The Bedroom Killer

by Taylor Waters

  Andy stared ahead for a moment, then turned and looked into Megan's eyes before saying, "Because I've considered doing the same."

  They exited the car and walked to the front door at 1735 Date Avenue. Mr. and Mrs. Yancey. Clark and Betty. They were both in their sixties, retired, three kids grown up and moved out. Andy had lied about the twice divorced part. He knew he needed to get Megan out of there. He needed to follow up on a couple questions that were left hanging from the first round of neighborhood introductions and questioning. Andy said, "I'll ask the first questions…if she seems hesitant, you jump in."

  "Sure," Megan said.

  Andy knocked on the door. They waited in silence for a moment. Then Andy asked, "Where you plan on going?" His timing took Megan by surprise, and just as she was about to answer, the door opened and Betty Yancey peeked out.

  "Yes," Betty said.

  "Mrs. Yancey?” Andy said. "Do you remember me? I'm Detective David Anderson."

  "Oh yes. Hello, again," Betty said.

  "And this is my associate, Detective Megan Ash," Andy said.

  Mrs. Yancey's eyes darted to Megan through her screen door, giving a slightly disapproving look, which didn't get by Megan.

  "Hello, Mrs. Yancey," Megan said.

  "Hello," she said, then turned back to Andy and said, “I'm afraid Mr. Yancey isn't home right now."

  "That's okay," Andy said. "We only have a couple questions, and we can ask you for now and come back to ask Mr. Yancey—or get him on the phone—if we need to."

  Andy pushed on before she could object.

  "Mr. Yancey mentioned before that you'd both heard Mrs. Sharp screaming early in the morning on January tenth. It was a little before 2:00 a.m.?"

  "Yes," Betty said. "We were getting ready for bed. We'd stayed up late to watch one of the news shows that Clark loves to watch…it goes very late. I'm afraid I fell asleep next to him. I usually do. I'm not much for the national news shows, so I just snuggle up in a blanket and lay my head on his lap and I'm asleep in no time. Anyway, when it's over, he just gives me a gentle shake, and we get up and go to bed."

  Megan pictured Mrs. Yancey in her robe, lying asleep next to Mr. Yancey, although she couldn't picture his face since she hadn't been a part of the neighborhood canvas. But it wasn't Mrs. Yancey that she pictured lying asleep. It was her, Megan. And it was John sitting next to her, watching the news show. It was her head in his lap with her legs pulled up under her and a blanket draped over her. John's right arm was laid gently across her body, his hand resting open on her hip, as if they were the old married couple Ms. Yancey was referring to. It was such a warm thought, and Megan found herself pulled in. She imagined the faint whiff of pot roast, one she'd cooked and had shared with John during a candlelit dinner, each of them looking into the others eyes, commenting on how long they'd been together, and how fortunate they were to have found each other so long ago. But as she pictured John on the couch, she saw him pull a gun out from under a pillow, place it to his head, and pull the trigger. She tried to scream, but her mouth was dry and no sound came out. She heard her name, turning to see Gerald standing over her, his eyes boring into hers. He shouted her name again and she felt her arm shaking when her eyes snapped open and she suddenly found herself teetering off the edge of the porch. Andy was clutching her upper arm, squeezing even harder to keep her from falling.

  "No!" Megan shouted, yanking her arm away.

  "Megan!" Andy shouted, as Megan regained her balance, trying to make sense of what had just happened. She spotted Ms. Yancey at the doorway, her mouth agape, a shocked stare on her face. But Megan didn't answer. Instead, she turned and leapt off the porch, landed on the front grass, and ran for the car. Andy turned back to Mrs. Yancey and apologized without explaining, mostly because he couldn't explain what Megan had just done. He thanked Mrs. Yancey and promised he would call next time to be sure Mr. Yancey was home. He, too, jumped from the porch steps and walked quickly to the car, where Megan was already sitting, all the while hearing the voice of Mrs. Yancey trailing behind him, asking if the young woman was going to be all right.

  He pulled open the car door and sat down hard, slamming the car door hard as he shut it.

  "What the—" But she cut him off.

  "Please!" Megan implored. She threw her hand up to hide her face and began to cry.

  "Megan," Andy said. "You were falling backward. I thought you were going to pass out."

  Megan didn't answer. She was shedding just about every tear she had inside her, and it appeared to Andy that she would never stop. All he could do was reach out, put his arm around her, and wait for it all to end.

  CHAPTER 51

  Her name was Lindsey: it was 7:00 a.m., and she couldn't leave the house until she'd had her coffee.

  "Honeeeey. Where's the coffee? I don't see it in the cupboard," Lindsey said.

  "Check the counter next to the pot," Isaac replied from down the hall. Lindsey spun in a tight pirouette, making sure not to topple the terry cloth towel wrapped tight around her wet hair, and spotted the coffee can.

  "There you are," she said, stepping over to the pink marble counter, where she grabbed the can and ripped off the plastic lid, inhaling the dark roast before she went about preparing her morning pot. She was just three months passed her thirtieth birthday, wore her black Goth hair straight with bangs cut across her forehead, and sported multicolored tattoos down each forearm. When she was naked, one could trace a red boa constrictor snake from the left side of her neck, over her shoulder and down her backside, crossing from her left hip over the top of her ass, and ending on her right hip.

  Lindsey got the coffee started, then opened a bag of English Muffins, sliced one open, and tossed it in the toaster. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the butter tray, holding half a stick of butter. Lindsey didn't realize when Isaac told her where the coffee was that she was actually hearing the voice of a serial killer. Just as she didn't know when they cuddled on the couch at night watching Funniest Home Movies that she was sharing laughs with a serial killer. And she had no idea that when they fought over what plants should go in the empty flower bed in the backyard, she was arguing with the man responsible for four dead girls. But worst of all, when Lindsey made love to Isaac, she didn't know that she had a serial killer inside her.

  Isaac entered the kitchen, his arms raised tying his long black hair into a ponytail. Lindsey held up a cup for him but he nodded toward the round birch wood kitchen table, so she turned and set it down, and then sat down on the other side. The muffins popped and she buttered each one, filling them with enough butter to melt and flow over the side and onto the light blue plate. She reached for the morning newspaper, which she'd brought in first thing that morning, and slipped off the plastic bag cover. Of all the women Isaac had known in his life, Lindsey was the only one who loved to read, and the morning paper was her Bible. She religiously read the front page and the Style section before she left the house for the tattoo parlor she co-owned with her best friend Kate. She'd been with Isaac for two years since their mutual friends introduced them at Burning Man, and they'd been together ever since.

  Isaac finished with his ponytail and opened the cupboard to grab a package of instant oatmeal. He threw a bowl of water into the microwave and zapped it for one minute, then set the bowl on the table, poured the oatmeal into the bowl, and mixed it around with a spoon. He sprinkled in some white sugar, pulled back his chair, sat down, and just as he lifted the spoon to his mouth to take his first bite…he froze. Across from him, in bold black letters, was the front-page headline: Possible Break in Bedroom Killer Case.

  He slipped the oatmeal into his mouth in slow motion, pretending nothing mattered as he ate in silence, glancing from his bowl to the headline, thinking about that night with the bat-swinging lady.

  Could that be it?

  What did they have?

  Probably a hair.

  Had to be.

  Not a fingerprint.

  He wore gloves
.

  Had to be a hair.

  Lindsey folded the paper and set it on the table next to her muffin plate.

  "So, what are we doing tonight?" she asked. Isaac finished his oatmeal, stood, washed out the bowl, and then dropped it into the sink. He sat back down and sipped his coffee, stealing quick glances at the folded newspaper, trying to read the article without letting Lindsey catch him.

  "You want to see a movie? Or dinner? Or both?" Lindsey asked with a smile.

  "Let me think about it," Isaac said. "Pete was talking about shooting some pool. We might do that."

  Lindsey stood up and put on a sad face. She leaned into him, caressing his cheek and running her fingers though his ponytail. Isaac swatted her hand away and grabbed the newspaper off the table while he stood up.

  "I gotta go. I'll call you this afternoon," Isaac said.

  He grabbed the sack lunch that Lindsey had prepared for him and walked out the door. She watched him go, then turned around, walked into the bedroom to dry her hair, and get ready for work. As she got dressed she thought vaguely about Isaac's change in personality of late. She woke up a couple times to find him gone from bed. She knew he had insomnia and he'd said taking a drive always helped, but he was out so long…it's like he never slept at all some nights. And he was spending a lot more time on his cars in the garage. Well, that's to be expected she thought, in his line of business. He loved his cars. He never liked it when she came into the garage though. He always found excuses to stop his work, and seemed to want her to leave before he'd go back to work. So Lindsey left him alone, but sometimes she would look out the kitchen window at the lighted garage late at night—wondering what he was doing out there.

  CHAPTER 52

  "Can you believe the mayor wants to call in the FBI?" Gerald said.

  Gerald's knuckles were turning white; he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Megan sat in the passenger seat beside him. They were driving back from an emergency meeting called by the mayor after the fourth killing provided no hard leads.

  "Maybe they can help," Megan said, meekly.

  "I don't need any more help!" Gerald shouted.

  After listening to a twenty-minute tongue lashing by the mayor and the six city council members, Gerald had to explain that even though hairs were found and the killer was actually caught in the act by Ms. Sharp, they had to admit that they still had nothing. And right now Gerald was taking it out on Megan.

  "What I need is a partner that's working the case."

  Megan said nothing.

  "Andy's following up with the neighbors, and running down Karen Sharp's co-workers and Rachel's school teachers. Kennedy's running down Rachel's friends and schoolmates. The other guys are still working the first three vics. What are you working on, Detective?"

  Gerald stared across at Megan, as if waiting for her to look at him. But she didn't move.

  "I'm waiting," he said.

  Megan could feel his stare. Fuck it. If she was ever going to say anything, this was the time. She had to just say it and get it over with. She'd planned on saying it at the station so she'd have witnesses. But she knew she couldn't wait any longer.

  Just say it.

  Tell him.

  "I'm putting in for a transfer," Megan said.

  It felt to Megan as if the temperature suddenly dropped ten degrees inside the car. The silence was thick. It was a foreboding silence that scared Megan more than having Gerald shout at her. She braced herself, but still nothing came. He still didn't say anything, but Megan knew he was contemplating what to do, throwing his analytical mind into overdrive. She was sure he'd heard her correctly.

  That's right asshole, I want out.

  Gerald sucked air into his nostrils and held it for a second before exhaling back through his nostrils, then let the last half of the breath travel through his mouth. If he weren't a grown up, you'd think he was a six-year-old getting ready to throw a tantrum.

  He was.

  He whipped the wheel to the right and the tires squealed as he pulled into a commercial parking lot, accelerated into a parking space next to a black SUV, and threw the car into park. He didn't bother to cut the engine. Megan stiffened, gripping the right side of her seat, preparing for the worst…and the worst came when Gerald reached across, grabbed a chunk of hair on the back of her head, and yanked backward until Megan was staring at the overhead light. He pulled her close, leaned his face over hers, and through gritted teeth said, "You're not fucking going nowhere, you hear me? Nowhere. We have a job to do here and it's not finished."

  He shook her head on every other word for emphasis.

  "You think you're going to pack your shit and just walk away from me? Huh? We got a killer to find. How would it look if the fucking reporters got wind of this? Huh? Homicide detective quits in the middle of the investigation," Gerald said.

  "I'm not quitting," Megan said.

  Gerald yanked again and shouted, "The hell you're not! You just want to go off and fuck your doctor friend all day. That's what you want to do."

  "He has nothing—"

  Gerald cut her off.

  "I don't need to hear this. Not now. The subject is closed," Gerald said.

  He shoved her head away like he was tossing an empty coffee cup in the trash, gripped the wheel again, sucked in another gulp of air, and dropped the car into reverse, pulled out of the parking spot, cutting off an oncoming car which laid on its horn. Bell threw his left hand out the window and flipped off the driver as he punched the gas and sped out of the parking lot and back onto the street, where he gunned the car and sped down the boulevard.

  Three minutes later, they were parked behind a large glass and plastic recycling bin located behind an Albertson's grocery store. It was seven thirty in the evening and darkness had fallen. Gerald had Megan bent over the back of the cruiser. Knowing what was about to happen, Megan had grabbed her cell phone out of her pants pocket before she was yanked out of the car. Now, as she lay hunched over, with Gerald inside her, rocking her forward with each deep angry thrust, she tapped the text key on the phone, and then tapped John's name from the contact list. Up popped a blank page ready for a new text message. Megan struggled to keep hold of her phone while she tapped out a short message, sending it just as Gerald finished with her.

  Twenty seconds later, as Megan was zipping up her pants, John's cell phone chirped on his kitchen table. He set his spoon into his bowl of chicken soup and flipped open his phone to read Megan's name. He smiled and clicked the button...and the message appeared.

  I love you. More than you know.

  CHAPTER 53

  John stared at his scarred face in the mirror, imagining what it used to look like before the scar. There was still a faint hint of the black eye, the black replaced with deep pink, which would itself be replaced by normal flesh tones soon enough. The swelling had disappeared too, so all that remained was the four-inch scar. He lightly touched the skin next to the former laceration and noted how it turned white, then pink again after he released it.

  A good sign.

  He'd spent the day rereading all his serial killer notes and studying the wall map, showing the four killings, each located within seven to ten miles of one another. John didn't feel as if there was truly anything to be gained by looking at the map. It created no symmetry, no rhyming of street names, no parallelogram. No pentagram was created when he drew a line from one point to the next.

  No structure whatsoever. Just random locations. The files he had on each girl showed a fairly typical teenage life. They all attended middle school or high school. Three were good students, one not so good. All of the mothers had jobs, no welfare. One even worked two jobs. Two were on good terms with their ex-husbands, one wasn't. The last, Karen Sharp, had lost her husband to cancer. There didn't seem to be any connection at all between these girls, their mothers, or the murders. More than anything, John wanted to understand why.

  What made him choose these girls?

  He laid down the page
s he'd been reading: notes on Colleen Hanson, and stood to stretch his sore lower back, the kinks and pops that sprang from his body told him that he needed to get back to the gym. He was a regular for many years, but after "the accident" he'd stopped going. He'd gained fourteen pounds in the past year by sitting around and doing not much of anything except visiting with Dr. Larson once a week.

  John lay down on his back on the living room floor and reached his right leg across his left, stretching his lower back. He felt a vertebrae pop, and rolled in the other direction to repeat the process. It was harder to reach out with his leg than in the past, and this confirmed his thoughts about getting back to the gym. He realized what a good thought this was. If he hadn't met Megan, he…well, a lot of things wouldn't be if he hadn't met Megan.

  Breathing, for one.

  As if she were reading his mind, John heard a knock on the front door. He stood, walked to the door, and opened it to find Megan smiling at him. He smiled back and said, "Come in." Megan walked in and pecked him on the cheek, as she passed.

  "How are you?" she asked.

  "I'm good," John said, closing the door.

  "Your bandage is gone."

  "Yeah, had the stitches removed yesterday."

  John's mind flashed back to the bookstore—and how that day had ended. He'd called her later that night but she was either working or didn't want to answer. He left a message—somewhat benign, just saying, "We should talk." He didn't want to scare her away and had hoped they could just have a heart-to-heart and see where each of them stood. For his part, he didn't want it to end. Sure it was going to be different, but they could easily build on what they had. Build to what, he didn't know. He wasn't thinking too far ahead, but to say he hadn't imagined marriage would be wrong. He had, but it was not so much a fantasy as simply the question, What if?