Tom Floyd had aged into the classic grandfather. He was a pudgy man with a cherubic face, his bald head ringed with white fringe. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of blue work pants, dirty at the knees. He had a pair of work gloves in his hand.
“I already bought some Girl Scout cookies, honey,” he said, smiling.
“Hello, Mr. Floyd. I’m Elizabeth and this is Wes. We live across the street from Mrs. Clayton.”
“You poor things. Come for some sympathy?”
“She speaks highly of you,” Elizabeth scolded.
Smile unwavering, he said, “With good reason. What is it I can do for you?”
“I wondered if I could talk to you about what happened forty years ago when you were living at the Kappa house? You know, the murders.”
Mr. Floyd’s smile sagged into a frown. “I don’t want to talk about it. My past starts thirty years ago. That’s when I married—I’ve been happy since then.”
“Please, Mr. Floyd. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Are you a reporter or something? A writer? I get called every once in a while by some writer or another wanting to cash in on those Stalker murders. They’ve offered me money but I wouldn’t take it from them and I won’t take it from you.”
“I’m not a writer and I’m not offering money. Do you know about the other murders?”
“I heard there was a killing . . . a boy fell off a roof too . . . so?”
“There’s been two, exactly like the Stalker killings. Fraternity brothers from the same house. They were stabbed and their genitals cut up.”
Mr. Floyd sagged against the door, his mouth tight.
“The police suspect friends of mine—ours—and I know they’re innocent. I think you can help us. Please, Mr. Floyd!”
Mr. Floyd wasn’t listening, lost in some dark thought from his past. Then his eyes refocused, meeting Elizabeth’s.
“When I said I had been happy for the last thirty years—well, I lied. I . . . I’ll tell you what I know.”
Overstuffed furniture filled Mr. Floyd’s living room, and they settled in, giving him time to compose himself.
“I was a junior when the killings started. Jimmy Dodson was the first. He was the best football player on a pretty bad team. Pretty good at basketball and baseball too. A wild guy—crazy at parties. We used to call him ‘Butane Bernie’—Bernard was his middle name. When he got in the mood he’d eat beans all day long, holding in the gas until he’d nearly bust. Then he’d bend over, drop his pants, and cut loose with a huge fart, igniting it with a cigarette lighter. He’d shoot a blue flame a foot. Really!”
“I believe you,” Wes said. “There was a guy like that in my fraternity. We called ours ‘Tommy the Torch.’ ”
“We had a lot of parties then. I guess they still do. Anyway, one morning one of the girls at the Epsilon sorority left for class and found Jimmy on their back porch lying on a blood-soaked blanket. He was stabbed so many times nearly every drop of blood in him was spilled out over that porch.” His eyes glazed over as he traveled back, resurrecting long-buried memories. “It was a big knife, the police said. His pants were pulled down too, his privates mutilated.” Then, after a pause, “Ellie!—that was the name of the girl that found him. She never was the same after that—a pretty girl, as I remember, always had her hair in a ponytail. She dropped out of school.” Another thoughtful pause. “I wonder whatever happened to her?”
“Mr. Floyd,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Had he been dating one of the girls in the sorority?”
“Jimmy liked to play the field. He dated more girls than the rest of the house combined. The police asked all the Epsilons but none had been out with him that night. They never found any witness, no weapon, nothing.” Another long pause. “It was different back then. Murders were rare, especially in a town like this. They’re still not that common. Anyway, it scared the whole town, not just the college students. Then it happened again.
“It was Steve Kent this time. His parents were poor and couldn’t help him much with school expenses. When spring break came most of the house went home, but some of us headed to California. Steve got a job house-sitting for one of the professors. I can’t remember which one—he taught history, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, when the professor and his family got back they opened the door to a terrible stink. His two dogs were nearly starved to death, and there was dog crap everywhere. They found Steve up in the professor’s bed cut up just like Jimmy. They never slept another night in that house.”
“Any connection between Steve and Jimmy?” Wes asked.
“Same frat house, both stabbed with a big knife, both mutilated. But they weren’t drug dealing together or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. This was the fifties, remember. Booze was around, but that was about it.
“The police got nowhere with Steve’s case either. He’d busted up with a girl a month or so before, and they thought maybe her new boyfriend had done it out of jealousy, or something, but he was in California too. They did arrest some drifter who happened to be carrying a knife, but they let him go again.
“It was after the second death some reporter started calling it the ‘Stalker killings.’ The name stuck. Everyone was talking about the Stalker and the town changed—people were afraid, stayed home at night and locked their doors. People don’t do that in small towns. Anyway, nothing happened—not for a while. After a couple of months people lost their fear, and started going out again at night. When summer came and school let out, it was pretty well forgotten. But when school started in the fall, the killing started again.”
Mr. Floyd sat silently for a long time. There was more emotion connected with this part of the story.
“We were building our homecoming float in a garage down on Second Street. It used to be where the video store is now. We had built goalposts and a big football and were stapling crepe paper all over it. It was one big party, everyone near drunk most of the time. Roger Venutti, me, and a couple other guys worked late one night—drinking a lot of beer. I had to get back because I had a test the next day. Roger had the same class but was still drinking when I left. The next morning I couldn’t find Roger, so I figured he passed out in the garage and I went back looking for him. The door was unlocked but all the lights were off. He was lying on the float under the goalposts—like the others. The crepe paper was black with his blood.”
Mr. Floyd paused in a sad stare, his tongue running across his lips.
“Mr. Floyd,” Elizabeth probed.
“We didn’t have a float in the parade that year.”
“I didn’t know you found one of the victims, Mr. Floyd.”
“I left the fraternity then. A lot of the guys quit—the chapter nearly folded.”
“If this is too painful, Mr. Floyd, you don’t have to continue.”
“No, I’m going to finish. There was only one more. After Roger’s death there weren’t many left in the house and those left wouldn’t go anywhere but to class. But a week later they found Nick Colson in his Chevy all cut up like the others. They never got all the blood out of the car. I heard his brother finally scrapped it.
“There weren’t any more killings but I never went back to the Kappa house. Somehow it survived, but it was three years before they had a good pledge class.”
A shrug, and his story was over. Uncomfortable, Wes struggled for something to say, but Elizabeth silenced him with a glance. Elizabeth valued silence and its healing power, but Wes preferred the distraction of noise. When he could stand it no longer, Wes spoke, the sound of his own voice relieving his tension.
“They never found the killer? No suspects?”
“No. The killings just stopped. No one was ever arrested. Every ten years the paper does a story about the killings, speculating about who the killer might have been, but that’s all it is—just guessing.”
“Just like Jack the Ripper,” Elizabeth said. “Everyone has a theory but no proof.”
“Yeah, except I know,�
�� Mr. Floyd said.
Confused, Wes said, “You know who Jack the Ripper is?”
“No! I know who killed my friends.”
Surprised, Elizabeth and Wes sat dumbly. Before they could recover their speech, Mr. Floyd began again.
“We had some crazy parties in those days. Plenty of beer, and sometimes the hard stuff. Mostly we partied with sorority sisters, but once in a while some of the local high-school girls came by. We knew they were jailbait, but when you’re twenty and drunk you don’t think too straight.” Then with a smile he added, “Drunk and sixty is just as bad.” Sadness returned and he continued. “There were a couple of regular high-schoolers. One was a real party girl. She loved to drink and dance—man, could she dance. She loved Elvis Presley. She liked to make out too, at least she kissed a lot of the guys. Never went all the way, though, always holding back. The guys called her a tease because she frustrated the hell out of them.
“One night we were having a party and she stops by and she’s really wild. She was drunk when she arrived and pretty soon couldn’t stand up. She ended up passed out in a corner. Sometime that night the last of the girls left—I don’t remember what happened next real well, I was drunk too. Someone found her sleeping in the corner and everyone started kidding around about doing it to her while she was asleep. You know, saying things like ‘she’d never know it happened’ and ‘she’s been asking for it anyway.’ ”
Mr. Floyd paused again, embarrassed and pained. He swallowed hard, looked briefly at Wes and then said, “You know how guys can get when they’re drunk.” Wes nodded. “We were drunk, like I said. It’s not an excuse—I just want you to understand we weren’t ourselves.” Wes nodded, but Mr Floyd never looked at Elizabeth.
“Someone pulled her out onto the rug and then pulled off her sweater so she was laying there in her bra. Everyone was joking and laughing, but also getting horny. Pretty soon some of the guys started touching her breasts, then someone unhooked her bra and . . . well, took off her bra. We got to looking at her and soon the jokes weren’t funny. Next thing I know she was naked on the floor and Jimmy was on top of her. I don’t think she even knew Jimmy did it to her, but she woke up when Roger was doing it, and she started to struggle. She was too drunk to fight back. No one paid any attention anyway, and they just kept taking turns. She sobered up quick, though, and started hollering after a while and kicking and hitting. They finally had to hold her down until everyone was done. There were at least eight of us, but I don’t know how many for sure—I was drunk too.”
More silence, but this time Elizabeth spoke, an edge to her voice.
“Mr. Floyd.”
“Yes, I took a turn. I regret it! Oh God, how I regret it. None of us ever spoke about it after that night. We’d never done that before, or ever again—as far as I know. I never did!
“Her father showed up the next day and threatened us, told us if we ever came near her he’d press charges, but no one ever reported us to the police, so after a while we convinced ourselves she had asked for it, and she liked it.” Then with a glance at Elizabeth he added, “We were just rationalizing—we knew what we’d done. The killings started a few months after that. At first I didn’t connect the murders with her. It was only later when I realized the guys getting killed were all there that night, that I saw the connection. That, and because of what she did to their genitals.”
“Mr. Floyd,” Wes said. “What makes you think it was the girl? Why not her father? You said he threatened you.”
“I thought about that, but I couldn’t see how he could get that close to them. Especially after the killing started. Everyone was on edge, but a girl—especially a pretty one like her—she could get guys alone on a back porch, or in a car, and if she acted sexy enough they would do just about anything for her.”
Elizabeth stood and walked to the window while Mr. Floyd continued.
“The other thing about the killings is they stopped when she left town.”
“Did you tell the police about this?” Wes asked.
“I didn’t figure it out until later, after the killing stopped. Besides, I felt we were getting what we deserved.”
Still at the window, Elizabeth said, “Who was this girl, Mr. Floyd?”
“I think you already guessed. Nancy Watson—you’re living in her house.”
Lost in thought, Wes and Elizabeth walked back slowly. Mr. Floyd’s horror story affected Wes, but he still struggled to see the connection to the current murders. It couldn’t be the same girl doing it; she’d been long dead in the basement. No, he thought, this was a dead end, and said so. “Elizabeth, Mr. Floyd’s story was horrible, but these have to be copycat killings.”
“Maybe, Wes. But they’re nearly identical and all from the same fraternity.”
“But the murdered boys aren’t the ones that raped Nancy all those years ago. Those boys are like Mr. Floyd, grown into old men.”
“Two sets of identical killings forty years apart that start just after we find the hidden room in the basement. I don’t see the connection either, but it’s odd—too odd.”
“By moving into the house we probably stirred up someone’s long-forgotten feelings. Maybe finding Nancy’s remains released repressed memories in one of the neighbors, and they’re looking for revenge.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What about Officer Winston’s questions about Daphne and Yu?”
“That proves he’s fishing for suspects. The killer can’t be both male and female.”
Another long silence, and then, “This is what we know so far: We moved into the home of a girl who was gang-raped forty years ago. We now suspect this girl killed some of her attackers in a grisly fashion. We know she was imprisoned in her own basement and died there, because we discovered her body. After that discovery similar killings begin again, and the victims are from the same fraternity. And finally, two of our savants are questioned as suspects. And you think there isn’t any connection!”
“You’re seeing connections when it’s only coincidence. It’s not logical.”
“There’s something else, Wes—Oh no!”
Elizabeth broke into a run. Surprised, Wes hesitated until he saw the flashing red ambulance lights in the front of Pastor Young’s house. He caught up to Elizabeth by the ambulance just in time to see them slide a covered body in the back.
Crying, Elizabeth said, “It’s like some awful curse.”
“Elizabeth, we don’t know it was Pastor Young. . . .”
“Yeah, it was him,” confirmed the police chief, approaching with his arm around a crying woman. “Mrs. Sanchez found him. Go on home now. I’ll have Ellen give you a call.” When Mrs. Sanchez was gone he turned to Elizabeth. “Another death and again you show up. It’s a good thing I don’t have a suspicious nature.”
Wes watched Elizabeth and Officer Winston lock eyes. Elizabeth’s tears dried and her jaw tightened.
“You think I had something to do with his murder?”
“Who said it was a murder?”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed, but she held her tongue. Wes wanted to caution her not to say anything, to keep from feeding the policeman’s suspicions, but knew it would only make her look guilty. Instead, he intervened.
“It wasn’t a murder?”
Reluctantly Officer Winston turned from Elizabeth to Wes. “I’m not saying it was or wasn’t.”
“Officer—Roy, what happened?” Wes pleaded.
“Pastor Young drowned in his bathtub. Kind of unusual, but not impossible. It’s happened once before that I know of, but that was a ninety-year-old woman. Odd for a young man like Pastor Young, don’t you think?”
Elizabeth remained mute, and Wes quickly answered. “He might have slipped in the tub. It’s a common accident.”
Now Roy looked suspiciously at Wes. “How did you know that’s what happened?”
Suddenly frightened, Wes stumbled to explain himself. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve just heard falls in the tub are pretty common.”
Wes thought it peculiar too, but was afraid to comment.
“I suppose you two are going to be each other’s alibi?”
“We were with someone else until ten minutes ago,” Wes responded.
“Yeah? Were you together all night?”
“No!” Elizabeth nearly shouted. “We were home last night. Now I expect you’re going to ask about the savants. What is it you have against the savants . . . against us? Just what do you think we’re doing over there? It’s just a science experiment!”
Roy looked pleased he’d elicited a reaction, and pushed her further. “I’ve got a couple of theories. You want to hear one? Good. I know you’re playing with the minds of those savants—doing things no one around here can explain. It sounds like some sort of electronic hypnosis to me. Let’s say you use your machines to hypnotize those retarded kids and implant posthypnotic suggestions to kill. Then they go off to do your bidding. I’ve got one witness that says she saw someone who looked a lot like Daphne climbing into the van with that Rimmer kid. The other one describes someone like Yu using a knife on her lover. I thought I needed more, but if the killing is going to continue . . .”
“That’s nonsense,” Wes protested. “That’s not what my equipment does. If you want to see I’ll be glad to demonstrate. Besides, you can’t make someone into a killer with a hypnotic suggestion.”
“I would like to see your experiment. Maybe you’re not using hypnosis. Maybe you’re using something else.”
Fragments Page 23