by Rick Mofina
“Sure,” he said. “Look, I’ll be away from my desk, so I’ll call her.”
“And you are?”
“Tom. Thanks.” He smiled. “Please let Alice know this is all part of an office joke kind of thing. But promise me you won’t let these guys know we’re on to them.”
“You’re secret’s safe with us.” Leeshann winked.
FORTY-SIX
Molly’s smile obliterated his darkness.
Perfect straight, white teeth. Full red lips. Bangs swept carefree to one side. Gracefully she raised her right hand to tuck some errant strands behind her ear while her eyebrow arched. Her eyes sparkled as she made her point.
That’s it.
Bleeder froze Molly. Trapping her. Making her his virtual possession.
His skin tingled at the sight of her. He stared at her face, her throat, her plunging neckline. He had recorded some of her appearances on Crime Scene, the weekly television spot.
Understandably, she’d been unavailable for the most recent shows that dealt exclusively with Hooper’s and Beamon’s murders. Like tonight’s show. Tonight, a reporter from the Chronicle and a columnist from the Guardian were filling in, trading theories with Vince Vincent.
The commercial had ended.
Bleeder surfaced from his thoughts and switched from his tape of Molly back to the evening’s program. The panel jabbered on until Vincent said time was up.
“This suggestion of corruption and romantic links to Molly Wilson, a regular panelist on this show, has definitely cast a cloud of intrigue over this very disturbing case,” he said in closing the show.
The lady from the Guardian nodded. “My sources tell me the pressure is causing fracturing within the SFPD’s detective ranks and creating tension in the Star newsroom.”
The Chronicle guy added, “At its core, this is a gripping whodunit. It could lead anywhere.”
“Indeed. Thank you both. We’ll keep our viewers posted here, on Crime Scene,” Vincent said, wrapping it up.
Fractures within the SFPD?
Terrific. But how long would it last? Bleeder absorbed Molly’s frozen face as his scissors clipped a photo of her in Newsweek. A beautiful shot, he thought, walking to his wall and using four map pins to hold the latest Molly captive on it. Bleeder smoothed his hand over it, then stepped back, enjoying it with the other pictures of his collection as his stomach twisted with yearning.
Molly was taking too long to realize that she was the sun in his galaxy. Too long to appreciate his vision, his desires, his needs. She was complicating things. The way Amy had complicated things. It made their situation vulnerable to new obstacles. Vulnerable to catastrophe. What if Molly failed him, the way Amy had failed him?
No.
Bleeder had worked too hard. He could never allow that. Could not allow that. It was long ago. Things were different now. Molly must see that time was running out for her to realize who Bleeder really was so he could pull off his mask and help her know what he knew. Help her to see what he saw.
You’re not like Amy. You can’t be like Amy.
Bleeder’s head began aching. He sat down in his sofa chair and held it between his hands, letting it sink into the thick cushioned back. He feared things would deteriorate like they did with Amy. Pain trembled through his body. He closed his eyes to let the darkness enshroud him as he journeyed back.
To Hangman’s Lane ...
For weeks Bleeder had kept a close watch on Kyle, observing his weakest points, until one warm, moonlit night when it all came to pass. Kyle’s Camaro had rumbled down the deserted country road to Amy’s house where he’d gone to visit her for the evening. Bleeder had followed him. He parked unseen by a stand of chestnut and oak trees near the bridge, a quarter mile away.
He walked through the pastures, the corn and barley fields, coming up behind the outbuildings and the house, finding cover in the thickets and tall grass near the front porch. The family’s dog yelped and whined, but Kyle and Amy were too involved to notice.
Bleeder watched them from the darkness. Watched them kissing, watched them hugging, watched Kyle, his bulging farm-boy arms and his hands all over Amy, touching her, seeing her silky hair tousled, watching her hands sliding to Kyle’s jeans, glimpsing her bare shoulder. In the stillness, amid the crickets he heard them panting, moaning. Amy’s sighs.
How could this be?
Amy should be with him. She’d told him he was her boyfriend. Kyle was too possessive. Too controlling. Bleeder had to rescue her from Kyle. That’s what she wanted. That’s what she’d said. Now, watching them, seeing them like that, Bleeder felt his stomach knotting and his heart shattering, launching wave after wave of rage.
He strode back through the tall grass, the fields and pastures, his face shiny with tears. He sat in his car and waited until he saw the lights at Amy’s house flicker.
It was time.
Bleeder stepped from his car and set to work. He went to the bush and, one by one, hoisted out four basketball-sized boulders he’d collected from previous nights. Grunting under the strain, he set them down one by one a few feet apart, across the narrow breadth of Hangman’s Lane. They formed a stone barrier at the approach to the railroad tie bridge that spanned the creek some thirty feet below.
Bleeder had positioned the last rock when in the distance he heard the Camaro. He went back to his car, saw Kyle’s headlights progress down the road. He heard the engine growling. Heard Led Zeppelin. Heard Kyle grind through his gears, squealing in all of them as he rumbled nearer, rocketing through the night.
The Camaro’s lights grew brighter, its engine and music louder as Kyle crested the hill, ripped down the creek valley, hugging the curve so fast the car’s suspension strained.
As usual, Kyle never slowed down before the bridge. The rocks awaited him like a firing squad. The instant he saw them at the bridge, it was too late. He never touched his brakes. He tried to swerve but the combination of speed, momentum, shifting weight of the car, the artillery impact of the rock against the undercarriage catapulted the Camaro skyward, the engine and Led Zeppelin screaming, metal screeching as it crashed in an arch through the guardrail, plunging through the darkness to the creek below.
Bleeder looked in all directions. No one around. He walked to the road and, one by one, heaved the stones back into the bush. In the moonlight he inspected the point of impact, tossing a few stone chips into the creek. Same set of scrapes and scars from Kyle’s reckless driving habits. Nothing new.
“Help!”
Bleeder walked along the bridge and looked below. He heard muffled music, saw the Camaro’s headlights. The car was almost perfectly overturned and submerged. The driver’s door jutted from the black water.
“Somebody help, please!” That would be Kyle.
Bleeder worked his way down the slopes to the bank of the narrow creek. By the light of the moon he saw Kyle clearly. Horror and pain written across his face, blood webbed down his temple and cheek. The cheek Amy had kissed. Kyle reached his arm out in vain. Bleeder saw Kyle’s outstretched hand and his division title football ring. Remembered the fist that smashed against his head. Bleeder didn’t move. He watched Kyle’s eyes blinking in recognition of his schoolmate a dozen yards away.
“Bleeder! God! Get help! Please! My leg’s pinned! The car’s slipping!”
Bleeder said nothing.
The car shifted and slipped deeper under the water. Kyle’s voice broke sounding almost like a child pleading.
“Jesus Christ, Bleeder. Help me!”
Bleeder glanced around, cocked an ear for any oncoming traffic.
The Camaro shifted again and dropped another few feet underwater.
“God! Bleeder, it’s up to my chin. Please!”
At this point Kyle’s pleas gurgled until they ceased.
Bleeder shoved his hands in his pockets and watched the water swallow the Camaro, watched Kyle’s farm-boy hand shoot up, breaking the surface, his ring catching the moonlight as it thrashed for about th
irty seconds until it vanished too.
Bleeder climbed the slope to the road. Got in his father’s car and drove down Hangman’s Lane back to town.
FORTY-SEVEN
After conducting a threat assessment, the San Francisco police determined that enough time had passed and it was safe enough to move Molly Wilson from the house in Union City in the East Bay.
“But you can’t go back to your apartment yet,” Sydowski said, agreeing to let Molly move in with a friend.
Della Thompson.
She had a small, gorgeous cottage of a home way down south in Glen Park. Thompson had scraped, saved, shopped, and networked some real estate sources to land a remarkable deal on the place at the edge of one of the city’s more upscale neighborhoods.
It was her dream.
Almost hidden from the street, her house was sheltered by huge eucalyptus groves, thick shrubs, and a wrought-iron gate.
It was a Mission-style home, made of white stucco with a red clay tile roof. It had a garage, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. The house was like balm for Molly. She’d felt the first stirrings of normalcy when she moved in. At least she had a piece of her life back.
Violet Stewart, the Star’s managing editor, had insisted Thompson take a few days off to stay home with Molly.
“You think you’re capable of handling my idiosyncrasies, girlfriend?” Thompson joked as she helped Molly settle in.
“I’ve just spent the last few days cohabiting with strange, disgusting male members of the species. I think I can handle you.”
After unpacking, Molly held Thompson’s eyes in hers for a serious moment. “Thank you,” she said. “This means so much.”
Thompson gave her a reassuring hug.
Later on that first day, Sydowski dropped by. He told them that unmarked district cars would be rolling by on a regular basis twenty-four hours a day.
“We may be overdoing it, but we think that this is the best way to go for the time being,” he said. “You’ve got all our numbers.”
“I just hope you catch the creep soon, Inspector,” Thompson said.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
After Sydowski left, Thompson passed Molly an envelope thick with messages, cards, and letters for her, then promised to keep screening her calls. Many were requests for interviews. Some came from story scouts and agents wanting her rights, or pitching book deals. Molly’s answer was no to anything for now.
The women made a salad and pasta dinner. It was ambrosia after the endless diet of pizzas, burgers, and Chinese takeout Molly’d had with her protectors in Alvarado. As night fell on Glen Park, they sat on the floor before a crackling fire and sipped white wine.
“Oh, Del,” Molly said, “this one guy, Inspector Schwartz, you should’ve seen how he groomed himself with his car keys.”
“Gawd!” Thompson watched Molly demonstrate. “I’m not kidding, every orifice.”
The two women laughed, cathartic, knee-slapping laughter, until tears came. They sighed and sipped more wine while watching the flames. A long moment passed in silence before Thompson turned to her friend.
“So how was it, really?”
Molly’s face grew serious and her eyes never left the fire.
“More horrible than you could imagine,” she said. “I see them in my dreams. They come to me bleeding, begging me to find the killer. But I don’t know who, or why? Why? Then I feel I should be working with you guys, helping everyone hunt down the bastard. But there are times when I just can’t move. I mean I just can’t--” Molly covered her face with her hands and Thompson rubbed her shoulder.
“You’ve got to be strong, now,” she said. “Sydowski’s going to nail the sicko and you’re going to heal. I promise you. You got that?”
Molly nodded, touching the corners of her eyes. She attempted to smile.
“And no one’s going to bother you here. That is my pledge to you. They’d have to go through me first. And that would be a fatal error,” Thompson said, downing the last of their wine before hitting on an idea.
“I think we should invite some of our friends over. Maybe tomorrow. Just a few. Have some laughs. Heal your soul. How’s that sound?”
“As Sydowski said, sounds like a plan.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Tom was at his desk in the Star newsroom staring with mounting frustration at his cell phone. One of his street sources had called but the call had been cut off. He took a chance and dialed a number he was cautioned to use sparingly.
“Yes.”
“This is Tom. Lois just called me but we got cut off.”
“Please wait.”
A full minute passed.
“Hello, Tom. Yes, she’s still around.”
“Would you please tell her to meet me in one hour at the usual place?”
“The usual place.”
Again, Tom made a point not to use a staff billboard pool car with the Star’s logo painted all over it. He took his own Taurus and headed to the Mission District, to Hector’s Cantina, a little restaurant he knew near the BART Station. He took a table, ordered coffee, and waited. About ten minutes later Lois Hirt entered alone.
She had short brown hair and walnut-shaped eyes. Her ears, eyebrows, and lip were pierced. Her skin was blotched. She weighed about ninety pounds. Her thin, feeble arms had bracelets of needle tracks. She was twenty-five.
Tom was relieved to see her.
“Would you like something to eat?”
She asked for a danish and tea.
Lois didn’t speak. She gazed out the window, or maybe it was her reflection. Staring at nothing as if she were haunting her own life. Before she became a heroin addict Lois was studying dentistry at the University of the Pacific. Her fiancé was studying criminal law at Berkeley when he was killed in a car crash several years ago. Lois had lost her will to live and descended to the street.
Tom met her when he was doing a series on drug murders. Unlike many addicts, she circulated throughout the Bay Area. She had a network of drug addict friends and remembered what they told her. Through them she heard who was plotting, stealing, dealing, who got killed, who got robbed, who was hiding, lying, or dying. Because in the end most crimes were tied to drugs. Tom realized that Lois was a powerful receiver of invaluable street data. Trouble was she was difficult to track down. At times it took weeks.
“Paco said you needed to see me.”
“I need your help. Two police officers were murdered in their homes. Detectives.”
“Yes, it’s big news.”
“I need to know if anyone has heard anything about it. Someone who may know something. If their deaths are connected to anything from the street.”
Lois dripped cream into her tea, then pondered the clouds it made.
“I remember reading about the first one in the papers. And I remember I was with Paco at some place, a party, and this girl was talking about it.”
“In what way?”
“She said that maybe she knew something about it.”
“Knew what?”
“She said some guy came up to her on the street and started talking to her about it right around the time it happened.”
“Talked to her about what? The murdered officer? His killer? Can you recall?”
“Well, we were all getting pretty blasted.”
“Think, Lois, please.”
“Something like how this guy needed her to help him, to pass on some information about the murder.”
Tom’s pulse skipped ahead. He glanced around to ensure that no one was eavesdropping.
“What sort of information? Pass it to who?”
“I don’t know. Just to make some calls.”
Lois cupped her hands around her tea and stared into it. Discomfort passed over her face. Tom knew she was going to need something soon.
“Did she make the calls?”
Lois shrugged. “I think so. Maybe. I’m not sure.” Tom studied her.
“Do you know who she
called?”
Lois shook her head.
“Did this girl know who this person was that she was helping?”
Lois shrugged.
“Paco said she was full of crap but we were all wasted.”
“Do you know this girl from the party?”
She began rubbing her upper arms and shoulders as if she was cold. She stared out the window.
“I know she’s got a rough life but I’ve seen her.”
“Do you think you could find her again, like if you very quietly asked around, could you maybe help me get in touch with her?”
Lois’s head started moving up and down.
“I can try.”
“Real soon?”
“Yes.”
FORTY-NINE
“Where was I the nights they were murdered?”
Any hint of warmth on FBI Special Agent Park Williams’s face evaporated after Sydowski had clarified his request for help. Williams rubbed his chin, then asked: “Can we take a walk around the building?”
He had an athletic build, chiseled features, deep-set eyes, and a smoldering intensity that most women found attractive, including Molly Wilson. They’d dated for about four months nearly two years ago.
Once they were outside the Phillip Burton Federal Building, which houses the FBI’s San Francisco Division, Sydowski again asked Williams to account for his whereabouts on the nights Hooper and Beamon were murdered.
“We just want to cross you off,” Sydowski said.
Williams put his hands on his hips, spreading his jacket.
“We went through this with Hooper. I was in Los Angeles when Hooper was killed, and when Beamon was killed
I was in Portland.”
“Can you prove it?”
“There were meetings. Hotel receipts. Plane tickets. People I talked to.”
“Fine, we’ll need details and records if you’d care to volunteer them.”
Williams eyed Sydowski and Turgeon, then glanced up toward the thirteenth floor.
“You speak to my supervisor about this?”
