She's the one with the bat was all he could think of.
"I…I wanted to talk to you," he said.
"What in the world would you have to say to me?"
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"I'm sorry for what happened to you…and for being here. And I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Mister, I've been answering questions the last week. I'm all out of answers."
For no reason that he could explain, John glanced up at the shingle on the right corner of the roof, still hanging out of place. Paulette, being the more finicky one, had kept at him to get that fixed. Just pull it down or go up there and straighten it out. But he never did…and there it was, still.
I should have fixed that, he thought.
"You should leave now," said Karen.
John's attention came back to Karen and he struggled to remember what he'd said last. He glanced down again at Trevor's handprint. He shifted to one side and pointed with the toe of his shoe.
"This is my son."
Karen eyed him sideways through the screen door and noticed he was pointing at the handprints. A moment passed, then she said, "Rachel used to put her hand in his and wondered where he was, how old he was now. She once made an imprint with some clay, then made a mold out of sand and turned it into a candle.”
John smiled at the image of Trevor's hand glowing from candle light.
"I want to help find the person who…I want to help find him."
"Why?" Karen asked impatiently.
"I owe it to you."
"You don't owe me anything, except to leave me alone, Dr. Randall."
"You know who I am?"
"Detective Bell told me all about you. Besides, you've been on the news, you know. I guess I should feel sorry for you, but I can't. Now please leave."
And with that Karen shut the door and left John standing there. He turned and faced the street, stared at the place where he parked that night, imagined the rain, the killer running, hitting his car, rolling off, and driving way. He felt the bat on his head again, felt the searing pain of the gunshot wound, heard the ringing in his ears…all ganging up on his senses. He was tired of it. He was supposed to be dead. He walked to his car, feeling more determined than ever to catch the man who kept him from killing himself.
CHAPTER 29
"I have to admit John, I really didn't expect that." Dr. Larson said.
Dr. Burt Larson sat across from John. The office was bathed in warm soothing colors. Bookshelves filled one side of the room. The office was conveniently located across from Greenwood Memorial within a complex of doctors' offices, a dental wing, and a social services branch. Dr. Larson kept his hazel eyes on John and John kept his on Dr. Larson. A face-off between two men—one troubled, one not so much. One lost, the other centered. One feeling his way along no certain path, the other firmly grounded. Dr. Larson understood the sacrifice and hard work that goes into becoming a medical doctor and while he'd met more than his share of blowhards, medical or otherwise, John was the real deal. Honest. Professional. Dedicated.
Dr. Larson pulled his glasses off his face and clenched them in his teeth, as he stared across the six-foot gap to where John sat. John had arrived a year earlier, sent by Greenwood Memorial, after being told he would have to take leave and see a counselor for his depression. They'd had a weekly meeting over the past twelve months. Every Wednesday at eleven in the morning. For one year. Their last meeting just two days before John's unsuccessful suicide attempt. When John didn't respond to his question, Dr. Larson said, "John…I thought we were making progress."
After a brief moment of silence, John answered.
"I'm doing fine now."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Why did you choose January tenth?"
"Don't you know?"
"Tell me."
"I felt guilty."
Dr. Larson slipped his glasses back on his nose and wrote the word guilty on his memo pad.
"So you're telling me every time you feel a little—"
"A little?"
"Okay, a lot. Every time you feel a whole world of guilt, you're going to try to kill yourself?"
John still said nothing.
"Do I need to worry about this happening again?" Dr. Larson said.
"I'm doing better now," John said.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
John adjusted himself in his chair and looked down at his hands, nervously rubbing them together. Doctor Larson noted this, and wrote rubbing hands in his memo pad, words he had written many times in the first few months of their sessions.
"I have a project," John finally answered.
"A project?"
"Yes."
"What sort of project?"
"Something to keep me busy. Keep my mind off myself. Like you said, look outward instead of inward. While we're in here, we look inward, while out there…I look outward. That's what I'm doing.”
Dr. Larson wrote the words Has a project on his notepad. When he finished he asked, "What sort of project?"
John stayed silent, as if thinking about the question.
"What sort of project?" Dr. Larson asked again.
John shifted again.
"I'd rather not say for now."
"John, we've made tremendous progress, at least I thought we did. Actually I was thinking that our time together might not need to continue or at least be cut back. But now, I can't help you if you don't open up to me."
"I don't need any help with this," John said, shaking his head.
"I'm not saying you need help with the project," Dr. Larson said. "I just want to know how it is keeping you looking outward. You're on extended leave, which means you have a lot of free time on your hands. That can be dangerous."
"It keeps me thinking of other people," John said.
"Other than Paulette and Trevor?"
John said nothing. His eyes stared off in the distance.
"John?" Dr. Larson said, hoping to keep the conversation rolling along.
"Yes."
"Other than Paul—"
"Yes, yes…other than them."
"But you'll tell me if this project doesn't work out?"
"It's working fine. Better than I expected, actually."
Dr. Larson nodded. Wrote something on his pad then looked up and said, "Are you still keeping a journal?"
Dr. Larson waited for John's answer and for a moment he thought he was about to drift off again
"Yes…I am," John said.
Dear Journal,
So…I didn’t kill myself. Obviously. Here I am writing to you. Dr. Larson says I need to keep doing this. I tried to kill myself and it didn’t work out. I won’t go into details. I got arrested. Can you believe that? For murder. I didn’t kill anyone. Why would I do that? I was interrogated. Detectives Bell and Ash. What a pair. He’s practically psychotic and she’s…I don’t know. She’s pretty. Real pretty. Girl next door pretty. I don’t know.
I drove to my old house. I tried to talk with the lady who lives there. Her daughter was murdered. I didn’t do that. But I think I saw the guy who did. I feel guilty about being there. I was sitting outside in my car and all that time this guy is killing some girl inside my old house. I want to kill him. Who could do such a thing? I think I might try to find this guy. What else am I going to do?
John.
CHAPTER 30
The killer's dark green 68 Chevelle GTO cruised down the neighborhood street, behind a group of four young girls on their way home from school. Isaac, the dark-haired Bedroom Killer, glanced over at them as he passed, then raised his eyes to watch them in the rearview mirror.
Fun, fun, fun.
The hunt was on again, and more than anything else, this is what got his heart pumping. The moments leading up to the kill were almost as fun to Isaac as the killing itself. He felt so alive, so in control, and still no one knew who he was. He got to choose who lived and w
ho died.
That's power.
He turned the corner and sped up to put some distance between him and the girls. He made another right and drove down the adjacent street so he could come up behind them again. He made the next two rights and saw them farther down the street. Two of them peeled off from the others.
Which ones to follow?
It's a toss of a coin and he held the coin in his hands. He got to choose. They didn't even know. He pulled up to the corner, looked to his right and watched the two girls, looked to his left and watched the other two. He glanced right again, and then left again.
Left it is.
He rolled the steering wheel counterclockwise and watched the two girls behind him in his rearview mirror…the lucky ones. Not today, girls. You get to live. And I gave that life to you. You have no idea how close you came. You never will. But I do. I will always know.
Isaac turned his attention back to the girls in front of him. One blonde and one brunette. He preferred the brunettes. He pulled over to the curb and cut the engine, pretending to read through some paperwork just in case some nosey neighbor was watching. He stayed there until the girls split again. The blonde turned left three streets down, and the brunette kept going straight. He waited until the brunette turned left on the very next street before he started his car and pulled away. He sped up the next four streets and turned left…
And saw nothing.
Where is she?
He'd lost her. She must live in one of the houses at this end of the street—but it could be on the left or on the right. She had enough time to go to either side. Isaac drove down to the end of the street, hung a U-turn, and came back. He looked closely at both sides of the street for any sort of clue.
Nothing.
No matter.
Now he knew where she lived. He might kill her next. Or maybe he'll push her down the list. He already had two others chosen. Like a candidate list of senior prom choices, he knew who he wanted most. She was also brunette, lived across town with her mom. Her name was Hillary. Yes, she would be next. And it would be soon. Very soon.
And she didn't even know.
CHAPTER 31
John stood and stared at the rack of True Crime paperbacks, each one detailing a singular story of homicide. Lovers' killings, love triangles, rejected love, business partnerships gone awry, insurance scams, and parents murdered by a son or daughter who then inevitably ran away with their teenage lover only to be caught at gunpoint in the next county. Tried, convicted, and sent off to prison to live out the remainder of their lives in general population, or on death row. Their stories told through the media and local papers, repeated by the locals at the diners, coffee shops, and garden shops with murmurs of, that's so sad tossed about.
So many wasted lives.
John tried to imagine who these people were. Were they all from broken families? Was there no hope in their lives? Or were they just dumb, unfeeling people who made a snap decision that changed their lives forever? He pulled a book down from the shelf, written by a guy named Dalessandro, and read the back cover summary. It told the story of how a lady tracked down her aunt’s killer, a man she herself dated and thought she loved only to find out later it was all a con. It took her years, but she finally found him. Based on that experience, and dealing with law enforcement, she started her own one-woman campaign to help other victims who were getting nowhere with the police.
So many wasted lives.
It was just after noon and the bookstore was fairly packed for a Sunday. For some reason John felt an energy inside him—he was finally working on something. There was a reason, albeit not a happy reason, to get up in the morning and do something constructive. He noted the stares of some of the patrons as he walked past. His bandage was still very evident on his face, and it was a face that had been plastered all over the newspapers and TV news. They all knew who he was.
So this is what being a celebrity is like?
He pulled a book on criminology from the shelf and set it down at a table in the coffee shop section of the store. He ordered a small black coffee and sat down to take notes. He knew that if people saw what he was reading they might freak out even more, so he made sure he was tucked away in a corner, his back to the wall.
The first book he opened was Mindhunter by John Douglas. He'd once watched an interview on television with the storied FBI agent, and when he found the book, he immediately knew that was the one to start with. He sipped his coffee as he underlined sections on profiling technique, types of victims, police procedures; just about anything he thought might help him figure out who the guy with the dark hair was. John didn't think of him as a serial killer, or the "Bedroom Killer." He only thought of him as the guy who kept him from killing himself and he was somewhat ambivalent about how he felt about it. He just knew he was a part of this now and he had to make a contribution, whether it was asked for or not.
John looked up and found a young couple staring at him from a few tables away. They quickly turned away. He was the freak show and he knew it. Okay, he'd have to get used to it. But not now. He gathered up the books and his coffee and walked them over to the checkout counter, keeping them hidden as best as he could. The clerk, a young brunette with a nose ring, smiled briefly at John as she scanned each book. She tried not to flinch once she saw the titles, but it was more than noticeable to John. She bagged the books, placed the receipt in the bag, and handed it to John without a word. He took the bag and very deliberately looked her hard in her eyes and said Thank You in his best Vincent Price voice. He turned and walked out the door, a tinge of guilt building inside him for being a smart-ass dick when he didn't have to be.
Once home, John laid the books out on a small card table in his living room. He stared at the table wondering if he needed anything else. Two hours later he had his paper fold-out map of Greenwood City tacked to his wall, the card table shoved up beneath the map, and printed photos of the four murdered girls he pulled from the Internet and the Bedroom Killer articles tacked to the wall next to the map. His very own Public Enemy Number 1 wall display. He set five colored thumbtacks to the side of the map. He would find out the exact address of the other killings. He felt bad about calling them killings, but he would have to keep this as impersonal as he could, if that was even possible. And then he would place the tacks at those locations.
It was all coming together.
CHAPTER 32
"So he tried to kill himself. No shit!" Morry said.
Charles Morrison took a drag from his unfiltered Camel and blew the smoke up into the rafters of the old newspaper building they called The Fortress. It was an old brick and wood antique built in the thirties and it badly needed a face lift. But to Morry, it was home.
"And you talked with him? This doctor guy?" Morry said.
"I did," Marcus said, choking down his shot of bourbon. You didn't say no to Morry's bourbon if you wanted to sit and pick his brain. Every reporter at the paper had at one time slurped or sipped, or depending on the occasion, gulped down his double malt bourbon. Fortunately it was smooth, at least to the initiated drinkers. All except the ladies. Morry didn't take to lady reporters. He was ancient and he longed for the good ol' days when you could cuss without conviction and slap a big-titted secretary on the ass and all she would do is giggle and scurry away…and then maybe come back at the end of the shift to spend some quality time with old Morry.
But those days were gone, and Morry's quality time no longer included dropping his trousers.
"The only time I drop my trousers anymore is when the doctor needs to put his finger up my ass or when the porcelain chamber calls for a deposit."
"What did he tell ya?" Morry said.
Marcus set his mug down on the corner of Morry's old oak rolltop desk, its surface scarred with cigarette burns and round coffee mug stains. He pulled his notepad out and flipped to the page of notes on John Randall.
"He parked in front of his former home and tried to shoot himself through the bottom
of his neck," Marcus said.
"How the fuck do you miss a shot like that?"
"That's just it. He missed because the Bedroom Killer slammed into his car and fell across the hood. Right when he pulled the trigger." Marcus tossed his notepad onto Morry's desk and said, "And he missed."
Morry leaned forward, pulled on his Camel, blew out the smoke, and said, "That's unfuckingbelievable."
"I know," Marcus said.
"So he misses. Then what?"
"He watches the guy roll off his car and hobble down the street, get in his car, and drive away."
"He just sat there?" Morry said.
"I guess," Marcus said, "but that's when Mrs. Sharp came out. The mother of the dead girl. She beat him with a baseball bat. But he eventually got the car started and got the hell out of there. Drove himself to the hospital where he used to work. They stitched him up and that's where the cops found him."
"And they thought he was the Bedroom Killer?"
"Yeah."
"Unfuckingbelievable."
"But he cleared himself," Marcus said.
"How'd he do that?"
"The lady said he wasn't the one inside his house. Too short."
"So now the cops know the killer is tall. How tall?"
"I don't know."
Morry grabbed a pencil from his desk and chucked it at Marcus, stabbing his left nipple through his shirt.
"Ow!" Marcus cried.
"What the hell do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean I don't know."
"Well how tall is this doctor guy?"
"I don't know, about an inch taller than me I guess."
"How tall are you?"
"About five nine."
"So the doctor guy is five ten, and the killer is taller than that. Must be a lot taller or the lady wouldn't have noticed. The killer is at least six two or six four. Guaranteed."
Morry poured another shot for himself and another shot for Marcus.
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