“What are you holding?”
He took another step.
Then it began to register.
No. Oh dear God, no. No! Oh my...
“It’s okay. He never felt a thing.”
Never felt a thing? No!
She felt the scream building, expanding inside her, a hard, jagged ball in her throat, cutting her oxygen. It wanted to escape, but she couldn’t find her voice.
Or wouldn’t.
To do so was to acknowledge the unthinkable.
He took another step.
The small, round object hung from his right hand. Like the head of a doll.
No, not a doll: bigger.
It was...
She knew then.
Oh my god!
“Patrick,” she moaned and then the scream began to rise like a whistling tea kettle.
Why?
He closed in then, his pace quick and deliberate. His other hand rising—moonlight gleaming off steel—before she could scream, he severed her windpipe. She felt an initial sting, and then there was a pop, but no actual pain. He hovered, watching intently as the darkness turned the black to blue, light to gray. Her life was spilling out, like a river running into the sea, swallowed by the abyss.
Her eyes closed.
Opened.
It was better this way. At least she would be with him.
Then nothing.
5
He showered. Massaging the water over his skin, pushing into the contour of each muscle and rubbing away the blood. There had been a lot of blood. Some had already congealed on his naked form, and when he touched it, it flecked away. He worked his way to the shower, using a towel to pull back the curtain and stepped in. The water had been cold at first, causing his limp penis to contract even further. At his feet, the water puddled in swirls of diluted crimson before being pulled to the drain in tendrils. He followed the drops as they fell into the pool.
Plop... Plop... Plop...
It was a lot of blood.
A lot of DNA, he told himself.
He shouldn’t have had sex with her. But then, he hadn’t planned on killing her. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was thinking about killing her. She was the one who had initiated the sex. He had been thinking about killing her from the first time he saw her, but he thought about killing people all the time. It wasn’t unique to her. He could have easily taken the ride back to the dorm and continued his fantasy.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the hot water beating away even more blood.
How did that get back there?
Correction. He hadn’t planned on killing them. Yes, them, but he needed to be thinking about other things. “DNA,” he said aloud. How much DNA had he dropped here? “A lot of DNA.” He rubbed the back of his neck and considered his penis. He’d used a condom, but there would be drops left on the bed. And what of his skin? The bump and grind they’d performed would have rubbed off dead skin. He’d shaved down there for that reason, but there was still the short, cropped cut on his head. His eyebrows.
“Fucking DNA.”
He wasn’t in a database anywhere. He had no record.
But your DNA will be now and if you’re ever picked up?
“Fucking DNA!” He smashed a fist against the tiling.
He inventoried his body. Every nook visible to the naked eye and thought he was clean. He then took a cloth and used the shower head to rinse the tub in swirling gyrations. Why? He wasn’t sure. He’d probably left enough fiber and DNA lying around for an easy conviction. He needed to get dressed, clean up, and consider his options.
He climbed from the shower onto the bath mat and toweled off. Once dry, he dressed and stared into the small vanity. Was it how he thought it would be? This being his first. No, but then was it ever going to be? The act had been deliberate and mechanical. He didn’t think it was the act that he sought for gratification anyway. No, the act was just a means to an end. He thought of all the others he read about. The killers who’d risen through the ranks to stardom. Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, whose names were as household in modern culture as Van Gogh or da Vinci. Perhaps even more.
He wiped the tub with the towel.
“Notoriety,” he said. That’s what they had in common. But that wasn’t exactly right either. Then the word came to him. He wandered back to the bedroom. Looked in on them. The clock on the nightstand read 3:34 a.m.
“Fucking DNA.” He glanced out the window into the back yard. There was a small aluminum gardening shed back there. On either side of the yard, tall hedges offered relative privacy.
Better get to it, he thought.
He went out the back door as quietly as possible and found the shed unlocked. He slid the door over, the aluminum scraping against the track in weak protest. He had rubber gloves on now. The yellow ones used for washing dishes. Condoms for the hands. Glancing around he saw a tricycle, presumably Patrick’s, lying on its side. There was an old lawnmower. Beside that, a five-gallon jerry can, much too big for the likes of a lawnmower. He could see Wendy struggling with that jerry can, splashing gas all over the lawn mower.
Not anymore, he thought and smiled.
Neither she nor Patrick would be visiting this shed again.
He lifted the jerry can; it was half full.
It’ll have to do.
Inside the house, he retraced his path, as best he could remember, splashing the gas in places where he thought he might have left evidence. He doused the bodies, the condoms, the towels he’d used. He gave the bed where they’d had sex a good soaking. The kid’s crib also got a good soaking. When he emptied it, he placed the can at the foot of her bed.
He then went back to the kitchen and opened the stove. It was an electric job. He turned the oven on and watched the burners. They immediately began to glow. He switched it off and searched the cupboards. He needed more accelerant. This place had to burn. The DNA had to be destroyed.
“Fucking DNA,” he grunted again and pulled out a bottle of vegetable oil. He unscrewed the cap and soaked the counter. That wouldn’t burn as fast, but it would still burn. Then he grabbed a bag of sugar and spread the granules into the oil. He’d seen sugar burn, had tossed it into a fire once, it flared and left a sweet scent in the air. He wandered into the living room, careful not to step on the trail of gas he’d left on the carpet. The vapors that hung in the air were intoxicating, and he was getting the beginnings of a headache. He’d been very careful not to get any on him, but he would probably still smell of it. He’d have to get his clothes into the wash as soon as he got back to SU.
He found a stack of newspapers and magazines by the couch and brought them back to the kitchen. He arranged them on the oven rack and considered. It looked plausible. Stove ignites papers, papers ignite the gas and soon enough the house would be on fire and...
“No more fucking DNA,” he said.
How long would it take? Five minutes? Ten?
He wasn’t sure. Arson wasn’t his strength.
He’d have to move fast.
He gazed at the body of the woman and that of her decapitated son, burning the images into his mind.
This is like painting a masterpiece and setting it on fire, he thought.
He took one last glance around the house. Then the word came to him. He turned on the oven and tossed the rubber gloves onto the counter. Tore off a roll of paper towel and used it to wipe the doorknob as he exited the house. Infamous, he thought. That was the word I was looking for. Infamous, and I just did something that would be remembered for a long time.
“And I just burned it all up,” he muttered in a low, angry grunt.
Lighting fire to a masterpiece.
Not yet; it was only art at this point. He had to hone his craft. Polish his work, and if he didn’t get caught for this, he would be well on his way. He made it four blocks and
disappeared around the corner when the paper flared up.
By the time he was a mile away, fire snaked down the halls into the adjacent room to the main sources of gasoline. The smoke detectors in Patrick and Wendy’s room cried out, but only briefly, falling victim to the intense heat.
He walked all the way back to SU, drawing the attention of a slumbering homeless man, but only for a second and it rose no alarm.
When he reached the dorm, he stripped and put his clothes in the wash. An hour had elapsed, and miles away, the little, post-war bungalow was burning savagely. He was stepping into the shower when the fire department arrived. They turned on the water, sprayed it on all sides, but it was already too far gone, burning out of control. The volunteer fire captain had no illusions; there wouldn’t be anyone in the furnace left alive to save. The chief was on his way. All they could do was try and protect the neighboring houses.
Showered, Lance, not Devon, dressed in sweat pants and a Syracuse University tee. “Infamous,” he said and lay back on the bed. He hoped that he’d gotten everything. He’d heard the sirens calling in the night, at first far off. Then, another set of sirens awoke, and he knew they were on their way to help. He considered going online, to see if there was something about it on one of the local media sites, then thought better of it. Too dangerous. The Internet was like a strand of DNA, maybe even worse; he didn’t want to leave a trail. But that would all change, because he was learning about the Web, and soon he’d be learning about the Deep Web, and in those murky waters, a predator could hide in plain sight.
“Next time,” he said. “Next time, I will be prepared.” He thought about Bundy, about Gacy, as if he were aspiring to their greatness, their infamy. No, he would be better. He had no intention of being caged, electrocuted or injected. His achievements would be greater, would shock and horrify. He shut his mind down then, falling off to sleep, sliding in the shade of dreamlessness.
***
Chapter 2 - Out of the Ashes
1
8 May 2000
Westvale, NY — Crime Scene
A morose collectiveness hung over the scene, infecting all involved, painted on the faces of rescue workers, the uniformed cops. With it, a pungent aroma of septic water, slag, and cooked flesh hung in the air. The house was gone except for the framework of charred wall studs that looked like black toothpicks spiking out of the floor plan. The scene smoldered beneath the thousands of gallons of water that had been poured upon it. Crime scene tape surrounded the property, twisting in the morning breeze. The tape had been put up by a uniformed cop after the fire chief told him to do it. The chief called the Syracuse PD asking for a homicide detective.
Hayward had caught the case and was waiting on the fire chief to fill him in. The lawn below his feet had been scorched by the intense blaze. Blades of grass, now coarse straw, crunched beneath his shoes as he drifted just outside the perimeter.
What am I looking at? he wondered.
“I’ll be right with you, Detective.” The man calling to him was Westvale Fire Chief Ronny Bush. Hayward knew Bush; they were related through marriage. Bush’s daughter had married Hayward’s nephew. Though they didn’t fish or drink together, they had eaten an occasional meal at an outdoor barbeque or three. He thought Bush was a decent guy.
Hayward raised his hand, acknowledging the fire chief, running over the unknowns in his head. Even the uniformed cop, he’d shown his shield upon arrival, had been tight-lipped about the victims. Hayward didn’t push the kid, figured he probably didn’t have much anyway. As he waited, he considered the scene. He’d been to plenty of fires and those that involved homicide were usually murder-suicide. Some mutt, who’s on the cusp of divorce, decides to off his family, then kill himself. It wasn’t always a man, women could be equally selfish. Maybe that’s what this was, individual kills lover or perhaps kid, then lights the place up and checks out.
Makes sense, he thought, but after an inferno like this, how would first responders know? The bodies or body would be burned beyond recognition, and the body snatchers weren’t even here to transport the victims back to the morgue. So how does everyone know it’s a crime scene?
Hayward knew he was going to find out. In fact, it was down to minutes—but he was a creature of inquisition—not all that good at waiting. Speculation was the mental game he played at crime scenes in anticipation of the facts. It was his way of staving off impatience and prepping to compartmentalize emotion. For him, emotion was the enemy when investigating a murder. Not that he was a heartless bastard, he wasn’t. Becoming attached to a victim, no matter what the mystery novels said, was never what led to closing a case. He’d seen his share of fellow detectives become attached, usually as a case grew colder and solving it became less likely. He had a case that he was close to, that had never been solved, probably never would be, but he knew if he were going to continue to be a homicide detective, he had to jettison his emotions. Not completely, but as much as possible.
Bush was at his left, drawing him out of the mental game. He’d finished with his own detail and giving out orders to his own people. “We have two victims. One adult and one child.”
“Okay, Ron, and I am here because?”
“You’re here because the victims didn’t start the fire. They were murdered before the fire was started.”
Hayward turned towards the chief, an intrusive smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “You say this fire was started by someone else, okay. What makes you think it was a murder?”
Bush’s face transformed then, his complexion graying, his demeanor softening, even empathetic. Ronny Bush looked Hayward straight in the eyes and said, “Because we found a skull in the adult victim’s bedroom. It was a child’s skull, and it should’ve been attached to the body, which we found in another bedroom.”
“Fuck.” Hayward heard himself say, then, “Go on.”
“I don’t know what could be left for evidence. The place is a mess. We really soaked it down. It’ll be really muddy in there. Shit, some of it is still smoldering, and my guys have tromped all over it. We found a molten gas can, we think that’s the accelerant. Right next to it, we found the skull at the foot of what used to be the adult victim’s bed. When we found the kid’s skull, we backed off.” Bush took a deep breath. “I’ve seen a lot of horrible shit as a firefighter, but this takes the fucking cake. It’s not just horrible. It’s fucking abominable. The worst part, Brad. Worst fucking part is we might have assisted this animal in destroying whatever evidence you might need to catch him.” Bush sat down on the hood of Hayward’s car. He was knocked over by this.
“Take it easy, Ron.” Hayward patted him on the shoulder, then he was on the phone. Calling for more backup and crime scene techs, more uniforms to canvas for witnesses. As he did this, he was assessing. The street would have to be cordoned off better than this. Sooner or later, there’d be a lot more press.
He looked past Bush and waved over the uniform who had let him on to the scene. When the kid came up, he told him to gather everyone who worked the scene and have them meet at his car.
“Ron, we need to keep a lid on this.”
“Keep a lid on it?”
“The murder will get out, but the details... The kid’s head being cut off. Can you get your people to dummy up on the details? It’s important. I need to hold stuff back. There’ll be wackos confessing to this.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Good, let’s gather ‘em up and have us a chat.” His cell rang and he answered. “Hayward.” This was followed by “Yeah.” And “ETA?” and “Whatever you can give me.”
Bush was listening, rubbing his pug nose and collecting himself at the same time. He felt weak, ashamed, and he wondered if his own people had seen that weakness. He stiffened, let out a brooding sigh, one of a man who is waiting for an unpleasant situation to end.
2
9 May 2000
Syracuse
University
The police showed a full twenty-four hours after the murders. Almost to the exact time. The call came on his cell. The ringtone, an Animals’ tune, “House of the Rising Sun,” woke him. When he picked it up, the caller ID read Unknown Caller. He pushed the answer button and said, “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Lance Belanger?” said a man’s voice.
He sat up, wiped his eyes. “Yes.”
“Lance, my name is Detective Brad Hayward. I need to speak to you. I am parked outside your dormitory. Can I confirm your room number and come up?”
Panic cut through him. He gave his head a shake, trying to jar the sleepiness. “I was sleeping.”
“Yes, I understand and I apologize, but I need to talk to you.”
“Um, okay? But what is this about?”
“Son, I would prefer to come up and speak to a person.”
“Okay, I’m in room 341.”
“You have a roommate, Lance?”
His stomach churned.
He’s here to arrest me! They know about the killings, something I left behind. Something I missed! He swallowed—his throat clicked—he needed water. He croaked, “No... I have my own room.”
Did that sound desperate, afraid?
He thought so.
“Alright, I’ll be up in a minute.” The detective’s voice had the sound of regret. Or maybe it was disappointment. Yes, disappointment at having to arrest a young man with his whole future in front of him. Lance began to panic. What was he going to do?
Calm down, he thought. There’s no way the cops would call me if they were coming to arrest me. It has to be something else.
Maybe, but why take a chance?
He stood, the blood in his veins diluted with adrenaline, and went over to his desk. He yanked the drawer open, rummaged through it until he found the pocket knife. If he’s here to arrest me, I’ll have to kill him and run. They will freeze everything within hours. I’ll need to empty my bank account. Which wasn’t much, maybe nine hundred dollars. He didn’t want to go to jail. He’d do whatever he had to. That included killing a cop. He pulled on his sweats, opened the blade and carefully placed it into the pocket.
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