by Robert Ellis
Andrew raised the pistol, surprised that the shaking had nearly vanished and his hands were almost steady. He laughed when Cook looked at him the way they all had looked at him. The confusion on their faces as they gazed at the oil filter, and then the sudden shock of dread when they spotted the gun and figured out what was really going on. Andrew was glad that he’d decided to record the moment. He never wanted to forget the look on Reggie Cook’s face. Never ever.
Reggie’s eyes locked on the bright-blue oil filter. Dirty Diane.
“Goddamn it, you’re weird, kid. What the fuck is that?”
Andrew waited a beat for the dread to hit. Then he pulled the trigger twice and slammed Reggie with a center shot to the forehead, and a through-and-through in the hairy slob’s neck. After the two clicks, Reggie’s head snapped back, then bounced forward, smashing against the breakfast table. Andrew watched Reggie flop onto the floor like a dead fish. Then he pushed the body over with his foot and double-checked the gunshot wounds. No question about it, Reggie Cook was a corpse.
Andrew ran upstairs, his mind finding a narrow lane through the jumbled fog and darkness. He found his mother sleeping in bed. Moving closer, he tried to pull himself together. He was hyperventilating now—seeing himself from a distance—in the moment, and dream walking again.
He lifted the sheet away and knelt down to gaze at his mother’s naked body. Her smooth legs and round hips, her trimmed pussy and full tits. He looked at her face in wonder. Something happened in the moment. Something even better than the fear showing on Reggie Cook’s face. He began to forget about his mother’s body, and looked at her face the way a son would. The way he’d never looked at her before. He listened to her light breathing. She seemed so peaceful. So beautiful in a cheap sort of way.
He raised the pistol to her chest, heard a light click, and felt the blood spray him in the face. After a few moments, he stood up and gave her another long look.
She was gone finally. No more Mommy. He was free.
CHAPTER 46
Why did the man with blond cornrows make a return visit to the Strattons’ mansion?
What was the real killer doing in the death house?
Matt had arrived at the mansion on County Line Road about an hour ago. He’d scoured the third floor, avoiding the fingerprint powder as best he could but searching through every closet and examining the contents of every drawer. He didn’t sense that anything was wrong until he reached Kaylee’s room and realized that the seventeen-year-old girl didn’t seem to have any underwear. He couldn’t find a single bra or panty. While it may have been true that she went to boarding school and had only returned for the holidays, Matt couldn’t believe that she hadn’t packed clothing for the trip.
He sat down on her bed to think it over. It seemed bizarre. He could feel the answer in his gut, but didn’t want to rush it, didn’t want to go there until he made sure.
After a few moments, he got up and went through the girl’s dresser again. The second drawer seemed thin; a few tank tops and a handful of tees. Based on the contents of the remaining three drawers, if this had been Matt’s room at seventeen, his underwear would have been in the second.
He walked over to the closet and dumped the contents of Kaylee’s hamper onto the floor. Sorting through the pile, he found two changes of clothing. Two pairs of jeans, a top, and a pair of socks, but not a single bra or panty.
Matt headed downstairs, ignoring the smell of rotten blood and stepping into the master bedroom. Both Jim and Tammy Stratton had separate dressing rooms. Matt found Tammy’s and went through her chest of drawers. When he didn’t find any lingerie at all, he dumped her hamper on the floor and sorted through the pile of clothing. Within a matter of seconds, he stepped out of the dressing room, sat down on the bed, and gazed at the room.
The killer had come back for trophies.
Like Dr. Westbrook’s alternate profile, like Dr. Baylor had said himself, they were looking for a man who had been sexually abused for a long time. He was more than just a mass killer. He was a sexual deviant who had come back for the lingerie.
Matt wondered why the killer hadn’t collected his trophies and taken them with him on the night of the murders. Why risk exposure by making a return visit to a high-profile crime scene?
He let the thought go. He had this uneasy feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong in here, and he got off the bed and studied the room. When he turned back to the bed, he noticed the rumpled-up spread. The pillows were mussed as well.
He pulled the spread down and gazed at an unmade bed.
The answer to his questions now seemed obvious. The killer had come back for the lingerie, but he wanted to spend time here as well. He wanted to savor the moment. He had slept in their bed.
Matt suddenly became aware of the bedside table. Something seemed out of place here as well, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He stepped closer, taking an inventory of the objects before him. A modern lamp, an e-book reader, a charging cable for either a cell phone or a tablet, a clock radio, and then, finally, the family portrait. It was the photograph that didn’t belong here. As Matt took a second look, it was the frame the picture had been set in that didn’t fit.
Matt picked up the picture frame and examined it carefully. It was a cheap frame. A frame molded out of plastic. Frosty the Snowman was depicted in the upper-left corner. Centered beside Frosty were the words “Happy Holidays to You.” At the bottom it just said “Frosty the Snowman.”
Matt gazed at the furniture in the bedroom. On the fireplace mantel he found several family photographs set in sterling silver frames.
He looked back at the cheap plastic frame in his hands. The photograph was a family portrait. The Strattons were posed before a Christmas tree that had been decorated with lights and ornaments. Matt didn’t remember seeing a Christmas tree in the mansion. As he thought it over, he didn’t remember seeing any holiday decorations anywhere at all.
His eyes flicked back to the photograph. Why did it seem so familiar? So overwhelmingly familiar. It almost felt as if he had been standing in the room when the picture was snapped. He took another look at the Strattons’ faces, the gold wall in the background.
And then everything went black. In a split second everything began spinning. He staggered over to the bed. He needed to sit down. He needed to catch his breath.
He saw Dr. Baylor enter the room and give him an odd look.
“What is it?” the doctor said. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“The killer,” Matt said in a winded voice. “He was the one in the mansion. He overheard us talking. He knows we’re on to him.”
“That’s not why you look so pale. Your hands are shaking.”
“I know,” he said. “I know. Take a look at this photograph, but don’t touch it.”
Matt set the picture frame on the fireplace mantel, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Steadying himself, he crossed the room and sat on the wide windowsill as he checked his vinyl gloves.
Baylor shrugged, still eyeing the photograph. “I don’t get it.”
“Take another look.”
As Matt watched the doctor study the image, he brought him up to speed on his confrontation at the hotel bar and the brutal beating and robbery that Ryan Day had endured. He described the man with blond cornrows as best he could and discussed his fascination for lingerie. Along the way he mentioned Ken Doyle’s series of TV interviews with the media today and the federal prosecutor’s inability to see past his own nose.
It occurred to Matt that the doctor had entered the room without the Glock 17 in his hand. Baylor must have seen him checking him out and read his mind.
“It’s in my pocket,” the doctor said. “Don’t get any funny ideas, Matthew. And you’ll have to give me a hint with this photograph.”
Matt walked over and pointed at the Strattons’ faces. “You ready?” he said.
“Of course.”
Matt nodded. “They’re dead.”
&nb
sp; “What?”
“The photograph was taken at the Lester Snow Funeral Home. That’s the Christmas tree in one of the reception rooms. Everyone in the picture is dead.”
Matt watched Baylor take the shock as his words settled into the room, the idea astounding. He could still feel the chills tingling up his spine, the back of his neck ice-cold.
The Strattons’ bodies had been disturbed. Played with. Photographed.
That was the killer’s real trophy.
Baylor eyed the picture more closely. “I see it now,” he said in an excited voice. “He’s processed the image, and done something to make their eyes seem more alive. Now we know why he shot them in the chest. He’s trying to preserve their faces for the photograph. It’s important to him.”
“Why do you think he brought it here and placed it on the table? Why not keep it by his own bed?”
“It’s unprecedented,” the doctor said. “The way his mind works.”
Matt picked up the picture frame and gave the photograph another look. “We already know that he wants to be part of this world. He’s putting a piece of himself here because he likes it.”
Baylor nodded. “And he doesn’t care if anyone notices or not. It’s about him knowing that the portrait he took of the people he killed sits right beside their bed. That the picture he took of the people he murdered is right in front of the police and the FBI and they’re never going to figure it out. They’re never going to catch him. I’ll bet you’re right, Matthew. I’ll bet he keeps a copy by his own bed as well.”
CHAPTER 47
The lot was full at the Lester Snow Funeral Home. Matt pulled behind the building and parked by the loading dock. He tried the back door. When he found it locked, he hustled past the parked cars and entered through the main entrance. He had the Strattons’ family portrait with him, only now it was inside a Ziploc freezer bag that he’d taken from their kitchen.
He stepped into the lobby and could hear a recording of the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations” coming from one of the large reception rooms down the hall. An easel was here with a poster that included a photograph of the deceased during better days. On the table Matt saw a copy of the obituary page from the Philadelphia Inquirer. When he flipped it over, he stopped and eyed the section underneath very carefully.
It was the society page.
A moment passed, whatever was on his mind slipping away before he could snatch it up. He thought that the idea might have been important, and this concerned him. He started down the hallway, walking in the direction of the music. When he found the room with the Christmas tree empty, he stepped down to the next doorway and peeked inside.
It was another viewing with forty to fifty people in the seats. The coffin that looked like a golf cart had been replaced with a casket designed to mimic a surfboard. Sand had been spread on the stage with a large picture of Venice Beach in Los Angeles projected on the far wall. The man in the surfboard casket appeared ravaged, too young to die and very difficult to look at.
Matt felt someone tug on his arm.
“What are you doing here?” the undertaker whispered.
Matt turned and met his gaze. “We need to talk.”
“But I’m busy right now.”
“I am, too, Mr. Snow. We can talk in the next room, or we can go to my place. It’s your choice.”
Matt was pointing at the room with the Christmas tree. The undertaker shook his head, but finally led the way. This time, Matt closed the door.
“What is it?” the undertaker said impatiently. “Why are you here?”
Matt walked between the rows of folding chairs and turned. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“I want to get back to our service.”
“You heard me, Mr. Snow. Take a seat.”
The undertaker shuddered in protest, but finally sat down. Matt handed him the picture frame in the plastic bag.
“What is it?” Snow said.
“Take a look.”
His eyes met the photograph and immediately bounced back. “It’s the Strattons,” he said without adding so what?, though it seemed implied.
Matt frowned. The undertaker wasn’t going to make it easy. When the man tried to hand over the picture frame, Matt pushed it back.
“Take another look, Mr. Snow. A long look. Your fate depends on it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I want you to explain to me how this photograph was taken.”
“I have no idea, Detective.”
“But you agree that the photograph was taken in this room. This is your Christmas tree. The fireplace and the color of the walls in the background match.”
The undertaker shrugged. “I don’t understand.”
Matt took a step closer. He was losing his patience.
“Of course you understand, Mr. Snow. Their bodies were disturbed—you said it yourself. Someone brought the corpses in here and snapped a picture. They’re dead, and you know they’re dead. They’re wearing the same clothes they were buried in. You need to explain yourself, sir. Believe me. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll bring your world down.”
The undertaker brushed his white hair back with his hands and lowered his eyes to the carpet. He’d suddenly become anxious and upset.
“I’ll lose my business,” he said in a faint voice. “I’ll lose everything.”
Matt pulled a chair out from the row and positioned it so that he could face the undertaker. “Tell me what happened,” he said in an even voice.
“There was a break-in. A burglary.”
“How did he get in?”
The undertaker shook his head. “We don’t know. Nothing was disturbed. The doors and windows were locked. There was no sign that anything happened at all. As far we could tell, whoever it was either had a key or came in during the day, found a place to hide, and waited.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No,” he said. “At the time there was no sign that anything had happened at all. The burglar alarm went off like a door had been opened. When our security company inspected the building, they told us that it must have been a false alarm.”
“When did you know that someone had actually broken in?”
The undertaker raised his eyes off the carpet and gave Matt a long look. “When I was preparing the Strattons’ bodies for their funeral service. When I was dressing them.”
Matt suddenly realized that he knew what the man with blond cornrows had done here. He’d taken the picture, but there was more to it than that. Something even darker.
He leaned forward. “How were they disturbed, Mr. Snow? What did you find when you examined the older girl and her mother?”
The undertaker gazed back at him like he might vomit. He tried to swallow but couldn’t, his face a bright red. When he finally spoke, his faint voice broke into a handful of pieces.
“It wasn’t their bodies,” he said. “It was their clothing. Their panties and bras.”
“What did you find?”
“Semen,” he said.
CHAPTER 48
Matt could barely keep himself together as he hit the expressway heading for Center City.
He thought about the crime scenes at both the Strattons’ and the Holloways’. Neither one had revealed any sexual involvement by the killer. No one’s body had been violated on the night of the murders except for the sexual intercourse that occurred between mother and son. Yet there had to be a sexual component somewhere based on their profile of the killer.
If he trusted the profile, then it had to be there, and it was.
The killer wanted a piece of himself to be with his female victims forever. It was in the photograph he’d placed on the Strattons’ bedside table. And now there was a piece of him in the ground with them as well.
Matt had thought about the killer’s interest in collecting trophies. But as he glanced at the family portrait in the plastic bag on the passenger seat—a photograph of five dead people smiling with their eyes
open before a Christmas tree—he couldn’t handle the harsh view of this new reality. He felt soiled even considering it. He felt his blood boiling over in a cataclysmic rage. He’d thought that he’d seen the worst the world could give as a soldier in Afghanistan, the worst the world could give on the streets of Los Angeles as a cop and a detective, but the man with blond cornrows was living in an entirely different universe. Somewhere past the abyss and on the other side of a black hole.
He cracked open the window and lit a Marlboro. Then he switched on the radio and dialed down to 90.1 FM. WRTI broadcast two digital channels from Temple University’s campus in North Philadelphia. Growing up in New Jersey, Matt had been an avid listener since his early teens. It was the top of the hour, and the station was segueing between shows with a blues cut that Matt often listened to on his cell phone and tablet.
Buddy Guy playing “Sweet Little Angel.”
Matt tried to listen. Tried to smooth away some of the sharp edges, but in the end, the effort was futile. He switched off the radio, took another drag on his smoke, and barreled toward the city. Within twenty minutes he was pulling into his parking space below the federal building.
Matt slipped the Strattons’ portrait into his briefcase. But as he folded over his copy of the Daily News and stuffed it behind the picture frame, that stray thought resurfaced, and it couldn’t wait until he reached his desk.
He pulled out his laptop and booted up the machine.
The society page. He’d seen it at the funeral home while he held the Strattons’ portrait in his hand. The sight had triggered an idea. A possibility that slipped away before he could catch it.
Matt clicked open his web browser, found his bookmark to the Philadelphia Inquirer, and performed a search for the words David Holloway happy at home. When he hit the Enter key, a list of articles assembled on the screen. Matt only needed to read the first entry and clicked the link.
It was a story about the Holloways from Devon, Pennsylvania. A story from the society page that had been published in late August when the weather was nice. Apparently, Holloway was trying to reinvent his tarnished image by chairing a fundraiser for the Philadelphia Zoo. The event proved unsuccessful. But just like the piece Matt had read about Jim Stratton, the article’s focus was on David Holloway, the family man. There were photographs of his Main Line mansion set on the spacious grounds behind the wrought iron fence. His collection of vintage cars, and three shots of his wife and children on the terrace by the pool.