The doll that RDK had left was the only evidence of the intrusion. The team had searched the property but found no signs of how he’d gotten into the yard. “No footprints. Nothing. Neighbors didn’t see anything either. We’ve got a security camera but it doesn’t record.”
“The family?”
“At Betsy’s mother’s. Way over in Gaither. Process this and let me know if you find anything.” A nod at the doll. “I’m guessing he was as careful as ever. It’ll be scrubbed. But give it a shot.”
Neville reflected that the doll would, however, bear his daughter’s fingerprints. According to procedure, she’d have to be printed, too, so hers could be eliminated. This would only add to her fears.
The thought made the detective burn with fury.
The woman studied him. “Detective?”
He noted her troubled face. He forced a smile. “Thanks, Brenda. All good.”
He left the lab area and walked to the file room.
The doll had changed everything. Traditional policing to stop RDK wasn’t working. It was time to change the game. Whatever the consequences.
Against protocol, he did not sign the log-in book, much less write down the names of the files he wanted. He simply prowled the stacks until he found what he sought. After poring over a dozen of the criminal records, representing some of the worst specimens of human beings ever to roam the earth, he sat staring at his phone for a long moment, rubbing his right thumb and forefinger together. Finally, Ernest Neville came to a decision and composed and sent a text, wondering just how bad the consequences would be if his plan blew up in his face.
9
Present
7:45 p.m., Thursday, November 13
Michael left his apartment and strode along the pitted and cracked sidewalk, weaving around the occasional shattered beer bottle or cluster of trash.
He was dressed for work, as he thought of it: his bulky black jacket, stocking cap, black jeans. He had with him the backpack but it was presently in a Whole Foods shopping bag, swinging by his side; now that the description of RDK was being broadcast everywhere, all the time, somebody noticing him might call 911 if he were wearing the pack.
He knelt to rub some cream on his ankle rash. He could have waited but this gave him an excuse to scan the street behind him.
The sensation of being followed was just as strong as it had been last night. But today the sidewalks and streets were more crowded with pedestrians and cars and he could spot no one focusing on him.
He rose and continued along the busy sidewalk. Michael knew he blended into this unassuming part of town, a kaleidoscope of ethnicity. A falafel shop, a pizza place (curiously, he thought, staffed by Northern Europeans), a nail salon (guess that one), a bodega (ditto). The whole hood was battered and abraded and saggy and every painted surface was in need of scraping and a new coat, though he couldn’t see why anyone would bother.
He looked about, troubled. No unoccupied cabs. A faint mist was falling and the few he saw were occupied. There was a nicer neighborhood about a half mile away and he hiked there at a fast pace, hoping for a better chance of a ride.
And, yes, just ahead of him a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passenger. Michael jogged forward and got to the taxi just a hair ahead of a mother and her teenage daughter. They’d been shopping. Mom was carrying three heavy bags from a posh store. The girl held only her mobile, on which she was texting.
Michael gripped the door handle.
“Excuse me. We saw it first.”
Michael didn’t respond because there was nothing to respond to.
“I said we saw it first.”
She might have seen it first, but he had captured it first. He continued to ignore her and pulled open the door. But the woman stepped forward, standing close and preventing him from opening it wide enough to get in.
He looked the two over. Both blondes, they were dressed similarly: close-fitting blue jeans, supple leather jackets. Black boots. The girl’s were tall and branded with the metallic-gold, mirror-image G for Gucci. Gloveless so she could text, the teen sported nails with an elaborate black-and-white checkerboard design. Seemed a bit inappropriate for a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old but what did Michael know?
He glanced at the cabbie, who remained expressionless. It wasn’t his job to play Solomon.
“I mean it,” the woman said. “It’s mine.” Her voice was high and flinty.
“Could you step back.” Not exactly threatening but the sentence wasn’t phrased as a question either.
“No. I saw it first.”
That again.
“Fuck, just let it go,” the girl muttered to her mother as she typed away.
“Language!” the woman snapped at her daughter.
“Call Uber,” Michael said, trying the door again. But her thigh—and an appealing one it was—remained in guard position.
“I don’t want to call Uber. I don’t have to call Uber. It’s my taxi!”
“No, it’s not.”
“Why’re you being such a bitch?” The girl rolled her eyes and brushed her long tresses off her face.
“Shut up! When we get home—”
Michael said to Mom, “You’re making a scene. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m sorry if you feel uncomfortable, but that’s not my fault. You’re stealing our cab.”
“I’m not uncomfortable at all. It’s your granddaughter I’m worried about.”
“Granddaughter?” she gasped.
Good one, thought Michael.
“She’s the one you’re humiliating. Those people right there. And another couple.” A nod at some passersby who were watching the altercation. “They were pointing at her and laughing.”
The girl’s snobby disdain vanished, and alarmed now, she looked their way.
“Laughing?” Mom asked, breathlessly.
Michael frowned as if surprised she was oblivious to the problem. He waved his hand at the girl. “Obviously. Just look at her. Why on earth do you dress her that way?”
“What?”
“Jesus. The slutty makeup, the nails, the hooker boots. I can just imagine the crap she has to put up with at school. All the kids, gossiping behind her back. It must be devastating.”
“Mom!” she cried. Her precious phone slipped from her grip and clattered to the concrete. Michael knew the sound of a cracking screen. The girl turned and fled, sobbing.
“You son of a bitch,” the mother raged and, after picking up her daughter’s phone, started after her, lugging the bags.
He swung the door open, set the Whole Foods bag on the far seat and sat. He gave the driver the address, another vacant lot. The vehicle remained where it was.
Michael looked in the rearview mirror. The cabbie was staring at him.
“There a problem?” Michael asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then . . .” He lifted his arms, palms up.
The universal semaphore that meant: What the hell are you waiting for?
10
Michael stood across the street from the house on Martin Drive, gloves on his hands, stocking cap on his head, backpack on his back. Like Juniper Lane the other night, this road too was dark and he was nearly invisible.
He waited only three minutes before a car appeared up the street. The vehicle slowed as it approached the house and pulled into the drive. He watched the driver take some time gathering her packages and climbing out. He thought of the old-time word, bundles. That was what his mother called the parcels that Michael brought her at the detention center.
Michael flexed his hands against the chill.
As she got to the front door, he noted that one of the bags was from Whole Foods. Well, how was that for coincidence. He dug in the backpack and removed the heavy hammer from the plastic bag.
Michael gave it five minutes, then, looking around and seeing no one, quickly crossed the street.
Then he was at the front door.
He gripped the hammer hard.
Unlocked.
Michael kneaded the handle of the hammer once, then shoved his way inside.
11
Ten minutes later Michael stood in the living room, looking down at the woman sprawled on the floor before him.
Breathing hard, he examined her closely.
Such a fine figure. Her jeans were tight and were embroidered on the back pockets with yellow roses. Her shoes were functional pumps. He was disappointed that her top was a concealing, black sweatshirt. He recalled that when he’d observed her earlier she’d worn a close-fitting shirt. Blue. Baby blue. A good color for her. He estimated that she was a 34B, though Michael didn’t have a lot of experience in that department. Most of his successful dates ended as the one with Randi had.
Another deep breath. In and out. His palms sweated.
He cocked his head, hearing—he believed—a rustling outside. Footsteps? He couldn’t be sure.
Crosshairs . . .
At that moment a crash startled him as the front door was kicked in hard. There followed a loud bang as wood met wall. A man in dark clothing pushed his way into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He gripped a long butcher knife.
Michael actually gasped in shock.
It was Jared Simms, the reporter from Juniper Lane.
You care to comment on the crime?
He wore a stocking cap, very much like Michael’s, and a backpack—also similar—was hooked over his shoulders. They had yet more in common: His hands, too, were encased in thin cotton gloves. And the knife he held was quite similar, if not identical, to the one Michael had brought with him.
If you counted only garments and accessories in determining genetics, the two men might be twins.
12
Simms’s eyes dropped to the woman’s still legs. He seemed disappointed that he’d missed the chance to murder her himself.
Michael whispered, “You’re . . .”
Gazing at him manically, Simms said, “Yessir, yessir. I’m RDK. Not quite so shabby now, am I?” The man had a tightly wound voice. It nearly vibrated.
When Michael said nothing Simms looked him over with contempt. “And you’re a goddamn copycat. What’s your name?”
“Michael.” His voice faded to a whisper. “How did you know . . . ?” He waved his hand around the room. Then he closed his eyes briefly. “I get it. You followed me from Juniper Lane the morning after I killed Sonja. And you’ve been following me ever since. I knew there was somebody watching me.” His eyes registered self-disgust. “Should’ve guessed the real RDK would be at the scene.”
“I had to find who was the copycat, stealing my thunder.” Tufts of his ample hair poked from under the stocking cap. Michael had gotten the color of the wool hat wrong. Simms’s was navy blue; Michael had picked black.
He asked the killer, “But how’d you know I was the one? At the press conference outside of Sonja’s?”
“You opened your big mouth. That’s how I knew. The way you tore into me? You were a sadist, a bully. If you got off on hurting people with words you’d get off on hurting them with blades.”
Michael asked, “You really are a reporter?”
“Only took up the pen a few months ago. After I started my little . . . projects.” He nodded at the Russian doll sitting on a table near the couch. “Being a reporter’s helpful. Gives me an excuse to go to the scenes and find out what the police know.” He looked Michael up and down. “What the hell is your story?”
Michael was silent for a long moment. He shook his head, his expression morose. “I’ve never amounted to anything. My whole life. I got fired, live in this crap place. Then I started to follow you on the news. The police said they’d never come across a smarter serial killer. You were a criminal genius.” Michael gave an admiring laugh. “You’ve gotten away with it, what? Four or five times?”
“Three. Well, then there was my wife. You were on the money there, Michael. At Juniper Lane. She did leave me last year. And then met with an unfortunate accident. It felt good. It was liberating. So I kept at it.”
Michael shrugged. “I wanted some of that, what would you call it, glory. With Sonja, I tried to be as good as you. But I don’t know. It was the first time I ever killed anyone.” He gave a brief laugh. “I didn’t have anybody to help me. I assume you work alone?”
“Of course,” Simms scoffed.
“You have more planned?”
The reedy voice said, “Oh, I do. But not here. I’ll be moving out of state. I made a mistake. That goddamn detective. Neville. Wanted to scare him off so I left a Russian doll at his house. But that only made him more of a pain in the ass. So I’m out of here. Florida, probably. Sick of the winters.” A pause. “I just have one more errand here. Then I’m gone.”
Simms walked to the TV and picked up the remote. Turning on the set, he flipped through HBO until he found a thriller—cops versus gangs, exchanging gunfire. He upped the volume.
One more errand here . . . ?
It was then that Michael noticed the grip of a gun in Simms’s waistband.
Oh, shit . . .
Michael called, “You have a gun!”
Simms turned to him, drawing the pistol.
“Listen! You shoot me here and the police’ll get all kinds of evidence. They can do that with guns. It’s called ballistics. A gunshot will lead straight to you.”
“It’s stolen.” A glance at the black Glock in his hand.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a stolen gun!” Michael’s heart thudded, as loud and fast as one of the machine guns on the TV show. “They leave a ton of evidence. I know they do. I watch all the crime shows. They’re always talking about guns! You can’t shoot me! Please!”
Simms now frowned, probably wondered why Michael was shouting . . . and in particular shouting about firearms.
This was for one very good fucking reason.
So that the dozen cops hiding in the bedroom and bathroom and parlor would hear that RDK was armed and was about to blow his head off.
They finally did. Detective Neville and Benji Camp charged into the room, screaming for Simms to drop his weapon.
Seeing the muzzles of the weapons swinging throughout the room, Michael panicked and dove to the floor . . . though not onto the brown and beige shag itself. He landed on the woman starting to rise from behind the couch.
Together Michael and undercover detective Sonja Parker—playing the role of a serial killer’s victim for the second time in recent days—tumbled entwined to the carpet.
“Get the hell off me, Michael,” she raged.
He did so, reaching for her thigh as leverage to rise. The detective growled, “Don’t you dare.” Michael backed away, hands up, palms outward. She rose, lifting her gun and drawing down on Jared Simms—though not before lobbing a look toward Michael, one that suggested that she was equally inclined to park a slug in him.
13
Four Days Earlier
3:00 p.m., Sunday, November 9
Detective Ernest Neville was driving through flat fields, dotted with short gray cornstalks, like an old man’s stubble.
He navigated up a lengthy driveway and pulled into the Handleman County Consolidated Detention Center, parking in the law-enforcement-only portion of the lot. Climbing from the car and buttoning his jacket against the chill wind, he reflected: busy day. There’d been the clandestine visit to the Sheriff’s Office file room and his meeting with Benji Camp, the man he’d texted after he’d concocted his bizarre plan. There’d also been a stop at a weekend-duty magistrate’s house.
He looked over the low building, grim to start and made more so by the bleak, gray overcast. Okay, let’s see if we can get this thing done.
Once inside the lockup lobby he checked in, left his weapon in a lockbox and was handed a copy of a file. He then proceeded down Lawyer’s Row, the bank of interview rooms where prisoners met with their attorneys for the invariably useless attempts to reduce sentences or get new t
rials or pardons for crimes they “no way committed. No, I mean it. I swear to God.”
In Room I-7, the one to which he’d been directed, he sat in an uncomfortable chair, which was bolted to the floor, as was the metal table. The corners of the furniture were rounded, presumably so that a particularly strong convict couldn’t slam his lawyer’s or a guard’s head into the point and pith him.
He skimmed the file he’d been given. Five minutes later, a large blond man entered. He wore an orange jumpsuit. He wasn’t cuffed or shackled.
The guard accompanying him muttered, “Sit down. Watch your mouth.”
Michael Stendhal nodded to Neville, then glanced to the guard. “The screw here? His name’s Evans. He peed his pants once when a con went after him with a shiv—”
“Jesus Christ,” Evans muttered.
“That turned out to be a straw. You know, Detective, those things kill whales and cute little seals, straws do. But I’m not aware of any fatalities among humans.”
Evans was about to say something else but Michael just kept on going. “The screws have an option to wear tan or black uniforms. Everybody picks tan because they’re cooler. But not Evans. He likes black. Why? They don’t show pee stains.”
“So you’re gonna miss dessert tonight, Michael.”
“Christ, you’re not going to eat it, are you? Your wife’s gotta miss your dick, under all those spare tires.”
The guard left and would have slammed the door, it seemed, but the hinges were old and unoiled and they didn’t allow for dramatic exits.
“How you doing, Michael?”
“As can be expected, Detective. You know I never liked small talk unless I’m dishing it out. What do you want? Why in person, why not the phone?”
Neville didn’t answer but continued to examine the file.
The two men had a history. He had arrested Michael several years ago for burglary. The amount of cash taken from the assisted living facility was small and no one was hurt—or even present in the burglarized rooms—but it was his third conviction in five years and the crime bought him a long term. It might have been less, but at the sentencing hearing Michael had spouted a few choice words to the judge regarding his portly physique and comb-over hairstyle.
Turning Point Page 4
