One look at Lillian Hudson is all it takes for Tristan to take an immediate dislike to the woman. She’s tall, probably at least five nine, with light blond hair, which is probably dyed, and much prettier than a friend of her father’s has any right to be. If she had to guess, which she does, Tristan would put her in her late forties, approximately the same age as her father, but it’s hard to say for sure. She could be a few years either way. She’s that rare variety of woman you see every once in a while who possesses a kind of ageless beauty. She’ll probably look great when she’s a hundred, Tristan muses.
“You must be Tristan,” Lillian says, approaching her after spotting the sign.
“Yes,” Tristan acknowledges. She holds out her hand and they shake. “This is Detective Abrams, with the LAPD. He’s my official escort at the moment.”
Lillian takes Abrams’ proffered hand. “Detective Abrams.”
“It’s an honor to meet you Ms. Hudson,” Abrams says.
“Oh, my,” she says with mock concern. “Now I know I’m getting old when police detectives display such respect.”
Abrams smiles. “Respect that is wholly deserved.”
Tristan practically gags on this banter. “Do you have any other bags, Ms. Hudson?”
Lillian has a talent for tuning in to other people’s feelings and Tristan is definitely emitting negative signals. “No, dear, just this,” she says, referring to the small wheeled overnighter she is toting. “May I ask what it is that warrants a police escort?”
“We can talk about it in the car,” Tristan replies. “Let’s go, shall we?”
Lillian and Abrams glance at one another. What’s her problem? the unspoken question that passes between them.
“So, Tristan,” Lillian says once they’re in Abrams’ car and on their way, “your dad mentioned he’d been hurt. What exactly happened to him?”
Tristan, sitting in the front seat, looks out the window and takes a couple of big breaths. “He was shot. He and his partner were ambushed by a serial killer who has murdered sixteen women in Los Angeles over the past year and a half. The press call him the Goddess Slayer. My dad’s partner was killed.”
“My god,” Lillian says quietly, “I had no idea. I’ve been in Europe for much of the last year. I haven’t … How bad was your dad hurt?”
“He was shot three times in his chest and once in his head,” Tristan answers, with no effort to cushion the brutality of the attack. “The doctors tell us it’s too risky to attempt to remove the bullet in his head. It’s still in there, lodged deep in the temporal lobe of his brain. If it moves it could kill him instantly.”
Lillian takes a moment to absorb this shocking news. “Is he …”
“Is he all right? Is he able to function? No, Ms. Hudson, he isn’t all right and he doesn’t function properly at all. He has a time bomb lodged in his head and he refuses to take his doctor’s advice to remain as still as possible. Apparently now he has taken it upon himself to personally find and bring to justice the maniac that killed his partner. To make matters worse, the killer saw fit to leave a note for me explaining that he would come back to finish the job on my father and also make me one of his victims. Which explains why I am accorded a police escort everywhere I go.” By now Tristan’s eyes are tearing up.
“Tristan,” Lillian says, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know the situation was so dire.”
“You have to understand, Ms. Hudson, my father can’t do what I assume he’s planning. It will kill him. Whether or not the killer makes good on his threat, the mere fact of Daddy getting physically involved in his capture will accomplish the same goal. If you’re his friend---”
“I am his friend, Tristan.”
“Fine then, as his friend convince him to leave this to the police. Please don’t encourage him to waste his life the way he’s planning.”
Lillian purses her lips. “You’re his daughter, Tristan. You know he’s not the kind of man to let anyone dictate to him.” She stares at the back of Tristan’s head but gets no response. She brings her fingers to her forehead, massaging it lightly. “I’ll do what I can,” she says finally.
Even though warned what to expect, Lillian is shocked at her first sight of Jake. He is standing at the open front door of his house, supported by a cane, when they pull into the driveway. He’s at least fifteen pounds lighter than the last time she saw him. His hair, although starting to grow back in, is bristly and sticks out in an unruly fashion, and does not yet cover the angry-looking scar that seals the new steel plate in his skull. But most disconcerting of all, there’s a rounding of his once broad shoulders - he’s hunched over like an old man. Lillian gets out of the car and slowly approaches him. Neither of them says anything. Nothing but solemn smiles on both sides. Lillian reaches him and embraces him. She can’t help it, her eyes tear up.
“That bad, huh?” he says, thinking how wonderful she looks. If anything she’s even better looking than the last time he saw her.
“Oh, God, Jake, why didn’t you tell me what had happened?”
“Didn’t wanna scare you off,” he says plaintively.
She touches his cheek lightly with the palm of her hand. “Silly man,” she whispers. “Come on. Let’s get you sitting down.”
Inside, Lillian is checked out by Crocket. He sniffs and circles her. Satisfied she presents no threat he nudges up to Jake and stays close.
The next morning after Tristan has reluctantly left for school, trailed by a uniformed officer in a blue and white, Jake and Lillian sit across from one another at the kitchen table. “So let’s have it, Jake,” Lillian says. “What exactly is it you want from me?”
“Couldn’t be that I just wanted to see an old friend, huh?”
“I wish. Come on, kiddo, out with it.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She gives him a false half-smile. “I’m afraid it is, yeah. Tristan’s right you know. You have no business getting involved in this case. It can only hurt you, no matter how it turns out.”
“Lil, there’s something you don’t know.”
“Okay. What?”
He wants to fill her in on this power of his to see into the minds of people, to, at least to some degree, predict future happenings. God, how insane that sounds. Does he really have some power or is he simply losing his mind altogether? He’s tempted to try to read Lillian’s mind, to learn her secrets, but quickly stops himself. It would leave him feeling totally ashamed if he were to learn something she wished to keep private. “Since I got shot I’ve had this …”
She waits anxiously for him to continue. “What, Jake? What have you had?”
He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Not yet. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing. Really.”
She knows that whatever it was he was about to tell her, it was something significant. But she senses there will be no pressuring him into revealing it, not until he’s ready. Still, she can’t resist asking, “Does it have something to do with how you came to have a steel plate in your head?”
He looks at her, surprised. “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Tristan mentioned she wasn’t even aware of it until all this happened. It seems strange that you would never have talked about something like that to your own daughter.”
“It happened a long time ago,” he mutters. “Ancient history.”
Lillian chews the inside of her cheek, deep in thought while digesting this unusual response.
“Do you know Bobby Schultz?” Jake asks after a few moments of silence.
“Yeah, we met a couple of times over the years. Why?”
“He’s lead on the Goddess Slayer case. Him and Abrams, the young fellow escorting Tristan at the moment.”
“Schultz is a good friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he is. And he’s a good cop, too. But … I just have this strong feeling that Bobby is never going to get this guy, Lil. Not without a lot of help. And politics being what it is within the de
partment I don’t think he’s going to get it.”
“They won’t consider bringing in the Bureau?”
“No, not a chance. That’s why I thought of you. If you’d just have a look at what we’ve got on this guy. I’ve got a complete file. I’ve kept it current based on regular meetings with Bobby since I got out of the hospital. Maybe you’d be able to get a handle on him. See something we’ve missed.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve worked, Jake. I’m not up to speed---”
“Come on, Lil. You were the best. You don’t lose all your ability, your talent, because you stop working for awhile.”
She looks at him and squints her eyes. “Okay, I’ll have a look at your file. But on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That whatever I might come up with, you feed it to Bobby. Let him run with it. You stay out of it completely.”
“Lil, never mind what this son-of-a-bitch did to me. Or to sixteen innocent woman before that. He killed my partner. Not only that, he wrote a letter to my daughter outlining how he was going to come back and finish the job on me and have a little fun with her. You can’t expect me to simply accept that and stay out of it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Jake. It’s not that I don’t understand your feelings here. I’d feel exactly the same way if it was me in your position. But, listen to me now, you’re in no shape to get involved. Don’t you see that?”
As much as he wants to argue his case he knows she’s going to take a stand here. It’s either go along with her condition or forget the whole thing. “Okay,” he says. “If that’s the only way I can get you involved, then so be it.”
“I want your word, Jake.”
He looks down at the floor and sighs heavily. “I give you my word.”
Never in his life has he been less sincere in a promise. But he’ll deal with that little problem another time.
9
Marius Dupree immediately feels at home in Vancouver. The beauty and serenity of the city, lying majestically in a protected inlet, set against a backdrop of magnificent mountains, is enough to take his breath away. He’s heard a lot about Vancouver’s reputation for rain but on this day it is faultless in it’s appeal. The more he sees the more certain he is that his choice to visit this part of the world was a good one. He finds a decent looking motel - nothing too ostentatious - and settles in.
His primary guise while in Vancouver will be that of a wealthy widower. He alters his appearance so that a description of him would differ from the reality in only a few key areas, but enough that he would be unrecognizable to anyone trying to identify him at some future date. He ages himself by twenty years with a little gray in his hair, an abbreviated fat suit that gives him an extra twenty pounds around the mid-section. Glasses, wig, and a distinctive mustache round out his new persona.
Once ensconced in his new home, he spends his days wandering the funky shops in Gastown, wiling away the hours on pristine beaches, seeking out those intimate little bistros where one can relax with an espresso and watch the world go by.
Such is the life of a man with limitless capital at his disposal and infinite time on his hands.
* *
Lillian spends an afternoon pouring over the details of all that is known of the sick excuse for a human being that has become the focus of Jake’s life. The more she reads the more her anger swells. Her career as a successful profiler was due in large part to her ability to think like the killer she was chasing, to insinuate herself into his very being. This she does now, but with less immediate results than she would have hoped for. This one is different. There is something about him that defies sorting, labeling, and tagging. He obviously harbors an intense hatred for women, quite likely as a result of childhood abuse by a woman - possibly his mother or another close relative - but his actions suggest something beyond mere hatred. He has a growing need to push the boundaries of his crimes, to experience the ultimate in excitement. Despite this, she has a strong feeling that, as Jake had said, this one is going to be a hard one to stop.
“How’s it going?” She looks up from the desk in Jake’s study to see him leaning against the doorway, holding a mug of coffee.
“Okay,” she says. “I think I could use one of those about now though.”
“Coming right up.”
“No, Jake, you sit down. I’ll get it and join you in a minute.”
He doesn’t argue. This morning’s exercise ritual has left him exhausted, and the large array of pills he consumes daily don't do anything to improve the fatigue factor.
When she returns he’s got his feet propped up on a footstool and is slouched down in the sofa adjacent to his desk. Crocket is stretched out beside him with his head resting on Jake’s lap.
“God,” Lillian says, “that dog of yours doesn’t love you much, does he?”
Jake's eyebrows rise in mild puzzlement. “For some reason, since I’ve been home from the hospital he’s taken a real shine to me. He hardly lets me out of his sight.”
“You mean he didn’t like you before?”
“No, not that exactly. He was just kind of indifferent to my presence. Very much Tristan’s pet. Now, not so much.”
Lillian swings the desk chair around to face Jake and puts her feet up on the same footstool he’s using. She takes a trial sip of coffee.
“So, what are your initial thoughts?” Jake asks, getting back to business.
“A sick puppy whose getting sicker, Jake.”
“Yeah, that much I got. But what’s motivating him to start killing cops? And what’s in it for him to torment Tristan with threats of what he’s going to do? I don’t get it.”
“The letter is just another form of humiliating women. As far as going after cops I think it may be more personal - that it's you he's after. You dissed him pretty good during that interview you gave. I doubt that he would have liked that much. And it seems he's relishing increasing the excitement factor and the risk. He’s an egomaniac for sure. Doesn’t think there’s anybody out there smart enough to ever catch him.”
Jake looks miserable. “I’m beginning to wonder if he isn’t right.”
“Oh, he’ll get caught all right, Jake. Like most killers he has an innate desire to be stopped, to be punished. He just doesn’t know it.”
“So, we wait for him to kill and kill again, until he finally makes a mistake?”
“No, I didn’t say that. Unless he’s a very rare breed of killer he’s already made a mistake. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“Okay, so what do we do?”
“One thing I think needs to be followed up on as a top priority is the interview with Dorval Williams - the witness in East L.A.”
“What do you think he can add to what Smythie has already told us?”
Lillian looks back at the file, thumbs through a few pages, and comes to the page she is seeking. “Here,” she says tapping the page, “when Bobby Schultz interviews Smythie he says he remembers the killer mumbling something that sounds like a question. It could be crucial. Maybe Williams will remember what it was that was said.”
“I twigged on that, too. Bobby’s had the cops in Little Rock, where Williams is from, try to track him down. No luck so far.”
“Another thing that intrigues me a little,” Lillian continues, “is the letter the killer wrote to Tristan.”
“What about it?”
“The letter would indicate the killer is very intelligent, probably highly educated. And maybe … not an American.”
This gets Jake’s attention in a big way. He holds out his hand and Lillian passes him a copy of the letter. He reads it again quickly. “You think he’s a foreigner?”
“I think it’s possible, yeah.”
“I don’t see it,” Jake says. “It sounds like perfect English to me.”
“That’s just it. Few people speak or write perfect English. But it’s what you might expect from someone who was born and educated in another country and who learned English abr
oad. His speech patterns are a bit too stilted for a typical American - almost old world in their formality. At this point I’m guessing he was originally from somewhere in Europe.”
Jake frowns thoughtfully. “If you’re right, how does it help us find him?”
“It doesn’t. Not unless we can figure out exactly where he’s from anyway. A possible link to explore, I think, is that he may have a connection to show business. His expertise in disguising himself is way beyond the ordinary. The phony scar for one thing is not something the average person would be able to fake.”
“Good point,” Jake says. “You know, it drives me crazy that I’ve probably seen this guy and I can’t remember him. The crime scene investigators say, based on the angle of the bullets I took to my chest, I was facing him when I was shot.”
“What’s the last thing you remember before it happened?”
“Busting into the apartment. Seeing the two black guys sitting on the sofa, snorting coke. That’s it. After that it’s a blank.”
“It probably wouldn’t help anyway. With the disguise he was wearing he’d have been totally unrecognizable.”
“You’re probably right but it still bugs me. You know, on an unrelated note, this is the longest the killer has gone between kills since this all began.”
“And that’s another thing that has me thinking,” Lillian responds. “This guy doesn’t strike me as the kind to ever stop - not till somebody stops him. I wonder if maybe he’s moved on.”
“You think what he said in the letter to Tristan, about leaving, getting away for awhile, is literally true?”
“I think it may be, yeah.”
“I don’t care if he goes to the edge of hell,” Jake mutters with vehemence, “I’ll hunt the bastard down.”
THE FOURTH BULLET: A Novel of Suspense Page 6