Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Now, what about you? How long are you going to chase murderers and crazies? What about my advice to you? What about the money we put away for you? Take it and put a deposit down on a nice little house on Long Island. Stop worrying about right and wrong and diabetes. Live a little.”

  “I’m not ready to settle down, Ma. I’ve told you over and over, I like what I do.”

  “You’ll like children more.” She began to mist up again. “I did.”

  “Don’t start, Ma. It’s not fair. You’re not strong enough to go the distance.”

  “I can go the distance with you. “

  “Bah!” I said. A little tit for tat.

  Ma shook her head in dismay. “Then buy the boat. Maybe you’ll meet a nice sailor.”

  Ma!” I pretended to be shocked.

  She was facing a lifetime without chocolate. It made me blush, but I had to say something to her that would make her happy. I had to give her something to look forward to, wedding plans, grandchildren, all of that kind of nonsense. “I’m dating someone.”

  “Who? That’s wonderful. Do I know him?” A painful spasm brought an end to her excitement.

  “Take it easy, Ma. Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She grimaced. “Spit it out already. Who is it?”

  “I’m not talking.”

  “Come on, Stephanie, give your mother a little happiness.”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “Why?” She was visibly disappointed.

  “Because I don’t know if it’s anything more than a playful romp. I’ll let you know if we get hot and heavy.”

  “Why’d you save me?” Her swearing was half anger and half jest. She gazed skyward momentarily and then motioned for me to come closer. “Invite him to dinner. Let me check him out for you,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know if he’s worthwhile in two seconds.” Then she noticed the Saint Christopher medallion around my neck. “You get that from him?”

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  Ma crossed herself. “Thank you, God. Thank you.” A broad smile crossed her face. “A nice Italian boy?” I nodded. Gus was only half Italian but I don’t think it really mattered. “All right then. I’ll be patient, but not for long.” She shook her finger at me for good measure.

  The door swung open behind us and the nurse came in. Thank God. It was time to take Ma’s blood pressure and temperature again. The nurse approached with one of those electronic thermometers. “Not again.” Ma swore.

  “Stop bitching. It’s your own fault,” I told her.

  “Stephanie.” She scowled at me and bit her lip.

  “Look at the bright side,” I continued. “They used to take temperature rectally.” Ma grunted and wrinkled her nose.

  “Can you step outside for a moment?” the nurse asked.

  “Sure, I can use a cup of coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  “Ask him to dinner, Stephanie. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  She was beaming now. I tell you, they’re all the same; mothers, I mean. She’ll be crocheting booties before you know it. Fat chance, Ma. Just what you need, a cop for a son-in-law. And maybe he’ll bring you a nice box of chocolates when he comes over for Sunday dinner. I don’t think so.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Zachary Clovin awoke at 5:00 a.m. feeling refreshed and full of vigor. Consistent with his morning ritual, Clovin took a cool shower, shaved with a disposable razor and Colgate shaving cream. He then made himself an omelet: four eggs, cheddar cheese and lots of Tabasco. He smothered the eggs with ketchup and washed them down with three steaming cups of Chock full o’Nuts—black. He was still naked when he cleared the dishes.

  Clovin washed his plate by hand, scouring the surface with hot water and Bon Ami. Satisfied that the plate had been sterilized, he cleaned his fork and spoon in the same manner until the flatware took on a finely brushed finish. He dried the utensils and placed the plate back in an otherwise empty cabinet. He took extra time with his coffee mug. He rubbed it until his fingers were raw, until every last trace of coffee stain had been removed. He sniffed his fingertips for trace odors of egg or cheese. Dissatisfied, he showered again, this time in scalding hot water.

  He had showered for hours after killing each of his victims, after holding those girls in his arms. He had gotten too close to the tram conductor and gotten the bloody spray all over himself. He had burned his clothing after that killing. His clothes were dirty, filthy, and vile.

  Clovin dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt. He had laundered and pressed them himself; half a can of spray starch had been consumed in the process. His lace-up shoes were the height of young men’s casual footwear, but Clovin cared nothing for fashion. They reminded him of the standard issue combat boots he had worn for most of his life. He cinched his Sam Brown belt and stepped up to the window of his apartment. Looking out onto the street, Clovin observed that the mailman had just made his delivery. This pleased him. His government disability check arrived like clockwork every month on roughly the same date.

  He returned home after cashing his check. The fee he paid at the check-cashing store was outrageous, but necessary. Clovin maintained no banking relationships and handled all transactions in cash. He had stopped at the local supermarket for supplies: SPAM, canned vegetables, white bread, bananas, three cans of Niagara spray starch, Colgate shave cream, Scotch Tape, and all the local newspapers.

  Clovin was feeling upbeat. He put away his supplies, unbuttoned his shirt and placed it neatly over the back of a kitchen chair, careful not to wrinkle it.

  He uncapped a fresh can of Colgate, ran hot water in the bathroom sink until the room was filled with steam and lathered his skull. He proceeded to drag the disposable razor over his head for twenty minutes before he was satisfied that his skull was completely smooth.

  He had browsed through the Daily News on his walk home from the supermarket and was delighted to finally find an article that aroused his particular sense of interest. A week had passed without his finding anything he deemed worthy of his time.

  Clovin undid his shoelaces and placed his shoes alongside the bed. He noted happily that they had not been scuffed on his morning walk. He stripped off his slacks and placed them on a hanger before picking up his newspapers and lying down on the bed with them.

  He lay on his side, his head supported by his hand, his arm bent at the elbow. Clovin stroked each sheet of the newspaper as he turned the pages, gliding his fingers over the pulpy surface of the paper, allowing its texture to stimulate his raw fingertips. His temperature was rising. His senses were acute. He could smell the faint aroma of kerosene waft up from the newspaper’s cheap ink.

  Clovin flipped another page. His eyes enlarged when he saw the headline. He read the story six times, until finally he had committed all of it to memory. Each word, the exact pronunciation of every name, the place, the time of day, and the covering reporter had become as one with him.

  The story was not covered in the Post but he found it in the New York Times. The Times article was lengthier and far more detailed than the one he had read in the Daily News. He read it eight times, growing excited, until once again, it had been totally committed to memory. He pleasured himself by rubbing his hand over his boxers, rapidly stroking. He jumped off the bed and sprinted the short distance to the bathroom. He pushed his shorts down to his knees before discharging himself into the toilet. Clovin wrapped a Kleenex around his penis so that it wouldn’t drip onto his boxers and then propped himself up against the wall, exhaling heavily, savoring, waiting to settle down.

  A moment later, he tossed his socks and boxers into his laundry basket and showered for the third time. He wrung every last drop of ejaculate from himself. After removing the drain plate, he aimed carefully, urinating into the drain before stepping from the shower. Once out, he turned the hot water in the shower on full blast. He put on fresh boxers and socks. He let the scalding water run a good ten minutes so that it would sanitize
the shower floor. He poured Clorox over the drain for good measure.

  Clovin got back into bed with sharp scissors and a dispenser of Scotch Tape. He clipped the two articles from the newspapers and taped them to the wall alongside the others: Sandra Desmore, Mary Beth Samuels, Amy Pollack, Ellen Redner, and finally Samantha Harris.

  He had murdered them all, suffocated each one in the same fashion. He blocked the air from their noses with one hand and their mouths with the other. He had supported their lifeless bodies in his arms and kissed them gently on their cheeks before laying them to rest.

  He got off the bed and glared at the pictures on the wall, the faces of the lives he had taken. He spat at them with loathing. His lungs seized while they were full of air. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocket. He started to shake and tremble until his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the floor breathless and sobbing.

  He took a hinged picture frame off the dresser and held it in his hands like a delicate flower. His darling daughter Sheryl had died so young. She had possessed such intelligence and such warmth . . . such disappointment. She had been only twelve years old when God had received her back into His kingdom. He pressed the glass of the picture frame against his face. Tears dripped from his eyes and ran onto the glass, pooled there, and then trickled onto the floor. Poor Sheryl. It was such a tragic story, one that had haunted him for thirty years.

  Five women had died and yet it seemed the police had nary a clue. The first three murders had been far too subtle. In a city like New York, three dead women found in random settings did little more than raise an iota of attention. He needed to make the killing more obvious.

  The next two killings were more dramatic. A man had been killed with each of the next two women. He was not only choosing victims, he was creating his own crime scene. There was no doubt anymore. The last two murders had been reported in the news. The police had not reported a connection between the two, but Clovin knew that the disassociation was intentional. There was no mention of the clues he had left or of the fact that the incidents were virtually identical.

  A moment later, he switched his gaze to the newspaper article that occupied the other side of the picture frame. His lip curled in anger, his tears dried, and his face reddened with contempt. “The devil,” he swore. The photo in the newspaper article depicted New York City Detective Stephanie Chalice taking Gamal Haddad into custody on New Year’s Eve.

  Howls, the sick old doctor, had betrayed Chalice and confessed to his crimes on his deathbed. Clovin had waited three decades to approach the man and found him rotting in the penitentiary.

  The military had kept Clovin focused, or rather, distracted. They say an idle mind is the devil’s playground. The last thing Clovin needed was time to think about the voices, the memories, and the pain—burnt and bloody flesh, tortured souls screaming in his head. She had caused them and there was but one way to put the pain to rest. It had taken him thirty years to realize that his job was only half done.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Zachary Clovin detested the smell of fresh rubber. It was on his hands, in the air and in his nose. He’d have to scour his skin to the bone when he was done—six down, four more to go. The tennis balls had been expertly halved with a razor-knife, and now rested on the table before him, the last one still wobbling in place. He had traced a marker line around each of the balls. Accuracy wasn’t all that important, as long as the half-spheres fit within each other. Now, all ten balls had been dissected.

  He picked up the ten-inch section of PVC pipe he had just cut through with a hacksaw. As with the tennis balls, the PVC emitted its own petrochemical stench as the friction-heated hacksaw blade cut through it. Clovin hated breathing in the tainted air and chastised himself for neglecting to buy a package of filtering masks. He was breathing in poison, pure and simple. It infuriated him to build another silencer, but they were so stupid, so backwards and stupid. How many women would he have to kill? The first silencer had been left for them to find. The stupid cops needed all the help they could get.

  Clovin fastened a reduction fitting onto one end of the PVC pipe with four stainless steel self-tapping screws. He was livid as he picked up the first cluster of halved tennis balls and forced them, convex end first, into the pipe. He couldn’t stand handling the raw, freshly cut rubber. He could feel the eraser-like particles rubbing their way into his skin and into his bloodstream. Working quickly, he crammed the tennis ball halves into the pipe using the butt end of a hammer like a ramrod, until they were flush against the reduction fitting. He could see the yellow fuzz through the tapered three-quarter-inch opening in the opposite end.

  He tore off a large wad of steel wool, forced it into the pipe, and packed it in good and tight. Finally, the remaining tennis ball halves were loaded into the pipe in the same direction as the first ten. A reduction fitting, identical to the one used on the other end, was secured. Clovin picked up his Feather 9mm rifle and test-fitted it through the opening in the reduction fitting. It was as good as the first. Holding the home-fashioned PVC silencer as if it were an extension of the barrel, Clovin dry-fired several rounds at the picture he had most recently taped to the wall. He finally laid down his weapon and began the arduous task of cleaning and disinfecting the table’s surface.

  He swept all excess materials into a plastic grocery bag and knotted it before throwing it into the Dumpster.

  Clovin undressed with care, not wanting to touch the cloth. He manipulated the buttons and hooks of his clothing with his fingertips so that the rubber particles would not penetrate the fabric. Clovin pushed his pants and boxers off with his fingertips and stepped out of them, using his bare feet to hold them in place.

  Standing naked, he trained his eyes on the wall of photographs—pictures of lives taken and one yet to come. The photos had been arranged from memory, like a cliché of old police movies that had been catalogued in his mind. He did so intentionally. Homicidal murderers always taped their victims to the wall. There was to be no doubt as to whom he was or what he had done. The who and the what were simple. It was the why that demanded explanation. They were so completely stupid. He had almost drawn the police a map.

  He rubbed his hand over the new picture; she was next. He read the article as he caressed her picture with his hand. She was bigger than the rest, a person of high profile, a former Fortune 100 CEO and now a political hopeful. What could be bigger? Her death would clear the cobwebs from their clouded minds. Nothing stirs the powers that be more than money, and her death would have serious financial repercussions.

  When he stepped from the shower, his skin was blood red from the abuse of a cheap scrubbing brush. Water-diluted blood flowed in the crevices around his nails. The offensive odor of rubber was gone, yet in his mind it persisted.

  He changed into clean boxers before securing his right wrist to the bedpost with a cloth strap. Two hits of Orange Sunshine rested on the nightstand next to a glass of water. He laid the first piece of blotter paper on the back recess of his tongue, the next just forward, contiguous with the first. The paper moistened, releasing the bitter substance. Hallucinogen-saturated saliva ran off the sides of his tongue. He tasted it at the back of his throat. He settled in and waited for the show. Two tabs of LSD, it was going to be like an E-ticket ride at Disney World.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nigel Twain was seeing that which couldn’t be seen on the map: dirt roads, ramshackle homes, and abject poverty. It had been that way ever since he had turned off State Road 3. Blustery winds pummeled his car. Caught in the draft of a livestock transport, dust whipped around Twain’s rental car. He viewed the ambient air as it swirled past the windshield and checked the setting on the climate control to ensure that it was set on recirculate. He was in his own little sanitary bubble, safe and protected from the filth of the outside world.

  Except for getting stuck behind the transport, Twain had made good time coming down from Charleston. He had used Lysol to disinfect the rental car before setti
ng off from the airport. The lemon scent was still discernable in the recirculating air.

  His secretary had made an excellent wardrobe selection for him from a NoHo shop. Twain was now attired in black jeans and a plaid shirt. Calfskin driving gloves, which concealed the thin germicidally treated ones worn beneath, were uncommon but otherwise acceptable. A bandana, loosely tied around his neck would be brought up around his mouth and nose when required.

  The honorable Scranton Franks of the New York State Surrogate Court had proved to be an invaluable association. Franks had been a patient of Twain’s many years before securing his appointment to the bench. His authority had allowed Twain access to records and documents that were sealed to the general public and otherwise beyond Twain’s reach.

  Such had not been the case in Charleston. He had been barred access to the records kept at the Department of Vital Statistics. His New York State medical credentials meant nothing there. Likewise, his thinly veiled bribe of the official on duty had been received as warmly as a fart in church. Twain had left the state capital building disappointed and empty handed.

  Light was ebbing as Twain approached the outskirts of Quarrier, West Virginia. Lightning crackled in the distant sky. A high-pressure system was moving in. The winds he had encountered on the drive in had intensified significantly.

  With the assistance of the AAA, Twain was able to negotiate the simple town and found his way to the home of Dr. Everett Howls without difficulty.

  He took a deep breath before exiting the car. He had made the transition from doctor to detective without difficulty. His incentive was great—he’d allow no harm to come to Detective Stephanie Chalice. He was not aware of when he had made the decision, but at some point he had, and now he was committed to her with all his heart and soul. Twain was convinced that New York’s murdering psychopath and Detective Chalice were on a collision course. He wondered, What did he want with her? He wasn’t sure about his powers as an investigator, but felt that his medical oath carried forward. She was still his patient and if it took a little detective work to solve her problem, well then, so be it.