What Doesn’t Kill Her

by Max Allan Collins

  “I’m happy for that much, sir. And I’ll keep you up to date on my progress.”

  “Start now. Tell me about this suspect of yours.”

  “Basil Havoc,” Mark said. “Of the several possible suspects I’ve considered, he’s number one.”

  “Saw his name in your files—remind me.”

  Mark shifted in his chair, sat forward. “When David Elkins didn’t talk to the media right away, after the murders of his family? Reporters started zeroing in on the people around him in his life. Somehow they found out Akina Elkins, not long before she was killed, had started studying gymnastics under this guy Havoc. Guy was quoted in one of those stories. ‘She’ll be missed, sweet girl…’ ”

  “The typical twaddle. But how does that make him a suspect?”

  “It doesn’t, but you see—I knew Jordan Rivera when we were kids, and I remembered that she used to study gymnastics. Turns out she studied with Havoc.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Yes. We were in high school together.”

  Two hands came up in a stop-right-there gesture. “This thing better not be personal, Pryor. Was Rivera your steady or some shit?”

  “No! No. She was just a classmate.” Not exactly a lie.

  “So knowing her a little made it possible to talk to her?” Kelley asked. “And she told you about Havoc? What, at the nuthouse?”

  “No, no sir. The last I heard she was still in St. Dimpna’s, and essentially catatonic.”

  “Then how…?”

  “I reached out to some mutual friends from those days, and they say she studied under Havoc. Just briefly. She quit the lessons, in fact, not long after starting them.”

  “Why?”

  “That I don’t know. Yet.”

  “So what’s the gymnastic coach’s story?”

  Mark sat back. Crossed an ankle over a knee. Suddenly he was feeling damn near at ease with the captain. “Havoc has a pretty darn impressive background.”

  “How impressive?”

  “How about ’92 Olympics impressive?”

  “Olympic star, huh? From the USA?”

  Mark shook his head. “United Olympic team.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “After the Iron Curtain fell, the nations in the Russian bloc couldn’t get individual teams together fast enough, so they joined forces. Havoc is from Moldova, one of twelve countries that made up the United team. He got a silver medal, then came over here. It wasn’t long before he settled in Cleveland and started his gymnastics center.”

  Kelley was nodding slowly, clearly interested. “Where’s Havoc now?”

  “His school is still going here in Cleveland, but Havoc himself travels quite a bit.”

  Kelley rocked awhile. His eyes were moving in thought. Mark said nothing. Waited for his boss to process the information.

  Finally the captain said, “So, your suspect knew both families. I like that. Did he have any connection to the Sullys in Strongsville?”

  “No, sir. Not that I’ve found so far.”

  “You got anything else suggestive about him?”

  Mark nodded, and gestured toward the file. “In 2008, the US Women’s Gymnastics Championships were in Boston. Around that time, a family was murdered in Providence, Rhode Island.”

  “Boston’s in Massachusetts,” Kelley reminded him.

  “Yes, but Providence is only about an hour’s drive from Boston.”

  Kelley frowned. “Do you know for sure that Havoc was in Providence?”

  “No,” Mark admitted. “I’ve seen footage from the championships, definitely putting him in Boston during the week the Rhode Island family was killed.”

  “Have you talked to the Providence PD?”

  Mark wanted to be careful here. He was about to admit contacting another jurisdiction for information that might pertain to at least two, now maybe three, local cases, none of which were his.

  Finally, he said, “Yes, sir. I realize I may have overstepped, but yes.”

  Kelley grunted. “We’ll skip me tearing you a new asshole and go straight to what you found out.”

  “Okay. The detective there said they wrote it off as a home invasion gone south. The parents and a fifteen-year-old adopted son were shot with a nine mil.”

  “Were they mutilated?”

  “The Providence guy didn’t say so, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I figured he would have mentioned it had they been. Or if that was the case, and they were holding it back, I didn’t want to send up any alarm bells.”

  “That might ring back in Cleveland, you mean? And let your captain know you’re ‘overstepping’?”

  Mark swallowed. Uncrossed his legs. “Something like that, sir.”

  But Kelley had already moved on. “What kind of gun was used in the Elkins murders?”

  “Nine millimeter.”

  “Possible connection, then.”

  “Possible connection, yes.”

  “A lot of nine mils in the world.” The captain nodded toward the general world outside his office. “There’s a jungle full of fuckin’ Glocks out there, you know.”

  “Oh, I know, sir.”

  Kelley nodded toward the file before him. “I just skimmed this. Is there anything else that ties Havoc in?”

  “Well, in 2010, when the US Women’s Gymnastics Championships were in Hartford? Havoc was there, too.”

  “Why, was a Hartford family murdered?”

  “No, but a family in the Bronx was.”

  “Yeah, and getting from Hartford to the Bronx isn’t exactly from the earth to the moon. I get the drift. Go on.”

  Mark did: “Family of six, all shot, the adults mutilated.”

  “Slashed?”

  Mark nodded. “Two hours from Hartford, an easy drive.”

  “Nine mil?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “The parents dealt in illegal substances, so it got attributed to them angering the wrong crowd.”

  Kelley rocked some more. Gently. Eyes moving again. Then: “So none of these bullets has ever been compared with another?”

  “No, sir. No one’s connected these crimes.”

  “You would think the FBI computers would have done the job.”

  “You would think. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

  Kelley chuckled dryly. “And that’s why you keep pesterin’ my ass? Because you have connected these crimes.”

  “Right, sir. And, well…”

  “Spill it.”

  “… you are in a position to ask for comparisons of the bullets in these cases. Whereas I am just—”

  “A worthless shit-for-brains rookie, yes, I know, with the weight of a gnat that just landed on an elephant’s ass.”

  “I was just thinking that, sir.”

  That actually made Kelley chuckle.

  The pair sat silently for a while as Captain Kelley mulled his options.

  “The foundation you’re pouring for this house of horror isn’t strong enough to hold up an outhouse, you know. And don’t tell me you were just thinking that.”

  “Not strong enough yet, sir, no.”

  “Well, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you turn out to be Sherlock the Fuck Holmes and you’ve uncovered a serial killer that the FBI, in all its power and prowess, missed. If those bullets match, they’ll take over all these cases so fast, you won’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

  “I don’t have any problem with the FBI taking over for me,” Mark said, raising his palms as if in surrender. “They are certainly better equipped for it than a crap-for-brains rookie.”

  There was a somber aspect to Kelley’s expression that reminded Mark, improbably enough, of a minister or priest. “You just want this guy caught.”

  “And stopped.” He sat forward again. “If I’m right, Captain, this monster has killed over a dozen people in the last decade, and that’s just the ones I’ve been able to find. There’s no telling how
many there are, really.”

  For perhaps thirty seconds, the only sound was the squeak of Kelley rocking in his chair as he thought. And of Mark’s heartbeat in his ears.

  Finally, Kelley said, “Okay, kid. I’ll try to get the bullets sent here for ballistics examination.”

  At last, at last, someone was taking him seriously on this thing.

  Kelley jerked forward, sat with his elbows on the desk. “Keep looking at this Havoc character, but tread the hell lightly, okay? Low profile, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If this turns out to be nothing, I don’t want this blowing up into a lawsuit against the city, follow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kelley made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, as if shooing away a stray dog. “Meantime, on your own time only, for now. And till I say otherwise, this stays strictly between you and me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, get the fuck out of my office.”

  Mark did.

  In his car, hours later, Mark was still riding the high from his sit-down with Captain Kelley. They had spoken almost as equals… well, as members of the same species, anyway. After the meeting, he and Pence had closed down three twerps who had been stealing equipment from a local recording studio. Those three were now sitting in the slam and the studio owner was happy that his equipment would eventually be returned. All in all, a pretty good day.

  Now, with darkness creeping up on the city, Mark sat in a credit union parking lot on Emerald Parkway, just north of Interstate 480—next to Basil Havoc’s generically titled American Gymnastics Center.

  Mark had the window down on his Chevy Equinox, letting the warm spring air drift over him. The breeze brought soothing sounds of birds and insects, and the gentle rustle of tree leaves, if occasionally disrupted by the roar of jets—he was not far from Cleveland Hopkins International Airport.

  Soon kids were piling out of the gymnastic school into waiting parental minivans and SUVs. The next wave out, maybe ten minutes later, was instructors. Evening settled in and muted traffic noise banished the nature sounds, the jets seeming distant now, and a little forlorn as day surrendered to night.

  Finally, half an hour later, Basil Havoc exited the school, locked the door behind him, then strode to his Escalade. Lit only vaguely by a streetlight at the lot’s far end, the gymnastics instructor—tall, fit, fortyish—was easily recognizable, from his jungle-cat gait if nothing else.

  Mark had neglected to tell Captain Kelley that he’d been staking Havoc out for weeks. Why risk his boss’s wrath? And anyway, there was nothing to report as yet. The gymnast seldom varied from a few set routes—after leaving his school, he would go home or to the bank depository; if the latter, he would either go directly home or first stop at one of two nearby restaurants (one Chinese, one Italian). He varied this on two occasions, when he went to two other Chinese and Italian restaurants.

  As usual, Havoc’s Escalade went south on Grayton Road before turning onto I-480 east. And as usual, Mark’s Equinox entered the highway two cars back.

  They merged onto I-71 south, separated now by a semi. Mark cruised behind the big rig, swinging toward the shoulder to get occasional glimpses of Havoc’s vehicle. He settled in for the long drive down to Medina, the suburb where Havoc shared a nice home with a Great Dane and an absentee daughter, mostly away at boarding school.

  The Internet made it easy to learn all kinds of things about people who had gained any amount of celebrity, and Basil Havoc—a frequent subject on gymnastics blogs and in articles posted from sports magazines—certainly qualified. Apparently Havoc was a stern taskmaster with a temper, which made him a good candidate for violent behavior. Which helped make him a good suspect.

  Havoc’s Escalade veered right onto the ramp for Royalton Road, a change from pattern, and the same exit Mark had taken the night before, when he stopped by the Sully home in Strongsville. A spike of excitement accompanied the young detective up the ramp.

  On Royalton, Havoc soon turned left onto Howe Road, just past the Samurai Sushi Steakhouse. Mark hung back, breathing hard. No cars between them now—Havoc seemed to be mimicking Mark’s route from last night.

  Would he turn right onto Cypress Avenue, the block where the Sully home sat, now silent and vacant?

  They skirted the east boundary of the SouthPark Mall, crossing Polo Club Drive. Havoc continued south—if the man stopped at the Sully home, would that constitute probable cause? How Mark would love to have an excuse to haul this creep in. They passed Pomeroy Boulevard on the west, then Tracy Lane on the east, the Escalade obeying the speed limit, Mark doing his best to hang back and not be spotted. They passed Shurmer Road on the west and, despite the row of houses on the east side of Howe Road, Mark could hear the faint echo of traffic back on I-71.

  The Escalade continued south, passing Canterbury Drive. Just two blocks to go—Mark was practically holding his breath now, wondering if (almost praying that) Havoc would make the turn.

  Glendale Avenue streaked by and—as they passed the houses, most with their lights on, families enjoying an evening together (something the Sullys would never do again)—Mark’s excitement was replaced by a cold, anger-tinged resolve.

  When Havoc’s turn signal came on, Mark felt almost that he had willed it, that he now controlled the Escalade, that he was making it go to the house where that family had been so savagely murdered.…

  As they eased west on Cypress Avenue, Mark closed the gap some. Would Havoc stop, or slow, or even just look over at the Sully house as they passed? In the darkness, it was impossible to tell the latter.

  Then at the corner, Havoc turned left onto Park Lane Drive, heading south. Was Havoc just screwing with him? Had the gymnastics coach made him somehow? He wasn’t driving a department car, and his tailing technique had been by-the-book—how could the g.d. guy have gotten onto him?

  Havoc turned right onto Drake Road, going west again. No way Havoc could know he was a cop! Much less realize that Mark had been investigating him.

  Another left, and they were heading south again, this time on Pearl Road, Havoc leading, just under the speed limit—where the heck they were going? They passed through the major intersection with Boston Road.

  Flummoxed, Mark was not exactly riding Havoc’s tail, but with limited traffic—they’d been the only two cars on Cypress Avenue—the guy surely would make him soon, if he hadn’t already. Mark could always pull off onto one of the side streets, which led to nothing more than a forest of cul-de-sacs.…

  But if Havoc stayed on Pearl, as far south as Center Road, in Brunswick, Mark could simply peel off, get back on the interstate, and head home. No harm, no foul.

  At the inappropriately named Beverly Hills Drive, Havoc turned east, then again, into the parking lot of a strip mall. Mark followed. He’d come this far.

  The single-story mall had five outlets, one out of business, three closed for the night, with Apollonia’s Italian Restaurant, at the far end, blinking its red OPEN sign.

  Havoc parked.

  So did Mark, half a dozen spaces over—when Havoc went inside, Mark would just pull out. His excitement, his anger, had fizzled into frustration and embarrassment. Still, a part of him wanted to just march over to Havoc’s car and confront the creep.

  Then, watching the Escalade out his open window, he realized that just the opposite was happening—Havoc had climbed out of his Escalade and was approaching Mark’s Equinox with that easy gait of a jungle beast. My lord, the man moved quickly! And with seemingly no effort.

  Mark scrambled for something to say as Havoc came up to the driver’s side door. The man had a mop of dark hair and a Tom Selleck mustache, his well-developed musculature obvious beneath a dark polo emblazoned with the name of his business. His face was wide and flat with a small, flattened nose. Dark cold eyes peered out from beneath heavy eyebrows. Displeasure radiated off of him, as he leaned down like an angry carhop.

  “You following me for a reason?
” Havoc asked, his middle-European accent less than pronounced but more than apparent.

  “Sorry, I thought you were somebody else,” Mark managed with a nervous laugh. “Friend of mine.” Lamely, he held up his cell phone. “I tried to call but when he didn’t answer, I assumed it was ’cause he was driving.”

  Havoc let out a long breath and his displeasure seemed to go with it. “Your buddy has an Escalade, huh? Seems like everybody does these days.”

  “Or an Equinox,” Mark said, with a strained smile.

  Nodding at the detective’s blue vehicle, Havoc grinned. “Yeah, I see these everywhere.”

  Was he playing with Mark?

  As the two men exchanged shrugs and pleasant expressions, Mark wondered: was this the beast that killed Jordan Rivera’s family? The Elkinses? The Sullys? A knot in Mark’s gut tightened itself.

  “I was starting to think my buddy was leading me on a wild goose chase,” Mark said, thinking about the Sully home. “Ya don’t mind my saying, kind of a roundabout route to get here.”

  The big man nodded, the breeze ruffling his dead-looking hair. “Brunswick exit might be easier, but with all that damn construction on the interstate? Makes it one lane most of the way. I hate getting stuck in traffic. And there’s always traffic.”

  I-71 did have its share of construction and frequent traffic jams. “I don’t know if I was ever on Cypress Avenue before,” Mark said with a grin.

  “It’s a quiet part of town.”

  Was this guy messing with him?

  Jerking a thumb toward the restaurant, Havoc asked, “You know Apollonia’s?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “It’s damn good,” Havoc said. “You should try it. Osso buco to die for.”

  He gave Mark a little wave and nod, then turned and headed to the restaurant.

  Was he letting a killer walk away?

  Yet what else could he do? Mark had no evidence to speak of, and he had just come close to giving himself away. If Kelley knew about this botched-up episode, all the ground Mark had gained with the captain would be lost.

  He thought about going in that restaurant and ordering a meal, and sitting where Havoc could see him, and maybe getting under the skin of this monster. Give the guy something to think about, something to worry about.