by Jacob Stone
Meagan Campbell’s skin color had paled to a sickening white, which was quite a contrast to all the blood on her. During this time, she sobbed uncontrollably, and while most of the noise was cut off by her gag, enough of it leaked through so that she sounded like a wounded animal. That noise was soon hitting Duncan like nails on a chalkboard. He wanted Campbell to witness what was going to happen, but it could be hours before he woke up, maybe longer, and Duncan found himself wanting to get out of there.
Anyway, it didn’t matter. Campbell had seen the snarling wolf’s-face tattoo on Duncan’s wrist and when he finally woke up, he’d find his wife horrifically butchered. That would have to be enough.
He moved back to Meagan and started cutting and stabbing her again, but it wasn’t the same any longer. With Campbell unconscious, the actions just seemed hollow, even dirty. Duncan understood that the release he felt with the first victims didn’t come from hurting the wife, but only from the agony he caused the husband by making him watch. He cut Meagan two more times, but it just seemed so pointless. Yeah, the husband would wake up to see his wife carved up like a jack-o’-lantern, but Duncan wouldn’t get any satisfaction from it.
He backed away and considered leaving her alive. She hadn’t seen his face and aside from slicing off her nipples, her other cuts and stab wounds were superficial. He could just walk away from this one.
He sat down so he could give the matter full consideration. Soon, though, he grimly accepted that he had to follow through with killing her. The point of these murders wasn’t simply to provide an outlet for the rage choking him almost every minute of the day, but because his plan needed these deaths. If he were to leave Meagan alive, it would screw up everything. She had to die the same way as the other one.
Duncan tried not to look into her eyes as he continued stabbing and cutting her. She lasted a good deal longer than Jill Kincade, but eventually she died.
Chapter 23
When Morris got Annie Walsh on the phone, she was still on the job and she told him she was too swamped to collect Trey Johnson and would send over Detective Ray Vestra. “I’m lead detective on a bad one,” she confided. “On a scale from one to ten, this one’s an eleven.”
“I’m all ears if you want to run anything by me,” he said.
Usually that lame joke got a laugh out of her, but not this time. “I’d love to get your take on it, but Hadley already put the kibosh on me doing that. He promised it would be our badges if anyone went outside the department.”
The Hadley she referred to was Police Commissioner Martin Hadley. Years ago, when Morris was on the force and made detective, he was partnered with Hadley, and the two of them mixed as well as oil and water. As far as Morris was concerned, Hadley hadn’t gotten any better with age.
“What bee flew up his bonnet?”
“The best I can figure out is the victim’s family has some political clout, and they’re trying to keep the details out of the media, probably thinking they’re protecting her memory. I can understand their concern. What was done to her was inhuman. But that’s all I can say on the matter. Expect Ray soon. I’ve got to get back to the salt mines.”
Vestra showed up fifteen minutes later with two uniformed officers. He broke out laughing when he saw Johnson looking sorry for himself as he sat helplessly in a chair with his jacket yanked down under his chest.
“Whose idea was that?” he asked, referring to the jacket being used as a restraint.
“All Charlie’s,” Morris said.
“I think I saw it in a Bogart movie once,” Bogle said. “Or it might’ve been the Three Stooges.”
Vestra gave Stonehedge a hard look, as if he were trying to remember where he knew him from. “Who are you?” he asked.
“A lousy rat,” Johnson volunteered, his upper lip curling as if he were spitting out something vulgar.
“Mickey D.,” Morris said.
The LAPD detective gave Morris a questioning look. “A new hire?”
“I’ll explain later.”
Morris played back Johnson’s confession to the homicide detective. Vestra looked suitably impressed. “All gift-wrapped and with a bow on top,” he said. “And it’s still months before Christmas.”
“They entrapped me!”
Vestra gave Johnson a patronizing look. “And how’d they do that?” he asked.
“They tricked me!”
“They tricked you into robbing that North Hollywood liquor store and shooting the clerk?”
Johnson looked away, his face a sullen mask. “That rat over there tricked me into talking about it,” he said.
Vestra gave Morris a look as if he couldn’t believe the geniuses he had to deal with, then informed Johnson he was under arrest. Johnson’s leather jacket was pulled back up and he was cuffed before he could put up any resistance. When he was led away, he was still complaining about how he’d been unfairly tricked. One of the uniformed officers had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
Morris, Bogle, and Stonehedge accompanied Vestra to the Wilcox Avenue Hollywood precinct so they could give their statements, and Stonehedge used the opportunity to remove his disguise and change into the clothes he had packed away in a travel bag. Vestra was impressed when he saw him out of his disguise.
“You had me fooled,” the LAPD detective admitted.
Vestra was more impressed when he heard how Johnson was tricked into confessing. He put his feet up on his desk and stroked his chin as he marveled over the sting operation.
“That was pretty damn clever,” he said. “There’s no reason we couldn’t use that same approach here.”
“You could,” Morris agreed. “But not too many times. Maybe once or twice before word of it spreads among the criminal community. It also helped that we had one of Hollywood’s brightest actors sell it.” He turned to Stonehedge and applauded. “Philip, brilliant performance.”
Stonehedge was seated and he bent forward slightly and exaggerated a bowing motion with his right hand.
“I’ll save it for when I really need it,” Vestra said. “So Mickey D., what do you say? Would you be up for another performance?”
Stonehedge looked pleased with himself. “Anytime I’m in town,” he said.
Vestra turned to Morris. “Johnson has no idea Mickey D. is really Mr. Stonehedge?”
“None.”
“He’ll find out when this goes to trial.”
If Stonehedge was worried about a vicious criminal holding a vendetta against him, he didn’t show it. “I’m not worried in the least,” he said.
“There’s no reason you should be,” Morris said. “Odds are Johnson will plea to second-degree long before a witness list is made available. In the rare event it goes to trial and he learns the truth about you being Mickey D., all it will do is give him bragging rights that one of Hollywood’s biggest stars sent him away.”
“That sounds about right,” Vestra agreed. “But I’ll try to keep Mr. Stonehedge’s name out of it anyway.” He was stroking his chin again as he looked over at the actor. “I’d suggest you do the same.”
Stonehedge smiled thinly. “Mum’s the word,” he said.
Morris asked Vestra if he could do him a favor in return for closing an open homicide.
“What do you need?”
“The name and addresses of any perps with a wolf’s-face tattoo on the underside of his right wrist. The tattoo shows the wolf’s fangs.”
“Like it’s snarling?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“I’ll put in a computer search tomorrow morning and let you know what I find,” Vestra said.
They ended up sitting in the precinct for a little under two hours before they finished giving their statements. As they were leaving the station house, Stonehedge suggested drinks and dinner at Luzana’s, which had the reputation for being Hollywood’s
most exclusive hot spot. Bogle declined, saying, “Sorry, Hollywood, too rich for my blood.”
“I’ll be picking up the tab. Come on, guys. I’m on too big a high from what we just pulled off to go home. I need to do some basking!”
Bogle gave Morris a questioning look, who in turn checked the time and saw it was a little after nine. Morris wanted to find the Inglewood bar where Johnson last saw Grace Warren, but it was late and he was hungry, and he decided that could wait until the next day.
“If we go, MBI will be picking up the tab,” he said. “Let me give Nat a call.”
Natalie picked up on the fourth ring and he gave her a quick summary of what he’d been up to that night. “We just stepped outside after giving our statements, and Phil’s suggesting drinks and dinner—”
“You haven’t eaten anything for dinner yet?”
“A bag of chips.”
“Go,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. Wow, though, that was quite a feat. Solving a homicide you didn’t even know about.”
“We got lucky,” he admitted. “I was hoping he’d tell us something we could use to squeeze him, but I didn’t think it would be anything more than a robbery or an assault. I didn’t expect him to cop to a first-degree murder.” Morris lowered his voice and asked about Parker. “How’s the little guy? He’s not missing me too much?”
“Right now he’s snoring up a storm. He’ll be fine. You can make it up to him for any hurt feelings by taking him for a long walk when you get home. And hon, please don’t bring him back any takeout.”
“I’ll be good,” he promised.
Chapter 24
The radio turned on at a quarter to six, playing Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream.” Morris tried to bury his head under the pillow and ignore it. All he wanted was another hour of sleep. Natalie crawled to his side of the bed and reached over him so she could turn off the radio alarm.
“Hon, don’t you need to be at the office by seven?” she asked, her voice heavy from just waking up. When he groaned in response to her question, she took pity on him and added, “If you want, I’ll take Parker out. That will buy you another half hour in bed.”
Morris accepted the sad truth of the situation. His voice sounded downright froggy when he told her he could use a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head, which was true. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a second groan as he rolled out of bed bleary-eyed and his mouth tasting like he had gargled with sawdust. His body felt unnaturally stiff as he slipped on a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt, and he groaned for a third time as he struggled to put on socks and a pair of sneakers. Too little sleep and too much scotch last night. It didn’t help that he wasn’t a scotch drinker and would’ve preferred beer, but Stonehedge had insisted and after the actor’s performance with the lowlife Trey Johnson, he decided he’d indulge his friend. While Grace Warren was still missing, it was a break in the case that gave them clear-cut threads to pull, and he doubted they would’ve gotten the information out of Johnson any other way. Charlie Bogle, at least, showed some sense—not only sticking to beer, but packing it in after two hours. Morris had a couple of scotches too many. Well, really a few, if he were honest about it.
He finished tying his sneakers and then stumbled to the door and heard a soft whimper from Parker on the other side of it. He found Parker waiting impatiently, the dog’s ropy tail whipping back and forth.
“Tough morning for you also, huh?” he asked as he rubbed the bull terrier’s snout. Parker answered with a sneeze and then scampered down the stairs. Morris moved much slower as he followed after him. They went through their usual tug-of-war routine with the leash before Parker consented to let go and sit still long enough for Morris to put the leash on him. Once they were outside, Morris shivered from a chill in the air and considered going back for a jacket, but Parker was straining on his leash, impatient to start his walk, and Morris let the dog pull him forward.
Later in the day it would warm up to the low seventies, but at that early-morning hour it was unusually cold. Probably not even fifty. Morris peered up at the sky. The sun hadn’t broken much past the horizon and was covered by thick, purplish-dark clouds. Overall it seemed grayer than most mornings and Morris soon found his mood matching the weather.
His thoughts drifted toward Grace Warren: How she not only latched onto a vicious criminal like Trey Johnson, but ditched him for someone who Johnson instinctively knew was even worse trouble. It wasn’t good, to say the least, although it didn’t necessarily mean Grace was beyond hope. Someone could still be rescued after diving into a pool of piranhas, but they were going to be damaged by it. The questions would be how much flesh remained on the bones and how deep were the cuts. Assuming that Grace was still alive, God only knew what shape she’d be in when they found her, or what this new lowlife—the one with the snarling wolf’s-face tattoo—would be making her do.
Natalie had coffee waiting for him when he returned. While they sat together at the kitchen table, her expression turned increasingly pensive.
“It’s more than you being hungover,” she said, never being one to mince words. “Something’s troubling you.”
“I’m not that hungover,” Morris argued.
“That might possibly be believable if your eyes right now weren’t more bloodshot than the Donovans’ basset hound.”
“A handsome dog, even with those bloody eyes.”
“Nonetheless.”
Morris admitted, “You’re right about me being preoccupied.”
Natalie said, “Your missing-person’s case.”
“Yeah. It took a bad turn last night.”
“How bad?”
“To be determined. There’s still a chance we’ll find her alive and well.”
A tiredness weighed on Natalie’s face as she considered that. It could’ve just been the early hour. She said, “I’m glad you’re taking Parker today. He always cheers you up when you’re in one of these moods.”
The bull terrier was lying by Natalie’s feet and he lifted his head at the sound of his name.
Morris forced a grin that he wasn’t feeling. “Usually,” he agreed. “Although sometimes I pass my funny moods onto him.”
“They can be contagious. Good or bad.”
Morris could’ve used another cup of coffee, but a quick glance at the kitchen clock showed that if he was going to take a shower that morning, he’d better do it now if he wanted to get to MBI on time. And yeah, he wanted a shower. While he doubted he was actually sweating alcohol, he felt that he was. He left his chair so he could kiss Natalie on the lips and head upstairs.
He almost asked her if she could take Parker for the day. She was right about the dog usually lifting his spirits when he fell into these darker moods, and he liked having the bull terrier with him when he was on the job—not only was the dog great company, but he helped keep Morris calm. Parker was also handy for stakeouts—with the dog in tow, Morris could stretch his legs and walk around the area he was watching without being conspicuous. Today, though, was different. It wasn’t just his mood, but an uneasiness that had wormed its way into the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t want it to spread to Parker like some fast-moving virus. But he knew he was being overly paranoid. Parker would be fine. He just wished he could’ve understood his reason for this gnawing uneasiness.
Chapter 25
Morris had planned to take a cab to Luzana’s so he could pick up his car from the other night, but Natalie insisted on driving him and while he didn’t want to inconvenience her, he also learned long ago that when she insisted on doing something, she was going to do it. After that, he made a stop for bagels and cream cheese, but even with these detours he and Parker got to MBI by seven.
Stonehedge was waiting for him in the reception area, in full disguise, and champing at the bit to continue the investigation. Parker, like all dogs, relied more heavily on his sense of smell than
sight, and wasn’t fooled at all by the disguise. Morris had already taken Parker off the leash and the bull terrier let out a couple of excited grunts and scampered forward to greet Stonehedge. The actor, for his part, got into a crouch so he could properly greet the dog.
“There’s my buddy,” Stonehedge laughed as he playfully wrestled with Parker.
“Be careful he doesn’t knock off your prosthetic nose,” Morris warned.
Parker did almost exactly that as he tried to grab the fake nose in his mouth, probably thinking that Stonehedge was playing a game with him by wearing it. The actor straightened out of his crouch and consented to instead thump the bull terrier good-naturedly on the side instead of tussling with him.
“That was a close call,” Stonehedge said with a tight grin.
“He can certainly keep you on your toes.” Morris handed him the bag of food he had picked up from Katz’s Bagels. “Why don’t you take this to the conference room? I’ll collect Charlie and we’ll join you.”
“A strategy session, huh?”
“That’s right. To make up for not having an actual one last night.”
“We got distracted,” Stonehedge said. He showed a guilty smile. “My fault. I guess Luzana’s wasn’t exactly conducive to planning out an investigation.”
“Just as well. We’d be spinning our wheels doing anything until we hear back from Ray, so we’ve got time.”
Stonehedge scratched above his ear as he thought about that. He was careful not to dislodge his wig. “In case he’s able to identify the guy with the wolf’s-face tattoo,” he said.
“Exactly.”
Stonehedge gave that more thought as he headed toward the conference room, and Parker stood as still as a marble statue watching him, undecided about whether he should follow the food or Morris. His indecision didn’t last for more than a few seconds before he turned and hurried after Morris.
Morris glanced over his shoulder at the dog. “We both know what you would’ve done if there was b-a-c-o-n in that bag,” he said accusingly.