What Doesn’t Kill Her

by Max Allan Collins

  As they wrapped loving arms around him, a switch in his brain turned off.

  My greatest thrill is watching as a sinner breathes his or her last, allowing me to bear witness as the Lord claims another soul. I never feel closer to God than when I have taken a life for Him and He is gathering one of his flock for final judgment.

  Even the threat of a passing car or an approaching pedestrian is not enough to deter me as I stand transfixed at the exact moment the Lord is welcoming Levi’s soul home. The boy won’t be there long, I fear, as the likes of a sodomite like Levi would find his soul sent to Purgatory at best and more likely Eternal Fire. But even the worst sinner deserves a moment of grace, and a fair shot at the Lord’s mercy.

  I have kept close watch on Jordan because she is God’s Reward to Me. But I have kept close watch on the sodomite Levi, as well, because he was blessed by God with a brain and of Jordan’s friends is the one most likely to block the Lord’s path. Without him, the others will dry up and blow away like fallen leaves, as his mind and skills are the tree to which they cling.

  I gather Levi’s cell phone and his backpack with its laptop, even his wallet. If the police believe it’s a mugging gone awry, that may be all the distraction they need to go traipsing down the wrong path. They have shown themselves to be unworthy, stunted opponents in the past, and I have no cause to think they will do any better now. Certainly not the callow youth Pryor.

  Even if they perceive the transparency of the mugging ruse, they will still never suspect that the real reason I have taken the laptop is to keep the information on it away from prying eyes.

  Speaking of eyes, there’s just one task left to perform.

  “If thy right eye offends thee.…”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Doing his own Net research, Mark started digging into the lives of Stuart Carlyle, Patti Roland, and Bradley Slavens, stopping just short of violating anyone’s civil rights.

  As Levi had said, Slavens was off the grid. The guy had no online presence, neither Facebook nor Twitter, nor any other social website. A Google search had brought up next to nothing, not even a photo, which was frustrating—a simple photo shown to Jordan could either rule Slavens out or give them their man.

  But there was nothing about this ghost—nothing in obits, neither local nor online, though in Slavens’s employment history, a short post-Havoc stay at a rival gymnastics training center did turn up, then nothing. Aggravating though this was, Mark took solace in Slavens being the least promising suspect, not fitting the time frame as well as Roland and Carlyle.

  He would concentrate on them.

  Roland appeared to be a first-rate gymnastics instructor. The three-year-old sexual abuse charges had been a one-time thing, most likely brought on by a mother with a conservative background being offended by Roland’s openly gay lifestyle. The out-of-court resolution may have been a cash settlement or a lawyer advising against further pursuit of a weak case.

  Despite the matter being a civil one, the case began with a criminal complaint that, though it didn’t get anywhere, resulted in a mug shot. Patti Roland had short black hair and a narrow, angular face; with makeup she might have been borderline pretty. Without it, she looked hard and her eyes stared at the camera lens in cold rage. Was she merely angry about the false charges, or was Mark looking into the eyes of a killer? Half of a killing duo maybe?

  She had frequently traveled with Havoc and had been in every city that Mark had associated with a nearby murder. Was she as clean as her record (minus that questionable sexual abuse charge) appeared? Was she capable of violence, as her angry mug shot seemed to indicate?

  But her gayness spoke against that. Few lesbian couples indulged in the kind of sick sexual conquest games that male-female serial killing teams pursued. And, anyway, there was no other woman on their very short suspect list.

  Likewise, Carlyle had been in all the same cities at the same times. His record was even cleaner than Roland’s. He had no mug shot. But surveilling Havoc, the detective had seen the tall, lithe Carlyle several times, coming out of the center into the parking lot—his name had been stitched to the breast of his windbreaker. Pushing forty, with short blond hair, he could be the monster Jordan had described.

  Yesterday he had driven to the gymnastics school and used his cell phone to grab a parking-lot picture of Carlyle. Mark got a decent three-quarter front shot as the guy was getting in his car. Then he’d called Jordan and asked if he could stop by her place, briefly, to discuss a possible suspect.

  They sat at the black-topped table near the kitchenette, as before, having some of the Coke Zero left over from his previous visit.

  Mark brought the photo up on his phone and handed it to her. “Is this your intruder?”

  She studied it awhile.

  “I’m… I’m not sure,” she said finally. “The blond hair and blue eyes are right, but a lot of guys have those. You have those. Ten years is a long time.”

  She’d had to barely glance at a cell-phone photo to dismiss Havoc.

  “He has… isn’t that a scar by his eye? His right eye? The intruder didn’t have that scar. But he could have gotten it since. Ten years is… I said that, didn’t I?”

  “Take your time, Jordan. Could it be him, ten years on?”

  “I think maybe his eyes are spaced wider. And his hair is parted. The intruder’s wasn’t.”

  “He could have changed his hair,” Mark said.

  “Is there any way to tell how old a scar is?”

  “Somebody with more medical expertise than me might be able to approximate when he got it.”

  “He’s around the right age. And you can put him at the scenes of the out-of-town murders?”

  “He was traveling with Havoc to nearby cities. Is it him?”

  “Maybe.”

  That was good enough to keep Mark going. He searched the Net for a younger shot of Carlyle that might enable Jordan to make a more definitive ID; but he got nothing.

  And no mug shot. The only blip on the police radar that Carlyle ever made was when he’d reported his gun stolen six years ago. The missing piece was a nine mil, like the ones used in some of the murders. A coincidence? Lot of guns like that out there, particularly Glocks, many like this one with a polygonal barrel. Hard to trace.

  Had Carlyle reported the gun stolen so he could more safely use it to commit murder?

  At that point, the whole twisted scenario started over.

  Friday morning, a day off that he intended to start by sleeping in, Mark was awakened by his cell phone on the nightstand.

  He fumbled with the thing, then heard himself saying, “Yeah. Pryor.”

  Captain Kelley’s voice. “Pryor, you don’t sound awake. It’s ten-thirty, man.”

  “I’m awake now, sir. What is it?”

  “I got the results of the bullet-matching tests from the different cases you’ve been looking at.”

  Mark sat up. “And?”

  “Not great news,” Kelley said. “They’re all nine millimeter, but because of the polygonal barrel, there’s no matching the bullets. Those interchangeable barrels make it practically impossible.”

  “What about shell casings?”

  “The shooter appears to’ve picked up his brass.”

  “Damn.”

  “Don’t give up so easy, Pryor—he missed one casing. The family in the Bronx? Rolled under a low sofa and he missed it.”

  Kelley was sounding like he was accepting as fact Mark’s theory that one killer was behind these family homicides.

  “So we have a casing,” Mark said. “Finally something solid.”

  “Solid, but with nothing to compare it to. Running it through NIBIN will take for-fucking-ever.”

  NIBIN—the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms—matched bullet and shell casing marks from cases nationwide.

  Mark said, “I may have a comparison for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “
Long shot, but still a possibility. One of the women in that little spin-off team from the victim support group—Kay Isenberg? I spoke to her about the supposed murder-suicide of her sister and brother-in-law, Katherine and Walter Gregory.”

  “Supposed?”

  “Captain, it was ruled a murder-suicide.…”

  “That’s my memory.”

  “But there are some… discrepancies.”

  “Enough discrepancies to open the file of a closed case?” The old irritation was back in Kelley’s tone.

  Mark pressed on: “There’s a right-handed bullet wound from a left-handed supposed suicide, and the wife and husband were sleeping on each other’s side of the bed.”

  “And you think that’s enough to—”

  “I didn’t bring it to you, Captain,” Mark said, “but I’m raising it now because there was a Glock at the scene. Might be worth comparison.”

  “This so-called serial killer of yours has the most fluid goddamn MO I ever heard of. It’s almost like you were just stringing a bunch of unrelated homicides together to see how big a jackass you can make out of me. What the hell am I going to do with you, son?”

  “Keep helping me?”

  After a long sigh of exasperation, Kelley said, “You come up with anything else about any of these murders that might lead us somewhere?”

  “We are making some strides, sir.”

  “ ‘We’? Don’t tell me you’ve got Pence talked into helping you on your off-hours. He wouldn’t help his grandmother across the street.”

  Mark smiled. “No, I haven’t bothered Pence beyond using him as a sounding board. I’ve got one of the support group members doing some computer research on the case—kid named Levi Mills.”

  Suddenly the back-and-forth stopped and silence took the line—Mark thought perhaps they’d been cut off.

  Then Kelley’s voice returned, his voice soft: “What was that name, again?”

  “Whose name?”

  “The, uh, the computer kid.”

  “Levi Mills. Why?”

  “You have an address on him?”

  “Sure.” Mark gave it to him, worry prickling his neck.

  “Same Levi Mills,” Kelley said, still soft. “Friendly with this kid?”

  “Somewhat. Nice young man.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but your nice young man was murdered last night.”

  “… Shit.”

  “Call came in a couple of hours ago. An early morning dog walker found the body.”

  Mark practically swallowed the phone. “I want to go to that crime scene. And don’t say I’m not homicide, Captain, because—”

  “I want you over there. Damnit! This is the son in that Mills double homicide over in Ashtabula?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You stay away from the media. Once they know that the only surviving member of a massacred family was murdered himself, this is going to blow up. You may get a lot of company looking into this thing. Multi-city task force, the works. But for now?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get your ass over to that crime scene, and pitch in as needed. Grant and Lynch are over there. I’ll let them know you’re on the way.”

  Kelley gave him the location. Mark threw on one of his cheap, dark work suits and made tracks.

  Driving over, thoughts fought for attention in his mind. Had they somehow attracted the serial killer’s notice? Had Levi stumbled onto something and exposed himself? Were Jordan and the others in danger, too? Or was this all just a coincidence? A mugging gone wrong or something?

  He used hands-free dialing to get Jordan on her cell.

  “Morning,” she said.

  “You home?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I need you to stay there until you hear from me again. Don’t let anybody in but me, and find something to defend yourself with.”

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “… Levi’s been murdered.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know the details. I’m on my way to the crime scene. When I know more, you’ll know more.”

  “Pick me up. Take me with you.”

  “No. Call David, Phillip, and Kay and tell them to stay inside and not let anybody in. Please don’t tell them about Levi yet. I’ll tell them myself, when I have more to share. Got that?”

  “Take me with you!”

  “No.”

  He ended the call.

  He made it quickly across town to the Shaker Square RTA station. Traffic in the westbound lanes was being swept over to the curb lane while patrol cars, Grant’s Crown Vic, a crime scene van, and an ambulance were all parked in the lane closest to the station, which sat on an island between the east and westbound lanes of Shaker Boulevard.

  Pulling in behind the others, Mark threw it into park, turned on the Equinox’s flashers, and got out. The sun was high and a faint breeze announced the irony of a beautiful spring day.

  A crowd of onlookers strained at the crime scene tape with patrolmen just beyond. Mark stretched to see over the small crowd—although the yellow tape line had been positioned near the station, the cops were grouped near a grove of trees a good twenty-five yards west, near the sidewalk.

  With some effort, Mark edged through the crowd—he understood the mob mentality, but what did they hope to see at a murder scene, exactly? He showed his badge to the nearest patrolman, who raised the tape for him to crawl under.

  Grant saw him coming and broke away from the rest of the cops to meet him halfway.

  “Captain Kelley said you’d be joining us,” the tall African-American cop said in that deep, commanding voice.

  “You’re okay with this?” Mark asked. He was well aware that homicide detectives, the rock stars of the force, did not like being encroached upon.

  “I’ll take all the damn help I can get. Cap says you knew this kid, and that he was working with you and some other civilians about the possibility these family homicides are related.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m going to want you to fill me in about all of that, in detail. But for now? The Mills kid is over there.”

  The big detective pointed to a shady cluster of six trees, maybe ten or so yards west.

  As they walked, Grant said, “Ask your questions, son.”

  “Anybody see anything?”

  “No.”

  “Time of death?”

  “No coroner yet, but from my experience and the amount of blood that’s already dried? He got it sometime last night.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Old boy named Otto Stein. Dog walker. ID’d the kid, said they lived in the same building.” Grant pointed to a seven-story brick apartment house a block west or so from their position.

  “Mr. Stein say anything else?”

  Grant said, “Mr. Stein got spooked pretty good. He never saw anything like this. Said that with the shadows, he might not even have noticed the body, but his schnauzer was licking at something. Turned out to be a pool of blood. That sent Mr. Stein running faster than I’d guess he has in some damn time. He went over to the train station and used his cell to call 911. That’s where he waited for us.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “A couple officers accompanied him home. Thought about impounding the mutt.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Blood on its face. But, as you’ll see, we got no shortage of that.”

  With the crime scene just up ahead, Mark took in the surroundings. At night this would be a quiet neighborhood—maybe the occasional walker, like Mr. Stein, or if it wasn’t too late, workers from the strip mall and cinemas in the square, catching the train home. The Shaker Boulevard traffic would lighten and that dark patch of trees would be the perfect place for a mugger to lie in wait for a potential victim.

  Reaching the shady grove, Mark and Grant put on plastic booties over their shoes. As he was snugging his on, Mark finally saw Levi. The young man was facedown, deep in the shadows, h
is battered Chuck Taylors pointed toward the detectives. His right leg and right arm were straight out from his torso, the left leg bent slightly, his left arm near his body.

  Standing over the body now, the coppery aroma of blood in the air, Mark said to Grant, “He always carried his backpack, laptop in it.”

  “If he was just out for a walk, maybe not.”

  “If the bag’s not in his apartment, then he had it with him, and somebody stole it.” Mark shook his head. “This might just be a mugging gone wrong.”

  Grant shook his head. “No. Too many coincidences. A kid who was looking into his parents’ murders, and a bunch of other homicides that might be related? This is who happens to be the rare mugging victim who buys it? I don’t think so.”

  Away from direct sunshine, Mark waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the much dimmer light. The crime scene team was already taking casts of the prints, and there were a lot of them in the soft earth—Levi’s Chuck Taylors, another, heavier set about the same size… boots, maybe even combat boots. Nearer the sidewalk, Mark also noticed the paw prints of the schnauzer. Nobody was casting those.

  “How did he die?” Mark asked, his gaze averting the huge area of black-caked blood that made him realize that he didn’t really want to see Levi turned over. Right now, the kid was just Levi. Dead, but Levi.

  “I need a look at the A side,” Grant said to a crime scene guy, and the analyst gave him a nod. The African-American detective bent and gingerly eased Levi over onto his back, as if not wanting to hurt him.

  Levi was way past hurting—the young man’s throat had been cut, ear to ear, probably from behind, and then he’d been gutted like an animal, his shirt ripped to shreds, his insides spilled out like an overturned nest of snakes. That was vicious enough. But what had been done to his face managed to trump it.

  His right eye had been carved out, none too carefully.

  “The kid crossed Shaker Boulevard,” Grant said, “hit the sidewalk, and somebody was waiting in the trees. Grabbed him from behind, yanked him back here, did his thing. We haven’t found it, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “The eyeball. So be careful where you step.”