The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller

by Staci Layne Wilson

  Macintosh was still talking, the slimy white mayonnaise in his mouth and on his teeth making Cary's stomach turn. He looked down at his bandaged hand. "The next witness is Roger Maye, the security guard. Then tomorrow they whip out the big gun: Suzet Montage."

  Cary found his voice. "Have you found out anything about her yet?"

  "Yeah, some. She's an actress. I think she was hired to pose with you in those pictures. I think--"

  "Wait, wait," Cary interjected. "That is me, but the photos had to have been tampered with. I never met that woman."

  "I have a theory on that," he paused dramatically. "You were drugged."

  "I have had hallucinations in the past," Cary admitted.

  "Really?" Macintosh jumped up. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

  "I didn't want you to think I was nuts," Cary said softly. "But I never thought about being drugged. Sure, I guess if someone was able to break into my apartment they could have spiked my water supply, or who knows? The possibilities are endless." Cary stopped and thought for a moment. "But Diana was always close by. Why wasn't she drugged, too?"

  Macintosh leaned forward. "Maybe she was in on it. Did you ever think of that?"

  "No," Cary insisted. "Not Diana."

  "Did you ever think why she showed up in your life just after your first book was published?"

  Cary shook his head. "It was a coincidence--"

  Just then, the door opened. Court was back in session.

  Roger Maye was a pudgy little man with small hazel eyes and thick lips. A rent-a-cop with a chip on his shoulder. He was razzed by people all the time, including his wife, about what a cushy job he had. Roger, of course, took his position as Security Officer very seriously. Now he had a chance to show them. He was a very important witness in a murder trial. By telling what he, and he alone, had seen one night while on duty at his cushy little job, could convict a murderer. Pretty heady stuff. He strutted down the aisle, his chest puffed out like a bantam rooster.

  Maye put his hand on the big black book and swore with certitude to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  "Thank you kindly, Mr. Maye," said Winesapp, sidling up to the front of the witness box. "You wear your uniform with pride, don't you?"

  "I do," Maye nodded emphatically, his sweating jowls bulging above the too-tight collar of said uniform.

  "And you take your job very seriously. You watch all the comings and goings at the Styx Towers, do you not?"

  "Hmmm," Cary noted almost inaudibly. He hadn't known his building had a name. Where had heard the name Styx before? Oh yeah, it was a rock group. They probably owned it or something.

  Roger Maye had finished his answer and Winesapp was asking another by the time Cary tuned back in. "And you saw Diana Moon run through the lobby and out the door?"

  "Yes. She was running from him," Roger pointed a stubby finger in Cary's general direction.

  "Let the record state that the witness has indicated the Defendant," said Winesapp. "Was he right behind her?"

  "No, he come along about fifteen minutes later."

  "So how do you know she wasn't simply running late to an appointment?"

  "At that hour?" Maye guffawed. "Besides, she was crying."

  "You noticed this as she ran by you and out the door?"

  "Yeah. I'm real observant. It's what I'm paid for."

  "Uh-huh. And then you say Mr. Bouchard ran out of the building some fifteen minutes later? How do you know he was going after Ms. Moon?"

  "It was quite clear to the observer," Maye said matter-of-factly. "The two of them returned from a vacation they took together. I seen them walk into the building together. They looked kinda chilly toward each other, but I didn't say nothin'. Then, about a half hour later Miss Moon comes runnin' through the lobby, sobbing and crying. She ran out the door and I didn't see where she went. Then about fifteen minutes after that Bouchard comes running, too, with Miss Moon's bag in his hand. Why else would he have it if not to give it back to her? He looked real mad," Maye added, although he had not been asked.

  "Mad, crazy or mad, angry?" Winesapp asked.

  Maye looked confused. "Both," he said finally.

  "Thank you, Mr. Maye," said Winesapp. "Your witness."

  Macintosh got up from his chair and strode purposefully over to the witness box. "Mr. Maye," he said, "Did you actually see Cary Bouchard and Diana Moon fighting or arguing?"

  "No, sir," Maye admitted reluctantly.

  "Did you hear Mr. Bouchard threaten Ms. Moon that time, or any other?"

  "No."

  "Has Mr. Bouchard ever given you reason to suspect that he's a murderer? Has he ever been a problem? No loud parties, not even a peep?"

  "No, he's always been a good guy," Maye said. "That's why I can't figure --"

  "Thank you, Mr. Maye," Macintosh interjected with his customary cut-off. "I have no more questions."

  Roger Maye sat there for a moment, looking around. Was that all? "You are excused, Mr. Maye," said the judge. "Call your next witness," he said, looking over at Winesapp.

  "My final witness," said Winesapp, running a palsied hand over his slick, sweating bald head.

  Cary couldn't help but notice how Winesapp kept deteriorating little by little as the trial progressed. Now he looked as though he was at death's door as he called his final witness. It was almost as if he thrived on his part in the trial, and now that it was drawing to a close, he would have nothing left to live for. Cary thought it most strange; after all, the Prosecution seemed to be winning.

  Suzet Montage, taking her cue, burst through the double wooden doors and made her way toward the witness box. Cary recognized her instantly from the photographs. She was a tall, buxom blonde with long, feathered hair and dark, piercing brown eyes. Although she had a hard, set look, she was an incredibly beautiful woman with a small, pert nose and a classic rosebud mouth. She wore an elegantly tailored gentleman's three-piece suit, but still managed to look every inch a lady. She wore a small bowler hat, a pair of white gloves, and four-inch, black spike heels. Every head, male and female, turned as she passed them by. Cary smelled Eternity, and it made his stomach turn.

  Suzet seated herself primly in the wooden chair, her knees pressed firmly together, and swore on the Bible. Her lilting French accent hung in the air lazily like the scent of honeysuckle in late summer when she was through repeating the oath.

  Winesapp's comparative whine was an assault on the ears when he asked his first question. "Ms. Montage, please state for the court your relationship with Mr. Bouchard."

  "He was my amour. My lover," she stated simply, one eyebrow arched as though challenging anyone to refute her statement.

  "So, you had sex with him?"

  Suzet looked at Winesapp with indignation. "Oui."

  "In English, please?"

  "Yes."

  Winesapp took out the famous photograph and introduced it as evidence. As the jury was passing it around, Winesapp continued his questioning. "Who took that photo, Ms. Montage?"

  "Cary Bouchard," she answered, rolling the R's of his name with a flourish.

  It was like the H-bomb had just been dropped in the courtroom. The reporters were all muttering excitedly and Macintosh's jaw dropped. No one had considered that possibility.

  "Cary liked to set his Insta-Pic camera on zee self-timer," Suzet explained when there was a lull in the noise level. "He liked to look at us. He had an obsession with photography."

  "Did you know Diana Moon?" Winesapp asked, changing directions before the previous subject had a chance to get stale.

  "No. I knew of her, though. Cary told me she had a wealthy family," Suzet sniffed disdainfully. "I cared nothing for money, but Cary told me if I was only willing to wait we would have riches beyond all dreams. But I could not wait. I wanted him to break up with that woman and marry me."

  Winesapp held up a hand in request for silence. "Ms. Montage. Let's back up before we confuse everyone. When did you meet Cary Bouchard?"
>
  "I met him in Los Angeles, when he signs zee books," she said. The more Cary listened to her, the more her accent rang false. He looked at Macintosh and Macintosh nodded. He knew. Suzet continued. "I loved him right away."

  "You have already stated that the two of you had sexual intercourse. Did he practice any bizarre sexual fetishes?"

  "Yes. He liked to strangle me. Not too much though!" she giggled. "I don't like it."

  "Did he ever hurt you?"

  "Yes, sure, but I went along with it. I loved him very much," she repeated.

  Cary just stared, mouth agape. He'd never even met the woman, he was sure of it. He'd never done it before, but he sure wanted to strangle her now.

  "And your deep love for Cary Bouchard changed you, didn't it? Made you do things you wouldn't ordinarily do?"

  "Yes," Suzet said, her voice laced with regret.

  "Can you please give us an example?"

  "Well, I knew that Cary killed his boss and I knew that he had killed Marlisa Moon, but didn't say anything to zee police. I knew he planned on killing Diana someday." Her eyes filled with tears. "I didn't know about those prostitutes though. Oh, what was I thinking?" she wailed. "He writes those books...I should have known."

  "Did you ever think Cary Bouchard was insane?"

  "No," she answered almost inaudibly, drying her tears.

  "Why did you go along with his plot?"

  "Because he told me that we could be together only after he inherited Diana Moon's fortune. He told me that he would marry her, then after a few months she would have an accident. But then she found out about me and 'poof!' went zee plans."

  "Did you have something to do with that?"

  She bowed her head. "Yes. I sent zee note and photo to his home hoping that Diana Moon would see it. Deep down inside, I didn't want her to die. I just wanted Cary and I to be together. I thought I was helping everyone by doing what I did. But instead, I murdered Diana Moon."

  The people in the courtroom began chattering like gibbons monkeys at that last bit and everyone on the jury was riveted. Macintosh got an idea, and Cary saw him smile.

  "Order! Order in the court!" Stafleese commanded, rising from his chair. There was immediate compliance as everyone quieted down and sat still. The judge snorted, "That's better," and sat back down.

  Winesapp took a step forward. "Do you mean that literally, Ms. Montage?"

  "Of course not!" she gasped, horrified, bringing a white-gloved hand to her pink rosebud mouth. "My English... I just meant that because of what I did, Cary Bouchard murdered Diana Moon sooner than he had anticipated. It brought me to my senses. I was glad I gave the surveillance tape to Detective Jorgensen."

  "You put the tape in his mailbox?"

  Suzet nodded emphatically, her sprayed hair moving to and fro as a solid unit. "Cary stole it the night he killed his boss. I stole it from Cary, just in case."

  "In case of what?"

  She looked slightly ashamed as she answered, "I loved Cary Bouchard very deeply, but did not trust him. This was--how you say?--my life insurance. He would not harm me, because I told him the tape would be found if he ever did. I had it in the safe deposit box of my bank."

  "The plot thickens," Winesapp said, raising his eyebrows. The jury giggled, and Juror Number One, a mean-looking, heavyset fellow, leaned forward and handed the blown-up photo of Cary and Suzet back to Winesapp.

  Suzet continued. "I left that tape because I wanted to make Cary uncomfortable. I hoped if zee detective came over to ask Cary some questions, Cary might get scared and stop his plans. I cut out the part on zee tape where his face shows," she added. "I didn't want him to go to prison, only to scare him."

  "It seems as though you caused your beloved more harm than good, doesn't it?" Winesapp asked sympathetically.

  "Yes, but I am glad things happen like this," she said in her stilted pseudo-French. "Cary Bouchard is a bad man."

  "Thank you, Suzet," said Winesapp. "It took a lot of courage to do what you did." He turned to Macintosh, who was already rising eagerly from his chair. "Your witness." Winesapp collapsed in his chair and sighed. His breath sounded like the dregs coming from a deflating balloon. "And the Prosecution rests."

  Macintosh stepped buoyantly up to the witness box. Suzet eyed him suspiciously. She knew she could never prove a word of what she has just sworn was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God, and Macintosh knew it, too. It all depended on who could talk the best game.

  "Suzet Montage," he said, drawing her name out like it was poetry. "Pretty name. It's not yours, is it?"

  "Of course it is!" she protested.

  "Oh, maybe now it is. You had your name legally changed before you decided to become an 'actress,' isn't that right, Margaret?" Macintosh licked his lips like a rapacious wolf. Suzet said nothing. "Is your name, the one given to you at birth, Margaret Lenore Factor?"

  "Yes," she grumbled, the lilting French accent suddenly gone.

  "Good," said Macintosh. "That phony accent was getting on my nerves."

  Suzet started to cry, and the jury looked at Macintosh menacingly as though he had just taken candy from a baby. Winesapp managed a weak grin from his perch.

  "Do you have a criminal record in France, Ms. Montage?" Winesapp asked.

  "Objection," Winesapp said softly, "Relevance."

  "Your honor," said Macintosh, "I'm trying to show that Suzet Montage was part of a conspiracy against my client."

  "Overruled," said the judge in a bored tone.

  Macintosh sagged. "No more questions, but I would like the opportunity to recall Ms. Montage as a hostile witness at a later date."

  Stafleese nodded and brought his gavel crashing down. "Court is in recess until Tuesday," he said, rising. Cary squinted, peering at him. Damned if he didn't look like that kid in Dallas! But then the fleeting image was gone, and Cary couldn't tell whether the judge more resembled Clark Gable or Claude Akins.

  Chapter 16

  The Defense presented its evidence before calling any witnesses. Admittedly, there wasn't much, but Charles Macintosh made the most of it.

  He read each bizarre fan letter with chilling emphasis, but singled one out in particular. Macintosh held the college-ruled notebook paper in his hands and said, "This one starts out with, 'I hate you.' It's written by Edward Newman, convicted rapist and con man. He was released from Fulsome shortly after The Brandie Killer was published. Shortly before he left prison he wrote the following words to Cary Bouchard: 'I hate you. I read your book and it makes me want to snuff you. You have no idea what it's like to really kill someone, you candy-ass writer. The animal pleasure, the lust. You only touched on it--you were afraid to go any further, weren't you? I can show you what it's like. It's a thrill you'll never forget. But you're not man enough, are you? I seen your picture. You're pathetic, but I could teach you things. I could hurt you in ways you never dreamed.' And then he signs it and sends it to Cary Bouchard, care of Carousel Books," said Macintosh, tossing the letter down on the table with disgust.

  "The man is a maniac. He was convicted of raping four women, but it wasn't just rape. No, it was aggravated rape. This man strangled the women he raped, leaving them just short of death. One woman had a severely crushed larynx and will never speak again. Another's blood vessels burst in her eyes, leaving her sight damaged for life.

  "Edward Newman obviously identified with the character in Cary Bouchard's book, Rudolf Bonfiglio, and then somehow tangled the author into the convoluted web of murder and revenge in his warped mind. The man is dangerous, and he's smart. Very smart. He is more than a likely candidate to be the one who taunted and stalked Cary Bouchard, the one who killed in the savage Bonfiglio tradition, the one who rammed Cary Bouchard off the road that fateful night. But now Newman has disappeared. His parole officer doesn't know where he's gone. But he's out there...somewhere."

  The jury sat spellbound as Macintosh spoke. The conspiracy story didn't sound crazy at all, coming from his lip
s. He made Cary seem like a model citizen, and almost had Cary himself convinced that he was a great humanitarian. Macintosh downplayed Cary's two published works, mentioning only that he had been pressured into writing them, and spoke almost reverently of the Great American Novel Cary wanted to write. He made the jury feel sorry for Cary; this poor man who had lost everything dear to him. He even showed them a photo of sweet little Tweetie, boiled to death in the tea kettle. "No one would kill their own beloved pet," he said. "Someone else did this."

  The Defense had few witnesses. Susan Montgomery was the first. She looked like she really didn't want to be there, but that she wanted to do the right thing. Although on the surface it seemed as though she was speaking out for Cary, what she was really doing was defending the reputation of Carousel Books. Not that Carousel couldn't overcome a scandal--in fact, sales on The Brandie Killer had increased tenfold since Cary's arrest--but they had not been treated kindly in the media. Carousel, and other publishers of pulp horror, had been portrayed as panderers to the dark, base "lizard brain" of mankind. The media had suggested that if Cary Bouchard had not killed those women, someone who read the book Carousel published did, and that was the point.

  Although Susan really didn't like Cary Bouchard that much, that helped him; it showed that she was not biased when she said she believed that Cary could not possibly have killed anyone. Macintosh asked her about some of the disturbing fan letters Cary had received. She explained that Cary was not the only writer to get strange mail. They all did, even the authors of cookbooks and children's stories. She further illustrated her point by bringing along some of those letters and reading portions of them.