“Sure thing. I’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
As we headed to my car, I noticed that there was an extra bite in the cool November air. Thanksgiving was rapidly approaching and it looked like there would be frost on the pumpkins for sure.
When we pulled up in front of the Three Trails, Mary was standing on the front porch with her baseball bat having a heated conversation with two men.
One of them I knew. It was old man Feeney, a long time tenant. The other I hadn’t seen before.
I’ll be honest. The Three Trails is a flop house. There are twenty sleeping rooms sharing four hall baths. The tenants are old guys on meager social security checks or day workers working out of the labor pool. They pay a whopping forty bucks a week to have a roof over their heads and a pot to piss in.
They’re a pretty crusty bunch and that’s why I have Mary.
Although she is in her late seventies, I have had tenants compare her to John Wayne toilet paper, ‘She’s rough and tough and don’t take no shit off anyone!’
Given the fact that she’s killed three men in the last two years, it goes without saying that none of the tenants want to get on her bad side.
In her defense, two of her victims were assassins that were trying to end my law enforcement career, and the third guy was an armed intruder that made the mistake of breaking into Mary’s apartment to steal the week’s proceeds. It didn’t end well for any of them.
I figured that I’d better intervene before Mary teed off on Mr. Feeney or the new guy.
“Hi Mary. What’s up?”
“Got us a stowaway, Mr. Walt,” she said pointing to the new guy.
I looked at the new guy and then at Feeney.
“Ssssorry, Mr. Walt,” Feeney stammered. This here’s Abe Dinkle. We met at the soup kitchen. The post office lost his social security check and his landlord kicked him out. He didn’t have nowhere to stay an’ it’s gettin’ cold out at night, so I let him sleep on the floor in my room. Miss Mary caught him sneakin’ out and told him not to come back.”
I looked at Mary.
“I feel for the guy,” Mary said, “but we already got twenty guys sharing four bathrooms. If each one of them takes in a stray, that’s forty guys trying to take a crap in four toilets. We’d have people taking a dump in the halls.”
I could see Mary’s point and I knew better than to undermine her authority in front of a tenant.
“Look, Mr. Dinkle,” I said, “why don’t you try the Salvation Army shelter? They have temporary housing. Maybe you can stay there until this social security thing is straightened out.”
“Been there and tried that,” he said. “With the cold weather comin’ on, they’re full up.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Ain’t your problem,” he said. “Sorry to cause a commotion. I’ll be on my way.”
The four of us watched the old man trudge off down the street.
“Hated to do that,” Mary said, “but rules is rules!”
The world can be a cruel place.
As time passed, Oscar Roach felt the euphoria that he had experienced in the days after committing the three murders, start to fade.
He had read and reread everything that had been written in the Kansas City Star and he was convinced that the cops had closed the case.
He had committed the perfect crime. He had committed murder and gotten away scott-free, but he knew that he needed more.
He wanted to experience the thrill of the hunt, the planning, the execution and the ultimate high of knowing that he had committed the perfect crime --- again.
He voraciously devoured everything that he could find that related to serial killers.
Nearly all had been caught as the result of violating one of the Ten Commandments For Committing the Perfect Crime --- stupid mistakes that were avoidable with careful planning.
It was gratifying to read that several infamous serial killers still remained at large after years of intensive investigation, the most notable being the Zodiac Killer and the perpetrator of the Cleveland Torso Murders.
He began his next adventure with item #7 on his list, Tools.
He would need weapons that were inexpensive and disposable and that could not be traced back to him.
He spent his days away from the hospital at flea markets and garage sales, buying knives, hatchets, hammers and a couple of old pistols.
The old gunnysack filled with rocks had worked perfectly for disposing of the evidence, item #5 on the list, so he drove several hours south of Kansas City and purchased several gunnysacks from a country feed store.
On the way back, he stopped at a Goodwill outlet and bought cheap clothing that could be dumped into the sacks along with the murder weapons.
Oscar lived in an old brick six-plex on Southwest Trafficway. It had been built sometime in the 1920’s. The musty old stone basement had a storage area where the coal room used to be. The place was infested with spiders and rats, so no one actually stored anything down there. It was the perfect place to hide his stash of used clothing and weapons. If the cops ever searched the place, the stuff could belong to any tenant, past or present.
When everything was assembled, it was time to start thinking about whom his next victim would be.
He had violated item #2 on the list, Relationship, when he had killed Ed and Larry. If the cops hadn’t bought the murder/suicide, they might have found the connection between them through the Midtown Book Club. He vowed that he would never make that mistake again.
His next victim would be random --- a total stranger.
As he researched previous serial killers, he saw that some of them, like the Zodiac killer, had left signatures that had become their trademarks. Many of them were quite grisly and he wanted no part of that. He had seen enough blood and gore at the hospital.
He wanted his signature to be something more sophisticated --- more intellectual. He had read that some of the most successful serial killers had above average IQ’s and he wanted to be associated with that group.
Then the idea struck him. He had read dozens of mystery novels in his quest to bed the sexy, young Liz. His signature could be a book, left in the hands of his posed victims. No one had done that before.
After stops at several used bookstores where he was careful to select books wearing cheap cotton gloves to avoid transferring his DNA, item #1 on the list, he was almost ready to begin.
The next step was to choose a victim.
In reading the accounts of other serial killers, he discovered that many of them had chosen homeless vagrants or prostitutes because they were easy prey and on the dark streets late at night, and unlike most people, friends and family might not miss them.
Of the two, the vagrant seemed the place to start. Luring a prostitute would entail an initial contact as a ‘john’, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
He looked again at the long list of serial killers and one name jumped out, Vaughn Orrin Greenwood, who became known as the ‘Skidrow Slasher’.
He had killed nine vagrants by slashing their throats from ear to ear.
Oscar’s first three kills had been with a .38. Actually cutting someone with a knife was another story altogether --- it was up close and personal and the chances of DNA transfer in either direction were much greater. He would have to be very careful.
A couple of homeless guys had been treated at the hospital’s emergency unit and he had casually asked them where they were living as he went about his duties cleaning up.
Using that information, he had spent several evenings driving through the parts of town that house the growing population of the homeless.
The area that he had chosen was on the west side of town near the bluffs that overlook the West Bottoms.
He had the tools. He had the location. He was ready for his next kill.
Oscar waited until well past sundown to begin his hunt.
He cruised the streets, watching for lone stragglers that were looking for
someplace to bed down for the night out of the wind.
About nine-thirty, an old man came out of a convenience store.
Oscar saw him lift the collar of his patched coat and pull it tight under his chin.
He ambled in the direction of the bluffs and Oscar followed at a safe distance.
He watched as the old man disappeared behind an outcropping of rocks.
He parked his car two blocks away and followed the old man’s footsteps to the outcropping.
He peered around the rocks and saw the man hunched back into a natural crevasse, out of the wind.
When he approached, the old man saw him and shouted, “This is my spot. I found it. Go find your own place!”
Without a word, Oscar lifted the hammer and brought it crashing down on the old man’s scull.
Oscar leaned the limp form into a sitting position with its back against the rocks.
He took the knife from its sheath and hesitated briefly --- he had never mutilated someone before.
Then, with resignation, he held the man’s head back and sliced the throat from ear to ear just as Greenwood, the ‘Skidrow Slasher’ had done.
He recoiled in shock as the man’s still pumping heart shot streams of blood from the severed carotid artery.
He was covered in the stuff and he was thankful that he had thought to bring a change of clothing.
In less than a minute the weary heart stopped beating and the spurts became a slow, steady flow.
When he was satisfied that the old man was dead, he placed a copy of Patricia Cornwell’s novel, Predator, into the man’s hands.
He surveyed the scene and when he was satisfied that he had left nothing incriminating, he returned to his car.
Seeing that not another soul was stirring on the deserted street, he quickly stripped out of his blood soaked clothing and stuffed them into the gunnysack along with his hammer, knife, gloves, and the old man‘s wallet that he had found in his coat pocket.
He drove to a deserted loading dock on the Missouri River and tossed the bag, weighted with rocks, into the swirling current.
As he watched the bag disappear into the depths, the euphoria that he had felt on the night that he had killed his two friends, swept over him.
He felt alive. Every cell of his body was charged with the excitement of the hunt and the kill.
His pitiful life was gone forever.
He was a new man with a new purpose in life --- to be the most successful serial killer in history.
CHAPTER 9
We were patrolling near Westport when the call came through.
“Car 54, we have received a 911 distress call on Mercer Street. A woman is stuck in a toilet. Paramedics are on the way. Please respond.”
“Roger that. We’re on our way.”
We pulled up in front of the house at the same time as the paramedics. A very distraught man met us at the door.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“Come in, please,” he replied. “It’s my wife, Fanny. He pointed across the room to a woman wrapped in a sheet.
“I thought dispatch said that someone was stuck in a toilet,” the paramedic said.
“I am,” the woman replied. “Dumb ass over there painted the toilet seat with epoxy paint and forgot to tell me, so now I’m stuck with this!”
She turned around and when the sheet parted, we saw her rosy cheeks through the hole in the toilet seat.
“Look who’s calling who a dumb bass,” her husband retorted. “It ain’t my butt that’s stuck in the crapper. Anyway, I got the seat loose, didn’t I?”
Fanny turned back to the paramedic, “Bet you’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Actually,” the paramedic responded with a grin, “I’ve seen hundreds of them. I’ve just never seen one framed and mounted.”
“Oh, a smart ass! I call for help and they send me a smart ass!”
Just then a call came through on our walkie-talkie. “All units on the West side, report to 13th and Summit.”
I turned to the paramedic, “You got this?”
“We’ll figure something out,” he replied smiling.
The first thing that we saw when we parked on Summit was Detective Blaylock’s car.
“Homicide,” Ox said. “Looks like we’ve got another DB. That’s four in the last three weeks.”
We arrived at the scene just in time to hear the M.E. say, “Blow to the head --- probably knocked him unconscious. Then the perp cut his throat severing the carotid artery --- probably bled out in just a few minutes. Cause of death, exsanguination.”
“Time?” Blaylock asked.
“Between ten and midnight last night.”
“Any ID?”
“Not that I could find.”
When the M.E. rose to his feet and I could see the victim’s face, a wave of nausea swept over me.
“Dinkle,” I muttered.
“Dinkle? What’s a Dinkle?” Blaylock asked.
“Abe Dinkle. That’s the guy’s name.”
“You know this guy?”
“I met him once --- yesterday. He had been squatting at the Three Trails. Mary had caught him and booted him out. He said that his social security check a gotten lost and his landlord evicted him. You can probably get more on him from Social Security.”
“Poor guy,” the M.E. said. “Screwed by the government, wandering the streets looking for a place to sleep, and he meets up with a psycho.”
Then I noticed the book. “What’s with the book? This guy doesn’t strike me as a bookworm.”
Blaylock gingerly picked up the book with gloved hands and examined it.
I saw that the title was Predator, by Patricia Cornwell.
“Oh, shit!” Blaylock muttered. “Listen to this!”
He read from the back cover, “Dr. Kay Scarpetta follows clues that twist and turn, leading her into the psychopathic depths of a jailed serial killer’s mind.” That’s not the worst,” he continued. “The perp has circled two words --- serial killer!
“If this is what I think it is, the psycho is sending us a message --- he’s going to kill again!”
It took most of the day for the CSI guys to scour the scene looking for evidence.
Ox and I, along with a half dozen other officers, were assigned to keep the curious away from the scene, many of which were part of the homeless population that frequented the area.
Naturally, reporters had flocked the neighborhood once word had gotten out about the vicious murder.
As soon as I saw the live mobile news feeds being set up by the local TV stations, I knew where my first stop would be after getting off work --- the Three Trails.
I knew that when Mary heard the story, she would blame herself for throwing the guy out on the street and I had to soften the blow.
When I pulled up in front of the Hotel, I met Marvin Atwater coming down the steps with a small suitcase. The clasp must have been broken because it was being held shut by a belt. Marvin had been a tenant for about six months.
“Hi, Marvin. Where you headed?”
“Movin’ out,” he replied.
“Really,” I said, surprised. “Is something wrong here?”
“Oh, no! The Hotel is great. It’s just that I read something that really upset me.”
I figured that he was referring to poor Abe’s death.
“What’s that, Marvin?”
“Well, I read --- from a very reliable source, mind you --- that the majority of accidents take place within five miles of your home, so I figured that I’d better move.”
I just stood there trying to make sense of what he had said.
“So where are you going?”
“Don’t know for sure, but you can bet it will be more than five miles from here.”
I was about to question him more, when Mary popped out of the door.
“Marvin, where you goin’?”
“Bye, Miss Mary. See you around,” and he trudged off down the street.
She looked at me questioningly. “Don’t ask,” I said. “Just clean the room.”
Mary changed the subject.
“Did you hear about the old homeless guy that got whacked? It’s just terrible!”
Apparently, the police hadn’t released the victim’s name yet.
“Yes, Mary. I was there. Listen, can we go in and sit down. I have something to tell you.”
“Sure, Mr. Walt. Come on in.”
When we were seated, I tried to ease into it slowly, but there was just no easy way to say it.
“Mary, the man that was killed was Abe Dinkle.”
I paused and saw the expression on her face change as the news sunk in.
“Oh, Mr. Walt ---!”
“Mary, it’s not your fault. You were just doing your job. You did what you had to do. You had no way of knowing that Abe would be the victim of a vicious killer.”
“You can say all of that,” she said as a tear ran down her cheek, “but if I hadn’t kicked him out, he’d still be alive.”
“Mary, you can’t blame yourself. You can’t control what other people do.”
“Mr. Walt, you know I’ve killed three men, but each and every one of them deserved it. They was evil and had it comin’. I didn’t lose a wink of sleep over none of them.
“But Mr. Dinkle --- he didn’t deserve to die --- not like that.”
I knew that more words wouldn’t stop the hurt, so I just held her hand.
Mary probably wouldn’t sleep much tonight.
CHAPTER 10
It was a grim-faced captain that faced the squad the next morning.
“Gentlemen, the news this morning is not good. Our crime scene guys found absolutely nothing at the scene of yesterday’s grisly murder --- no fingerprints, no weapon, nothing.
“We have no motive for the killing other than the reference to a ‘serial killer’ in the book that was left in the victim’s hands.
“For obvious reasons, that information is being withheld from the public. The last thing we want right before Thanksgiving is a public panic.
[Lady Justice 10] - Lady Justice and the Book Club Murders Page 5