CHAPTER
20
This time
, the Bedroom Killer drove his 1969 cobalt blue Chevy Camaro SS, powered by a stock 396HP engine. The muscle car purred down Hawthorne Boulevard, where the rest of the working community joined him on its Friday morning commute. He'd watched the evening news the night before and listened to the radio in his car as they recounted Rachel Sharp's death. The talk show hosts were all in a tizzy over the Bedroom Killer's latest victim, as if she were more important than the last three. He was more confident that they wouldn't catch him, more excited, too. Each news show had brought in their own homicide experts, each one doing their best to reveal the inner demons that drove a man to kill. "He came from a broken home." Check. "He was a loner and liked to harm small animals as a kid." Check.
Not really.
He'd tied a firecracker to a cat's tail once, but what kid didn't do something like that at one point in their lives
?
And besides, it was just a cat.
"He
feels impotent around women and has a need to show power." No check—no way.
Who's impotent? I fuck my girl every week. These idiots have it all wrong. They're never going to catch me.
He knew the baseball bat just might have his hair on it
. She'd caught him good. But then what? They had a hair. So?
He slowed as the approaching light
turned yellow, and he pulled to the front of the intersection. He looked to his right and eyed the woman in the next car. She was adjusting the rearview mirror as she applied lipstick. He had no interest in grown women, at least not to kill. She had no idea she was sitting in her car at a red light, and the guy in the car to her left just killed another young girl less than twenty-four hours ago. She finished with her lipstick and fixed the mirror into the correct position. Then she focused her gaze on the intersection and swung her head ever so slightly to look at the killer. He smiled.
Yup, she doesn't know a thing.
The light turned green. The killer pulled forward, gunned the car to cut in front of the woman to his right, and swerved into the driveway to a 7-Eleven. He stepped inside, poured himself a large cup of French roast coffee, grabbed a copy of the local newspaper, and threw a five-dollar bill on the counter. The clerk counted out his change. Then, the killer nodded and walked outside.
As he sat in his car
, he read the article about Rachel Sharp.
Poor Rachel
. No matter. Her mom had another daughter. Little Rachel had been chosen. Not much ol' Mom could do about that. He started the car and pulled onto Hawthorne. Half a mile down, he turned into a commercial area filled with an assortment of auto repair shops, tire shops, and collision, brakes, and alignment shops.
He swung his car into Isaac's Auto Shop
's driveway and parked in the rear. He stepped out, peered up into the puffy, white-grey clouds from the departing storm, took a deep breath, then exhaled.
What a beautiful day
. He loved his life.
Business was good.
Girlfriend was good.
Killing was good.
The roll-up door to the shop flew open with a clang and a young mechanic, Reggie, came out, kicking away a piece of scrap metal from the front of the doorway.
"
Good morning, boss," Reggie said, then turned and went back inside.
It sure
was
.
CHAPTER 21
Danny pulled up to the curb where John stood waiting outside his house
. He jumped into the passenger seat, and Danny handed him a Starbucks Grande Latte, no foam. John took his first sip.
"That hits the spot," John said.
"I thought you might like one," Danny said.
Danny drove away from the curb, and a silence fell between them
. Danny knew John well enough to know that he'd talk when he was ready. The police impound was across town, and it would take at least twenty minutes to get there, plenty enough time to gage where John's head was at.
"How
're the stitches?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Good."
Nothing more
. Danny waited a few seconds. "I'm gonna have you see Dr. Samuelson. He'll be able to take care of that so there's no scar."
John nodded and took another sip.
"Carrie wanted me to say hi and that she's glad you're okay."
"Tell her thanks."
Danny noticed how John turned his head to watch the strip malls go by, most likely hoping it might stop Danny from asking questions. John had called him the day before and asked if he could get a ride to the police impound lot. He said they had finished collecting evidence from his car and he could pick it up.
"John?"
John turned back to Danny.
"Huh, what?"
"I do wish I could get in that head of yours and see what it is that keeps you so busy. I know I've said it before but the best thing for you is getting back to work. You're a very good doctor and if not at Greenwood Medical, than somewhere. Go find an inner city hospital. A clinic. Doctors Without Borders. Something to get you back in the mix."
John nodded, but said nothing. He swung his head to the right and gazed out at the window. That was Danny's cue to shut up and drive.
***
They pulled up to the impound yard and parked outside the gate
. It was large and circled with razor wire atop the chain-link fence. Danny estimated they had at least thirty cars inside.
"
Can you see yours?" Danny asked, craning his neck.
John just shook his head and entered the small out-building, which looked more like an oversized guard shack, and Danny tapped the bell ringer sitting on the counter
. A moment later, the clerk stepped around the corner and stopped in his tracks. It appeared that he recognized John from the newspapers and nightly newscasts.
"What can I do for ya?" he asked, trying to be cool.
"You have my car," John said.
The clerk grabbed a three-ring binder and set it on the countertop
. He flipped it open.
"Name?"
"John Randall."
The clerk flipped through some pages, made a note on a form, and spun the binder around for John to sign.
"Four hundred fifty dollars," the clerk said.
"You gotta be kidding!" Danny
said, leaning over the counter.
John threw his hand up to cut him off, and slapped his MasterCard down.
"Two hundred twenty-five dollars a day? Really?" Danny asked again.
"You're good
," The clerk sniffed.
Tough shit.
"It's okay. I deserve it," John said.
"You deserve to get your ass reamed?
" Danny scowled at the clerk. "Must be one hell of a Christmas party every year, huh, buddy?"
The clerk smiled and said, "All it takes is a couple assholes a week."
Danny reached for the clerk, but John grabbed him.
"Let
's just get the car and get out of here. I'll buy lunch."
"With what
? This guy's got all your money!"
The clerk walked back to a cabinet hanging on the wall, grabbed the keys from a hook, walked back, and handed them to John.
"Space twenty-two."
The clerk punched a button under the counter, and they heard the automatic gate start rolling backward outside the trailer window.
"Have a good day, gentlemen."
As John and Danny walked out the door, the clerk began singing
"Jingle Bells."
CHAPTER 22
The glass shards were still there
. So was the blood.
John stared
at the bullet hole in the car's roof and the pieces of busted window, scattered from the front seat to the back. His eyes tightened and he drew his hands into fists as he thought about Detective Bell's lecture on the baseball bat and gun. They were being held as evidence—something to do with his attempted suicide. And now, after thanking Danny for the ride to the compound, John was back inside his car. His right hand shook as he put his key into the ignition and started the car. The engine's familiar sound reached his ears, and he flashed back to that night. He heard the pounding rain beating on the car, joined by the woman's screams. He realized that if not for the acute deafness caused by the gunshot, those screams would have been even louder. He took three deep breaths, slipped the gearshift into drive, and pulled away.
Just get home
, John. Get home so you can…what?
What are you going to do when you get home, John?
John drove his
damaged BMW to the dealer for repairs and picked up a loaner car. Now he didn't have to share the seat with broken glass. As he made his way home, he gripped the wheel tighter as he thought about what Danny had said.
“J
ust come back, throw on your white coat, and administer medicine to your patients”.
Easy for Danny to say
. He was his closest friend, and John knew he meant well, but he really didn't know what he was talking about.
But it wasn't that easy
. It just wasn't.
When John got home
, he stepped into his house and realized it still had the feel of intrusion from the detectives' visit the day before. He felt their presence like a cold, dark coat. His steps were labored, like each leg was moving through thick syrup or trying to run in a pool of water. Nothing in the room seemed like his anymore. As if by treading through his house, looking into his closets and in his drawers, the detectives had contaminated everything they touched. Newspapers were stacked in a pile at one end of the couch, and the empty
In & Out
chocolate shake cup sat on the end table. He wanted to chuck it all into the trash. Buy new clothes. A new car. A new home.
He
scanned the room again and his heart sunk. He ran his fingers through his untidy hair and felt guilt all over again. Paulette would never have let the house get this messy. John tossed his keys onto the entry table and got to work cleaning. He grabbed the empty cup, the food wrappers, and some old mail off the dining room table, then threw them into the trash. He tried to think of everything that Paulette would do and do it just as well. He had just folded the last of the dried laundry when he realized he still hadn't touched the newspaper pile.
Moving through the kitchen with a stack of newspapers he slammed into one of the kitchen table chairs with his left foot, busting his big toe
.
"Shit!"
John said, as he stumbled back and dropped all the newspapers onto the kitchen floor. He sat down, curled his big toe upward, and looked down to see the first trickle of blood dripping onto the floor. He quickly moved his foot over the top of the newspapers and squeezed his toe to help stop the bleeding. That's when he saw the headline…
Bedroom Killer Claims Third Victim.
John
remembered the headline. When he'd first read the newspaper, he had skipped the article, not wanting to read about young girls dying. But now, after having the detectives in his home, thinking he was the killer, he suddenly realized he wanted to know more. Like someone had opened a door and he absolutely had to walk through it. He read the article. This was the girl before.
Before two nights ago
.
Someone completely different
. She wasn't connected to John in any way. But as he read the words, he couldn't help but feel increasing anger knowing the killer, the guy who looked inside his windshield, was the same guy who murdered this young girl and three others. This guy deserved to die. This guy deserved to be tortured slowly, kicked in the balls, then cut only to have hydrochloric acid poured into the wounds. Yes, this guy deserved to feel pain. John finished the article and moved to set the paper down when he caught the article byline. Marcus Cash wrote the article. As he read the name, John felt a sudden recognition. The business card—the one thrown on the floor—Marcus Cash.
John stood quickly and was hit by a head rush
. He reached for the edge of the kitchen table and waited for it to pass. When it did, he walked into the living room and found the cards, all three of them, sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. He had placed them there, thinking how funny it was that the number one suspect in the Bedroom Killer case was collecting business cards like nobody's business. He picked up the cards and studied the names: Detective Gerald Bell, Detective Megan Ash, and Investigative Reporter Marcus Cash—
Greenwood Times
. Ash and Cash. Other than noting the similarity in names, John kept thinking about how, with just a little help, he might be able to make it happen.
He would kill a
killer, instead of killing himself.
John dialed Marcus
's number. Marcus answered on the second ring, and in less than sixty seconds, they had arranged to meet at John's house around seven that evening. John didn't want to sit in public talking with this guy. He'd bring him inside, and they'd sit in his living room—or in the kitchen over coffee—and talk serial killers. What did Marcus know? John figured there might be more to it than what was in the papers. Maybe Marcus couldn't share other information because he didn't have proof, it wasn't directly relevant to the story, or he had a nervous editor who chopped everything out of his early drafts. Either way, John would give him
quid pro quo
. You tell me, and I'll tell you.
Once John finished cleaning the house, he sat at his office desk and turned on his laptop
. He hadn't been on the computer for what seemed like weeks. Everything was a long time ago to John now. He wanted to look up anything he could on serial killers before Marcus arrived. He Googled
serial killer
and came up with a full slate of pages, ten entries per page. Each page, full of stories, books, articles, and interviews, all dealt with serial killers such as Jack the Ripper, Manson (although he wasn't sure Manson really qualified), Bundy, Gacy, Dhamer, and the BTK Killer. It wasn't long before he had multiple screens open from all the local newspapers, TV, radio, and crime blogs. He squinted his eyes as he read, the tightness growing as he bookmarked serial killer sites, ordered true-life crime paperback books on Amazon, and set up accounts at three other sites so he could post questions. His heart grew heavy—so much information about death and killing.
But even with the heavy heart, h
e couldn't wait for the books he ordered. Instead, he wrote down a list of book titles, then shut down his computer. He'd make a trip to the bookstore and face a public that had just spent the last couple days hearing all about him. It would have to happen sooner or later. As much as he didn't like the thought of being seen in public, a new urgency grew inside him. He now had a goal—a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He was going to catch this bastard.
As he
scrambled toward the front door and grabbed his keys and wallet off the entry table, John spotted the business cards again. He lifted the card from Detective Ash and studied the name and the raised embossed seal of the Greenwood City Homicide Bureau. He flipped the card over and found a handwritten note.
I believe you.