The Bedroom Killer

by Taylor Waters

  Business was good.

  Girlfriend was good.

  Killing was good.

  The roll-up door to the shop flew open with a clang and a young mechanic, Reggie, came out, kicking away a piece of scrap metal from the front of the doorway.

  "Good morning, boss," Reggie said, then turned and went back inside.

  It sure was.

  CHAPTER 21

  Danny pulled up to the curb where John stood waiting outside his house. He jumped into the passenger seat, and Danny handed him a Starbucks Grande Latte, no foam. John took his first sip.

  "That hits the spot," John said.

  "I thought you might like one," Danny said.

  Danny drove away from the curb, and a silence fell between them. Danny knew John well enough to know that he'd talk when he was ready. The police impound was across town, and it would take at least twenty minutes to get there, plenty enough time to gage where John's head was at.

  "How're the stitches?" he asked.

  "Fine."

  "Good."

  Nothing more. Danny waited a few seconds. "I'm gonna have you see Dr. Samuelson. He'll be able to take care of that so there's no scar."

  John nodded and took another sip.

  "Carrie wanted me to say hi and that she's glad you're okay."

  "Tell her thanks."

  Danny noticed how John turned his head to watch the strip malls go by, most likely hoping it might stop Danny from asking questions. John had called him the day before and asked if he could get a ride to the police impound lot. He said they had finished collecting evidence from his car and he could pick it up.

  "John?"

  John turned back to Danny.

  "Huh, what?"

  "I do wish I could get in that head of yours and see what it is that keeps you so busy. I know I've said it before but the best thing for you is getting back to work. You're a very good doctor and if not at Greenwood Medical, than somewhere. Go find an inner city hospital. A clinic. Doctors Without Borders. Something to get you back in the mix."

  John nodded, but said nothing. He swung his head to the right and gazed out at the window. That was Danny's cue to shut up and drive.

  ***

  They pulled up to the impound yard and parked outside the gate. It was large and circled with razor wire atop the chain-link fence. Danny estimated they had at least thirty cars inside.

  "Can you see yours?" Danny asked, craning his neck.

  John just shook his head and entered the small out-building, which looked more like an oversized guard shack, and Danny tapped the bell ringer sitting on the counter. A moment later, the clerk stepped around the corner and stopped in his tracks. It appeared that he recognized John from the newspapers and nightly newscasts.

  "What can I do for ya?" he asked, trying to be cool.

  "You have my car," John said.

  The clerk grabbed a three-ring binder and set it on the countertop. He flipped it open.

  "Name?"

  "John Randall."

  The clerk flipped through some pages, made a note on a form, and spun the binder around for John to sign.

  "Four hundred fifty dollars," the clerk said.

  "You gotta be kidding!" Danny said, leaning over the counter.

  John threw his hand up to cut him off, and slapped his MasterCard down.

  "Two hundred twenty-five dollars a day? Really?" Danny asked again.

  "You're good," The clerk sniffed.

  Tough shit.

  "It's okay. I deserve it," John said.

  "You deserve to get your ass reamed?" Danny scowled at the clerk. "Must be one hell of a Christmas party every year, huh, buddy?"

  The clerk smiled and said, "All it takes is a couple assholes a week."

  Danny reached for the clerk, but John grabbed him.

  "Let's just get the car and get out of here. I'll buy lunch."

  "With what? This guy's got all your money!"

  The clerk walked back to a cabinet hanging on the wall, grabbed the keys from a hook, walked back, and handed them to John.

  "Space twenty-two."

  The clerk punched a button under the counter, and they heard the automatic gate start rolling backward outside the trailer window.

  "Have a good day, gentlemen."

  As John and Danny walked out the door, the clerk began singing "Jingle Bells."

  CHAPTER 22

  The glass shards were still there. So was the blood.

  John stared at the bullet hole in the car's roof and the pieces of busted window, scattered from the front seat to the back. His eyes tightened and he drew his hands into fists as he thought about Detective Bell's lecture on the baseball bat and gun. They were being held as evidence—something to do with his attempted suicide. And now, after thanking Danny for the ride to the compound, John was back inside his car. His right hand shook as he put his key into the ignition and started the car. The engine's familiar sound reached his ears, and he flashed back to that night. He heard the pounding rain beating on the car, joined by the woman's screams. He realized that if not for the acute deafness caused by the gunshot, those screams would have been even louder. He took three deep breaths, slipped the gearshift into drive, and pulled away.

  Just get home, John. Get home so you can…what? What are you going to do when you get home, John?

  John drove his damaged BMW to the dealer for repairs and picked up a loaner car. Now he didn't have to share the seat with broken glass. As he made his way home, he gripped the wheel tighter as he thought about what Danny had said.

  “Just come back, throw on your white coat, and administer medicine to your patients”.

  Easy for Danny to say. He was his closest friend, and John knew he meant well, but he really didn't know what he was talking about.

  But it wasn't that easy. It just wasn't.

  When John got home, he stepped into his house and realized it still had the feel of intrusion from the detectives' visit the day before. He felt their presence like a cold, dark coat. His steps were labored, like each leg was moving through thick syrup or trying to run in a pool of water. Nothing in the room seemed like his anymore. As if by treading through his house, looking into his closets and in his drawers, the detectives had contaminated everything they touched. Newspapers were stacked in a pile at one end of the couch, and the empty In & Out chocolate shake cup sat on the end table. He wanted to chuck it all into the trash. Buy new clothes. A new car. A new home.

  He scanned the room again and his heart sunk. He ran his fingers through his untidy hair and felt guilt all over again. Paulette would never have let the house get this messy. John tossed his keys onto the entry table and got to work cleaning. He grabbed the empty cup, the food wrappers, and some old mail off the dining room table, then threw them into the trash. He tried to think of everything that Paulette would do and do it just as well. He had just folded the last of the dried laundry when he realized he still hadn't touched the newspaper pile.

  Moving through the kitchen with a stack of newspapers he slammed into one of the kitchen table chairs with his left foot, busting his big toe.

  "Shit!" John said, as he stumbled back and dropped all the newspapers onto the kitchen floor. He sat down, curled his big toe upward, and looked down to see the first trickle of blood dripping onto the floor. He quickly moved his foot over the top of the newspapers and squeezed his toe to help stop the bleeding. That's when he saw the headline… Bedroom Killer Claims Third Victim.

  John remembered the headline. When he'd first read the newspaper, he had skipped the article, not wanting to read about young girls dying. But now, after having the detectives in his home, thinking he was the killer, he suddenly realized he wanted to know more. Like someone had opened a door and he absolutely had to walk through it. He read the article. This was the girl before.

  Before two nights ago.

  Someone completely different. She wasn't connected to John in any way. But as he read the words, he couldn't help but feel increas
ing anger knowing the killer, the guy who looked inside his windshield, was the same guy who murdered this young girl and three others. This guy deserved to die. This guy deserved to be tortured slowly, kicked in the balls, then cut only to have hydrochloric acid poured into the wounds. Yes, this guy deserved to feel pain. John finished the article and moved to set the paper down when he caught the article byline. Marcus Cash wrote the article. As he read the name, John felt a sudden recognition. The business card—the one thrown on the floor—Marcus Cash.

  John stood quickly and was hit by a head rush. He reached for the edge of the kitchen table and waited for it to pass. When it did, he walked into the living room and found the cards, all three of them, sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. He had placed them there, thinking how funny it was that the number one suspect in the Bedroom Killer case was collecting business cards like nobody's business. He picked up the cards and studied the names: Detective Gerald Bell, Detective Megan Ash, and Investigative Reporter Marcus Cash—Greenwood Times. Ash and Cash. Other than noting the similarity in names, John kept thinking about how, with just a little help, he might be able to make it happen.

  He would kill a killer, instead of killing himself.

  John dialed Marcus's number. Marcus answered on the second ring, and in less than sixty seconds, they had arranged to meet at John's house around seven that evening. John didn't want to sit in public talking with this guy. He'd bring him inside, and they'd sit in his living room—or in the kitchen over coffee—and talk serial killers. What did Marcus know? John figured there might be more to it than what was in the papers. Maybe Marcus couldn't share other information because he didn't have proof, it wasn't directly relevant to the story, or he had a nervous editor who chopped everything out of his early drafts. Either way, John would give him quid pro quo. You tell me, and I'll tell you.

  Once John finished cleaning the house, he sat at his office desk and turned on his laptop. He hadn't been on the computer for what seemed like weeks. Everything was a long time ago to John now. He wanted to look up anything he could on serial killers before Marcus arrived. He Googled serial killer and came up with a full slate of pages, ten entries per page. Each page, full of stories, books, articles, and interviews, all dealt with serial killers such as Jack the Ripper, Manson (although he wasn't sure Manson really qualified), Bundy, Gacy, Dhamer, and the BTK Killer. It wasn't long before he had multiple screens open from all the local newspapers, TV, radio, and crime blogs. He squinted his eyes as he read, the tightness growing as he bookmarked serial killer sites, ordered true-life crime paperback books on Amazon, and set up accounts at three other sites so he could post questions. His heart grew heavy—so much information about death and killing.

  But even with the heavy heart, he couldn't wait for the books he ordered. Instead, he wrote down a list of book titles, then shut down his computer. He'd make a trip to the bookstore and face a public that had just spent the last couple days hearing all about him. It would have to happen sooner or later. As much as he didn't like the thought of being seen in public, a new urgency grew inside him. He now had a goal—a reason to get out of bed in the morning. He was going to catch this bastard.

  As he scrambled toward the front door and grabbed his keys and wallet off the entry table, John spotted the business cards again. He lifted the card from Detective Ash and studied the name and the raised embossed seal of the Greenwood City Homicide Bureau. He flipped the card over and found a handwritten note.

  I believe you.

  CHAPTER 23

  "Dr. Randall, thank you for meeting with me." Marcus stood on John's doorstep, shaking hands, and feeling anxious. Cold and anxious. It was seven o'clock and no more than forty-five degrees out. But it was worth it. For Marcus, meeting the doctor was the closest he'd come to getting inside the Bedroom Killer story. The doctor had been arrested for the crime. He most certainly sat inside one of the interrogation rooms, and he probably answered numerous questions from Detective Bell and maybe Detective Ash, too.

  "Come in," John said.

  Marcus followed John into the kitchen and they both sat at the table.

  "Coffee?"

  "Sounds great."

  John pulled the coffee pot from its stand and poured two cups. He walked them over to the table and set one in front of Marcus.

  "Sugar and cream are right there." John pointed to the center of the table.

  Marcus nodded and scooped one full teaspoon into his cup while John kept his black.

  "So what exactly do you want to know?" John asked.

  Marcus set his cup down and instinctively reached for his breast pocket to pull out his notepad but hesitated. Was it too soon?

  John picked up on all of this and nodded to Marcus. "Go ahead."

  "Habit." Marcus removed the pad and placed it on the table.

  "That's what you're here for isn't it?"

  "Well, yes, but…"

  "Let's talk. I want to answer some of the silly questions that have been floating around out there."

  Marcus nodded again and brought his pencil to his pad. "Why were you parked in front of the Sharp house that morning?"

  "I planned to kill myself, and I couldn't figure out where to go to do it. I hadn't put much thought into it. It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision. I was driving through town and just sort of ended up there."

  "And you didn't know the Sharps before then?"

  "I still don't know the Sharps, although I did meet Mrs. Sharp that morning." John smiled.

  "When she attacked you?"

  "Yes."

  "What happened during the attack?"

  "She hit me with a baseball bat."

  "Anything else?"

  "Like what?" John scowled and his back stiffened.

  Marcus peered into John's eyes, waiting for the doctor to look up and to the left, which trained interviewers know is a sure sign of lying. John stared straight ahead at Marcus.

  "Um, I don't know. Did she say something to you?"

  "She screamed at me. It was hard for me to hear. I had just shot my gun, and the combination of that loud sound in the cab of my car and the rain pouring down outside had made me temporarily deaf."

  This was all stuff he'd already heard. What would Morry do? Morry would throw his pencil at him and yell, Ask a different question, dumbshit! Marcus stopped writing, set his pencil down, and took a sip of coffee.

  "Good coffee," he said after he set the cup back down. "So why did you want to kill yourself?"

  "I didn't want to live anymore."

  A lump formed in his throat and Marcus sat up straight. Then he asked, "Why?"

  John smiled. " I'll leave that for you to figure out."

  Marcus nodded, but he already knew the answer. He'd asked around at Greenwood Memorial and learned that the doctor had lost his wife and son in a car accident a year ago, almost to the day. But he also learned that the subject of the doctor's family was off-limits. It probably had nothing to do with the Bedroom Killer story, other than the fact that the family used to live in Karen Sharp's house. That came out just after his arrest, when Karen Sharp's neighbors were quick to recount their individual stories of the young doctor and his wife pushing the stroller through the neighborhood a few years back, and how the doctor worked shirtless in the front yard on Saturdays. This particular part of the story was always followed by shy smiles from the ladies. They were nice people according to all reports—Just a young family leading a typical white-picket-fence-life—as one of the ladies described it.

  "How were you treated by the police?" Marcus asked.

  "They treated me as anyone might when they suspect you of murder."

  "Multiple murders."

  John stared at Marcus.

  "What's your impression of Detective Bell?" "He seems dedicated." John said in a slightly sarcastic tone.

  "Dedicated?"

  "What do you want to hear?"

  "Well, I suppose all homicide detectives are dedicated."

&n
bsp; John's fist clenched and he leaned forward. "You have to remember, I wasn't there to psychoanalyze the people who were asking me questions. I was about four hours past trying to kill myself, still intoxicated, and I couldn't imagine why I was there in the first place. I was supposed to be dead. Instead I went from getting stitched up by a close friend in a comfortable setting to sitting handcuffed to a steel table in a police station, staring across at a maniac and his partner who both think I kill young girls for a living."

  John took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and said, "I didn't have much time to take in the scenery, if you know what I mean."

  Marcus studied the doctor and took note of two things. His reaction to the question, and the fact that he called one of the detectives—probably Detective Bell—a maniac.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't think… It's just I have these questions rolling through my head all the time. It's my job to think of all types of questions and…"

  John put up his hand. "No offense taken. I shouldn't let it get to me. Like I said, it's part of the reason I agreed to meet you. And I must say, tossing your card into my doorway…smart move."

  "I can't take credit for that. Morry taught me that trick."

  "Morry?"

  "Charles Morrison. He's a reporter at the Times, and he's kind of my mentor. He has more tricks than Houdini."

  "Sounds like a good guy to have on your side."

  "He is."

  They sat there for a moment, in an awkward silence, and Marcus knew he had to move on to his next question. "What about Detective Ash?"

  John looked at Marcus sideways. "What about her?"

  "Well, I saw the two of you talking yesterday on your front lawn."

  John leaned forward, placed his hands flat on the table.

  "And?"

  "What's your take on her? What does she bring to the investigation?"

  "What kind of lame-ass question is that?" John said. "That's like those stupid reporters who ask the lady who just lost everything in a tornado, 'How do you feel about losing everything in a tornado?' If it were me, I'd punch that reporter in the face and then stand over him while blood gushes from his nose and say, 'I just lost everything I ever had, how the fuck do you think I feel?'"