Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  The following day found him sitting in the parking lot of Glendale Junior College staring up at the school. Fred Willis, Dean of the college was in there, waiting for him to return.

  Or was he?

  Forensic psychology was what put William away. It had turned him into a string of digital bits stuffed in a database somewhere, labeling him as dangerous, psychotic, insane. How could he continue to teach it?

  For five years he’d lent young minds his knowledge on killers—how to identify them, track them, hunt them. He’d been raising a crop of tomorrow’s profilers to stop people just like his father.

  But now it was all different. Now he’d been thrown into the mix himself. He was the target of his own textbooks, the objective: Listen up class, because this is what goes on inside my mind, these are my patterns, this is how I operate, this is—why—I kill.

  He stared at himself in the rearview mirror. The image looking back was surprising. His eyes were like razors, his features balanced and stern. Who had he become? Who had they made him?

  Forget Fred Willis. Forget Glendale Junior College. The world had already judged William Erter, and he would not craft his own hunters, design his own demise. He’d already watched his own father do that.

  His father.

  He hadn’t seen the old man in six months. It was time to reclaim his dad.

  He started the engine and drove away.

  16

  Oscar

  The security guard swiped his badge. There was a beep, a buzz, then a thump. The big iron door opened. Guards led William into the visitation bay. Oscar sat in his stark orange prisoner dungarees like a thousand times before, grinning at him through a mustache and beard. But this time, the look in his eyes was different. He hadn’t visited his dad in six months.

  William moved to the table and sat when the door thudded closed behind. They looked at each other momentarily, studying. It felt like it had been years. Something in William felt new. He’d seen the world for its malignancy now. It infected people, spreading its disease. It was a deadly place, a sick place.

  Oscar finally said, “You’re different, son.”

  William looked away. His gaze went up to the bars over the windows. He looked back. “I feel different.”

  Oscar had a thousand questions in his eyes, but he remained silent.

  William took a breath and said, “It’s bitter, isn’t it?”

  The old man squinted.

  “The system,” William said.

  “Explain that.”

  “Our fate—my fate is based only on their questions, not my answers. They search for the unsearchable; try to achieve something they’ll never have. They want what they’ll never get. And they hold me responsible for that, for giving it to them.”

  Oscar frowned in thought and said, “And if they ever got it?”

  “They would see the truth about themselves. They would see the truth in each other. It would terrify them, to see that truth. They would eat each other, devour everyone around them.”

  “What truth, son?”

  William stood and moved to the wall, stopped under the barred window staring up at it. He turned around suddenly and said, “That they’re all monsters. Every one of them. One and the same.”

  Oscar nodded in the affirmative, impressed. “If only the world could see itself as you do, my boy.”

  William moved back to the table and slid into his chair. “Is that why you killed, dad? Is that why you devoured people? Not to be a monster, but …”

  “To stop the monster,” Oscar said.

  “Yes,” William said full of enlightenment. “To stop it.” They stared at each other for a long moment. William swam inside the impact of sudden understanding. There was realization in him. His father wasn’t the monster. The world was. He was only the monster slayer.

  William blinked with a new question swimming around inside him. “And the system?”

  Oscar inhaled a large breath, puckered his lips thinking, and said, “It only gets in the way.”

  “Then how are you so content?”

  “Content?” Oscar asked.

  “To be here, in the system, controlled by it.”

  Oscar sounded remarkably confident in his answer, as if he’d always known William would one day ask it. “Because I was done.”

  William shook his head. He didn’t understand. “You were done?”

  “For me, the system came at the right time, in the right way. My mission was complete.”

  “How did you know?”

  Oscar’s hands rose, cuffed together, and he itched his bearded chin as if hesitating to answer the question. He finally said, “It was that night. You remember that night.”

  There was no doubt as to the night he was referring. It was the night that William had learned the truth. He’d done more than learn it. He’d seen it. And it had been the most defining moment of William’s young life. They’d never spoken of it, and its sudden memory struck William like a fist, its new, powerful presence changing the very room around them. It made William both flinch and smile simultaneously. “Yes,” he whispered, “I remember.”

  “It was in your eyes,” Oscar said. “That deep and utter look of knowing when fantasy becomes truth. It was in your eyes.”

  William felt his eyes glaze with reminiscence and he grinned. “You laughed at me.”

  Oscar offered a hurt expression. “No,” he said, insistently. “No, son, I didn’t laugh at you.”

  “I screamed like a girl, dad.”

  Oscar smiled, showing teeth through his mustache. “And how do girls scream?”

  William couldn’t answer. His thoughts went toward his dreams of death, hearing his victims scream sounding both male and female, or neither. The sound was perfectly androgynous in its pure efficacy. William capitulated to the question, unable to answer.

  Oscar said, “I was proud of you, William. I had never felt that kind of pride before, not like that moment. In that moment, I knew I was done. The torch was yours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Oscar leaned forward rubbing his facial hair, putting his words together in his head. He said, “All that I was, all that I had been, all that I had done, had touched you. I knew that it was yours now. I was …”

  “Complete,” William said, finishing his sentence.

  “Yes. I was complete.” He leaned back, pausing. In a matter-of-factly way, he concluded, “And the system, at that point, was irrelevant.”

  William nodded understanding. His father’s strangeness had sloughed away over the course of a single conversation. He seemed bright and aware, perhaps the most balanced center of the universe. William thought it unfair—the world was an insane, malignant place in need of repair, yet free; while Oscar was a brightly burning flame, saner than the average man. Yet here he sat, rotting away.

  But a question still remained. It burned inside William’s head. He looked at his father, deep in his eyes, and said, “Why did you become a father, dad?”

  Oscar gave him one of his knowing smiles. “You mean knowing what I was—a taker of life—how could I ever create one? Is that what you mean?”

  William shook his head. “No, not exactly. I guess what I mean is …” he leaned forward on the table and said, “you carved your legacy out of this world with your own two hands. You carved it with your ideals. The world won’t forget you. It might forget your father. It might forget your son. But you, dad—it’ll always remember your legacy. You didn’t need a son, didn’t need me. So, why complicate things? Why have one?”

  Oscar smiled and said, “The same reason as any father. Hope.”

  17

  Mission Request

  The TV was on, but William paid it no mind. He’d never been one to watch TV; it was all a bunch of mind-numbing crap. He’d always been too occupied. Grading papers. Attending his class lessons. Preparing for a therapy session. Reading a textbook. Then it had become collaborating with the L.A.P.D. Righting wrongs with Bernie Dobbs.
<
br />   Bernie Dobbs. His friend.

  Where was Bernie Dobbs, he wondered? What was the big man up to? It had been half a year since they’d parted ways. Iva had been murdered. She balanced him, gave him something hopeful. Now she was gone, and William felt responsible.

  He went to his computer desk and googled Bernie Dobbs, searching recent headlines, diving into the archived pages of online newspapers. A story like Bernie’s wouldn’t get much attention.

  Boom—a headline popped up.

  Starlet Killer Caught: With LAPD Assistance, FBI Catches Their Man.

  William blinked in shock at what he saw. Pictures of Raymond Komatsu, the Asian Persuasion gun smuggler and FBI’s most wanted, was pasted all over the media. They tagged him as the Starlet Killer.

  Fucking liars!

  The media, the FBI, even the L.A.P.D. had concocted a whirlwind of bullshit cutting Bernie’s role in the case right out of existence. They were covering up the FBI’s screwup.

  And as a result, Ruthi Taylor and her legacy—the true architect of that bloody mastery—was wiped from history. It was like she’d never even existed. It made William nauseous. He wanted to smash something, wanted to punch or kick something, destroy something perfect, anything. He gripped both sides of the flat screen computer monitor making it tremble. Everything was wrong now. He wanted Bernie back, wanted Iva back. He wanted Ruthi back. He pounded a fist into his desk with a bang.

  And he’d always known himself to be such a normal guy.

  “… and we have an update on that missing Los Angeles cop. Central Division Sergeant Mark Neiman, now missing for three days, has become a multi-departmental manhunt involving local police and FBI …”

  William shot a look to the TV.

  Mark Neiman, missing?

  He watched the news story, hungry for more.

  Mark Neiman, missing.

  He knew the man, even worked with him to hunt Starlet Killer at one point. He’d proven to be a slick tactician. He operated smart and smooth. And now he was missing. William tapped his chin returning to calm. If it was a kidnapping, someone out there showed signs of aptitude. This perpetrator was a worthy foe.

  But without Bernie Dobbs, who could he turn to for good, real-time information?

  “Jacky,” he said.

  Turning to his computer and typing at lightning speed he mumbled, “Please, let it still be here.”

  He dove into his hard drive files hoping some team of investigators hadn’t cracked his computer once the good Dr. Oaks labeled him as criminally insane. Still there. Thank God. His files were untouched. The state had considered his involvement in the Starlet Killer case moot, and had issued a protective clause of his personal things. They had also been good at direct depositing his subsidies into his bank account, from where his billing accounts were paid automatically—rent, utilities, everything, including his LinkTech security service.

  “Oh, fantastic!” It was a way to reach his young cohort.

  Reaclimating himself to Jacky’s codex language, he brought the site up and started clicking out a coded message hoping that Jacky was still out there somewhere in the ether randomly checking for his old professor’s account. He sent a generalized message calling for help. If the kid still had his wormy little Internet fingers probing the Central PD, anything was likely to pop up.

  He sent the message off and leaned back. Now it was the waiting game.

  18

  Jacky’s Living Conditions

  Jacky thumbtacked a printed photo up onto his corkboard. A banner above read “Jacky’s Daily Faves” in large, bold lettering. The display looked elaborate in this place, almost a shrine compared to the rest of his place, which was cram-full with buzzing hacker equipment, all organized to fit his unique method of madness. He took a step back looking up at his shrine, jawing a lollipop back and forth in his mouth. He was satisfied with his choice.

  It was an old, declassified photo pic of Henry Lee Lucas, also known as the “Confession Killer.” Jacky really liked this killer. He’d studied him right down to his toenails; learned his methods, dove into his mind. It’s what Professor Erter taught him to do. To catch a killer, you have to understand him. And Jacky had always been an outstanding pupil.

  Old Henry Lee Lucas there on his wall was as successful a shredder as any. No one knew exactly how many he’d killed, not even him, but he’d been connected to one-hundred and fifty-seven victims. He claimed the actual number was north of three-hundred and sixty. Jacky laughed about that. Henry’s claims were so outlandish that the task force devised to investigate his crimes bore his name—the Lucas Taskforce. Federal agents had even worked with him shoulder to shoulder, once they caught him, trying to unravel the girth of his crime spree. How impressive?

  Channeling Professor Erter’s teachings, Jacky Lee classified the “Confession Killer” as a proto-psychotic with derangement syndromes ranging from god complexia to severe detachment. Of the four serial typologies, Lucas definitely fit into the Hedonistic Thrill-Seeker variety. He killed to reach a high.

  The picture Jacky had chosen to print and hang was telling, to say the least. Henry Lee Lucas was a grizzly looking guy with one eye always squinted, the other large, but neither of them revealing any real spark of life. It seemed he stared through a blank mind, ironically grinning as if in mockery of his own lifestyle. Three long teeth hung down, all up front, giving him the look of a sadistic rabbit. And somewhere behind that face was something like the devil staring back at the camera.

  The Henry Lee Lucas photo replaced yesterday’s fave. It had been of the “Axeman of New Orleans,” a turn of the century killer who’d chopped up seven victims and was never caught. That guy was of the Visionary typology. Before the Axeman was Rodney Alcala, “The Dating Game Killer,” a definite Hedonistic type. Before that was Zodiac, another Visionary, “The Happy Face Killer” was a thrill-Seeker, and “The Hillside Stranglers”—more Thrill-Seekers, but with a Visionary crossover.

  After years of study into the most notorious killers of all, these were some of Jacky’s favorites. They all shared one titillating thing in common: they led authorities on wild and deadly manhunts leaving clues and slipping detection. Most serials did their slicing in anonymity. But not these ones. No way. They wanted the cops and FBI to come after them, creating for themselves the title of “villain.” That’s why they were Jacky’s faves.

  Jacky chomped down on the lollipop. Tomorrow’s fave would be his greatest killer yet, despite old Henry Lee Lucas. Jacky had discovered him by chance during a random search, and didn’t know much about him yet, but he would. He’d absorb everything there was to know about the guy. He was the golden glory of serial murder, the holy grail of killer death, the one guy who led FBI agents on a manhunt for twenty-two years, never stopping to look back, never so much as flinching. He’d maintained a gory bloodthirst from city to city slicing and dicing entire families, then (and here’s the grand cue de grace!) posed his victims portrait-style and sent the pictures to the FBI. He was teasing them to come get him, begging them to stop his tirade.

  Oscar Erter.

  The name alone had caught Jacky’s attention.

  Oscar Erter.

  Professor Erter.

  An interesting coincidence. So many Erters in Los Angeles. Probably dozens. Yet Professor had never mentioned this one. Oscar Erter. In his class, they’d covered multiple types of killer. They’d learned how to guess their moves, read their targets, understand their methods. This Oscar Erter was quite possibly the most perfect of them all—organized, clever, evasive. He was the perfect subject to teach in a profiling classroom. Yet Professor Erter had left him wholly unmentioned. What a pity.

  It made Jacky reflect on his old professor. He knew he’d been committed to the nuthouse half a year ago. It wasn’t fair. That whole debacle with the Starlet Killer had been such a clusterfuck, and Jacky had been so far removed. He felt helpless. He only hoped they wouldn’t change him. He hoped Professor Erter would be the same man once h
e got out. It was time to check on him.

  Jacky went into his kitchenette sliding a stack of DarkNet hacker’s guides out of his way and sitting down at his foldout table. He flipped on his PowerBook and the entire place seemed to come alive with humming and burbling—private server towers and high-powered app development machines coming to life. He had traded his Bunker Hill Road apartment for a more mobile living arrangement.

  After flirting with the L.A.P.D.’s personnel system he knew it was only a matter of time before they caught onto him. He’d used a Hack9 database infiltrator to do so—not his choice tool for system hacking, but time had dictated it. The hacker app had originally been written with an ethical security language, but his use of it was a bit personalized. That made it easy to detect, so Jacky had gotten the hell off their grid. That included a new headquarter pad, just in case.

  Fortunately, he knew a former federal agent who was now operating underground. He was in touch with a FIMA wholesaler who was selling unused FIMA RV units for dirt cheap. They’d been rotting in a field outside of Bakersfield ever since Hurricane Katrina. Apparently, the units had never made their way to Louisiana. They’d never even crossed the California state line. Four-thousand dollars later, Jacky had a mobile command center that allowed him to go anywhere he wanted. That just so happened to be an off the beaten path RV park up in the San Gabriel National campsite. Mountains were everywhere. The sky was big. The trees kept him from view. Even the highway was a full four miles away down a windy dirt trail. He felt safe here, confined, not so centralized within the Los Angeles jungle of eyeballs.

  Now, with a private server pushed by a Wi-Fi power transmitter, he could tap into any local cellular service virtually undetected and flitter about with public corporate websites—like online health clinics and marketing firms. From there, ripping private customer information was easy. He possessed full databases of private citizen credit card numbers, social security numbers, you name it. The point was to steal the data from certain corporations, then hold it ransom. The corporations were always willing to meet his payoff just to keep their little security snafu out of the media-sphere.