by Rick Mofina
The surgical bone saw.
The Spitteler 4000. Custom made in Zurich. Ordered from OrthoSuisee Instruments off the Web. Its twelve-inch carbon-treated steel blade, designed for quick clean amputation of large bones, glinted in the night as Vryke unwrapped it, gripped its sculpted pistol handle fiercely with his right hand and lowered the instrument one inch over Olivia’s exposed neck.
Lining it up, adrenaline pumping, his heart thumping. Two strokes. With every ounce of his strength. Outward, then inward, full bore sawing motions. He coached himself. It would be quick. She would feel nothing. The blade would saw out, slicing through veins, arteries, trachea, and esophagus, biting into the cervical vertebra, severing it cleanly on the backstroke. The Spitteler 4000 was amazingly effective on the stray animals he had tested it on.
Two strokes.
As long as she did not open her eyes.
What if she opened her eyes, Eugene?
His fingers began tingling. A seizure? No. An electric current rattled his skull, instantly launching a thousand pictures from his life swirling at the speed of light in the portions of his brain uneaten by the acid.
Vryke a boy again in Galveston the night of the crash. Vryke lying in the hospital bed feeling the light, hearing the heartbroken nurses, feeling their warm tears falling upon his shredded face.
They do not sting. The tears of angels.
“His father will make it. His mother won’t. Did the ambulance guys tell you what happened to him?”
Vryke was catapulted from the rear through the windshield face-first, sliding on the road for some thirty yards, conscious when his mother slid next to him.
“Oh, Lord, that poor child.”
But they did not know the rest of the story. No one knew. No one would ever believe it.
Vryke grinding to a halt on the road. His mother rolls next to him, her head coming to a stop a yard away.
But only her head.
Her eyes open. Her mouth moving.
No. This can’t be.
The web of blood and tissue curtained over his eyes. Is he seeing this?
Her mouth working, eyes meeting his, gurgling sounds becoming words. The smell of the alcohol, she is still drunk. No, please. She is speaking, words are coming from her mouth “You’re a mess, Eugene! A goddamned mess! Look at you! I never wanted you! Everything is your fault!”
No, Mother no. Please. It can’t be. It’s shock. A traumatic illusion, hallucination. Oh, God. Stop it.
They found him screaming at her head.
Stop it.
You leave me alone.
Two strokes. Two quick strokes and she is gone. Gone forever. Replaced by forgiveness.
I am the one.
Take her into eternity with you now.
Two strokes.
The Spitteler’s blade tremored above Olivia’s neck.
Do it. Now.
An electrical current jolted in his brain, signalling a seizure. No. He blinked, feeling his fingers sweating in the latex gloves tightening on the bone saw’s handle, his feet pressing into the floor, his body tensing to deliver all his strength.
Do it now.
Two strokes.
The phone on the nightstand rang.
No! He had forgotten the phone!
It rang again. Olivia stirred, groaning, rolling away suddenly, just missing the Spitteler.
“Hello.”
Vryke stepped into the darkness, able to hear snatches of the caller’s loud voice in the silence.
“VigilShield…problem showing...dispatching a car...”
Within one minute Vryke had flown quietly to the basement, climbed quickly through the window, replaced the glass and bars, left her yard through the rear, then using his modified cell phone/hand computer, reactivated the home-security system.
A few blocks away he sat on a park bench, seeing a VigilShield van turn in the direction of the house.
Vryke raised his face to the stars, drawing his breath slowly, reaching into his bag for his kit. He injected himself before the seizure advanced, then remained on the bench for a long time, letting his heart rate come down.
How could he have been so sloppy? How could he miss something so simple? And how could forget the phone? What else had he overlooked? Go back now. No. He couldn’t. Not tonight. He was weak. So weak.
Then he remembered.
In her bedroom. The half-packed bag. Airline itinerary.
She was leaving.
No. This can’t be. No. Easy. But he was running out of time. Breathe easy. Think. He could deal with it. If he worked effectively. He had come so far. He had searched the world.
She was destined to go with him.
SIXTY
Reed stepped from the afternoon light into the cool darkness of a bar a few blocks from Pier 39, a hangout for police informants. He slid the bartender a ten-dollar bill, used the bar phone to call Wyatt’s pager. When the phone rang five minutes later, the bartender answered, then passed it to Reed.
“Got a message to call ‘Joe’ at this number.”
“Yeah, Wyatt, it’s Reed.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I’ve got to see you. I’ve got more data.”
“This is a bad time.”
“I think you should see this stuff.”
“What is it?”
“Got to show you.”
“Reed --”
“You can see it now in time to make use of it, or see it on the front page of the Star. Your call, Ben.”
“Go to Sydowski.”
“It’s computer related.”
“What is it?”
“Could be the key to locking on to this guy.” Reed was going to nudge him with a “you owe me,” but held off. “Come on, Ben.”
“Public Library, main branch. Fiction section. Near the books by Faulkner. In one hour.”
Reed found Wyatt at a table, flipping through a tattered hardcover edition of As I Lay Dying.
“You’ve got one minute, so get to the point.”
Reed sat across from Wyatt, pulled out a brown envelope, slid him the e-mail printout from Carla Purcell’s file in Las Vegas, explained what it was. Wyatt read the note.
Dear CP:
I just have to know, if you found the right man, could you forgive him the sins of his past life?
“All right, so?”
Reed told him what happened when the Star’s computer tech, Sebastian Tan, had tried some sleuthing, then slid copies of the three stills of Carla Purcell and the Pieta.
Wyatt studied the murder pictures. “Did these come up on the screen?”
Reed nodded. “Tan is good. But when he knocked on this guy’s door, something was unleashed that nearly blew up our entire system. Then this weird thing happened. It was like a home video recording came up during the meltdown and I printed the stills from the screen before it all vanished.”
Wyatt studied everything again. “What is it you want, Reed?”
“Confirmation on the photos. If I call Vegas, they won’t tell me. But you could find out. Look. The blood drops for tears under the statue’s eyes. It’s likely hold-back.”
“Reed, I can’t do that.”
“I am ninety-nine per cent sure the man who murdered Iris Wood murdered Carla Purcell. This is his work. Sydowski and the FBI have been talking to LV Metro. The women are so similar. Lonely, shy, searched for friends on-line. You’re the computer whiz. Talk to the FBI, talk to your Valley experts. You know I’m right. He posed them. It’s his signature and there’s likely more victims out there and more to come.”
“Tom, it’s complicated.”
“I’m going to break this thing wide open, Ben.” Reed stood. “I’ve given you a key here. I’m just asking for a little help.”
Reed left. When he looked back at Wyatt, he saw him studying the material.
When he returned to his desk in the newsroom, Reed listened to a voice-mail message from Molly Wilson.
“Hey, Brader calle
d me again at home last night. I told him I was on the other line to my mother. Then he called back and left a message. Seriously, Tom, you were right, he’s a creep in the first degree.”
Reed went through his secret files on the murders of Iris Wood and Carla Purcell. Reviewed the notes, letting his thoughts form on how he would draft the story about the serial killer who murdered them.
Reed’s line rang.
‘Tom, it’s Ellen Crenshaw, Zach’s doctor. I got your message from this morning. Your suspicions about mice are correct. I got the test results. He’s reacting to mouse droppings.”
“Mouse droppings. I’ll call an exterminator. We’ll move him out of that room. We just renovated. That must’ve stirred something in the house. They’re right above his bed.”
“He hasn’t suffered anything serious. We can give him something. He should be fine if you take those steps at home. Can you bring him in, say, next Thursday at noon?”
“Next Thursday at noon. I’ll get Ann to call you. Thanks, Ellen.”
Brader materialized at Reed’s desk. His face was cold. “Mice? That’s what you’re investigating now?” Brader shook his head. In his hand, Reed saw a file with his Las Vegas expenses. His stomach tightened. Brader curled his forefinger, beckoning Reed to his office.
“Shut the door behind you, Tom.”
Brader tossed the file on his desk, loosened his tie, put his hands on his hips and stared at his wall of personal glory, keeping his back to Reed.
“Tom, it hurts me to say this, but I called Folsom yesterday and did some checking on Donnie Ray Ball. I used to be a reporter, you know. Seems he has no relatives in Las Vegas, or anywhere in Nevada. What were you doing in Las Vegas? Why did you call Darlene Purcell on the company cell phone? I checked your phone records. Why did you call her?”
“She’s related to a murder victim.”
“A murder victim?”
“I was working on the Iris Wood murder. Following a good lead, following your instructions to break news.”
“Enough. Tom, you lied to me. You misspent the paper’s money. I checked with personnel and, just as I thought, this is a firing offence. Now before I delve deeper, to find out if its gambling, hookers or both” -- Brader turned, his mean eyes meeting Reed’s -- “I’m going to suspend you indefinitely with the strong advice you start looking for a new job.”
“You sure you want to do this? Don’t you want to ask me what I found out in Las Vegas?”
“No, Tom.” Brader shook his head sadly. “I would hope that at a time like this you would demonstrate a little more self-respect. No more fabrications, please. It’s over for you.”
“Just like that, Clyde?”
For half a second Brader’s attention was distracted through his glass office to Wilson returning to her desk. He stood, his nostril’s flaring and unconsciously patted his hair. “Yes, Tom. Just like that.”
Reed returned to his desk uncertain where to go. What to do.
“Hi, Tom,” Wilson said. “What’s up?”
Reed’s line rang. He stood there watching his phone ring.
Wilson was puzzled. “Aren’t you going to get that, Tom?”
He snatched the receiver. “Reed.”
“Tom, it’s been a long time.”
Reed was not in the mood. It took a few awkward moments of conversation before Reed realized it was a very critical source of his who worked with Treasury in Washington, D.C.
“I know you’ll never let me forget that I still owe you for those Forty-niner tickets, Reed.”
“Right.”
“You asked me to keep an eye out for any alerts on that thing we discussed?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t have all the details but this is coming to you one time. It seems an alert went to U.S. Customs for a dangerous suspect wanted for the homicides of two women. One in Toronto, Canada, the other in San Francisco.”
“Toronto? Anything about Las Vegas?”
“No.”
“Got a suspect’s name?”
“No way. I know it’s got flags all over it. FBI, RCMP. No details. I have no access to the thing and I wouldn’t dare try. I heard from a friend of a friend.”
“How old is it?”
“Less than forty-eight hours. So we even, pal?”
“Almost,” Reed said, grabbing his jacket.
“Molly, I need a big confidential favor.”
“All better, sad grumpy boy? That must’ve been a good call.”
“Keep this under wraps for now, but get the library to run an urgent check on all Toronto papers and wire service for recent female homicides that might be similar to Iris Wood’s. Single women, posed, or in a public place. You know. Call me on my cell the instant you find anything.”
“What about my dilemma with you-know-who?”
“You still got his message to you?”
“Yes, it’s creepy.”
“Tell him to consider his family and to back off, or else copies of his call go to his wife, the editor of this paper, and your lawyer.”
“Don’t tell anybody about this, Tom.”
“Sure. Got to go.”
Wilson’s call came when Reed was mounting the steps of the Hall of Justice.
“Belinda Holcomb. Office worker. Found murdered in a Toronto movie theater during a showing of Romeo and Juliet. Tom, it was less than two weeks after Iris Wood.”
“She married? Boyfriends?”
“Hang on. Local papers did some nice features. No. She’s a farm girl from a border town near Minnesota. Her father, Les Holcomb, says his daughter moved to Toronto years ago but always lived alone, kept to herself.”
“What does the last story say on the case status?”
“No arrests. Investigation continues.”
“Thanks. Molly.”
Reed was turned away at the homicide detail and advised to wait for Sydowski in the cafeteria. He sat there for nearly thirty minutes before Sydowski appeared and bought an orange. He joined Reed, all business, no smiles, his big thumbs ripping the skin from the fruit.
“What is it, Reed?”
“I know about Belinda Holcomb in the movie theater. The border alert. I know about Las Vegas, Carla Purcell, posed on the statue in the church. You’re chasing a serial killer.”
“Wow, that’s a relief. Okay, thanks for sharing. Bye.”
“Walt, I’m going to write about it.”
Sydowski gritted his teeth as he tore the peeling away. “Are you, now?”
“I’ve got it nailed. I know the cases in Toronto, in Nevada.”
A large vein in Sydowski’s jawline pulsated. “You don’t know shit.”
Conversations nearby ceased. People stared.
Sydowski chewed on a large piece of orange, like a tiger ripping into its prey. When he finished he glared at Reed. “Now because of all we’ve endured together, I’m going to tell you this man-to-idiot. Got that? You would be wise -- Are you listening to me? You would be very wise to hold off a little longer because, as usual, your facts are just a little out of focus.”
Reed steepled his fingers. “I don’t think so, Walt.”
Sydowski leaned toward Reed. “I told you from the get-go to stay with this one. It’s bad.”
“Right.”
“That’s right, it’s worse than I thought.” Sydowski stood to leave. “Now unfortunately, there is this little thing called freedom of the press to fuck up my case.”
“Didn’t Nixon say that?”
Sydowski leaned back into Reed. “Listen to me, wiseass. You hold off on your story and I’ll help you later. If you write it now, people could die.”
Reed said nothing.
“You understand, Reed?”
Sydowski went to the cash register display to buy some Tums, popping one in his mouth, shooting him a parting glare.
Alone, Reed exhaled slowly, Sydowski seemed genuinely worried, his words reverberating in his ears.
“It’s worse than I though
t.”
SIXTY-ONE
They were coming up on two days since Foster Dean’s jet had landed in Maryland.
Sydowski tossed his bifocals atop the files on Eugene Vryke blanketing his desk in the homicide detail. The squad room was humming with ringing phones and conversation of detectives working leads, scanning reports.
They were so close. Almost on top of him but they delayed the news conferences because of complications. The Star was splayed on Turgeon’s desk. So far, not a word had been reported on Vryke’s case but no one knew how long Reed would hold off.
Damn, he practically knew the entire file. How did he know what he knew about Carla Purcell and Belinda Holcomb? Is someone leaking to him at this critical point? Who would jeopardize everything? Who could be that stupid?
It was then that Sydowski considered Ben Wyatt, working in the far corner at Schrader’s old desk, where Leo had parked him.
“I’ll assign him to screen nut calls and you can keep an eye on him. Happy, dear?”
Sydowski looked at the big-case corkboard that had been wheeled to the center of the room. Photographs of Vryke were pinned to it, along with large detailed full-sized sketches of his shoe impressions. Absent were the critical VICAP details of hold-back, like the BWI tag and how the victims had been posed. That evidence had only been shared among primaries. It hadn’t been released to anyone.
But summaries of the San Francisco, Las Vegas, Toronto, and a few other cases were posted. A lot of confidential data was in plain view of a lot of detectives in the room. Including Wyatt. And Wyatt knew Reed.
Sydowski stared at him, grinding on the remnants of his antacid tablets, thinking, watching Wyatt on the phone, taking notes.
Sydowski stood at Wyatt’s desk, waiting until he finished on the phone.
“Where did you go the other day, Wyatt?”
“What?”
“The other day. You disappeared for about an hour. Told no one. Where did you go?”
“I went to the library to check on something.”
“Because not long after you got back, I got a visit from Tom Reed, who recited to me practically every detail on the board here.”
