Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  He peeled off his blood-soaked hoodie, threw it and his socks beneath some bushes in the vacant lot, and ran off.

  * * *

  “A few questions,” Mulligan said.

  “Shoot.”

  “How many times were they stabbed?”

  Jennings flipped through his notebook. “Connie, twenty-two times. Sarah, her youngest, twelve times. And Emma, the twelve-year-old?” He closed the notebook slowly and locked eyes with Mulligan. “Fifty-two times.”

  Mulligan sat in stunned silence, willing the picture in his head to go away.

  “Do you ever get used to it?” he finally asked.

  “Haven’t yet,” Jennings said. “I hope the hell I never do.”

  “I wonder why he singled out Emma for special treatment.”

  “No idea.”

  “Why did he cover the bodies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What made him throw up?”

  “Hard to say,” Jennings said. “It wasn’t because the gore turned his stomach, that’s for sure. This guy likes the smell of blood.”

  “What did he take from the victims?”

  “Some jewelry Connie’s sister says they always wore. But that’s one of the details we’re holding back.”

  Mulligan reached for his cup of coffee and discovered it was cold. Jennings fetched another round.

  “Got any suspects?” Mulligan asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “So now what?”

  “We’re interviewing everybody who knew the Stuarts and the Medeiroses to see who might have had contact with both families.”

  “Neighbors, meter readers, trash collectors, landscapers?” Mulligan asked. “Gas station attendants, checkout clerks, hairdressers, teachers, PTA members?”

  “All that and more.”

  “Sounds like a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, but I’m betting only one of them has a knife wound and size thirteen feet.”

  “Size thirteen?” Mulligan said. “Wait a minute. Didn’t Becky Medeiros’s killer wear size twelves?”

  “So maybe he gained some weight. There’s no doubt it’s the same guy.”

  Mulligan shuddered and took a sip from his cup. “Why would someone do this?” he asked.

  Jennings turned and looked out the window. It was nearly a minute before he turned back.

  “Off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because I don’t want to see this in the paper.”

  “Then you won’t, Andy.”

  “This was a sex crime.”

  “They were raped?”

  “Not exactly. After he killed them, he masturbated on the bodies.”

  Mulligan felt bile rise in his throat. “Did he jerk off over Becky Medeiros and her daughter, too?”

  “He did.”

  “At least you’ve got his DNA.”

  “Yeah. From the blood on the towel, too. But with all the prints he left, no way we’re gonna need it to convict him.”

  * * *

  A couple of days after filing his story, Mulligan met his best friend at Hopes. This time, it wasn’t just the men whose admiring eyes followed Rosie as she strode to her bar stool.

  “How’s your mom?” Rosie asked.

  “Holding her own for now.”

  “I should go see her.”

  “She’d like that. She thinks the world of you, Rosie.”

  They ordered Buds, and Rosie dropped a twenty on the bar. Mulligan picked it up, pressed it into her palm, and told her to put it back in her purse.

  “No way you’re paying for anything tonight after what you did yesterday.”

  “In that case, I’ll have champagne,” Rosie said.

  “The closest you can get to that here is Miller High Life, the champagne of bottled beers.”

  “Then I’ll stick with Budweiser.”

  “Did Hardcastle get the story right?” Mulligan asked.

  “Yeah, but I thought the headline was a bit much.”

  It had been the lead story on the metro page:

  Heroic Lady Firefighter

  Rescues Two Children

  From Locust St. Blaze

  “Tell me how it happened.”

  “Why? You already read about it.”

  “I want to hear you tell it.”

  “I will if you put out that cigar. It stinks.”

  So he did.

  “When we rolled up, flames were jumping in one of the second-floor windows. Someone was screaming about two little boys trapped up there. Eddie Silvia and I pulled a ladder off the pumper and propped it under a window that didn’t have flames in it yet. I was the first one up. I smashed the window and sash with a fire ax and climbed inside.

  “Lucky for me, the kids were right there, choking on smoke that was seeping through the bottom of their bedroom door. I grabbed the nearest one and handed him to Eddie, who was right behind me at the top of the ladder. Then I grabbed the other one and carried him down. Nothing much to it, really.”

  “Tell that to their mother when she names her next born after you.”

  Rosie smiled at that.

  “What was it like?” Mulligan asked.

  “Better than the day I dropped thirty-two points on Tennessee.”

  “I’ll bet. Think I’ve got what it takes to be a firefighter?”

  “You serious?”

  “Serious?… No, I guess not.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’m starting to hate my job.”

  “What you’re doing is important, Mulligan.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is. There’s a serial killer on the loose, and the police are having a hard time catching him. People need to know about that.”

  “I guess. But it’s such an ugly story, Rosie. I just wish I weren’t the one telling them.”

  September 1991

  The lock on the antique steamer trunk in his father’s bedroom closet is easy to pick. Inside, the boy finds two dozen videotapes, each still in its original cardboard sleeve. He sorts through them, studying the glossy cover photos of naked women named Sheri St. Clair, Angel Kelley, Stacy Donovan, Christie Canyon, and Candie Evans. He stops when he comes to the one with a slim blonde named Ginger Lynn holding a large black penis in her small fist.

  He returns the other tapes to the trunk, takes his selection downstairs to the living room, and slides it into the family VCR. Then he stretches out on the couch and unzips his fly. His parents are at work. His brother has football practice. His sister is at her dance lesson. The boy has the house to himself.

  In the opening scene, the blonde strips and begins playing with the cocks of two scrawny white guys. The boy watches for a couple of minutes, then fast-forwards until he reaches the part with the brother. He has bulging biceps, six-pack abs, and a penis so huge that the blonde looks a little scared.

  The boy reaches down and plays with himself. Nothing happens. After fifteen minutes of frustration, he gets up and pops the tape out of the VCR. He goes back upstairs and returns the video to the trunk. Then he enters his bedroom, fetches one of his tapes from the shoebox under his bed, and carries it downstairs.

  When the movie reaches the part where Jason Voorhees stabs Alice in the head with an ice pick, the boy’s dick is iron.

  9

  July 1994

  “The chief’s on a rampage,” Jennings said. “If you don’t watch your ass, you’re gonna get hauled in.”

  “Hauled in?” Mulligan said. “What the hell for?”

  “Interfering with a police investigation. Half the people we interview say they’ve already been questioned by you.”

  “That’s gotta be an exaggeration. You’ve got thirty people working this. There’s only one of me.”

  “Okay, so maybe it’s just a quarter. That’s not the point. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Mulligan? You’re not a cop.”

  “Heck, Andy. I’m not even much of a reporter.”

  �
��So?”

  “So I was thinking maybe I could help out a little. Some of the punks who talk to me would never spill anything to the cops.”

  Jennings fixed a hard eye on Mulligan, then took a sip from his cup of Dunkin’.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve learned anything useful, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jennings sighed, then rested his head in his hands. He was a lot grayer than when they’d first met two years ago. This case was tearing some life out of him.

  “We’re under a lot of pressure to solve this thing,” the detective said. “The whole state’s in a panic. Alarm systems are selling out. Folks who never considered owning a firearm before have stripped the local gun shops bare. People are installing dead bolts and outside floodlights.”

  “Some are even nailing their windows shut,” Mulligan said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  They went back to their coffee, each adrift in his own thoughts.

  “I take it you cleared Connie’s ex,” Mulligan finally said.

  “Yeah. According to her twin sister, Carl Stuart made a big scene when he moved out. Claimed Connie had cheated on him with some guy she worked with at Johnson & Wales. Mary insists it’s not true, but we never did get to the bottom of it. And Carl has a sheet, an assault a couple of years ago for mixing it up with a drunk who hit on Connie at Lupo’s.”

  “A jealous guy,” Mulligan said.

  “Looks like. But no way he’s good for it. The stocking feet that tracked through the murder scenes could never have squeezed into his size nines. His prints are all over Connie’s house, of course, but he’s not a match for the ones we lifted from the knives, the medicine cabinet, and the windowsill. And as far as we can tell, he wouldn’t have had any reason to kill Becky Medeiros.”

  “What about Peeping Tom complaints?” Mulligan asked. “We know the killer spied on Connie and Becky. Maybe he’s been looking in lots of windows around the neighborhood.”

  “We’ve canvassed the neighbors,” Jennings said, “but only a couple of them noticed a prowler, and none of them got a good look at him. They just heard rustling noises and saw some movement in the dark.”

  “So now what?”

  “So far, we’ve interviewed more than three hundred people and gotten absolutely nowhere. All we can do is go back to the beginning and start over.”

  “The FBI been any help?”

  Jennings raised an eyebrow.

  “How’d you hear about that?”

  “You’re not the only person I talk to, Andy.”

  Jennings didn’t say anything.

  Mulligan gave him a moment to think about it, then said, “So?”

  “This has gotta be off the record.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “The chief called the BSU last week and asked if they could give us a hand.”

  “The BSU?”

  “The Behavioral Science Unit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The part of the bureau that studies serial killers.”

  “And?”

  “They sent a profiler named Peter Schutter up from Quantico. We gave him copies of our investigative files and walked him through both crime scenes.”

  “And he told you what?”

  “Mostly stuff we’d figured out already.”

  “Such as?”

  “That the same killer was responsible for both attacks. That he probably has a history of prowling, peeping, and animal cruelty. That the size of his footprints and the way he overpowered his victims indicates a large male. That the sloppy crime scenes mean he’s young and inexperienced. That the method of entry also tells us we’re looking for a young guy, probably in his mid- to late twenties. Not that climbing through windows is that difficult, but an older man would have chosen a less strenuous way to get inside.”

  Jennings paused and drew a deep breath.

  “And that he’s going to kill again, probably after a cooling-off period of twelve to twenty-four months.”

  “And the clock is ticking,” Mulligan said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Think this guy Schutter would talk to me?”

  “I suppose I could ask.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Mulligan and Jennings met Schutter in his room at the Holiday Inn in downtown Providence. The agent’s suitcase was on the bed, packed for his return trip to Washington.

  “Detective Jennings tells me you’ve got some questions,” Schutter said.

  “I do,” Mulligan said.

  “A couple of ground rules first. Number one, anything I tell you must be attributed to an agent for the BSU. I do not want my name used. Number two, there are going to be things I can’t tell you. Some details that only the killer could know must be withheld so the police can use them to rule out false confessions.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, then. Ask your questions.”

  “First off, I’m wondering why you agreed to talk to me.”

  “Our work at the BSU isn’t well understood. Many police departments still are not availing themselves of our expertise. The director thinks the publicity could do some good. Besides, it appears that apprehending this killer will be difficult. The release of certain information might help members of the general public assist investigators with an identification. Detective Jennings says you are a person who can be trusted to keep your word and report on this responsibly.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Mulligan pulled out his notebook, where he’d written a short list of things that were puzzling him. “Can you explain why the killer covered the bodies?”

  “His motivation isn’t clear, but the behavior provides us with clues to his identity. Serial killers who murder strangers almost never cover the bodies. The perpetrator we are seeking not only knew his victims but lives within walking distance of the murder scenes. Killers who live farther away nearly always move the bodies and dump them.”

  “One of their neighbors did this?”

  “There’s a high level of probability.”

  “Why would he kill all these people?”

  Schutter glanced at Jennings, who was shaking his head vigorously.

  “I’m willing to discuss this,” the agent said, “but only off the record. The families of the victims have been through enough. They don’t need to be exposed to the worst of it.”

  “Off the record, then,” Mulligan said.

  “He kills because it’s how he achieves sexual release.”

  “I already gathered that. But how does somebody get that way?”

  “Sometime during preadolescence, probably when he was about ten years old, something happened that caused him to equate sex with violence. It could have been an event as simple as idly touching himself while watching slasher movies on TV. Psychologists call it ‘imprinting.’ It’s the same thing that leads some males to associate sex with garter belts or women’s shoes.”

  “Movies?” Mulligan said.

  “I believe he is obsessed with them. Films like Friday the Thirteenth and A Nightmare on Elm Street. He sits in front of his TV and masturbates to them.”

  Mulligan raised an eyebrow and looked at Jennings.

  “We checked all the video stores,” the detective said. “Turns out half the people in town watch that stuff. And if he shoplifted them, there wouldn’t be any purchase or rental records anyway.”

  “With slasher films as his inspiration,” Schutter continued, “he built himself a fantasy world. At first, his fantasies would have been simple, but over time they grew more elaborate. At least a year before he killed for the first time, he was stabbing helpless women to death in Technicolor movies that played in a continuous loop inside his head. Eventually, the fantasies were no longer enough to satisfy him. That’s when he made a conscious decision to cross the line between make-believe and murder.”

  Schutter paused to allow Mulligan t
o catch up with his note taking.

  “You’d be shocked how many people are walking around with violent fantasies in their heads, imagining how delightful it would be to strangle you or stab you to death,” the agent said. “What separates them from our killer is that most of them never decide to act on it.”

  “Good God,” Mulligan said. “I wish you hadn’t told me that. It gives me the creeps.”

  “Me too,” Jennings said.

  “Why the overkill?” Mulligan asked. “Why did he keep stabbing his victims after they were dead?”

  “The females in the killer’s fantasies always cower before his God-like power,” the agent said. “They weep and beg him for mercy. Becky Medeiros didn’t do that. She fought for her life.”

  “She spoiled his fantasy,” Mulligan said.

  “Yes, and that enraged him.”

  “What about the Stuarts?”

  “The killer stabbed Connie Stuart twenty-two times and her eight-year-old daughter twelve times, but he plunged knives into the twelve-year-old fifty-two times. That tells us she was the one who fought him the hardest.”

  Mulligan felt like throwing up. That reminded him of his last question.

  “Why did the killer vomit in the backyard?”

  “For the same reason athletes do after running the Boston Marathon—low blood sugar and dehydration. That’s how physically taxing the attack was.”

  January 1992

  The boy fetches his father’s hatchet from the garage, dashes back into the house, and skips up the stairs to the second floor. He stops in front of his sister’s bedroom door and smirks at the “No Boys Allowed” sign. Then he turns the knob, steps inside, and pulls the door shut behind him.

  The bed is covered with a frilly pink comforter and two matching satin pillows. A Michael Jackson poster hangs over the headboard. Beside the maple bureau, its top covered with jars of mysterious girly stuff, stands a bookshelf crammed with Barbie dolls.

  Blond Barbies, brunette Barbies, redheaded Barbies. Barbies draped in prom gowns. Barbies stuffed into two-piece bathing suits. Barbies in tight tennis shorts. Barbies in revealing go-go outfits. Barbies in demure nurse’s uniforms. Barbies in colorful summer dresses.