Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  No one better to help them pull this task force together.

  And maybe, Sam allowed, there was good sense behind the notion of an interview with himself as subject, ransacking his own history for something he might have forgotten.

  Whatever helped.

  The captain had assigned them a three-desk office near the squad room, Sam having requested that Martinez sit in, since if any links were going to crawl out of the job, their collective memories would be needed.

  They started out flicking back through cases, looking for the obvious: enemies made. A heap of them, for sure, and who knew when an armed burglar or violent thug stewing in jail might have turned hatred of his arresting detective into a campaign?

  ‘I guess we can exclude sex criminals,’ Duval said.

  ‘Though power being a major turn-on, that might still be relevant to one or more of the four suspects,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Not to “Virginia”, though.’ Sam shook his head. ‘I’ve helped put away my fair share of bigots, but no one individual seems to fit this.’

  ‘Jerome Cooper might have,’ Martinez said. ‘If he wasn’t dead.’

  ‘All the meanest and sickest I’ve known are dead,’ Sam said.

  Duval sighed. ‘And still they keep on coming.’ He took a slug of coffee. ‘OK, Sam, we need to deal with you as the focal point of the messages.’

  ‘I’m a black cop with a white wife, and we’ve made the news a few times. Which makes me the perfect recipient with the added bonus of shaking us up and wasting time.’

  ‘Unless you’re at the core of it,’ Duval said. ‘What if the killings were devised specifically to torment you?’

  ‘That’s a nightmare suggestion,’ Sam said. ‘And if there is someone who believes they can get to me by murdering innocent people, I have no idea who it might be.’

  ‘Could be some random crazy who’s fixated on you,’ Martinez said.

  ‘These crimes haven’t been organized by some “random crazy”,’ Sam said.

  ‘I agree,’ Duval said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Martinez said. ‘Me too.’

  ‘We’re looking at a highly organized killer, probably genuinely obsessive about interracial marriages,’ Duval went on. ‘What I’d like to rule out is that you could have aroused sufficient motivation in an individual or group to make them kill in Miami Beach just because it’s your turf.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Sam took a breath. ‘We can’t rule it out. But we can still remember that many serial killers murder in their own cities or counties simply because they know it better than anyplace else. Because it’s their comfort zone, not because of some cop who works there.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Sometimes pillars of their goddamned community,’ Duval said.

  ‘Like that sonofabitch in Kansas who wrote messages to the media, taunting the cops,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Dennis Rader,’ Duval supplied. ‘Married with kids. Boy Scout leader, worked in local government.’

  ‘Churchgoer, too,’ Sam recalled. ‘Guys, now we are wasting time. If anything hits me in the dead of night, Joe, I’ll call you, OK? Meantime, we need to get this task force organized.’

  Duval leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m going to recommend you two as lead and co-investigator. OK with you both?’

  ‘What about support?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘Strength, not numbers,’ Sam said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Duval said. ‘Going on past cases, your data systems are pretty well set up, which they’ll need to be.’ He made a note. ‘Who do you want as family liaison?’

  ‘Mary Cutter started out with Laura Gomez,’ Martinez said.

  ‘She’s tough enough to protect the families from the media,’ Sam said. ‘I think liaison with the ME’s office and the lab would be perfect for Riley – and public information would suit her too.’

  Beth Riley was pregnant, he told Duval. Four months and doing great, more than strong enough to deal with the media.

  ‘Having the murders in a single jurisdiction simplifies that job a little,’ Duval said.

  ‘It’s the reports and briefings that’ll get me most bogged down,’ Sam said.

  ‘Afraid you guys will have to write your own reports,’ Duval said, ‘but I’m willing to act as lead control, if you’re in agreement.’ He saw Sam’s relief. ‘I take it that’s a yes.’

  ‘You bet,’ Sam said.

  ‘The rest’s all about delegating and keeping everyone informed. We keep it tight, but flexible.’ Duval shifted. ‘Captain Kennedy asked me to consult with you guys first, then run our decisions past Lieutenant Kovac.’

  ‘You deal with Kovac,’ Martinez said, ‘and you’re my buddy for life.’

  ‘In case we forgot to tell you’ – Sam stood up, stretched – ‘it’s better than good to have you on board, Joe.’

  Their next press conference was held out on Rocky Pomerantz Plaza at five p.m.: a major media presence there to suck up what was made available, then to try to drag out anything under wraps before making a break for their on-the-spot crews, vans and studios to get their stories and angles out there. ‘Reasons to be fearful in Miami Beach’ the most likely.

  The air real sticky this afternoon, everyone uncomfortable.

  Sergeant Beth Riley making her debut as PIO with her first press release, giving the facts – holding back key sensitive items – and Duval had suggested limiting her access to all details in case of inadvertent disclosure, but Sam had argued that Riley was smart enough and experienced enough to deflect a barrage.

  The chief spoke when Riley had sat down. He began with a statement of horror, condolence and utmost commitment, then addressed the wider public beyond the plaza.

  ‘These killers – and the brains behind them – could be among us,’ Chief Hernandez said. ‘They could be our neighbors, our colleagues, people we see as decent, respectable citizens. They may seem like you and me on the outside, but these people have dark souls and no conscience. If you think you may know or have any association with these people – if you know them from a distance, or if one of them is your husband or relative or friend, you have the potential to help us catch these murderers. Because they have done this twice now, in our beautiful, peaceful, fun city – in our community – and if they’ve done it twice, that means they could be planning to strike a third time.

  ‘We need to stop them. We will stop them.’

  A handful of miles away, the woman who had signed herself ‘Virginia’ on both windshield messages was watching the live press conference, listening to Chief Hector Hernandez.

  ‘Maybe one or more of those killers may be feeling that this is spiraling out of control. If that is the case, if one of you people does have a conscience and wants to stop now, then please do something halfway decent before it’s too late. Get in touch now. Call this number.’

  She saw it flash up on the screen, considered her own conscience, found it untroubled and smiled at the police chief.

  The woman with short red hair was taking over again.

  ‘If you saw these four men—’

  They ran the video again, the black-and-white grainy film of her Crusaders walking back to the boat after the first job, and she studied it once more, still satisfied that identification was not an issue.

  ‘If you know these four men seen near the house where Molly and Gary Burton and Mary Ann and Pete Ventrino were robbed and savagely murdered on June the third, or maybe if you saw them yesterday, before or after the brutal killings of Dr and Mrs Sergio Gomez and their sixteen-year-old son, Roberto.’ The screen flashed to a shot of the victims in happier times. ‘Or if you recognize one or more of them, please call this number.’

  Another man got to his feet.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, black, unquestionably handsome.

  Detective Samuel Becket, stooping to speak into the microphone, his voice deep and rich, speaking to the public. ‘An official task force has been assembled to work on these cases, these
serial killings, which means that all the power and man-time available to us – that’s detectives, patrolmen, forensics, FBI and FDLE experts and systems – are being brought to bear on catching those responsible.’

  The camera closed in on Becket, his eyes dark and hard.

  ‘To the killers, we want to say that every hour that passes is bringing us closer to identifying you, to catching you, stopping you, putting you away. And to the rest of you, as Chief Hernandez said, if someone out there knows who these killers are, or if you just have a suspicion about a neighbor or a colleague or a person you’ve seen in a store or on the street, do not hesitate. Call the Crime Stoppers TIP line, or you can text or submit online. Your information will be handled with respect and in confidence – and who knows, your call may be the one that makes the difference. Please help us. Help the families and loved ones who are in shock and grieving. Help the victims in the only way you can. Help us nail these brutal killers. Thank you.’

  ‘Virginia’ sat back in her chair, still studying him.

  Nothing really galvanizing about his words, the usual public appeal, yada yada, but a sincere man, dedicated cop, loving family man.

  But flawed.

  The right man for her to have chosen.

  More coming his way soon.

  Not long to wait.

  No space left on his walls now for more photographs of Catherine.

  And the time for dreaming about her almost over.

  Before too much longer, he would make it happen. The mind-travels and fantasies would become reality. Catherine would be with him.

  Would be his.

  He’d just frozen a shot of her father on 7 News, updating media and news junkies on the latest gruesome killings in Surfside – so close to where he’d stayed two years ago, until Sam and his sidekick had jostled him out of their precious country.

  Their hostility had really hurt, especially Sam accusing him of being a stalker, because when all was said and done, he, Thomas Chauvin, had saved Sam Becket’s life, and just a little gratitude was all he’d expected.

  ‘C’est du passé,’ he said out loud. All in the past. Now was what counted. And the future. His future, with Catherine, once he’d rid her of the American waiter.

  He still felt great respect for Sam. Watching him now, still tracking down real-life assassins – amazing guy – he felt a wave of gratitude to him and Grace for taking care of Catherine for so many years, but soon he would take over …

  He pressed play, looked at the Breaking News caption, at prerecorded shots of the Surfside house, the crime scene behind the yellow tape, and wished he’d been there, taking his own photographs of the ugliness. Carbon monoxide poisoning, they’d said, same as the killings on June third.

  ‘Brutal,’ they’d said. Gagged and hogtied.

  Chauvin flicked to another window, a set of photographs he’d already downloaded of a victim of CO poisoning, a naked man with his face hidden, his body suffused with red.

  Lousy shot. Badly composed. Poor lighting. No drama. Sordid. Whoever he’d been, the poor guy deserved better photography.

  He got up, went back to his bed, sat down, looked around at Catherine.

  Woman of many faces, all of them beautiful.

  He thought, briefly but kindly, of her mother. Grace-mère, as he thought of her, so astonishingly similar in appearance, considering Catherine was adopted.

  He needed to hear his music again, had not played it in the last hour or more, leaned across to his remote, pressed Play.

  Mica’s voice again, singing ‘Grace Kelly’ to him alone.

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  At her.

  Soon.

  Friday evening, and Mrs Hood’s four Crusaders were celebrating again.

  Another job well done.

  Not that they’d all enjoyed it, CB reflected – though Leon had, for sure, unfazed even by the killing of the young man.

  Sixteen years old. A kid, for Christ’s sake.

  CB thought that Jerry had hesitated briefly when the boy had cried through his gag, a wail of terror and fury at seeing what was being done to his mom, what had already been done to his dad. But still, Jerry had gone on with it.

  They all had, and then they’d waited a while, in case they’d lied about the sister, in case she came back after all, but she didn’t, so they’d taken care of business and left.

  No problems, and no visible cameras this time – nothing in the news to contradict that, so far. Jerry had ditched the 2006 Subaru Outback they’d used – roomy enough for them to strip off and give their killing clothes, weapons, leftover cord and tape to Leon for disposal, and there had been a moment earlier when Jerry had asked how they could be certain that Leon could be trusted to do that with their things, or with the stolen cash and jewelry, and CB had said they had no real choice but to trust each other, and Leon had patted his shoulder, and CB had wanted to throw up. But he hadn’t, had just gotten on with the job.

  Killing almost an entire family.

  Almost. One survivor.

  The only redeeming feature, something CB had clung to while he’d watched the press conference, all the while torturing himself with it: what if the little girl had been there, what would they have done, what would he have done? Were there no depths to which he would not sink if so ordered by Mrs Hood and Leon?

  The boss had asked them separately, before the job, what they wanted this time for their ‘reward’. Andy had said he’d always hankered after a waterbed. Now he had it, and it was no disappointment. The only problem was that his sixty-inch TV was in his living room, so he figured that next time he might ask for a smaller flat-screen, maybe hang it right opposite his bed, so he could watch porn and jerk off in comfort, or maybe, one of these nights, he might be ready for another woman, because with another thousand bucks stashed away, he might soon be worth knowing. And sure, he hated what he’d had to do to earn it, but hell, how else could a no-hoper like him get ahead in this shitty world?

  Jerry had asked for the same woman as last time, but Mrs H had insisted on someone new. ‘We can’t risk anyone asking questions,’ she’d said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything,’ Jerry had told her.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Hood said. ‘I’m hoping you’re too smart for that.’

  She’d said that with her iciest smile, and so now Jerry was at a different address, in a room that had taken his breath away.

  Padded walls and ceiling, so no one could hear him scream.

  A torture chair, with straps and a tilt mechanism.

  And here she came, with sharpened incisors and a hiss like a cornered alley cat, wheeling a cart loaded with baddies, and for a moment Jerry felt scared to death, but then the first rush hit him, and his hard-on was so huge it fucking hurt, and if this creature of the night did actually kill him, at least he’d die with his cock standing proud.

  CB was back in his own chamber of horrors, at the dentist, and he supposed Mrs Hood was rewarding him, that this would put an end to his chronic pain and ultimately benefit his health, but with his mouth jammed open and the dentist grinding relentlessly up into another root …

  No chance of him saying anything to the dentist or anyone else any time soon.

  Mrs Hood was making sure of that.

  Be grateful, he reminded himself, and thought about the thousand bucks he’d been able to send his mother and brother.

  What about her?

  The absent child, the lone survivor, the pretty child in the photographs.

  An orphan now.

  The dentist was using the slow drill, making his brain reverberate, which was good because it blotted out her picture for a while.

  Though she’d be back again soon enough, CB knew. She’d be in his mind while he worked, ate, tried to sleep; and even then either she or her family would be there in his nightmares, he was sure of that too.

  Haunting him.

  Leon was eating fit for a king again.

  At The Palm, on one of tho
se fancy Bay Harbor Islands, and all he could say was that if it was good enough for Clooney, Clinton and Mike Tyson, it was good enough for Leon-the-Man, which was how he was starting to think of himself, because the more he’d killed, been in charge of it, fuck-sake, the more he knew he’d found his niche in life, and if it came to an end with Mrs Hood, he might just take this up for a living, maybe as a professional hit man or even a mercenary.

  For tonight, all he’d had to worry about was what to pick from the menu. Baked Clams Casino to start, then a twenty-four-ounce bone-in rib-eye made into Surf ’n’ Turf with a half-lobster, fries and onions on the side. Dessert had been a tougher call, and if he was going to be a fulltime mercenary, he’d need to be leaner, harder; but that was in the future, and this was his reward night, so he’d have the seven-layer chocolate cake and if he was going to live a high-risk, high-stakes life, he might as well let his arteries teeter on the edge too.

  Screw his arteries.

  God, but this cake was good.

  Less than a mile from where Leon was dining, in the den at home, Sam was getting nowhere with persuading Grace to leave Miami Beach.

  ‘Not without you,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think I can walk out on this case.’

  ‘You don’t want to walk out on it.’ Grace’s smile was sad. ‘I’m not getting at you, Sam. I totally understand why you feel you can’t, but the fact is this is probably the first time ever that everyone in the department would be behind you going.’

  ‘Do you want me to hand it over?’ Sam asked. ‘Al and Joe could work it together, if the captain would wear it.’

  ‘Except that this horrible case literally has your name all over it. Which makes you feel partly responsible for the killings – which you know isn’t true, but that doesn’t rub out the feeling, does it?’

  ‘If we’re talking about my feelings, I have to say I’m getting edgy about you and Joshua.’

  ‘You want us to go into hiding,’ Grace said.

  He looked at her, knew she was remembering another time …