Justice was being served.
It took less than a minute for people to arrive on the scene. It started with one, and the killer backed away into the dark cover of the trees before he was spotted. Seconds later more came, and that number doubled, then doubled again. Before he knew it, all their cell phones were out, some being used to call the fire department while others doubled up as cameras to capture every moment of his latest kill.
But they’d missed it all.
The woman was dead already, if her silence was anything to go by. Any chance of her being saved was now gone. And if she had survived it? Good—the bitch deserved to burn alive. In fact, all the better for it. After everything she’d done, it was the least she deserved.
And this? This was only the beginning.
Chapter Thirteen
In the first light of dawn, Gary escorted Morgan to the front porch of a complete stranger, the bitter wind stinging his cheeks. The place was a mess with patchy grass on the lawn that looked like a poisoned shrubbery. Scratched and faded panels covered the exterior of the neglected home. There was even a broken step at the bottom of the porch that looked like someone had driven a foot through. If they hadn’t yet, someone still could—it was an accident waiting to happen.
It reminded Morgan of his own home and how upkeep and repairs would be delayed in the coming months. With his task of avenging Dusty, bundled with the business he was starting up slowly in the background, there was no time for that. He wondered how long it would take before their home looked like this. Hopefully never.
“You ready for this?” Gary asked, rapping on the door.
“Sure.”
Morgan stood up straight and reached to adjust his tie before remembering he didn’t have one on. His hand had barely returned to its original position before the door swung open and a big, burly man with white hair stepped into the morning light. The tank top he wore had curls of equally white hair protruding from the collar.
“Mr. Young?” the man said, extending a hand.
Morgan took it and shook, glancing at Gary. He hadn’t known what to expect from the ex-cop, but manners wasn’t it. Very few people looked at private investigators with any kind of regard, and cops even less so. He attributed this gentle introduction to Gary; whatever he’d said to this man must’ve been high praise.
“I’ll leave you guys alone,” Gary said as he brushed past and returned to the car.
The man waved to Morgan. “Come on in.”
He followed.
The short walk through the house left much to be desired. The wallpaper had the same level of care as the front lawn. It was torn and peeling, sagging to the floor. There was a faint smell of something sour, and it followed them into the kitchen at the rear of the house where sunlight spewed through the long window. In another house that light would’ve been a key feature, but here it only drew attention to the dust particles floating around the filthy room.
“Perhaps I can interest you in a cup of coffee?” the man said, reaching toward a big clunky-looking machine with a stained bowl and dirtied handle. If there had been any chrome on that device, it probably hadn’t been seen in years.
“Thanks, but I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“Really, I’m fine.” Morgan heaved in a deep breath and felt a scratchy tickle at the back of his throat. Probably due to some airborne bacteria, he figured. He was suddenly glad he’d declined the coffee. “I really want to talk to you about the handcuffs that went missing from your locker. You say they were stolen?”
The old man—completely expressionless, as if the offer had been nothing more than ritualistic courtesy—left the machine and went to the window, shoving his hands into his pockets and gazing into the backyard. A strong orange hue lit up his face, revealing it to be paler than it first seemed. “I said they were stolen, yes.”
“Two pairs?”
“Two pairs. Each with the same serial number, give or take a digit.”
Morgan reached for a notepad in his breast pocket, but those things were usually for show or reference, neither of which he needed right now. He relaxed his hand and joined the man at the window, staring at the disregarded turf outside. “Any idea who took them?”
“Between you and me, kid, I’m not even sure they were stolen. I left the force last year, and they went missing during my final week. When you lose your cuffs, you have to pay for them. That’s the rule.”
“I’m confused. Were they stolen or not?”
“Not at first.” The man grunted. “My memory ain’t what it used to be. That’s a part of why I retired. Those lockers were always so damn fidgety. I don’t know if I locked it or if it was broken into. I remember coming in to start a shift and finding the locker door wide open. Nothing was busted, so I figured I just hadn’t shut it right.”
Dark closed over Morgan’s heart. It’d taken less than five minutes to get the truth from this man, and even that had turned out to be ultimately unhelpful. “Let me guess, you’d misplaced the handcuffs and blamed it on a locker theft?”
“That’s the short version.”
“You understand that a homicide has been connected to those cuffs? If this is the story you stick to, then every officer on shift that day will be thoroughly investigated. It’ll be a huge drain on time and resources from the MPD.”
The old man sighed, rubbing his temple with a shaking hand. “Yeah…”
“Do everyone a favor and come forward, okay? It’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re probably right.”
Morgan forced a slight smile and turned away from the sunlight that was in his eyes. The old man turned with him. “Now, between you and me, where was the last place you saw the handcuffs? Misplacing a pair is one thing, but two?”
“I honestly got no idea.” He tapped his head. “I told you, this thing ain’t working right.”
“Did you try retracing your steps?”
“No, because I’m not five years old. If they’re lost they’re lost, and there’s nothing I can do about it. All I can tell you is that I carried both pairs with me at all times. Most officers keep one on their belt and one in the locker, but not me. I felt safer having both.”
Morgan considered the idea that he’d been pickpocketed, for lack of a better term. The killer had taken the cuffs from this man somehow, and that either meant the killer had somehow gained access to a cop’s locker—probably a cop himself—or they’d been lifted from his belt without him knowing. If it was the former, then Internal Affairs would have to get involved, and that would slow everything down. If they did that and turned out to be wrong, more innocent people could die while the investigation was ongoing.
If it was the latter, however…
He was halfway through that thought, the concept of a man stealing handcuffs on a whim causing a fair amount of doubt, when Gary pounded on the door and let himself in. Morgan turned to see his red face, brushed with both frost and sheer panic. The moment his stare caught Morgan, his eyes widened and he snapped.
“We have to go.”
Morgan had no idea what was going on, but it took a lot to spook his old friend. It struck worry across his heart, confusing him with a surge of both anxiety and adrenaline. He imagined the worst, and nine times out of ten that dismal instinct was right. “What’s up?”
“It’s the killer.” Gary spun on his heel and stormed out, shouting three short, fear-inducing words through the hallway as he rushed back to the car outside. “He’s struck again.”
Chapter Fourteen
The crime scene was a narrow street buzzing with police cars. Civilians littered the scene, forcing them to park up the street and make the rest of their way on foot. Morgan didn’t mind—his dread of what was to come brought sweat to his forehead, and the cool air was a blessing in contrast.
Gary’s police badge came in handy when they finally squeezed between the watchers and made it to the scene. A uniformed office
r took one glance and released the tape to let them through, then quickly returned it before anyone else squeezed through. Morgan was shocked to see that not a single reporter had made it here yet, but just as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the kitted-out van of a news channel turn the corner, halting in its tracks before the side door slid open and workers hopped out. It was like someone had left the gate open at the idiot farm. He didn’t have the patience to round them back in.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Gary yelled over the noise.
Morgan agreed but no longer had the strength to speak aloud. As his eyes rolled over the scene before him, horror infested his mind and filled him with terror. The police tape circled a small area where a single car had been charred black from the aggressive assault of fire. Inside, the corpse of a single human being was stretched across the front seat. Morgan cupped his nose in one hand, a foul stench seeping through in spite of his best efforts to avoid it.
But he had to see.
A closer inspection revealed that handcuffs were still attached to the steering wheel. One black, burned arm hung from one of the rings, while the other contained a single detached hand. Morgan guessed what’d happened here, and although he didn’t like it, there was no denying what was right in front of him. The sight made bile rise from his stomach and into his mouth, leaving a disgusting stale taste lingering on his tongue.
“I think he tried to escape,” he mumbled.
“Actually, it was a she.”
Morgan and Gary both turned to the sound of the unfamiliar voice. A small Filipino man stood watching them, dangling a bright yellow bag at his side. He wore glasses that were far too big for his small features, and the sunlight caught on his shiny, shaved head. An official ID badge hung from his breast pocket. It read:
PAUL OCAMPO
DEPARTMENT OF FORENSIC SCIENCES
“Excuse me?” Gary said.
“I haven’t been able to get a proper look yet,” Paul explained, waving them toward the car. He slid a pen from his pocket and used it to point at the body’s lower half. “But it doesn’t take a genius to know that women have female genitals. It’s… kind of a big clue.”
“The genitals are—”
“Fused with her clothes, but distinguishable.”
“And the arm?”
“Simple. She tried to break free, managed to tear one hand off before she died trying. You know, I studied forensics for a long, long time, but surely you’re bright enough to see what’s right in front of you?” Paul cocked his head at the body. “Use your brain.”
Morgan didn’t need sarcasm to help him along, but he appreciated the observation. So much, in fact, that he refused to look any longer. He turned his back to the body, catching a brief glimpse of the woman’s vacant eyeholes. Her teeth showed like she was beaming.
It was an image he’d never forget.
“How long has she been here?” Gary asked.
Paul made a “meh” noise. “It was reported immediately. Took a few minutes for the fire department to arrive. Officers were here shortly after that, and then your superiors were informed. You’re with Homicide, I take it?”
“I am.”
As much as Morgan wanted to stay and chat, he desperately wanted to get far away from that god-awful smell. Without excusing himself, he hurried away to the far side of the tape where there were fewer people, resting his hands on his knees and fighting the need to throw up. Nothing, he knew, would ever compare to this grotesque scene.
Footsteps padded up behind him.
A hand rested on his back.
“Too much for you?” Gary said.
Morgan shook his head and raised a hand—a signal to indicate he needed a moment. “It’s him, isn’t it? The same asshole who killed Dusty?”
“I think so. Serial numbers on the cuffs are hard to read, but it looks like it.”
“But why…” Another surge of spew rolled up his throat, but he suppressed it. “I mean, how could anyone do that to another human being? It takes tons of preparation and a lot of balls to go to that extent. Not to mention they’re both car-related murders.”
“Do you think it holds any significance?”
“Who can tell with this sicko?”
“I was just asking.”
Morgan stood up straight, keeping a closed fist against his lips in case of another outburst. The body appeared for a second in his mind, closely followed by another of Dusty sitting in their secret treehouse when they were only kids. It was bittersweet, but it served as an antidote for this particular bout of vomit. “Sorry. It’s just messing with my mind a little.”
“Hey, I get it.” Gary patted him on the back again, but he must have realized he was getting too touchy. He withdrew his hand and stepped away. “The only reason I called you here was so you could get in and see it firsthand. I do have to get to work though. Do you need a ride home?”
“Nah. You do what you need to do. I’ll call a cab.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Keep me posted.”
Gary heaved a deep sigh. “No problem.”
It wasn’t like he would’ve admitted it, but Morgan badly needed the air and a break after seeing what he’d seen. His brain was foggier than ever, the weight of this horrific event poisoning his mind with the morbid realism of what he was facing. Not only was Dusty’s killer still out there, but he was killing more people and they were still no wiser as to why.
Feeling hopeless, he said his goodbyes to Gary and headed up the street with his hand still pressed against his mouth while he searched for a cab. There was bound to be one or two here; so many people had arrived using public transport just to catch a glimpse of that unsightly nightmare, so he may as well use one, and the sooner he got back to Rachel, the better.
Chapter Fifteen
Some might have considered it cruel irony that the killer returned to his crime scene only an hour or so after leaving it as a big, burning fireball. Others, particularly the newspapers and internet bloggers, would get a kick out of calling it a cliché, but the truth of it was that he just wanted to know how close he was to being caught. Did that separate him from the other killers out there, or had they just made the same kinds of excuses? All he knew was that he didn’t want to be a killer. This was just something he had to do.
In reality, he wasn’t even a killer. Sure, he’d committed cold-blooded murder—twice now—but wasn’t it different if they deserved it? It wasn’t as though he’d gone out and acted on his animalistic whims. These people hadn’t been selected at random either. Both of them had signed their own death warrants, and he was simply carrying them out.
And he was doing it well.
The process had been careful and thorough. It’d started a year ago, when he’d devoted time to research and practice the art of pickpocketing in order to lift a policeman’s handcuffs. The option to simply go out and buy them had always been there, but that would’ve made him traceable, and besides, this way the cop would be interrogated. The trail would be hidden. For that same reason, he’d stolen cars from others. This wasn’t done without its own array of guilt, but his mission wasn’t to steal a car; it was to take revenge on these people, and theft was just a necessary way to achieve it.
The rest had been as carefully carried out as the preparation, and although the victims had cried and begged, he’d not hesitated in seeing it through. It hadn’t come naturally to him, but neither had the suffering he’d endured up to that point. It only stood to reason that he returned to this scene, blending in with the crowd to view the aftermath as one of them. Without that, he’d only feel like there was a thick, dark line between himself and the other killers. That line was an imperative tool to keep him in the confines of sanity.
Only a couple minutes after shimmying his way back to the car, a thin, wiry detective in a perfectly pressed suit made it onto the scene. Beside him, a black guy in a long coat approached the burned vehicle with misery written all over his expression. It wasn’t long befor
e they were joined by some short man who insisted on pointing out key features of the corpse, all three of them leaning into the window with great intrigue.
This told the killer all he needed to know.
They were completely clueless.
Great, he thought as he edged his way toward the far side of the crowd. For some time now he thought the MPD were hot on his trail. His motivations were nothing if not obvious, but that was from his own perspective. Studying this case through the eyes of a police detective must have been a lot more confusing, and that was fine.
The killer had come so far to meet his goals, and there was an endgame. All he wanted was to complete his task, and then he would retire from this world of pain, torture, murder, and misery. As long as nobody stepped in the way between now and then, only a couple more people had to die. It wasn’t much to ask, and as the killer fled the scene for the second time that day, he already had his mind on victim number three.
It was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.
Chapter Sixteen
Swirling patterns appeared on the ceiling as Morgan stared up at it from the comfort of his own bed. He should have felt safe where he was, especially with Rachel snoozing lightly beside him, but what he imagined in those ceiling swirls was blood, circling like a whirlpool as it became one with the rain and was carried down the street toward a nearby drain. It was a cruel joke played by the deepest, darkest recesses of his brain, and although he knew better than to give in to the questions it posed, a small part of him was left to wonder whose blood it was.
The obvious answer was Dusty’s.
Everything about this case left a disturbing knot in his stomach, but it all came down to his cousin. Every time he saw a poor tortured body or came within a hair’s breadth of a new clue, that emotion—panic and sadness or sheer excitement—all came down to the death of Dusty Young.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 67