by Erik Carter
“This is the kind of person that your ‘top man’ brought on as a consultant. Maybe Nash’s deranged bullshit is the reason why Conley took the girl. Maybe after so many grisly cases in his career, Conley listened to Harbick spurt off some psycho evil like that shit in his notebook, and it sent him over the edge. Maybe, Taft, Conley’s hurting that girl. Right this very moment. Now sit your ass down. I’m not through with my investigation.”
Taft stared at her coldly and sat down.
Ventress turned back to Nash.
“Conley found your filthy notebook. Then what happened?”
Chapter Twenty
Dale couldn’t believe what he was looking at.
“This is your handwriting, Nash...”
“Yeah, that’s just ... it’s nothing. Let me have it back.”
Nash reached. Dale turned his shoulder, not looking away from the notebook.
Endless pages of dark fantasies.
About Tricia Gallo.
He read aloud. “‘I want to see Tricia Gallo in pain. And in her underwear. In pain and in her underwear.’”
Nash laughed nervously. “I was just clowning around. Let me have that.”
Dale continued staring into the notebook. He flipped through it.
“There are pages and pages of this shit. ‘I want to hear Tricia’s pretty lips say my name as her dying words.’ ‘I wonder what she looks like when she...’”
He trailed off. It got worse. And Dale had seen enough.
He closed the notebook, brought it to his side.
“This is serious, Nash.”
Nash laughed nervously again.
“Be still, Dale. It’s just a gag.”
“Be still? Be still?? Do you think I’m overreacting? I just found a notebook filled with hundreds of pages of my partner’s fantasies about hurting the woman we’ve been sworn to protect.”
Nash shook his head, still smiling, still trying to play it off. “I just—”
“Stop. Stop trying to play this off. You know I’m right. Get that stupid smile off your face.”
Nash finally released the nervous smile. Fear in his face now.
“How long have you had these fantasies?”
“Since we first met her,” Nash said quietly. “Back when we—”
“No, I mean how long have you had any dark thoughts like this?”
Nash’s voice was even quieter when he responded. “Almost as long as I can remember. Since I was about eight years old or so.”
Dale exhaled. And he thought things over.
What was he to do now? What was the best course of action?
He didn’t have to think long.
There was only one option…
“There. Now you know,” Nash said. “Let me have my notebook.”
He reached for it. Dale sidestepped
“Come on, Dale. Stop foolin’.”
He reached again, a frustrated look on his face this time.
Dale shoved him away, hard, with his free hand.
“No, Nash. I’m going to report this.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ventress was almost starting to enjoy this.
What had begun as an investigation that she’d found disgusting—both Conley’s actions and the revelations about Harbick’s sick mind—had turned into something so bizarre, so outrageous that she couldn’t wait to hear what Harbick had to say next. It was all so bizarre, so nuanced. And Harbick was such a screwup. It was fun to watch him squirm. Conley was a screwup too, and Ventress was having just as much fun with him—and the guy wasn’t even there!
“Conley gets you kicked out of the Bureau for being a sicko,” she said with a grin as she stepped nearer to Harbick, invading his space. “And then three years later he asks for your help on this case because you’re a sicko. That takes some balls.”
Harbick shrugged matter-of-factly. “If there’s anything we’ve proven so far at this little trial of yours, it’s that Dale Conley has guts and he does what he needs to get the job done.”
“We’ve also proven that there’s still a serial killer roaming around Hot Springs, chopping up young women,” she said. “We’ve also proven that Dale Conley is missing. Both of those points were pretty well established.”
She stared into him for a moment, asserting her power.
“It must have been real tough working with him,” she continued after a moment, “this man who banished you to the periphery of society where you belong.”
Harbick looked down at the table in front of him. “It was a challenge, yes.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The previous morning.
As Dale sat on the couch in the hallway outside Mira Lyndon’s hospital room, waiting for the psychiatrist’s clearance to talk to her, he was still catching the occasional whiff of the loathsome hospital smell. But he’d been there for so long—hours now—that he’d gotten somewhat used to it. He knew, though, that he would still be smelling it later. On his clothes. Lingering in his nostrils.
There was no longer any screaming coming from the room. The hallway was quiet but for the typical hospital noises—the beeps of medical equipment, hushed chatter, doors opening and closing.
Dale looked at a framed picture. In the photograph were Mira Lyndon and her boyfriend, Clyde Bowen. He was short, the same height as his girlfriend, with very dark hair halfway to his shoulders, dark eyes, and a full beard, also dark in color. The photo’s colors were a bit washed out, but it looked like Bowen’s skin tone was olive, giving him a slightly exotic look. Mira sure did seem to like him. She was plastered against him, huge smile. And he had his arm around her back and wore a confident, almost smug grin, lips closed
Dale focused on Mira. The smile was bright, as were her eyes, which sat behind a pair of glasses. She had a very nice figure, which her simple outfit—a T-shirt and bellbottoms—showed off.
And while this was something that Dale typically noticed—a nice figure—he did so now with a two-pronged pang of guilt. First, the photo he was looking at was of the woman and her boyfriend. Dale made it a goal of his to not ogle married and otherwise taken women … as much as possible.
Also—and perhaps more importantly—was the fact that this same woman, whose image he was having a hard time taking his eyes off, was lying in bed only feet away. Beaten up. Cut up. Having just been attacked by a serial killer.
Dale didn't feel so much like a pig … as he did a creep.
But he couldn't help it. There was something … different about Mira Lyndon. And it pulled him in. As he looked at her image in the photograph, he tried to figure it out. She was extremely thin, and yet she wasn’t at all gangly. She had perfect proportions, carrying her thinness exquisitely. Well-shaped legs. Toned armed. Long but not too long torso. Her breasts—poking against her T-shirt—were small, but, again, perfectly proportioned. Completely perfect. Her face was smooth and round. Hair, dark and straight. Her eyes were dark.
None of these qualities screamed out. It was the sum that created the whole. And if he was being completely honest with himself—if he pushed aside the guilt—he would have to admit that this most attracted to a woman he’d been in a long time. A very long time. It was magnetic.
She couldn't have been much taller than five-foot-six or -seven, so while she was fairly tall, she was no Redwood. Yet everything about her was long and sinuous. Twisting. Those proportioned legs, tiny yet toned arms. He imagined her abdominals—hidden under the shirt—to be tight and smooth with the long, thin indentation running up the center. And…
And that's where he stops his imagination.
He just couldn't let himself think like this about her. About someone who head just been attacked so viciously.
What the hell was he thinking?
Nash approached and sat down next to him. Dale was thankful for the distraction.
“What’s that?” Nash said, gesturing at the frame.
“Someone brought her flowers and this photo of her and Clyde Bowen.”
/>
“May I see it?”
Dale hesitated. He looked at Nash but didn't hand him the photo.
Nash smirked. “Oh, I see. You don’t want me to see it. Don’t want the weirdo to see the woman in question. You know, they’re going to let us in that room any minute now, and I’m going to see her in person, wounds and all. You recruited me for this assignment. How am I supposed to be your consultant if you won’t even let me look at a snapshot?”
Dale didn’t respond, just handed the frame to Nash.
Nash looked it over for a moment and handed it back.
“We never spoke again, you and me,” he said. “After that last visit you made in Detroit.”
“It wasn’t by lack of interest. You made that decision, Nash. The BEI could have helped you and—”
“I’m not pointing fingers. I just want you to know what a rotten situation you’ve put me in.”
Dale pointed to the hospital room.
“And if we can stop even one more woman from getting chopped into pieces, I hope you can look past how ‘rotten’ you’ve had it for a couple days.”
The psychologist, Dr. Wells, stepped out of the hospital room. He was a tall, thin man, bald on top with a thick mustache.
Dale and Nash stood up.
“Gentlemen, you’re free to enter now.”
“Is she talking?”
“Not to me, I’m afraid. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
They entered the hospital room. Mira was in bed, sheets to her armpits. Her left forearm was wrapped in bandage. Another bandage started beneath her neck and disappeared under her gown. She had several adhesive bandages all over the other areas of her exposed skin and a few of them concentrated over her left ear.
She watched them as they stepped closer. Her expression was rather blank, but there was uncertainty in her eyes.
There was a pair of chairs by the bed. Dale approached and pulled out a chair while casually, non-threateningly showing his badge as the same time. All one smooth motion. Very measured and purposeful.
“Miss Lyndon, I’m Dale Conley with the Department of Justice. This is my consulting expert, Nash Harbick. I’m very sorry to trouble you at a time like this, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Mira didn't respond. She took her eyes off Dale and looked to the ceiling.
“Can you tell us how this happened to you?”
No response.
“Any information you can give us will help us stop this from happening to anyone else. The attacker has been imitating famous serial killers of the past, and some of the victims have been couples. Your boyfriend, Clyde Bowen, could be in danger. Do you know where he—”
Mira screamed then, startling Dale. He jumped back in his seat. Mira hyperventilated, still staring at the ceiling.
Dale leaned in closer again.
“Ma’am, if we’re going to help Clyde, any information you can—“
Mira turned on him suddenly, looked him in the eye.
“It was him!”
“What?”
“Clyde! My boyfriend cut me up!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arancia screeched to a halt as soon as Dale yanked the steering wheel and swung the car onto Central Avenue.
A clump of tourists, which looked to be a large family group, were crossing the road—jaywalking, as a matter of fact—and they stopped and looked at him with dumbfounded faces.
Dale swiped his hand to the left impatiently, signaling them to move. They finally got the point.
Arancia’s engine revved, and in the passenger position beside Dale, Nash gripped onto his seat with anticipation.
They struggled to get through the traffic on Central Avenue.
Dale voiced his frustration.
Finally they got through.
Past Bathhouse Row and past the Arlington, the road curved. Traffic thinned. They sped up.
Finally, where the road splits, they took off, Arancia roared, and they barreled up Park.
The tires chirped as Arancia came to a sudden stop in a blacktop parking lot facing a small house. Police cars outside, red and blue lights.
Dale flashed a badge at a uniformed officer. He, Dale, and Nash met on the porch. The front door dangled by one hinge. The doorframe was splintered.
“Are you Agent Conley?” the cop said. He was about forty-five. A tad short. Incredibly muscular frame that he showed off with a uniform that was a size or two too small. His cropped hair was specked with grays.
“That’s right,” Dale said. “Did we get him?”
The cop shook head.
“No one home.”
“Shit…” Dale took in a slow, deep breath, let it out. “Where’s Sadler?”
“Across town,” the cop said. He motioned to the house. “We found something you’re gonna want to see, sir.”
The cop led Dale and Nash through living room to office. There were another couple cops there, standing beside the desk, and they stepped to the side as Dale and the others approached.
“We found these in the desk.”
Two books. Coffee-table style, large and flashy. Mind of Madness: Serial Killers and American Society and Unidentified American Serial Killers. The latter had strips of paper marking several parts of the book.
Dale grabbed a tissue from the box on the desk and opened Minds of Madness. There was very little text, mostly stock imagery. Lots of colorful charts and graphs, sidebars and special info boxes.
He closed it and opened Unidentified American Serial Killers. He turned to first marked page.
It was a page dedicated to a single serial killer, the name blazoned across the top of the page. Dale said the name aloud.
“The Atlanta Ripper.”
He flipped to the other marked pages, reading them aloud as well.
“The Axeman of New Orleans. The Cleveland Torso Murderer. The Servant Girl Annihilator.”
Nash leaned in closer, looking down at the last entry. “Servant Girl Annihilator…”
Dale turned to him. “The latest victim. Mira Lyndon.”
Dale scanned over the entry, reading out some of the details. “Austin, Texas. 1884 to 1885. Described by The New York Times as a ‘cunning madman insane on the subject of killing women.’ Seven women and one man murdered. Six of the women had a sharp objected inserted into their ears.”
Nash sighed. “Mira Lyndon has wounds on her right ear.”
Dale nodded. “And she’s a maid at one of the spas. A ‘servant girl.’” He kept reading. “‘As the murders happened three years before the Jack the Ripper slayings in London, some have speculated that the Servant Girl Annihilator and Jack the Ripper were the same man.’”
He closed the book.
“Well, that explains why I haven’t been able to make a historical connection. There isn’t a historical connection. The guy bought a coffee table book and is using unrelated killers as his models. Shit!”
This happened sometimes with one of Dale’s investigations. Whereas most often he connected the historical dots, drawing a dramatic conclusion that ultimately led to his catching the bad guy—as had been the case during Dale’s first assignment with Nash when he made the connection among the 1871 fires—every now and then the historical facts were so disconnected that it was impossible to use them for his investigation, leaving him feeling helpless. And pissed off.
Nash leaned over and looked at the book.
“Four marked pages, four murders. Looks like he finished what he set out to do.”
Dale shook his head. “Or he’s just getting started, marking the pages as he finishes them.”
Dale crossed arms, took in a deep breath, looked about the office. On the wall across room were covered with photos, images of Bowen with other people.
Dale noted the man’s small size, remembered seeing him at the Promenade and when he killed Ern. He noticed Bowen’s dark eyes in the photo. That smug, almost cold grin.
He saw that among the images, there were only a couple
of him with Mira. He had his arm around her in one of the images, around the curve of her side. Dale noticed again how perfect shape was, how long yet proportional. And he thought of how Bowen had chopped into that form. With a knife. Another photo, one without Mira, showed Bowen in front of the Allistaire Bathhouse, wearing his spa uniform.
“Let’s check out Bowen’s spa.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The moist, warm air smelled of flowers. Or maybe perfume. Or maybe scented oil. Something sweet-smelling, anyway. There were sounds of laughter and splashing water in the back room; and there was a beautiful woman looking right at him. For a moment, Dale could almost forget that he was chasing down a serial killer.
He and Nash stood at the counter of the Alistaire bathhouse. Across from them, wearing a tidy uniform, was Camila. She was Hispanic, mid-forties, and had the perfect, glowing skin of somebody who worked at a place like it spa—smooth, supple, and perfect. Her skin was olive, and her hair was dark. Here eyes, too, were dark as well as perfectly shaped and accented by the tiniest bit of makeup. Very attractive all around.
The Alistaire’s walls were a green color with white accents—the molding and the areas above the rounded archways. Behind the desk where Camilla stood was a large window looking out upon the spas. People in their bathing suits were peacefully relaxing in three large, steaming pools of water, their heads leaning back, towels and cups of water nearby.
Dale had started the conversation with some charm but quickly abandoned it. Camila was in no mood for charm. Talking about Clyde Bowen pissed her off royally.
“If you’re looking for Clyde, you might as well just walk right across the street to Sullivan’s. It’s a bar. He practically lives there.”
“He’s not working today?” Dale said.
“Supposed to be. He hasn’t been to work in three days. I’m covering one of his shifts as we speak.”
“Did he give you any indication what he might be doing?”