The Equinox

by M J Preston

  “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.

  Then he waited.

  There was a knock. A courtesy, he supposed, extended to the other students in the dorm. No point in ruining everyone’s night. He took in a breath, wrapped his hand around the knife and opened the door. The man on the other side was an inch shorter than him, roughly fifty years old, and balding. The crown of his head shone under the hall fluorescents. His face was pudgy, much like his stomach. He held an expression of deep concern. “Lance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I please come in?”

  There was no SWAT team behind him.

  “Sure.” Lance stepped back and opened the door wider with his left hand, while his right was gently touching the blade in his pocket. He wondered if the anxiety he felt showed on his face. “What’s this all about?”

  The detective stepped inside, looked around, pulled out the computer chair and said, “I think you better sit down, son.”

  Lance placed both hands into his pockets, his right tightening around the handle of the knife. “I don’t want to sit down, I want to know what this is about.”

  The second he says anything about the murders I’ll cut his throat.

  “There’s been a fire,” Hayward said and sighed.

  Lance tightened his grip, readying himself.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, son, so I’m just gonna come right out and say it.” He stared directly into Lance’s eyes and his voice seemed far off. “There was a fire...”

  I knew it! I don’t have a choice.

  “I am afraid I have some really bad news for you.”

  “Bad news?”

  “There was a fire, son. Your parents, they died in a house fire.” The detective studied him, waiting for a reaction. They were still investigating the fire, but he doubted this kid had anything to do with it, but still, he waited. He’d seen a few rich kids murder their parents. But he didn’t think that was the case here. Then again, he was getting a weird vibe off this kid.

  “A fire?” Lance was computi
ng what he’d said. My parents? I never killed my parents? Was this some sort of cop ruse? Some misdirect?

  Hayward reached out and placed a hand on Lance’s shoulder. He stared directly at him, trying to get a bead on what the kid was thinking.

  Lance thought that if he knew, Hayward would be reaching for his gun.

  Hayward didn’t think the kid was guilty. He’d been waiting for a sign, and thus far, there had been none. “I am very sorry, Lance.”

  Lance lowered his head, unknown to Detective Hayward, he was suppressing a smile.

  They’re dead, he thought. A fire. He wanted to laugh out loud, but he couldn’t. There was the knife to think about. He had to say something. “They’re dead? Both of them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Safe, he thought. But his reaction. Was it authentic?

  He sat down on the edge of his bed, and in turn, Detective Hayward took a seat in the computer chair. It creaked under his girth. Hayward was eyeing him, and Lance suddenly realized he was going to be free.

  Not if you smile and spook this fat, pig detective. But a smile was coming, completely involuntary, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop it. He took evasive action. “I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to vomit.” He popped up and pushed passed the detective, opening the door and running down the hall.

  Hayward was completely caught off guard. Lance was out the door and halfway to the shared bathroom before Hayward thought of following. The return spring on the door closed behind him, and that was enough time to pull out the knife and dump it into the garbage can as he ran by. When he reached the bathroom, the detective was opening the door and following.

  I have to do this fast, he thought. Then he pushed into the toilet stall open and dropped to his knees. Simultaneously, he thrust two fingers, the middle and index, into his throat—accidentally scraping the nail of his index against his uvula. He did not hold back and a second later, the contents of his stomach came up, splashing down over his hand and into the waiting bowl. By the time Hayward got to the stall, he was unspooling the toilet paper to wipe his mouth.