“The movie was rereleased on Blu-ray DVD,” Maleah said. “Could something like that have been the trigger?”
“Yes, it could have,” Derek replied.
Silence fell over the room.
Finally, Griff said, “As scenarios go, it’s not a bad one.”
Derek grinned. “If you like that one, I have another almost as good.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” Maleah rolled her eyes. “Let’s hear it.”
“The killer either is or was in the business. He just wasn’t an actor. He was the writer or director or producer or even one of the cameramen. He associates a turning point in his life with that particular movie, and something occurred six months ago that freed the demons inside him, demons he had been able to control up until then. Possibly the rerelease of the movie triggered his murder spree.”
“We’ve ruled out Travis Dillard, unless he hired someone to do the killing for him,” Maleah said. “He’s too old and sick to be our guy. Kyle Richey hasn’t left Mexico since we interviewed him, so that rules out one of the cameramen. And Jeff Misner was the other one. Who does that leave? Grant Leroy and Casey Lloyd.”
“From the files I’ve read on those two, I’d pick Casey Lloyd over Grant Leroy,” Griff said. “Leroy’s life is better now than it’s ever been. If anything, his past in the porno business has helped him more than it’s hurt him. He uses himself as an example of how even the wickedest sinner can be redeemed. But Casey Lloyd, on the other hand, has hit rock bottom. He could blame the porno business and the actors from Midnight Masquerade in particular for his failures.”
“If I had to choose between those two, I agree that it would be Casey,” Derek said. “So, let’s say he’s one of our major suspects.”
“But we also have your other scenario,” Maleah reminded him.
“So we do.” Derek grinned. “Want to name those suspects and rule out any of them?”
He could see that she had taken his request as a challenge. So like Maleah. She was a prickly pear, her sharp needles always on the defensive.
“I’d pretty much rule out boyfriends right off the bat. At the time the movie was made, most of the actors were dating one another or at the very least sleeping with one another. I don’t recall that we found any evidence that anyone was in a long-term relationship with someone outside the business.” Maleah thought for a moment. “Do we happen to know how many fathers are still alive?”
“Actually, I did my research,” Derek said. “Of all the actors and Starlight Productions personnel who worked on the movie, only three have a father living now—Lorie Hammonds, whose father hasn’t left the state of Alabama in three years; Casey Lloyd, whose father was injured in a car wreck a few years back and is confined to a wheelchair; and Charlene Strickland, whose dad retired from the army and has been living in Hawaii for the past eight years.”
“Okay, we’ve ruled out boyfriends and fathers,” Maleah said. “That leaves husbands and sons. In the husband category, I’d put Ransom Owens at the top of the list. That guy is strange. And sons…hmmm…Heath Leroy and Tyler Owens, although I hate to think of anyone as gorgeous as Tyler Owens being a murderer.”
Derek snorted. “Pretty boys can be deadly. Despite your finding him oh so attractive, he’s still a suspect. That gives us four—Casey Lloyd, Ransom Owens, Tyler Owens, and Heath Leroy.”
“Then those are the four we should keep close tabs on starting immediately,” Nic said.
“Have we been able to get any info on their comings and goings the past few months, and do we know their whereabouts right now?” Maleah looked from Derek to Griff.
“Nailing down specifics is difficult when you’re playing catch-up,” Nic said. “Hicks Wainwright has shared bits and pieces of information with us, but he may well know things we don’t. On the other hand, we’ve shared everything we know with him. Phone records, airline records, and credit card records are not impossible for us to get, but it takes time. And although the FBI could access all of that for each of our suspects, they can’t do it without some type of evidence against the suspects, which they don’t have. And neither do we.”
“What are the odds that all four men just happened to be out of town and unaccounted for when the Misners were murdered? Reports have been coming in the past few days with updates on their conspicuous absences from home.” Derek tapped his notebook. “Casey Lloyd disappeared several days ago and just showed back up in Fayetteville today. We have no idea where he’s been.”
“We believed he was penniless, but it seems we were wrong. Some deep digging resulted in our discovering, only yesterday, that Laura Lou Roberts has been wiring money to an account in Fayetteville to a Mr. William Geisman,” Nic said. “From the description the bank tellers gave our agent, we’re pretty sure Mr. Geisman is Casey Lloyd.”
“Both Ransom Owens and his son Tyler left home shortly before the Misners were murdered. According to his wife, Tyler Owens is off somewhere on a fishing trip. And the elder Mr. Owens’s housekeeper said he had gone off, in her words, on another one of his digging-up-bones research trips.”
“What about Heath Leroy?” Maleah asked.
“According to his secretary, Heath has been in LaRue County, Kentucky, inspecting some acreage that the Redeemer Church recently purchased,” Nic said.
“Damn,” Maleah cursed under her breath. “It’s taken us too long to narrow down the suspects. We should have had tails on these four men long before now. If we had, maybe at the very least Jean Misner and Shontee Thomas would still be alive.”
“Powell’s has been on this case less than six weeks,” Griff reminded her. “We started out with nothing except three unsolved murders that we—the Powell Agency—figured out were connected. If not for us, the FBI probably wouldn’t have gotten involved as soon as they did. We’re not miracle workers. We’re just investigators.”
“Sorry. I’m frustrated and worried sick about Lorie Hammonds. Until the Misners were murdered, we thought we would have a month between kills, but now…” She glared at Derek. “Don’t say it. I know you told us that it was a possibility that the killer would deviate from his MO, which could mean killing more than one person per month.”
“We’re all frustrated,” Griff said. “But from here on out, our four suspects will be under constant surveillance.” He turned to Nic. “Call Wainwright and let him know what we’re going to do. We don’t want our agents getting in the Bureau’s way during their investigation. It won’t help if we’re working at cross-purposes.”
He didn’t want to kill her. But he had known all along that it was inevitable. If she were the only one left alive, it was possible that those stupid FBI agents would wonder why she hadn’t been killed and actually would put two and two together. His original plan had been to save her until last. Killing her would be difficult for him because he loved her. She didn’t deserve his love; she never had. If only…
The past couldn’t be altered no matter how much a person wished it could be. Her unforgivable actions had colored every aspect of his life. He had never been able to recover from her desertion. Had she ever loved him? If she had, how could she have left him?
He had spent most of the day considering his options. He didn’t dare risk waiting another day. If he didn’t act immediately, it was only a matter of time before his identity would be revealed.
At this time of night, the Green Willows Rehabilitation and Convalescence Center was eerily quiet, with only an occasional cry from a restless patient or laughter coming from the nurses’ lounge. The front door was locked precisely at eleven every night and not reopened until six the next morning. The night-shift nurses didn’t make rounds except when they first arrived at eight and then again at six the following day. For the most part, they spent their time in the lounge, checking on their charges only if a patient buzzed for assistance. The night watchman was responsible for the overall security of the building, but only the restricted area of the center had its own private guard, who worked eight-
hour shifts.
Timing was crucial to his success. He knew he had no more than ten minutes to get in, kill her, and get out. It had to be done during the time one guard left his post at ten o’clock and the other settled into his comfy seat at the entrance of the center’s deluxe suites. Officially, there was supposed to be a guard on duty at all times, but he knew for a fact that at shift change, the incoming guard usually took his time storing items in his locker, using the bathroom, chatting with the nurses, and getting himself a cup of coffee or a Coke from the machine in the lounge.
Terri’s death had to appear totally unrelated to the murders of the other Midnight Masquerade actors. He couldn’t risk being found out, especially not before he had killed the remaining three. If only one was left alive, it would have all been for naught. In order to free himself from his never-ending torment, they all had to die.
He had parked his car several blocks away, walked to the center, and then checked out the visitors’ lounge directly inside the entrance to make sure the night watchman was nowhere to be seen. Once inside, he moved quickly down the corridor toward the west wing, luckily not encountering a single solitary soul.
So far, so good.
Pausing at the point where the hallways crisscrossed, he peered around the corner and scanned the nurses’ station. A heavyset, dark-haired aide came up the hall toward the station, apparently having just left a patient’s room. She bypassed the station and went straight into the lounge.
He took in a deep breath, waited a couple of minutes, and watched as the guard rose from his comfy seat, stretched, and headed for the lounge where the employees’ lockers were located. Once the coast was clear, he ventured around the corner and rushed past the guard’s empty chair. The sound of voices and laughter from the lounge followed him down the hall as he hurried to room 107.
He opened the door and gazed into the dark room. Coming from the well-lit hall, he had to wait a couple of minutes for his vision to adjust to the darkness. She lay on the bed, her body turned away from the doorway, the covers pulled up to her neck. A combination of excitement and dread shot a dose of adrenaline through his veins.
I can do this. I will do this. She doesn’t deserve to live any more than the others.
His attention focused on Terri’s still form as he closed the door behind him and moved toward her. Feeling around in the bedside chair, he found the extra pillow that the aides placed behind her back during the day. Smothering her would take only a few minutes. She wouldn’t suffer, not as the others had. In a way he was glad. But somehow it didn’t seem fair that she, the one who was the most responsible for all of his pain and misery, would be allowed such a gentle death.
Suddenly, his peripheral vision caught a flash of movement on the other side of the bed. Holding the pillow over Terri’s head, he stopped dead still when he saw a dark silhouette standing in the corner, only a few feet away.
Even in the darkness, he recognized the man.
“Hello, son,” Ransom Owens said.
Chapter 34
“What are you doing here?” Tyler Owens stared in total disbelief at his father.
“I could ask you the same question,” Ransom replied as he reached out and pulled the lever that turned on the light over Terri’s bed.
Tyler gripped the pillow tightly. “I came to check on Mother.”
Ransom glanced at the pillow. “What were you going to do with that?”
Tyler swallowed hard. “I thought she might need another pillow.”
“Over her face perhaps?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Perspiration peppered Tyler’s forehead and upper lip.
Ransom hadn’t wanted to believe that his son was capable of murder, let alone that he had come here tonight to kill his own mother. But somehow the possibility didn’t surprise him. He had spent years denying his concerns about Tyler, who had been a sullen, moody little boy whom he had suspected of killing numerous birds and several neighborhood pets.
Thank God, he had taken his ex-wife seriously tonight when she had managed to say those few damning words—Tu kull. Me. I nuw.
He had translated. “Tyler is going to kill you? You know. You know what?”
Terri had pointed to the number twelve on her bedside clock. “Kull. Kull awl.”
Cold fear had permeated Ransom’s body at that moment, hours ago, after Lila Newton had lied to the guard and convinced him that Ransom’s name had been added to the visitors’ list. Lila had been the one who had called him to warn him that she believed Terri had asked her son to protect her from his father. Ransom had instantly realized something was wrong, that either Lila had misunderstood or that Terri’s mind was playing tricks on her. He had never done anything that would make Terri believe he might harm her. God, he loved her. Always had. Always would. Yes, there had been a time, years ago when she had broken his heart, a time when he had wished her dead. But he hadn’t meant it.
But how many times had he watched that damn movie—Midnight Masquerade—and drank himself into a stupor, often with Tyler at his side. Tyler, who had been just a little boy. God in heaven, what had he done to his son by forcing him to watch that movie with him, over and over and over again? He could barely remember the things he’d said, horrible things, about Terri and the other actors.
Late this afternoon when Ransom had finally been able to understand that his ex-wife was trying to tell him that their son was the Midnight Killer, he had wanted to deny his own gut instincts. And he had, at least at first. But then Lila had shown him the newspaper articles about each murder that Tyler had brought Terri and stored in her beside table.
“How do you know for sure that Tyler killed all these people?” Ransom had asked Terri.
“Tul mu.”
“He told you?”
Terri had nodded.
“When? Last night or before then?” Realizing that was two questions, he had rephrased. “Before last night.” She’d nodded. “And last night, did he threaten you?” She had nodded again.
“Why would he tell you?”
Tears had pooled in Terri’s eyes and he had known she couldn’t answer, that whatever reason their son had confided in her, no one would know unless Tyler chose to tell them.
“I know what you’ve done,” Ransom said to his son. “Your mother told me.”
Tyler’s flushed face dripped with perspiration. “Her words are just a jumbled mess. How could she have possibly told you anything?”
“We understood enough to figure out what she was trying to say.”
“We?”
“Lila Newton and I.”
Tyler dropped the pillow on the floor, then reached out, grabbed the form lying in the bed, and shook it. “Mother! Mother, tell them it’s not true. Tell them that they misunderstood.”
The figure in the bed turned slowly and a pair of dark brown eyes stared up at Tyler.
The door flew open and armed FBI agents quickly surrounded Tyler as the agent who had been lying in Terri’s bed rose to her feet.
“Mother!” Tyler screamed.
“Your mother isn’t here,” Ransom said. “She was moved into a different wing of the center a few hours ago, shortly after I got in touch with Special Agent Wainwright.”
Right before his eyes, Ransom watched his son—his only child—emotionally disintegrate. He blamed himself. He and Terri had done this to the boy. When he had looked into his ex-wife’s eyes as she had tried so desperately to tell him that Tyler was the Midnight Killer, he had seen not only terror, but regret. He realized that she accepted her share of the blame for the damage they had done to their son.
Tyler dropped to his knees, covered his face—that beautiful face so like his mother’s—and wept uncontrollably.
The FBI agents circling Tyler waited and watched. When Ransom moved toward his son, every instinct within him urging him to comfort and protect, the agent in charge grasped Ransom’s shoulder and shook his head. He looked the agent squarely in the eye and nodded.
T
wo agents holstered their weapons, reached down and grabbed hold of Tyler under either side of his arms. As quickly as he had burst into violent tears, he stopped crying, came to his feet wildly, and struggled against the agents’ tight hold.
“I had to do it,” he screamed. “It was the only way I could be free.”
Emotion welled up inside Ransom and it was all he could do not to weep.
Shoving Tyler facedown onto the bed, the agents used force to subdue him. He kicked and flailed and screamed.
“Please, don’t hurt him.” Ransom barely managed to get the words past the lump in his throat.
Turning his head sideways, Tyler laughed hysterically. “You don’t want them to hurt me. Such fatherly concern. Too little too late, you son of a bitch.”
Ransom sighed heavily as the agents handcuffed his son and yanked him off the bed and onto his feet.
Tyler glared at Ransom, pure hatred in his blue eyes. “Aren’t you happy that they’re all dead? You hated them, every last one of them, but you hated her the most, didn’t you? Candy Ruff. How many times did I hear you say you wished she were dead? If you hadn’t tried to play the hero tonight, she’d be dead. Dead before midnight.”
Tyler’s sinister smile unnerved Ransom. Had he created this monster, this sick, angry, dangerous monster?
As the agents dragged Tyler out of the room and down the hall, he kept talking. “He used to sit there in front of the TV screen playing that movie over and over again. Watch it, he’d say. See what evil truly is. That’s your mother up there screwing those men. She enjoys it, damn her. Hell, she loves it. That’s what he’d say.”
Long after the agents escorted Tyler out of Green Willows, Ransom stood alone in room 107, his son’s accusatory voice echoing inside his head. Choking on his unshed tears, he gasped for air and finally gave in to his emotions. He wept quietly, his shoulders shaking and his hands trembling.
Beverly Barton Bundle Page 39