Speaking for the Dead

by Bill Craig

  “You remember a girl named Sunny Cargill from college?”

  “I remember the bitch! She fucking got me kicked out of school.”

  “Do you remember why that happened?”

  “She claimed I attacked her, and then she assaulted me!”

  “And a room full of witnesses agreed with her account, Chester. Did you know she turned up dead yesterday?” French asked him.

  “Good, fucking bitch deserved it,” Wilkins growled shrugging his shoulders.

  “You might want to hold off celebrating, Chester. You see, the killer used a knife on Sunny. Sound familiar?”

  “What? Hey now wait just a fucking minute! I ain’t seen that bitch since college!”

  “So how about you walk us through your whole day yesterday starting from when you got up? Otherwise, well, you look pretty damn good for this one given your past with her,” Lucy told him.

  “Fuck that shit! I want a goddamn lawyer and I want one now!”

  “You got somebody in particular in mind, or do you want to wait until tomorrow to have a public defender appointed for you?”

  “Call my cousin, Dave Wilkins. He handles our whole family.”

  “Okay, we’ll get him in here, Chester, but I have to tell you that you lawyering up like this just makes you look guilty as hell. An innocent man would have no problem telling us what they had been doing.”

  “I want my lawyer.” Lucy stood, picking up the folder and she and Moseby walked out of the room, closing the door behind them.

  “What do you think?” Lucy asked, looking over at her partner.

  “He’s guilty of something, but I don’t think he killed our girl. We’ll get his lawyer in here and see if he can get more out of him,” Moseby replied.

  “Yeah, same impression I got. He’s guilty of something, but not what we like him for,” French nodded.

  “So, we are right back where we started from.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does, so while we wait for his lawyer, you go back to looking at the diary.”

  “I can do that,” Moseby told her.

  “Good. I want to observe this guy a while longer. Something about him bothers me.”

  “Okay, Keep, me updated,” Moseby told her.

  “I can do that,” French told him. She moved into the next room so that she could watch the subject through the one-way glass. Moseby would call the lawyer when he got to his desk, and then he would start reading the diary again. Hopefully, he would find something, or Wilkins would spill something once his attorney got there.

  Moseby was frustrated. He had hoped to at least get something from Wilkins; instead, what he had gotten was that the guy wasn’t involved at all. He hated that. He hated this whole case. He hated serial killers in general, but this one specifically. This guy was a special kind of crazy. He knew that Death was out there stalking them. Death surrounded them. Garrett Moseby frowned.

  Chester Wilkins huddled in the interrogation room. Sunny Cargill. He had pretty much forgotten what she had done to him. Sure, he knew that it had been his fault, but he had never expected it to come back and bite him like this.

  He was going to die, and this time, it looked like it may well be because of something he had done in his past, not because or anything recent. If he died, he realized it was Karma coming back to bite him on the ass.

  Chapter Nine

  Harry Dove took a cab to the police station. He wanted to talk to the two investigating detectives before anything else. Harry had been a stringer for the Independent News Service for years, specializing in crime reporting. He had covered mob trials, drug smugglers, crooked politicians, and recently a series of bizarre slasher killings in Key West. Working kept the rent paid and kept him in booze.

  Harry exited the cab and paid the driver before scuttling into the front doors of the Tampa Police Station. His white tropical weight suit was rumpled and looked like he had slept in it. The short-brimmed straw hat covered his fading red hair. He had a dark blue tie knotted under the collar of his pale blue dress shirt. He wore white sneakers on his feet. A camera hung from a strap around his neck as did a small cassette recorder.

  The air inside was much cooler than it had been outside, something for which the aging reporter was grateful for. He hated the heat, but he hated the cold up north even worse. The lack of winter was one of the many things that had led him to make Florida and Key West his home. Harry made his way to the slightly rotund officer sitting out the front desk. He dug a small notepad out of his pocket. “I’d like to talk to Detectives Moseby and French. My name is Harry Dove from INS,” he said.

  “Have a seat and I’ll call up and see if they’re in,” the desk Sgt. told him. Harry nodded and took a seat on a wooden bench across from the desk while the man at the desk made a call. He put the telephone down and looked at Harry. “One of them will be down in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” Harry flashed a smile.

  “We have a reporter downstairs,” Lucy French said as she replaced the phone in the cradle.

  “Fantastic. Who is it?” Moseby asked.

  “Some guy named Harry Dove. And old guy according to Sgt. Yablonski,” Lucy replied.

  “Bring him up. Harry is a good crime reporter and he might be useful to us,” Moseby told her.

  “Is the Captain going to like this?”

  “He will if it helps us nail our guy.”

  “Okay,” French stood and then turned and headed for the elevator. Moseby knew Dove. They had met on a case against a mob boss more than a decade ago. Dove’s stories had helped draw the killer out into the open. He hoped that Dove would be able to do the same with this one.

  He thought about what he was going to do next. Should he taunt the police? Let them know that he was aware that they were after him? Or should he just take some time to let them wonder? It was an interesting question.

  He knew the names of the cops that were after him. Lucy French and Garrett Moseby. He had gone on-line and researched them. They had the highest clearance rate in Homicide in the city. That told him that the two of them were very, very good. He needed a way to separate them, to make them stop working closely together. He had a couple of ideas about that. He leaned back in his cubicle and thought about that. He smiled as he began plotting out his next step.

  “Harry, it has been a while,” Moseby told the reporter as he shook his hand.

  “It certainly has, Garrett,” Dove replied.

  “You know this guy?” Lucy French asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

  “I do. Harry Helped me bring in Kevin DeAngelo and shut his murder for hire operation down about eleven years ago. Harry put out some very in-depth pieces about DeAngelo that drew him out into the open where we could grab him,” Moseby told her.

  “Before my time, I guess,” French sighed.

  “It was, but don’t let that bother you, Kid. Harry is good people and very helpful most of the time. So, tell me, Harry, why are you here?” Moseby asked the reporter.

  “We had a slasher killer down in Key West this summer. I am just curious if this one might be related,” Harry said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You chasing slashers now?”

  “Not in General. One in particular. Did this guy take anything from the bodies?” Harry asked.

  “Not that we have been able to determine,” Moseby told him.

  “Too bad,” Harry sighed.

  “You are implying your Key West slasher did?” French asked.

  “He had a penchant for thyroids,” Harry supplied.

  “Curious.”

  “I thought so.”

  “No thyroids here, Harry. This guy likes to cripple his victims by slashing their Achilles tendons first, and then he cuts them up everywhere but their faces,” Moseby explained.

  “Interesting. Sounds like he wants to convey that he attracts them,” Dove said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. I need to find that connect
ion.”

  “I’ll help any way I can, Garrett.”

  “Thanks, Harry. I was hoping you would say that.”

  “I know you will,” Harry told him.

  “I’ll share what we find with you if you help us find this guy,” Moseby said.

  “That sounds like a plan,” Harry nodded.

  “I thought it might.”

  “So tell me what you have so far.”

  “We don’t have a helluva lot so far. Rain washed away any DNA evidence in the case of the first victim, and we are waiting on the autopsy on the second victim. We are caught up in waiting right now,” Moseby explained.

  “That’s what makes serial killers so hard to catch. They are a whole lot more flexible than you guys. Tell me, was anything taken from the bodies?” Harry asked.

  “Like what?” Moseby eyed the old reporter.

  “The slasher down in Key West was cutting out their thyroid glands. I was just curious if anything like that was involved in these two.”

  “Nope. Our guy just likes cutting them up like a pig in a slaughterhouse.”

  “Okay, I was just curious.”

  “Harry, I heard about your cockamamie theory regarding the Key West case. What we have is nothing like that. Our guy is just another psychopath.”

  “Aren’t all serial killers, psychopaths?”

  “Nope. Some of them are sociopaths.”

  “You’re splitting hairs there, Garrett,” Harry grinned.

  “Perhaps, I am, Harry, but it is what we do,” Moseby shrugged.

  “Okay. I’ll write it up and give you guys a good slant. But by cooperating, I want an exclusive.”

  “We catch this guy, Harry, and you’ve got it.” Dove nodded and headed back out the door. Lucy French stood and watched him go, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “When are you going to tell me what the hell that was all about?” Lucy asked.

  “Despite his appearance, Harry Dove is one hell of an investigative reporter. He works the crime beat for a reason. He’s helped me on cases in the past,” Moseby leaned back in his chair as he explained it.

  “What the hell was that stuff about the Key West Slasher?”

  “Harry had this crazy idea that the guy was harvesting thyroid glands from his victims in order to keep himself young. The killer went off a dock in Garrison Bight in a hail of gunfire. They never did find the body,’ Moseby shrugged.

  “That sounds like a Stephen King book.”

  “Yeah, the INS printed the story but they edited out Harry’s pet theory about why the killer was doing what he did. I talked to a cop I know down on the island, and from what he was telling me, Harry had it right. But for the public good, they clamped down on the story. Nobody wanted to admit that the killer had some demented idea that he could prolong his life by taking the thyroid glands of his victims and distilling them into some serum that was a personal fountain of youth,” Moseby explained.

  “That sounds pretty far out there,” Lucy shook her head.

  “It does. But I know Harry well enough to know that he based his original story on rock solid research. He’s no flake, Lucy. Harry will do his best to help us catch this guy. I trust him, and I am asking you to do the same.”

  “Okay. If you trust him, I trust him. So, what next?”

  “I have no idea,” Moseby sighed.

  He had used a computer at work to research bombs and how to make them. One of his co-worker’s stations rather than his own. He had purchased what he needed from several different shops and built a small device. He wanted to tease the police, make it personal for them. He carried the device in a small plastic bag as he approached the police station.

  He had researched Moseby and French. He knew what their personal vehicles looked like. He slipped into the parking area outside the police station. Lucy French drove Black Jeep Liberty. That would do for this first strike. He wanted to make the police fear him as much as the public. He wanted to taunt them with the knowledge that he could strike at them anytime and anywhere.

  He placed the device on the spare tire that was mounted on the rear of the vehicle and whistled as he walked out of the lot. The detonator required that he be within line of sight of the explosive device. His car was parked on the street half a block away. That would be sufficient for what he had in mind.

  “I’m hungry,” Lucy French announced after looking at the clock. It was nearly 6 p.m.

  “Yeah, not a whole lot we can do here until we get an autopsy report on victim number two. An I.D. would be good as well.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Anything on her prints?”

  “She’s not in the system. We need to put her picture out there and see if somebody knows her and calls in. You still friends with that Television reporter?” Lucy asked.

  “Camille Foster? Yeah, I’ll give her a call and send the picture,” Moseby nodded.

  “Good. Let’s go grab a pizza or something.”

  “Salerno's?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Lucy grinned at him. Together they headed for the door.

  The sun was still bright in the sky as they stepped out of the cool building into the hot sunlight of the late afternoon. “You want to drive or do you want me to?” Moseby asked her.

  “I’ll drive if you’re buying,” French replied.

  “That sounds like a plan,” Moseby nodded. They were thirty yards away from her car when it exploded in a bright ball of fire that lifted the vehicle ten yards into the air before it came crashing down in another ball of fire and black smoke.

  “Lucy, are you okay?” Moseby yelled, his ears ringing from the blast as he cast anxious glances around for his partner. He spotted her on her knees about ten yards away. Moseby crawled over to her. “Lucy, are you all right?” he grabbed her by the shoulders. Her eyes were glazed over in shock.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Lucy murmured. Her voice was faint over the ringing in his ears.

  “This is no coincidence,” Moseby growled deep in his throat.

  “No,” Lucy agreed, shaking her head.

  “It’s personal now,” Moseby said as he scanned the area around them. Several officers had run out of the station and were approaching them their guns drawn.

  “Yes, it is,” Lucy agreed.

  “I’m pissed, Lucy.”

  “I know that, Garrett. What are we going to do about this guy?”

  “We are going to catch him and kill him,” Moseby told her.

  “You sure of that?” Lucy asked.

  “I am,” Moseby told her. He knew one thing. The fucking killer had no idea what he had just done. It was personal for Moseby now, and he would not rest until the guy that had done this was rotting in his grave!

  Chapter Ten

  He had thought about letting them get closer before he triggered the device, but it was more fun this way. This attack would knock them even farther off balance. They were smart enough to figure that the second slashing was a feint to get their attention, but they didn’t know why. Now the bombing of Detective French’s car would throw them off even more.

  He smiled as he watched the scene through a pair of binoculars that he had picked up earlier from a sporting goods store. They even had a camera built in so he had captured the whole thing on video, including close-ups of both detectives faces. Their expressions had been priceless! He could hear the sirens of approaching fire trucks and ambulances. He had enough for the moment. He shut off the camera and set the binoculars aside and started his car, then he pulled out into traffic and drove away.

  “Lucy, you’re bleeding,” Moseby told her, finally noticing the blood running down her face from a cut on her forehead.

  “Am I?” she asked, still stunned from the blast.

  “Did you hit your head?” Moseby asked her.

  “I don’t know. I remember walking out; approaching the car and then it went up in a ball of fire. The next thing I remember is you reaching me and helping me sit up. I asked you what we were going
to do now and you said we would hunt him down and kill him.”

  “I meant it too,” Moseby said grimly.

  “I know that too.” Lucy looked at him. Just then two medics ran up. Moseby looked at them.

  “I think that she might have a concussion,” he told them. Lucy reached over and took his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. Moseby squeezed back and then let go and climbed to his feet.

  He was angry, angrier than he had ever been in his life. He didn’t care if the killer came after him. That was just being a cop. But the killer had targeted his partner. That was something that Garrett Moseby couldn’t let slide. The firemen were hosing down the car now, or what was left of it. Hopefully, they would be able to find enough of the device so that they could learn something from it.

  Personally, Garrett Moseby didn’t think it had been on a timer. No, he figured that the guy had been watching the car and set it off with a cell phone or something. He hadn’t wanted them to die yet. He dug his digital recorder out of his pocket.

  “The killer is getting bolder. He managed to plant a bomb on Lucy’s Jeep and detonated as we were getting close. He’s toying with us. He thinks he’s smarter than we are. And that is how I am going to catch him. His vanity.”

  “It is clear that the second victim was to throw us off, make us think he is escalating when that is not the case. The bombing tonight was to shake us up even more. He wants us off balance so that he can control the narrative. I need to put a stop to that. Lucy was pretty shaken, possible concussion because she was closer to the blast than I was. I figure she’ll have to spend the night in the hospital, but I know the Captain will put a protective detail on her.

  “I am going to get this guy, one way or another,” Moseby clicked the recorder off. Lucy French was being loaded into an ambulance as the car containing Captain Luke Stanley rolled up. Stanley climbed out and made his way across the parking lot to where Moseby was standing.

  “What the hell happened, Sergeant?” the Captain demanded.

  “A bomb, Captain,” Moseby replied.