by D P Lyle
“So, you went in thinking you might be able to talk him down?”
I nodded.
“Isn’t that because the killer called you? At your home?”
That I hadn’t expected, but then it was just Claire being Claire. “I can’t discuss that.”
“My sources tell me that the killer called you and actually warned that other killings were coming. True?”
Her sources? A wicked thought popped in my head. What would she do if I said that of course she knew about the call? That she had been lying right there. Naked. That would be fun. Instead, I said, “I can’t say.”
“Isn’t that why you thought you might be able to talk to him? You two had a connection of sorts?”
“That would make sense. If your sources are accurate.”
“Aren’t they?”
I fought it, but again the smile won. “No comment.”
“The Mall Killer … as some have named him … What do you know about him? Any idea why he did this?”
“We don’t know much about Hay yet. Still looking into that.” I felt sweat collect on the back of my neck. Wished they’d turn the lights down a notch or two. “He would be classified as a mass murderer as opposed to a spree or serial killer. Mass murderers kill several people in one place at one time.”
“What would make someone do this?”
“Some deep-seated anger. At someone or something. A business or the government. Sometimes a person or group of people. The rage builds over time until they finally act out. Shoot up an office, a restaurant, or … a shopping mall.”
“Is there any way to identify them before they do something like this?”
“Difficult,” I said. “Most keep what’s bugging them wrapped up inside. Might be sullen or isolate themselves. Might have a short fuse. Maybe not. Friends and coworkers often see nothing out of the ordinary.” I took a sip of the water they had provided. “There are various threat assessment groups that analyze workplaces to see if any of the employees are at risk for this type of behavior. So they can intervene beforehand.”
“Investigator Tortelli, did Hay work at the mall? Have any connection there?”
T-Tommy shook his head. “Not that we know of.”
She turned to the camera. “We’ll take a brief commercial break and then return with our guests.”
She held her gaze on the camera until someone beyond the wall of light said, “We’re out.”
I looked at Claire. “No more about the calls. That’s our best link to this guy, and I don’t want a bunch of goofballs gumming it up.”
She nodded. “Okay … for now.”
I frowned. “Until I say otherwise. Okay?”
“For now.”
“Play nice.”
“I’m always nice.” She smiled. “Until I’m not.” She turned back to the camera.
The offstage voice said, “We’re back live in three … two … one.”
Claire instantly returned to work mode. “We’re talking with Investigator Tommy Tortelli of the HPD and author and forensic expert Dub Walker.” Claire looked past me toward T-Tommy. “Let’s turn to the other case you two are working on. Anything new on the investigation into the murders of Sheriff Mike Savage, Carl Petersen, and William Allison?”
“We have several clues that are being worked right now. I can’t discuss them, but we’re hopeful.”
“No suspects, I take it.”
“Not yet.”
She turned to me. “Last night you gave us your views on the type of person who is committing these vicious murders. What else can you tell us?”
I had decided that I would take the gloves off. Jump in this guy’s chili. Put the heat on and see if he would wiggle out into the light. Not that I didn’t have doubts about this strategy. He had been cool last night. Not even a tremor. But he had made the contact. Had prepped for it. Now, I was choosing the time and place to push him. In public, where it would be more humiliating. The possibility of another meltdown, another mall performance, chewed around the edges of my confidence, but taking a shot at him seemed better than sitting back and letting him set the rhythm of things.
I looked into the camera. “It’s likely that he was psychologically and sexually abused as a child. By a male relative or neighbor. He may be a latent or practicing homosexual. He’s a loner with few friends. Probably has violent mood swings and a history of altercations. He could have a current or past problem with fire-starting, animal cruelty, or bed-wetting, as these are fairly common among these types of killers.”
There you go, asshole. Gnaw on that.
Claire took a quick glance at her notes. “Is it true that the killings have become more violent? Is the killer escalating his activities?”
“During the interview we did last night, I said that I believed this killer is driven by anger and rage. I also believe he’s struggling with his rage, having a difficult time controlling it. His personality is deteriorating, which makes him increasingly dangerous.”
“So, there might be other victims soon?”
“Unless we find him first, I’m afraid so. Of course, it’s possible he might be unable to handle his own demons any longer and could take his own life. Or he might pick the wrong victim and get himself killed.”
“The wrong victim?”
“A police officer, for example. Someone who knows how to handle such situations. An equal match.”
“But without such a mistake, he’s likely to go on killing. Isn’t that correct?”
“He’s got a real taste for it. He not only likes it, he needs it. Probably has an extremely poor self-image. Lack of confidence. Maybe downright crazy.” I leaned toward the camera. Wanted the killer to sense I was talking to him. “The person committing these atrocious crimes has neither the strength of character to suppress his anger nor the mental stability to seek the help he needs. His demons are in control. He’s weak, cowardly, and may be suffering from homosexual rage.”
“You make him sound like an animal.”
“Worse. Animals don’t know better. He does.”
“You’ve surely given us a lot to think about,” Claire said.
I could sense she was getting ready to wrap this up, so I jumped in. “I’d like to say one more thing.” The camera swung toward me, and I could tell the cameraman was working the zoom. “Someone out there knows this guy. Maybe knows everything. Maybe just suspects. Maybe simply has a feeling that something isn’t right. If that’s you, call the sheriff’s department or the HPD. If not, you could become a victim. This is the type of killer that will turn on anyone. Don’t think because he’s a relative, a friend, a lover, whatever, that you’re safe. No one’s safe.”
CHAPTER 41
WEDNESDAY 6:31 P.M.
BRIAN STARED AT THE TV. YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT NO ONE IS safe. His anger churned as Dub Walker’s words lingered in his head. You want a fight, asshole? I’ll give you a whole fucking war.
He raged around his apartment, threw a chair against the wall, put a fist through the drywall. Looking for anything to vent his anger on, finding nothing. He knelt on the floor and squeezed his head between his hands. Now is not the time. Later, but not now. Kushner. Concentrate on Kushner.
He made his way into the shower and stood under the cold spray, letting it cascade over his head and shoulders. It took fifteen minutes, but finally the rumbling rage receded to a low simmer. Out of the shower, he began to dry himself and heard a knock at the door. When he opened it, Laranne stood there. Just great. He didn’t have the time or patience for her right now.
“You scared the shit out of my husband the other day,” she said.
“He’s lucky that’s all that happened.”
She moved past him and into his apartment. “He’s gone.” She smiled, head cocked to one side. “A two-day trip.”
“I’m busy. Got somewhere to be.”
“Later? Will that work?”
“Maybe.”
She pulled the towel from his hands and let it drop
to the floor. “Maybe just an appetizer.” She sank to her knees.
After we left the studio, T-Tommy pulled out his cell and moved down the hallway, searching for a quiet place. I followed Claire to her office. She pushed open the door and moved behind her desk. She remained standing and looked at me.
“What was that about? You said you wanted this interview to talk to the killer. But Jesus, Dub. You trying to piss this guy off or something?”
“Exactly.”
She stared at me, momentarily speechless. Not common for Claire.
“Look,” I continued, “we don’t have time to screw around here. This guy’s headed over the falls. He’s accelerating. Losing it.”
“You want him to lose it on you?”
“I’d rather he didn’t, but if I can distract him from the sleeping public … get him off his agenda … then he’ll screw up. Right now that’s what it’ll take to catch him.”
“I’m not sure making yourself the Judas goat is very bright.”
“Bright is overrated.” That got a smile from her. “I’m not trying to point him at me necessarily, but to the police. They can deal with him. They’re armed and expecting him. The others … didn’t have a chance.”
Claire dropped into the chair behind her desk. “Pardon my French, but you’re fucking nuts.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I sat down in the chair that faced her. “You were there last night. You know his next victims are a couple. An unsuspecting pair of normal people.”
“So you’re trying to draw him away from them and toward you or the police?”
“Seems like the best option right now.”
“I knew you had balls, Dub. But this?”
CHAPTER 42
WEDNESDAY 10:11 P.M.
BRIAN FOLLOWED THE SAME ROUTE HE HAD THE PREVIOUS NIGHT and again turned north off Winchester Road. Rather than heading back toward Manfred Drive, he now followed the directions the caller had sent and soon found himself on a two-lane blacktop in the middle of nowhere. Thick stands of trees hugged both sides of the dark road until he came to a grassy turnout. Exactly where the caller’s map indicated it would be. He eased off the road, snuggled the Jeep beneath a canopy of twisted tree limbs, and killed the headlights.
His Glock and a tubular sound suppressor lay on the passenger’s seat. Until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t owned a gun, hadn’t held one since leaving the military. Then this one appeared. In a paper bag, lying in the floorboard of his Jeep. That was two days after his visit to Petersen. At the time, he had no idea who had put it there. Or how. The doors were locked, with no evidence that someone jimmied them.
That night the call came. The weapon, a gift from the caller.
He told Brian to practice and get comfortable with it if he wanted to avoid another Petersen situation. He resisted, saying that he would never kill again. The caller laughed and told him what he already knew. He had enjoyed killing Petersen. Had reveled in the fear and anger. Knew he would do it again.
He had driven well out of the city to practice. The Glock’s weighty feel, hard recoil, and the way it exploded every can or pine-cone or tree limb he targeted proved thrilling. So did what it had done to Allison, and Savage.
He picked up the gun, screwed the suppressor in place, and tugged on the gloves. Stepping from his Jeep, he stuffed the weapon beneath the waistband of his black sweatpants and adjusted the hem of his T-shirt to cover it. According to the map, Kushner’s place was a half mile due south, through the trees. He pushed a limb aside and stepped into the forest. Clouds muted the moon and obscured the stars, making the night much darker than it had been last night. And quieter. The damp forest floor and moist air, remnants of last night’s storm, muffled the crunch of pine needles beneath his shoes and deadened the snapping of twigs that caught on his pants. It even muted the sound of his breathing.
He soon reached an open strip, maybe two hundred yards wide. Dry, brown grass stubble covered the ground. Overhead, TVA power lines swagged from three massive support towers and released a barely audible hum. He crossed beneath them and slipped back into the trees, here much denser and darker. He needed both hands to push aside the limbs he felt more than he saw. At one point his foot snagged a fallen sapling, and he nearly went down. Damn it.
Now in the deepest part of the woods, the world seemed completely black, the heavy scent of pine suffocating. He stopped. Shouldn’t he have reached Kushner’s by now? He turned a three-sixty. Darkness in every direction. Had he gotten off course? Maybe he was going in a circle. He had walked a straight line from his Jeep toward Kushner’s. No way he could have gotten off track. The house had to be just ahead. Confident, he moved forward.
The darkness exploded.
A wild thrashing, whirring, cracking sound. It seemed to come from every direction. He recoiled, stumbled, and fell to his knees. He reached for his gun, but it snagged on his waistband. He yanked, but it wouldn’t come free. Come on. Come on.
The thrashing noise swirled around him, moved forward and to his right, and then faded into the darkness. The silence that followed was broken by a scratching sound. Like something scurrying across the pine needles. Ahead and to his left.
His panic and confusion settled into realization. Quail. The explosive sound had been the wings of those that took to the air, beating against the brush and tree limbs. The low scurrying and scratching came from those that sought safety in the brush. He had simply spooked a resting covey. Jesus.
He took a deep breath and waited for his heart to find a slower rhythm. He swiped sweat from his face with the front of his shirt before standing and continuing forward. At the edge of the trees, he ducked beneath a final branch and saw the back of Kushner’s house. He squatted near the trunk of a hickory tree. Everything appeared peaceful and ordinary. The occupants were obviously asleep, completely unaware that tomorrow their home would be the focus of terror. It would crawl with cops, newspeople, and curiosity seekers.
The heat stirred. What the newscast had earlier ignited, and the cold shower and Larrane’s talents had dampened, was now on the rise. He moved toward the house. Unlike last night, the rear door light was out, and as he drew nearer, he saw that three of the screen’s anchor points had been loosened. The window behind was cracked open slightly. His path had been prepared. This guy, whoever the hell he was, was good.
He tugged the screen free, lowered it to the patio, and slowly raised the window. He slithered through and then stood quietly, listening, calming himself for the task at hand. He crept down the hallway. It was dark except for the faint light cast by a seashell-shaped night-light in a bathroom on the right. Just beyond was Kushner’s bedroom. He pressed his ear against the closed door. The wood felt cool and comforting.
I’m here, Mr. Kushner.
The doorknob turned easily; the door whispered open. He could see little, but heard the soft breathing of the sleeping couple. He moved closer and saw Kushner sprawled on his back, mouth slack. His wife curled on her side, facing away.
Remember me, Mr. Kushner? Remember how rude, how abusive you were? Of course you don’t. I was nothing, an aggravation. Brian rotated his head against the tightness building in his neck. His pulse raced. Pressure swelled in his chest. Want to file a complaint now?
He leveled the gun six inches from the sleeping man’s face and squeezed the trigger. The silenced gun spit. Kushner’s right eye exploded, his head recoiling as the round shattered the back of his skull. Blood fanned out across the pillow. It appeared black in the darkness.
The woman moved, but did not awaken. He placed the muzzle near the back of her skull. The 9 mm lurched. She convulsed with a sharp intake of air, held the spasm for several seconds, and then relaxed with a slow exhalation.
He grasped the man’s ankles and tugged him off the bed. His body thudded against the floor. The pull chain of the bedside lamp tinkled against the base. The red numerals on the clock radio said it was 10:33. He dragged Kushner’s corpse down the hall to the family room. He move
d back up the hallway, but as he neared the bedroom, a dark form startled him. In the doorway, shuffling toward him. He stopped. It was the woman. She tried to say something but managed only a wet, rasping sound, punctuated by gurgles and wheezes. The bullet had disintegrated the right side of her face. Her left arm hung limply at her side, and her left leg lagged behind her as if it were unwanted baggage.
He stepped back. On she came, right arm outstretched, fist opening and closing rapidly like some crazed robotic appendage.
Her remaining eye, glazed, unfocused, reflected the glow from the night-light, giving it an unearthly appearance. Another step back, another, and another. His heel snagged the carpet. He fell on his back. Hard. The woman now over him. Panic crushed his chest and prevented coordinated movement. He flailed at the wall as he tried to retreat, but his feet tangled with hers and she fell on top of him, her fingers grasping at his throat. Blood foamed from her mangled mouth and cascaded over his chest and neck. He slammed his fist against her face, knocking her against the wall. She let out a last sibilant breath, trembled slightly, and went limp.
Brian sat against the opposite wall, sucking air into his lungs, waiting for his jackhammering heart to slow. It took several minutes for him to calm enough to stand. He dragged her body to the family room. As he stood over them, Kushner stared at him with a lifeless eye.
“See what you’ve done,” he said aloud. “See what your arrogance has gotten you. Look at your wife.” He paced around them, clenching and unclenching his fists, his rage boiling. “You arrogant fuck. You treat people like dirt … and … this is what you get.”
He knocked one of the dining room chairs on its side and slammed his foot down. The joints creaked, but did not give way. “Goddamn it.” He shook with rage and again crashed his foot against the chair. The joints groaned, cracked, and collapsed. He grasped the fractured chair and ripped it apart. Clutching one of the legs, he returned to the bodies, flailing at random, not caring who or what he struck, seeking only to quench the firestorm. His rampage continued until he could no longer raise his arms. He collapsed to his knees, exhausted, gasping for air. Sweat poured from him, slicking the blood that stained his torso and arms.
