Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  “Probably—I don’t know. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

  “No, I don’t buy it, man. Look at this.” William ripped the page out of the binder. “Columbia, Kansas, March fourteenth, nineteen-ninety-four. Pueblo, New Mexico, December the same year. These aren’t big cities. Chicago, Boston, maybe. The big cities, sure. But these? I don’t think so.”

  Milo gave him a ridiculous stare. “Well, what do you think, man, you’re dad’s this Portrait guy? Come on.”

  “Leo J. Koury!” William cried desperately.

  “Who?”

  “Leo J. Koury. Richmond Virginia. He was a killer, a hitman. Murdered eleven people. He was on the FBI’s top ten most wanted list longer than anyone else. Nineteen-ninety-one, he up and dies, right? Guess what. He’s married with four kids. They had no idea. No freakin’ clue!”

  “William, give it a rest, buddy!” Milo shouted. Everything quieted down. William caught his breath. Milo said, “Your dad is not the Portrait Killer, okay? All this stuff—it’s making you crazy, man. Look what you did to DeAnna. Look what you’re doing to yourself. For Chrissake, look what you’re doing to me. I feel stupid just talking about this. We got a tourney in a week, man. Cut it with the killer stuff.”

  William took a step back. He felt like he was falling into a hole with nothing to grab on to. His friend would not be swayed. But his friend was wrong. William had been over it and over it in his head for days. It was too perfect. The pattern was sealed. But there was nothing more to say, nothing left to do. He had to capitulate.

  He forced a grin and muttered, “Yeah, the tourney, right. In a week. It’s in a week. I’ll be ready.”

  Harry S. Truman High School. The halls were long and only half-lit. Everything was a shade dimmer than usual. Even the distances seemed stretched way out. Nothing was close. Everything seemed so far away. But the walls were closer-in making everything look narrow. It was claustrophobic and lonely. It put a shiver up his back.

  He took a step forward. His own footstep echoed like in a chamber. But it wasn’t a click. It was a thud, as if something heavy had hit the floor instead of his foot. He started to look down, but there was a noise from way up ahead, an alien sound echoing back to him. He cast his gaze way down there where the light began to fade. There was a shadow. It was long and protracted, very vague. It made him curious. Something deep in his stomach swelled, made his guts turn. He was hungry.

  Someone moved across the hallway making that protracted shadow hover across the floor. William perked up interested, sniffed the air, caught a scent. The scent was vague but smacked of something bold, something hard. A man’s scent. William stepped forward.

  Thud thud thud thud.

  It was a man. William could see only his vague outline in the distance, a shadowy silhouette. But the man stopped, frozen in his tracks when he saw William. William could make out the details of his outline. Tall. Wiry. Well-muscled. Hair dangled in his face. It made William sneer. Made his anger flash like lightning. Made his hunger begin to burn.

  Kevin Ronin.

  William opened his mouth to scream his name but all that came out was a freakish wail, high-pitched and terrifying, like something from hell. Kevin Ronin hauled ass. William sprang forward moving down that long nightmare hallway with a speed he didn’t know he had. His footsteps sounded like thunder. They multiplied rapidly becoming a heavy drumroll. The distance flashed by. He turned the corner. Kevin was just ahead being outrun. William watched him throw a look over his shoulder. Kevin screamed an androgynous blast of terror. The distance closed. William reached out. His arms weren’t flesh; they were something else—thick, sinewy limbs covered in cilia with something like steel tendons rippling underneath, each limb pointed at the ends. A spider’s limbs.

  Theraphosa.

  William shrieked, “You will die now!” He was on top of him in a flash. He sank down on Kevin burying twin chelicerae into his chest. Kevin’s body went rigid, as if several thousand volts of electricity coursed through him. His own flesh worked against itself until muscle snapped bone, tendons ripped free, soft tissue unraveled. His eyes rolled up until they exploded into bloody goo. His face deflated like a sack as William drew his insides out like sucking a Slurpee through a straw.

  When he was done, he pulled away satisfied at the warm, meaty taste of his prey. He batted the husk of Kevin Ronin away and it flopped aside. Another sound registered, this one to the right, through the gym door. William shot a glance through the window. It was Kevin Ronin again staring back at him. His face vomited horror.

  William wiped the gristle of his last victim off his mouth with a spider’s forelimb and rammed through the doors banging them open. Kevin was already on the run, but it was no good. William sprang at him, pinned him to the floor, contorted him until his spine snapped, ribs protruded through his flanks. Again, William’s chelicerae emptied his victim until all that remained was a deflated pile of sacky skin and protruding bone once called Kevin Ronin.

  There was another noise at the far end of the gym, another Kevin Ronin looking horrified. William snarled and moved in for the kill. The screams were the same as before—powerful and helpless. William’s arachnoid body crushed him, emptied him, left him in a gutless heap.

  There was another noise. Another Kevin Ronin. Over and over. Again and again. Kill repeat. Kill repeat. Kill repeat.

  William exploded from dream by his own scream. For a second he wrestled with bed sheets in the dark until his senses came back to him. He was in his room, in his bed sleeping and dreaming about Theraphosa; about victims and murder; about killing someone over and over; about devouring Kevin Ronin. He clutched his heart forcing himself to breathe big and slow, in and out. He’d never had such a dream. It was halfway between a nightmare and some unexpressed impulse. He couldn’t tell if he was horrified by the dream, or exhilarated by it. But he did ponder it. Why had he had that dream? What was it about? Then he remembered everything, and shot a look to his bedroom door.

  He lived under the same roof with a killer. Evil lived in this house. Evil ran in his veins.

  “Son,” his dad said, as William brushed his teeth. It was Saturday morning, the beginning of a long weekend. William looked up with a mouthful of spearmint drooling out. They looked at each other in the bathroom mirror. Dad had a stern look on his face. “My office door wasn’t locked. Have you been in there?”

  William shook his head no, a deer in headlights.

  “You sure?” he said.

  William nodded his head, yes.

  “Alright. Well, get cleaned up and come downstairs.”

  “Wum fo?” William said, mouthful of spit.

  “Because I told you to, son.” His dad gave him an assuring nod and left.

  Oh shit.

  William spit, washed up and went down into the living room. Dad was standing by the front door, waiting. He had an incriminating look on his face. “Son, there’s something I need to show you.”

  William tried not to look terrified, just nodded. His dad stepped across the space and into the dining nook where mom sat at the table staring at nothing. She had her morning glass of pinot gris in one hand, always looking oblivious. Dad said with a low voice, “William and I have some business, dear. We’re stepping out, okay? Father and son stuff.”

  Her eyes drifted over to William with a look that made him shrink. There was worry in her eyes, a discomforted look, as though she stared powerlessly at something beyond her control. She seemed scared for him.

  Dad leaned down and kissed her cheek, then moved back to the front door saying, “Let’s go, son.”

  Out in the driveway, standing at the passenger side of Dad’s Lexus, William shuffled files in his brain. Why would dad want to get me alone? Where are we going? How would this morning end?

  The door locks disengaged. He’d never seen the full degree of his dad’s cruelty. How cruel could dad actually be? What objectives played out in his mind? Could my own father kill me? Would my father actually do that, especi
ally if he suspected his own son of narrowing in on him?

  William hesitated. His dad looked at him across the top of the car and said, “Get in.”

  William closed his eyes—oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck—and got in the car. The engine started and they were off.

  They sat in complete silence for several long moments as his dad took the car through the neighborhood. It was too quiet. The silence was killing him. But he dare not reach for the radio knob. His dad would see his hand trembling. He’d know something was up. William stuffed his hand into a hoodie pocket.

  They stopped at a red light. The highway was a few blocks up. His dad finally murmured, “I know what you’ve been up to, son.”

  William swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  Dad grinned. “You’ve been looking around, haven’t you?”

  “For what?”

  The grin widened. “Son, I’m your dad. You can’t hide anything from me.”

  “I’m—I’m not hiding anything.”

  “Well,” his dad said conversationally, “your mom knows. She figured it out a long time ago.”

  Jesus—he’s talking about mom. He knows she knows. Now he knows I know.

  What to say. How to act. William muttered, “What does mom know, dad?”

  Dad said, “Oh, just about everything.” He turned on to the highway accelerating into traffic. “I’ve even spoken to your buddy, Milo.”

  Milo? Oh God. “You talked to Milo?”

  “Yep. He told me everything.”

  Traitor! Turncoat! “About what?”

  “What do you think, son?” He flipped the blinker, scooted over a lane.

  “I don’t know, dad.” He tried not to sound tiny, scared.

  “Oh, I think you do,” his dad muttered.

  “But, I don’t,” he pleaded.

  His dad turned his head, looked at him. “Remember son, I’m your father.”

  That fact was never clearer than now. “What’d Milo say?”

  “Does that really matter? I know when my own son has a secret, you know.”

  William gave him a look feeling terrified and went, “Huh?”

  “I was your age once. I know what it means to keep secrets.”

  “But, dad, I wouldn’t do that.”

  His dad laughed out loud. “We shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, son.”

  “We shouldn’t?”

  “Of course not. In fact,” he moved into the right lane preparing to take the next exit, “secrets are dangerous, especially among family.”

  Oh shit, oh fuck, I’m dead.

  “Don’t you agree?” his dad asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He pulled to a stop at a red light and added, “We always get what we deserve, son.” He looked at William and asked, “Do you believe that?”

  He’s going to kill me. I’m a goner. William slid his hand down, put his fingers around the door handle. Escape. Go. Get out of here. “Yeah.”

  “That’s just the way of the world, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” His hand squeezed the door handle. Get out. Run. Haul ass.

  The light turned green, they went through. Oh shit, oh fuck. He released the handle.

  “And,” his dad said, “it’s your turn. You’re about to get exactly what you deserve, son.”

  William sank deeper into the seat. He couldn’t stop the shakes. They consumed him. He felt dizzy. The world stopped, started spinning the other direction. Everything went backward. All he’d ever known was false. It was too much. And now, he was going to die for it, at the hands of his own father.

  The car pulled into a huge lot. It was crowded with vehicles, jam-packed. A huge sign over a building spelled out Chevrolet of Los Angeles. Dad banked the Lexus around and came to a jolting stop facing a brand-new forest-green Chevy Tahoe with the four-wheel package, step bars, knobby tires and a big banner that read:

  Happy 17th Birthday, William.

  The entire sales force was out, awaiting their arrival. They all smiled and clapped and moved toward their car as his dad stepped out, grinning wildly and proudly. William felt tears of relief rise in his eyes. He sat stunned, out of breath. His dad called him forward with big sweeping motions. “Come on, son, it’s your gift!”

  William stepped out on shaky legs, hardly able to stand. He gawked forward in disbelief. Complete. And total. Disbelief.

  The sales manager walked toward him dangling keys in his hand. “Congratulations, William. Here are your keys.”

  He took the keys, didn’t know what to do, how to react. His dad came to him and scooped him into an enormous hug. “This is from your mom and me. We’re proud of you, son. Happy birthday,” he said. “I love you very, very much.” The embrace released and William stared at his dad confounded. His dad said, “C’mon, let’s go for a spin, buddy!”

  William exploded back into the world with a scream. A heavy-gage needle was still piercing his heart like an ice pick, jutting up from his chest. His heart had been kick-started with a fantastic jolt of adrenaline. It ran through his veins flipping on light switches, initiating motors, making him want to fight, making him need to fuck. Graves jerked the needle out with a juicy squeak and groaned, “Oh, thank God.”

  45

  Bernie Investigates

  Bernie jerked awake. He’d fallen asleep at his computer, and now a shot of pain coursed up his shoulder. He shook his head and suddenly remembered last night’s drink. He was hungover like a madman. It was an utterly fucking refreshing sensation.

  What time was it?

  He tapped the space bar bringing the computer out of sleep mode. It said seven twenty-nine in the morning.

  The URGENT map also opened on his monitor. He scrolled through it drawing the details of Los Angeles across the screen. He’d studied the damn thing for an hour last night drawing no conclusions, coming to no answers.

  Where was William?

  He shook his head frustrated. He was emotionally involved now. Even Iva had convinced him of his mission. But how was he supposed to proceed from here? Think, Bernie.

  “Oh,” he grunted, remembering the flip tablet he’d taken from William’s home. He patted his pockets. Not there. He picked his jacket off the floor, found it. Only the first few pages had notes. They were labeled visit to Dad.

  The date was five days ago. Apparently William was in the habit of scratching out notes from his visits with Oscar, probably transcribing them into a computer file later. These were those notes.

  As Bernie read he got the impression their last talk had been dark. William was angry at the world, bitter, and he’d turned to Oscar for sympathy. The old man had offered some advice, but mostly he hadn’t done much more than listen to his son bemoan a naïve world. Bernie grunted. He understood the sentiment. He flipped the pad closed, but something fell out, landed on his desk. He looked down. It was a blue card, similar to a credit card with a one eight-hundred number. Printed below in block text was a “Family Visitation” Code.

  Zero-six-zero-one-eight-four.

  It was a code number they’d set up through the prison system.

  Bernie itched his chin. What else had they talked about? Could it have something—anything—to do with William’s disappearance?

  Zero-six-zero-one-eight-four.

  “Hmm.”

  Eight o’clock.

  Nia Helms stepped into Captain Heller’s office and dropped the Bernie Dobbs file on his desk. She’d obviously been doing her homework. Heller, caught off guard, coffee cup in hand, jerked back and watched the papers slide across his desk. He flashed a look up at her as she said, “Dobbs?”

  He said, “Bernie? What about him?”

  “You know him, sir?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Cop turned P.I. At least I think.”

  “A friend?” she said.

  “Yeah,” Heller said, then completing a joke, “at least I think.”

  “He was at the house last night,�
�� she said.

  He twitched his head, surprised. “The Graves house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heller looked down seething, and blasted, “I knew it!” Looking at her, “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know,” she responded. “But I could have busted him for breaking and entering. Figured there was a bigger slice of the pie. I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “Breaking and entering. Did you get video?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, flashing her camera phone. “Right here.”

  “Did you report?” he asked.

  “The report’s drafted, sir. Didn’t know what to do with it?”

  He stood. “Good. Get it to warrants.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and left.

  Heller punched a direct dial button on his desk phone and started throwing his jacket on. The phone answered, “Warrants department.”

  “Warrants,” he said, jerking his nine mil and checking the slide action. “There’s a report from Detective Nia Helms on its way to you now. I need arrest papers on Bernie Dobbs. Breaking and entering’s the call.” Shifting to check his ankle holster .38, he said, “Captain Heller authority. Do it yesterday.”

  “Which judge, sir?”

  “I don’t care which judge, just tell them we need it fast.” He charged out of his office into the department. The place was buzzing. He pointed to one of the admins and said, “You! Get an APB out on Bernie Dobbs, all departments.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He faced the entire room and yelled, “We got any Blues here?”

  Two officers in uniform spun around, yelled from across the room, “Yes, sir!”

  “You’re with me. Get your buddies on the horn. Let’s go!” He met Nia at her desk. She’d just sent off the email and adjusted her forty-five at her waist. They made eye contact. “Okay, Helms, you’re on,” he said, and headed for the exit, Nia hot on his heels.

  Bernie dialed the one eight-hundred number and reached the department of corrections automated voice system. Acting as William Erter and using the six digit family visit code, he’d asked permission to speak to one of the inmates through the cellblock officer, who notated the request to the facility warden, who then accessed permission from the state governor’s representative at the prison, who then reversed the process all the way back to Bernie. It was a convoluted system, but the wheels were greased through function and protocol, and now Bernie sat with the phone to his ear waiting to hear the voice of Oscar Erter as they escorted him from his cellblock down to the visitor’s phone bank. When that voice came through the receiver it was discerning but unemotional. It said flatly, “I take it this is not my son.”