
During dinner, we talked about the case. Nothing new, just a rehashing of what we had. Not much, but I found that talking through cases often changed the way you looked at them. Something that slid by your eye jumped out when spoken. Not this time. Not yet anyway. Maybe when we had more to go on.
Claire refilled her wineglass. She offered T-Tommy and me some. Me yes, him no. “After the show tonight I did a bit of research on spree killers,” she said.
“Glad I could inspire you,” I said.
“You always inspire me, Dub. Mostly toward homicidal rages, but inspired nonetheless.”
“Funny.”
“I work at it. As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, these spree killers tend to be impulsive. Rarely plan things. Just act and react. Often attack randomly. Targets of opportunity. Right?”
“That’s right,” I said. “They might target a particular person or group or organization, but on the way to and from they kill whoever they run into. Andrew Cunanan killed a couple of guys he knew and took off. In Minnesota, Jeffrey Trail and David Madson. Then he killed Lee Miglin in Chicago and William Reese in New Jersey. He needed their money and their vehicles. Then he headed south. Once he got to South Beach, he went after Versace. Maybe Versace was the focus of his anger all along. Maybe he simply represented something Cunanan couldn’t have. A club he couldn’t join. Could be either. We’ll never know since Cunanan put a gun to his own head. Too bad he didn’t do that first.”
“That sounds like the guy you’re after,” she said.
“Mostly.”
“I also read these guys often go out blazing. Shoot up a restaurant or get into it with the police.”
I nodded. “Let’s hope he screws up before that happens.”
