“Gotcha, you sonofabitch!” Chris said.
157
OTTO WAS PLEASED with the progress he had made over the last three years. His book of stories had grown to thirty-three. He hoped his late mother, Eva Schreiber-Kessel, would be pleased.
Eva had come from literary royalty. Her great grandfather had been Jacob Grimm of the famed Brothers Grimm, authors of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. She spoke of him often when Otto was a child and impressed upon him that someday he too would grow up to be a great writer, just like his great-great-grandfather. It was, as she said, in the genes.
However, it soon became clear the wondrous story-telling abilities possessed by his celebrated descendent had skipped a generation. No matter how hard he tried, Otto lacked the fertile imagination required to succeed as a storyteller. As a teen he would sit for hours, pondering and structuring his stories. But every word he penned met with criticism. He could still hear his mother’s words in his head after reading one of his tales. Your story has no depth, Otto… The setting is all wrong… Your characters are not believable. At every turn she found fault with his work. Why can’t you write like your great-great- grandfather? It’s in you, Otto, she would say. Work harder. Find it. Think, Otto! Do you know what your problem is? You have no life experience. You haven’t known suffering. Your great-great-grandfather suffered, lost everything. You have it too good. You can’t even live up to your family name. Do you know what Schreiber means, Otto? ‘One who is engaged in literary composition; an author; a writer of novels.’ That cannot be a coincidence. This is your birthright, Otto. Why can’t you live up to what is yours? With that, Eva Schreiber would leave her son to sit and think at the antique writing desk in his room; the same desk that had once belonged to his great-great-grandfather and at which were penned some of the greatest fantasy works of all time.
You haven’t known enough suffering, Otto. Make it real… make it real…
The murders had been real enough. He had seen to that. His victim’s suffering had been real enough. And what Otto lacked in imagination he made up for in ample quantity with real-life experience. He used his great-great-grandfather’s stories as the foundation upon which to build his own and accomplished what he could never have done; made them better. By comparison, the old man’s stories lacked character. Where they were born of fiction, Otto’s stories were cast in fact. His story lines were real. The killing was real. The pursuit by authorities in the perfection of his craft was real. Unlike his famous ancestor, he did not have to endure suffering to be published. The New York Times had published every scroll he had ever submitted to them. In fact, in the age of the Internet, the stories written about him had garnered international attention. His fame exceeded that of his predecessor. In addition, the media had given him a pen name which he rather liked, The Scroll Killer. His great-great-grandfather had penned over two hundred stories in his lifetime. Otto had many yet to write. But he was grateful for the example he had been given. He would model his work after him, improve upon the tales he had written, as he had with Rosalita Sanchez and his great-great-grandfather’s tale, The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids.
Similarly, Courtney Valentine, with her luminous golden hair, reminded him of the story of Rapunzel. He had met the beautiful young nurse while attending a recovery and transition program at the Madison Institute, a satellite clinic of the Veterans Administration Hospital on the top floor of the Beamont Building in Queens. Her perfect looks suited her fairy tale namesake, and she would blush every time he told her how beautiful she was, how she was born to fame, and that one day he would name a story after her. He did not understand why she seemed so shocked when he met her in the underground parking lot of the Beaumont, told her it was finally time to meet her destiny, and dosed her with his special spray. Some women were born to be famous. He simply facilitated the process. Perhaps in the afterlife Courtney would better understand that his intention was nothing but honorable.
His first kill, in which he slit the throat of the stewardess in Miami, was the only murder by which he had not sought to improve upon the stories of his great-great-grandfather. That woman had just been a condescending bitch who deserved to die. He had been happy to help her on her way.
The woman whose hands he had amputated and left in the trunk of her car in Bedford-Stuyvesant had belittled him when he mistook her for a high-priced call girl. She had had the nerve to tell him she’d rather sell her soul to the Devil than allow him to lay his hands on her, much less have sex with him. He saw to it she would never lay her hands on another man ever again. Which turned out to be a very short time. He gassed, bound, and gagged her, forced her into the trunk of the car and cut off her hands with the army knife he kept strapped to his leg. When she had bled out to his satisfaction, he closed the trunk and left her to die. His great-great-grandfather’s story, The Girl with No Hands, had been his inspiration for her murder.
So many stories had been written and so many more were left to write. Leaving the scrolls behind at the murder scenes differentiated his work from that of his famous relative. The media liked it too. It had become his brand.
You haven’t known enough suffering, Otto. Make it real… make it real…
He would make it real, all right. And then some.
By the time he was done killing he would be more famous than his great-great-grandfather ever was.
His stories, too, would live on.
Infamy was much more appealing than fame.
“You sure she’s okay?”
The words shocked Otto out of his daydream, brought him back to reality.
“What’s that?” he asked the cab driver.
“Your sister. She’s out cold. Maybe she should have stayed in the hospital a little longer. Taken more time to recover.”
“She’ll be fine.”
The cabbie shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I know so.”
“So where’s home?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me to drive you home. But you didn’t say where home was.”
“Across the bridge,” Otto replied. “Brooklyn Heights. Joralemon and Hicks. Conroy Apartments.”
The cabbie nodded. “I know it.”
Lacey stirred, then fell back to sleep.
He had written so many stories. So many more were left to write.
He remembered his mother’s words: Make it real, Otto… make it real.
He would make it real. And, in doing so, make it right.
158
CHRIS AND JORDAN called Special Agent Penner and Detective Pallister and instructed them to meet them in the hospital security office. Anton arrived with the homicide detective.
Chris pointed to the still capture on the monitor. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s Scroll.”
Pallister turned to Anton. “Is that the same guy who attacked you?”
“I think so,” Anton replied.
“What do you mean?” Penner quipped. “Either he is, or he isn’t.”
“Back off, Penner,” Pallister said. “Mr. Moore is a witness, not a suspect.”
“I only saw the side of his face for a few seconds,” Anton said. “He had his back to me the whole time. But the clothing’s the same.”
“Hell of a lot of good that does us,” Penner said.
Anton dismissed the agent’s remark. “What about Lacey?” he asked. “Is she all right?”
To the security officer Chris said, “Roll it back.” The officer turned back the recording by five seconds. The footage revealed an unconscious Lacey slumped in a wheelchair.”
Anton clasped his hands behind his head. “He’s got her! Oh, Jesus!”
Penner barked at the security officer. “Can you get us a better angle?”
The officer pressed several buttons on the control panel. “Watch monitor number four,” he said. The picture advanced slowly.
“Stop!” Penner said. “Now move it ahead, frame-by-frame.”
As Otto Schreiber lean
ed forward to help Lacey out of the wheelchair, he glanced up at the security camera in the Emergency entrance portico. The picture was opaque, blurred.
“Can you sharpen the image?” Penner asked.
The officer shook his head. “It’s not me,” he replied. “It’s the camera. There’s dirt on the lens cover. That’s the best I can do.”
“Give me a printout,” Penner demanded.
The guard walked to the computer printer and waited for the machine to come online. “One second,” he said.
Anton was devastated. “This would never have happened if I’d gone with her for that walk,” he said. “No way he would have gotten past me. Not a second time.”
“No one saw this coming, Anton,” Jordan said. “You’re not to blame. We let our guard down.”
Chris and Penner walked over, interrupted. “We have a problem,” Chris said, holding up the printout. “Picture’s no good. We can’t put it over the air. No one would recognize Scroll from this.”
“What about the taxi number?” Jordan asked.
“Same deal,” Chris replied. “Can’t make it out.”
“You mean only one camera captured a picture of the cab?” Jordan asked.
“That specific location is a dead zone,” the security officer stated. “Our entire system is being upgraded. That’s the only camera we have that’s operational in that area right now.”
“Perfect,” Penner said. “We have the guy in our grasp, but we don’t know what the hell he looks like or how to find him.”
“Yes, we do,” Pallister offered.
“How’s that?” Penner asked.
“Dash cams.” The detective said. “We need to review the footage again. We might not be able to make out the cab number, but we know where it was parked. The time stamp on the video will tell us when it was there. Only a few cabs made pick-ups or drop-offs in the last fifteen minutes. We need to contact those cab companies. Find out which of their vehicles were there at that time. Most fleet cabs are equipped with front- and rearview security cameras with hard drives that record continuously in the event of an accident. We can check their footage, find out which one caught the number of Scroll’s cab, put out a BOLO and find that vehicle. HRT will execute a hard target takedown on the car. We can end this today.”
“I’ll make the calls and put the Hostage Rescue Team on standby,” Penner said.
Jordan turned to Anton. “We’ll get her back,” she said.
Anton didn’t reply. He sat in silence and stared at the foggy image of Scroll on the computer screen. The agent’s confidence did nothing to allay his fear of losing the woman he loved, perhaps for the last time.
Anton stood, turned to Pallister. “We need to leave,” he said. “Go after him.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moore,” the detective apologized. “This is police business now. For your safety I can’t have you traveling with me any longer. You’ll need to make alternate arrangements to get back home.”
Anton nodded. “I understand,” he replied.
The detective shook the big man’s hand. “I promise you the minute we locate Ms. Chastain I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Detective. I’d appreciate that.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Pallister rejoined his colleagues at the computer station.
Anton made a call.
Mike Degario looked at the call display, picked up right away. “‘Bout friggin’ time you got back to me.”
“Sorry, Mike.”
“Did you find Lacey?”
“Yes. But there’s been a complication.”
“What kind of complication?”
“I don’t have time to get into the details right now,” Anton replied. “You think Russ’ offer is still on the table? Can we use his guys?”
“You kidding? My phone’s been burning up. Word’s out about Lacey. Everyone’s worried sick. What do you need?”
“Lacey left here around twenty minutes ago in a cab.”
“Have the cops track the cab number and find her. No big deal.”
“It’s a long story, but that’s not possible.”
“What about running the license plate?”
“Don’t know it.”
Frustrated, Mike said. “Okay, what do you know?”
“Only that she left here unconscious in the back seat of a cab with a guy the cops think might be The Scroll Killer.”
“Holy shit!”
“We need feet on the street, Mike. Guys who’ll force every fucking cab off the road if they have to to find Lacey and not be afraid to put a boot up the ass of any sonofabitch who puts up a fight. You know the type I’m talking about.”
“Hells Angels... Outlaws… Forbidden Ones. Shall I continue?”
“Exactly. Tell Russ to contact the chapter president of every biker gang he knows. They’re regulars at the Odyssey. All their guys know Lacey. She’s like a little sister to them. Tell Russ to put the word out. They need to start looking for her.”
“You’ve got it.”
“And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I need a favor.”
Mike chuckled. “Of course, you do. You still at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Hang in there, Anton. We’re going to get her back. Trust me, the guy that took her is street meat.”
“Tell Russ to relay a message to the guys from me, will ya?” Anton said.
“What’s that?”
“When they find him take him somewhere special and hold him for me. He’s mine.”
“With pleasure,” Mike replied.
159
THE CAB PULLED up to the Conroy Apartments in Brooklyn Heights. Lacey was still asleep, her head laying on Otto’s shoulder.
The driver turned in his seat and whispered. “You want a hand getting her inside?”
“That would be wonderful,” Otto replied. “Thank you.”
“No trouble.”
The cabbie removed the stolen wheelchair from the trunk of the taxi. Otto opened the door, eased Lacey into his arms, then slid her into the chair.
“Thank you for all your help,” Otto said.
The cabbie smiled. “My pleasure,” he said. He turned to leave.
“Would I be able to ask one small favor before you go?” Otto said.
The driver checked his watch. “I have another fare,” he said. “I need to be on my way.”
“My apartment is at the back of the building,” Otto said. “There’s a three-step walk up. Problem is the entrance isn’t wheelchair accessible. Can you give me a hand lifting the chair up the steps? We’ll be good to go from there.”
“I’m sorry,” the cabbie said. “I’m really pressed for time.”
“Please, I only need two more minutes of your time.” Otto removed twenty dollars from his pocket and held it out to the driver. “It’s extra money, off the books.”
The driver looked at Lacey, felt bad for her. The poor woman needed to get inside, lay down, sleep, recover.
“I can help you inside with the chair but then I have to go,” the cabbie said.
“Thank you so much,” Otto said. “I’ll be sure to tell my sister how helpful you were.”
The driver smiled. “Around the back?”
Otto nodded. “Apartment 1C.”
The cabbie walked with him as they circled the building. He helped Otto lift the wheelchair up the three steps to the side door. “If you can just grab the door and lift the front of the chair,” Otto said, “I’ll push her through.”
Back to the door, the cabbie turned the knob, opened the door, and eased the wheelchair into the small entranceway. On the landing, he was presented with two flights of stairs. The set on his left led downstairs. The second, behind him, led up to the main floor. He looked around. “I don’t see the entrance to apartment 1–”
Otto
rammed the wheelchair into the man’s legs. The taxi driver buckled over, cried out in pain, lost both his footing and grip on the wheelchair. A second assault sent him tumbling head over heels to the bottom of the concrete stairs.
Otto pushed the chair aside and followed the man down as he fell. Before the taxi driver had stopped rolling, Otto had removed his knife from its leg sheath and plunged it deep into the man’s back once, twice, three times. The man made no noise. His eyes were open, his stare vacant. His head lay at a grotesque angle. He had broken his neck in the fall.
Using the knife had been unnecessary.
Oh, well.
Otto moved the cabbie’s dead body along the hallway to the supply closet, fumbled for the key on his keychain, unlocked the door, then dumped the corpse unceremoniously into the room.
No one would look for the man in here. Otto owned this building and nine others like it, including Kessel’s. Coming from a wealthy family and inheriting his mother’s estate on her death had its perks.
Otto rifled through the cabbie’s pocket, fished out his car keys, then closed and locked the supply room door. He needed to get rid of the cab as soon as possible.
With Lacey fast asleep in the wheelchair, Otto stepped outside, walked casually to the taxicab, drove the vehicle to the back of the apartment and parked it in the visitor’s lot.
Two spaces down sat his second car, a silver Range Rover. He opened the door, hopped into the driver’s seat, started the car, and drove to the side of the building where the cab had been parked.
Otto eased the wheelchair back down steps, rolled Lacey to the vehicle and opened the rear door. He lifted her out of the chair and gently moved her into the back seat. From the glove box he removed two nylon zip-ties, bound her feet and hands, and buckled her into the car. He placed the wheelchair in the rear hatch. Though there would likely be no further use for the device it could prove useful if Lacey needed to be restrained in the future.
Otto thought about the killings. He had mastered the art of murder, evaded capture by the authorities, and used his experiences to pen stories that rivaled if not exceeded the works of his great-great-grandfather.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 62