Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  Chapter Twenty

  Morgan didn’t really know what to expect when he arrived at the house, but it sure wasn’t a man who looked more or less exactly like Dusty. That was, if Dusty were a white man with muscles and a thick, bushy beard. Those eyes, though…

  “Is everything all right?” the man asked, gesturing toward an armchair.

  “Yes, thank you. It’s just… you look so much like him.”

  The man—a friend of Dusty’s who’d survived the same car accident—was named Tom, and he looked as if he’d never seen a second of damage in his life. Even his bright blue eyes shone with fond remembrance. “Like Dusty? Believe me, you’re not the first person to say it. Hey, can I get you a drink or anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Morgan just wanted to get down to business. The similarities between Tom and Dusty were difficult for him to bear, each little facial expression shocking him with memories both fond and foul. That kind of unease also made him think of Rachel and how unsteady things had been with her lately. It wasn’t like them to fight like this, which only made him wild with paranoia whenever he let himself wonder what might be causing such agitation. Whatever it was, he could worry about it later.

  Right now, he had work to do.

  “Suit yourself.” Tom sat on the couch across from Morgan, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. “What can I do for you?”

  “Before I say anything, did you hear about our mutual friend?”

  “The car in the river?” He nodded. “Teresa too.”

  Morgan phrased this as carefully as he could. He didn’t want to cause any kind of panic, and he sure as hell didn’t want to make any insinuations. “I was wondering, seeing as you were friends with them both, did either of them have any enemies in common?”

  “People like that didn’t have enemies.”

  “True, but if you were pressed…?”

  “Then I’d say whoever killed them was a jealous man.”

  The assumption had come too easily. “What makes you think it was a man?”

  Tom shrugged, maintaining eye contact. “Just a guess.”

  “If you say so.” Morgan sat back and crossed his legs, weaving his fingers together and resting both hands across his knees. He exhaled slowly, glancing around at the dark room that smelled strongly of cooked meat. He guessed it took a lot of protein to keep a guy like this in such shape. It made him wonder what he did with all that strength. “Anyway, I’m here to see if you think the murders were related. You know as well as I do that this is a big city. That’s already saying a lot before you even factor in how they died.”

  The moment he said it, Tom covered his mouth with a shaking hand. A second later, he returned to his previous position, gulping like he was trying not to puke, cry, and break down. “The murders were similar, I read. Similar but different. I’m not a cop—I train people at the gym for a living—but if I were working homicide, I’d guess they’re related. Maybe an ex-lover got mad and took revenge on them.”

  “Did they have any lovers?”

  “Teresa definitely did. She was pretty prom… prem… what’s the word?”

  “Promiscuous?”

  “That. She got around a bit, but she usually didn’t mean any harm. As for Dusty, who knows? That guy’s been a mystery to me for a few years now. But it wouldn’t surprise me if the two of them had a thing for each other.”

  Morgan was all ears. “Anything ever happen between them?”

  “As far as I know, they slept together once. That was a few years ago though.”

  “Okay. And what about you?”

  “I… didn’t sleep with either of them.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yeah, I was trying to be funny.” Tom scratched his beard and sat back, really getting in there with his fingertips while he stared into Morgan’s eyes with a look that said I’m glad you’re here. Maybe he didn’t want to be alone. Maybe he was thinking the same thing Morgan was—that if the three of them used to hang out together, then the killer could be looking to complete the set. “Really, I haven’t spoken to them in years. I was sad when I heard the news, but it doesn’t change anything in my life. The only thing I keep wondering is who would do that to them and why, but nobody seems to have a straight answer.”

  “Who’ve you been asking?”

  “Online support groups.”

  “Which ones?” Morgan clicked his pen and pulled out a small pad of paper.

  “EQ&A mostly. Sometimes Ask Us Anything.”

  Morgan scribbled the names down, almost certain he wasn’t going to look into it. They were both websites designed for people to seek advice anonymously. It was just like the rest of this case: nothing useful, leaving more questions than answers.

  “Let me check on that food, will you?”

  “Food?”

  “I’m cooking up some chicken. You hungry?”

  Famished, Morgan thought, but just shook his head. “You go do your thing.”

  “Will do. You sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  While Tom went through to the kitchen to tend to his meal, Morgan stood and paced the room. He didn’t want to stay much longer—this visit had mostly been to make sure there was no glaring connection between Tom and the two victims—but he definitely didn’t want to intrude on the man’s dinner. It smelled good too, and the last thing he wanted was food envy.

  He occupied himself by checking out the framed photos on one of the many shelves. Morgan immediately noticed the picture of Dusty sitting on a beach. He was in a ridiculous pair of Donald Duck swimming shorts, which screamed character as much as anything else he did. Beside him was a young version of Tom. It was funny—now that they were together, they looked nothing alike. It was as though time and distance had brought out their similarities.

  A loud cracking sound broke his concentration. Morgan spun around, thinking a glass had smashed in the next room while a chill shot up his spine. He hesitated, completely unprepared for the short shock it’d induced. “Everything okay in there?”

  Silence.

  He counted back from five and tried again. “Tom? You need help?”

  When no reply came, a black cloud seemed to lurk overhead. That feeling came upon him—the knowledge that something had gone wrong. He just didn’t know what.

  “Tom?” he called again, stepping slowly toward the kitchen. He reached out and pushed open the door, half expecting Tom to rush him and reveal he’d been the killer all along. It then occurred to him that Tom really could be the killer, and Morgan had just screwed up big time by alerting him to his suspicions. For all he knew he could be halfway up the street by now, fleeing the city for good.

  But the scene told a different story.

  Dark red speckles covered the counter in a thin line. Morgan was no expert, but he knew blood spatter when he saw it, and this had been caused by a swift striking motion. Horror took over him, his skin turning cold as he stepped farther into the kitchen. Glass crunched under his shoe. Wind whistled through the open door, knocking the knob into the wall like the slow beat of a drum. A drum that announced something awful had happened here tonight.

  Morgan, frozen in place as negative thoughts attacked every angle of his imagination, was only vaguely aware of his hand reaching into his pocket and grabbing the cell phone. Before he knew it, he was calling the police, pressing his back to the wall in case the attacker was still in the house. Although the rational part of his brain knew better.

  It knew that Tom was gone: taken and hurt.

  And Morgan had let it happen.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After many hours of careful planning, the execution had gone perfectly. Well, almost perfectly—Tom had put up a little resistance, but the killer had prepared for that far in advance. The crowbar he’d brought with him had mostly been for self-defense, but when he and Tom had locked eyes in the confines of that kitchen, the killer couldn’t help but swing.

  The crunching sound had ma
de them both shake.

  Skulls never made that sound in movies. It was more like a potato chip being snapped than a metallic thud, and it was so gross that the killer had frozen with disgust. A sickening feeling curdled in his stomach, and he thought he was going to throw up. Wouldn’t that have been awful irony—leaving his stomach contents all over the crime scene?

  He’d gotten lucky. So lucky, in fact, that after Tom had fallen to the floor—a jar of sauce leaving his hand and smashing to a thousand tiny pieces beside him—a man from the other room had given away his presence by calling between the rooms. Until then, he thought everyone had left. For a moment the killer had stood there, his face burning up with panic and the image of serving a lifetime sentence flashing in his mind. Thankfully, he’d snapped out of it and acted fast, hauling Tom out of there with a strength he didn’t know he had. It was like those stories you heard of women lifting cars to save their children. Only this wasn’t saving—this was righteous murder.

  Hours before, the killer had parked yet another stolen car at the end of an adjoining alleyway. After hauling Tom through the backyard and into that alley, it’d been as simple as throwing him onto the back seat and draping a cloth over his body. The victim made small grunts and groans while they journeyed to the remote location, but there was no sign of coming to consciousness, and that was perfect.

  When they finally arrived, the killer dragged him out of the car and into the building, which sat on an abandoned estate he’d been scoping out for a week. Once inside, he switched on the lights and hauled tonight’s catch across the empty workshop, using braided rope to bind his hands and feet to a pipe. When he was done, he tested the pipe by kicking it as hard as he could, reeling back with extraordinary pain but satisfied there was no escape. That was, of course, unless Tom was five times stronger than he looked.

  Now that he’d gotten everything together, the killer hurried to the upstairs office and ran the faucet, filling a plastic cup he’d used to piss in on several occasions. He returned down the metal staircase and launched it into Tom’s face. Tom groaned and shook his head from side to side, life slowly returning to his hulking body.

  The killer wasn’t prepared to waste another minute waiting.

  “Get up,” he snarled, delivering a forceful kick to his ribs.

  Tom snapped to life, pain and terror showing in his wide eyes as he snapped at the ropes. He kept tugging, barely looking at the man in front of him while he searched for a way to escape. “What the hell is this? Are you—”

  “You’re not getting out of there, so don’t waste your energy.”

  Panting heavily, Tom settled and rested back onto his butt, his face bright red.

  “Let me tell you what’s going to happen: if you sit there and listen without interrupting me, I’ll make it as painless as possible. If you try to break free or hinder my plans in any way, there’s no end to how horrific your suffering will be. Is that understood?”

  Tom’s eyes grew wider, his face redder. He pulled at the ropes, once again finding no give and falling back with submission. His chest then jolted in short bursts, tears filling his eyes and then rolling down his cheeks. It was as if he knew what was coming, and why wouldn’t he? It didn’t take a genius to know he’d be next.

  “Good,” the killer said, beginning to pace. “Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I want you to give me short, clear answers without lying to me. It’s quite a simple game really. I’m sure even you can understand it. Are you with me so far?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “You’re a fast learner.” The killer stopped only to sneer and then continued pacing. “So, here goes nothing. Ten years ago, you were involved in a car accident. Who was driving?”

  “Teresa was.”

  “We both know that’s not true. One last chance, who was driving?”

  Tom wept, a cry cracking through his voice. “Please.”

  “Please was driving?”

  “No. Please. Let me go.”

  A surge of anger burst through him. He’d explained himself clearly enough, so why was it so hard to get what he wanted? All this guy had to do was answer honestly, and then he could go on to give his final speech. It was that easy—no more trouble, no more head games. Just him, the victim, and a car that couldn’t be traced back to him.

  But no.

  Tom was refusing to play fair.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the killer said, rushing to his victim’s side and fighting the urge to snap his neck in one lightning-fast movement. He settled for pointing at his face, spit firing off his lips as he spoke. “If you admit to driving that car off the road, then I’ll consider untying you and letting you go. How about that? Does that sound fair?”

  Tom hesitated, like he was being put to test. “O-Okay.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “It… was me.” He climbed onto his knees, begging like the dog he was. “Teresa sat next to me, and Dusty was in the back. You killed them… didn’t you? It was you? I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I swear to God.”

  The killer nodded slowly. This confession was supposed to please him, so why did he only find his hate growing by the second, ready to explode at a moment’s notice? It was too much to bear, and that was why he burst into violence, driving the tip of his shoe into his victim’s jaw. This time the crunch was satisfying. “I knew it was you, you worthless piece of shit. That’s why you’re going to die just like the others.”

  Tom climbed back to his knees, blood and tears meeting on his cheek. “But you said you’d let me go.”

  “I said I’d consider it.”

  The killer clenched his fist and rocketed it toward Tom’s face. The moment it connected, Tom fell back and smashed his head against the wall, dust spewing off the bricks. It was oh-so-satisfying to take his revenge, but this was only a taster of things to come—tomorrow he would cut the foreplay and continue his work, punishing this son of a bitch for his actions all those years ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It took all of thirty minutes for the house to become a crime scene, and Morgan refused to budge. As far as he was concerned, he was a key witness in the event of Tom’s disappearance, and he didn’t hold back when giving his statement to Gary. Only he wasn’t just Gary at that moment—he was Detective Gary Lee of the Metropolitan Police Department, and this time Morgan was giving him information rather than taking it from him.

  As soon as they were done, Gary fell back into the role of best friend. Morgan kept silent while he was led through the house, and together they watched forensics buzz around like flies on a corpse. It was astonishing to Morgan just how quickly somebody’s home could become invaded by the authorities. If that didn’t scream trouble, he didn’t know what did.

  “This is where Tom slept,” Gary said, taking the lead into the master bedroom.

  “If he slept at all. The guy looked like he worked out twenty-four seven.” Morgan hugged the wall to let a technician slide past, then moved to the window that overlooked the backyard. He twitched the curtain and looked out upon the alley where officers had applied tape to cordon off the area. “What do you think his kidnapper used?”

  “Something blunt and hard. There are no traces of wood, so we’re ruling out anything like a baseball bat. Maybe something metal like a hammer or crowbar. That was a lot of blood though, so even if he’s still alive…”

  He didn’t need to finish that sentence, and Morgan was glad he didn’t. In this line of work, it only got easier to accept when somebody had bitten the dust, but once you’d met them in person and put some kind of personality to the face or name, it became too real. “He’d be in a lot of pain. But I’ve seen people survive a lot worse.”

  Gary came to his side, gazing out of the window with him. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Bones broken. Bodies beaten so hard even their organs bruised.” Morgan sighed at the grim realization of his pessimism. Deep down, he truly wanted to believe that Tom was still alive somewhere. But that was
if he’d survived the blunt-force trauma, and if it hadn’t all been staged to give him an easy exit. Morgan didn’t think Tom seemed the guilty type, but at this point he couldn’t take anyone’s innocence for granted.

  “Hey, listen…” Gary turned toward him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good enough. Why?”

  “Because I’ve known you for most of my life, and you’ve never looked this bad.”

  “I’m just tired.” Morgan gave a big, fake smile, but was he really okay? If he gave himself enough time to be isolated and get his head straight, he’d probably figure out that he wasn’t; not only was the case getting to him, but Rachel kept sliding into his thoughts. It wasn’t a distraction he needed, but maybe his brain was trying to tell him something. Perhaps it was just enough of a distraction to keep him from seeing Dusty’s face every time he closed his eyes.

  Whatever it was, it only added to his stress.

  They made their way downstairs and ended up in the front yard, far away from the reporters and blinding lights of civilian cell-phone camera flashes. Morgan turned his back to them, not wanting his face all over the internet. Instead, he focused on Gary. “So, where do we go from here?”

  Gary used both hands to rake his fingers through his long, graying hair. “Honestly? I don’t know yet. The rest of the team need filling in on what you found, then we’ll need to go over your statement. I’ll interview the neighborhood myself, but the captain’s going to have the final say on how we move forward.”

  “How is he reacting to all this?”

  “The captain?”

  Morgan nodded.

  “Not well. He’s as strict as ever.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you know him too well.” Gary rotated his body toward the road, giving a short nod in the same direction. “Here he comes. If you want to ask him anything personally, then now’s the time. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Why, where are you going?”