by Matt Clemens
You will just have to wait your turn. But I’m coming and when I take yours, it will be nice and slow. Yumm.
Maybe I could shear you right on your show? Best ratings ever!
BS
“I wish this were B.S.,” Harrow said. “But I don’t think he … she … is kidding.”
“Sick shit,” Anna said.
He handed her back the baggie. “No argument.”
They stopped at the top.
She tucked the note in her purse. “What do you make of this rivalry?”
“Dueling serial killers? Vying for attention on my show? What more could any TV star hope for?”
“Blaming yourself doesn’t get us anywhere. But I bet that network stooge will love it.”
“Dennis? I don’t think so. He’ll love the ratings, but he’ll hate the legal exposure.”
Polk was coming down the hall to meet them. He removed his fedora, ran a hand over his forehead. He looked vaguely ill.
Harrow said, “That bad?”
“Castrated murder victim,” Polk said, “first thing Saturday morning? Not my favorite.”
“Not a great way to start a day,” Harrow admitted. “Any ID on the victim?”
“No wallet or anything.”
Anna was in the lead, Polk and Harrow falling in side by side.
Polk said, “Name on the register is Eric Stanton, but the victim’s name is Kyle Gerut.”
Harrow asked, “How’d we get that?”
“FBI guy has a cool new toy that lets him take a vic’s fingerprints and send them to the National Fingerprint Center. Half an hour later, the guy is made.”
“So Gerut had a record?”
“Yeah—gay dude, got busted during some GLAAD rally a few years back.”
“So is Eric Stanton a phony name just for check-in? Or is he the murderer?”
“The FBI doesn’t seem to have a gizmo that can tell us that.”
They had made it to the uniformed officer at the door. Anna went in first, Harrow following, Polk lingering in the hall.
The cop on the door warned, “Crowded in there.”
Immediately Harrow saw what the guy meant: a crime-scene tech was busy in the bathroom, collecting and bagging towels; another tech pored over the bed; and two coroner’s office EMT types were struggling to load the sheet-covered body from the bed onto a gurney.
Years ago, college kids used to stuff themselves into phone booths—Harrow felt like that one last frat boy going for the record.
Across the compact room, a tall brown-haired guy in a crisp navy blue suit and a red tie was taking it all in—the FBI guy, obviously.
Harrow managed to edge beside Anna and whispered, “Collect the Fibbie and let’s talk.”
She nodded, and Harrow retreated to the corridor, where soon Anna returned with the FBI agent in tow. They moved a few doors down, away from the uniform on guard, and Anna made introductions.
The FBI guy was Mark Rousch.
As they shook hands, Rousch told Harrow he appreciated Crime Seen’s cooperation on the two serial killer cases. “A pleasure to shake the hand of a man who saved the life of the President of the United States.”
Harrow had long since given up on saying anything modest or self-deprecating in response to statements like that. He just took the compliment with a smile and a nod.
“You know, J.C.—all right if I call you J.C.?”
“Sure, Mark.”
“J.C., normally any special agent would tell you to butt the hell out of a federal investigation.”
“Understood.”
“And if you even tried to insert yourself into the investigation, like you did with the LAPD, you’d get your ass run in for obstruction.”
The man’s tone remained pleasant, chipper even.
But the second comment had been a step too far, and Harrow suddenly did not like this smiling son of a bitch … but did his best not to show it.
“However,” Rousch said, “this is a rather exceptional situation. Plus, like the LAPD, the FBI needs all the good press we can get.”
Harrow’s voice was gentle as he rubbed it in: “Waco, Ruby Ridge … I get it.”
Rousch’s smile curdled a little. “What I’m saying is, far as I’m concerned? You’re still part of this investigation … in a supportive capacity.”
Harrow said, “Happy to help.”
“Glad to hear that,” Rousch said cheerfully. “We would ask one favor….”
“Shoot.”
“Take a break.”
“A break? What kind of break?”
“Take your show off the air till we catch these crazies.”
“Are you kidding?”
“We have two homicidal nutjobs who are competing for air time on your program. Let’s remove the program … for now. That may remove part of the problem.”
Harrow let out a bunch of air he’d been holding in. “First of all, Mark, I don’t have the authority to pull the show. Second, there’s a scrap of paper with something called the First Amendment on it you may wish to refer to.”
Rousch raised a palm as if he were swearing in in court. “This comes from higher up. Don’t kill the messenger.”
Anna closed her eyes, understanding the awkwardness of that remark, since it invoked the murderer of Harrow’s family. And Harrow had in fact killed him….
“You’re former law enforcement, J.C. You’re well aware the First Amendment doesn’t cover yelling ‘Fire’ in a crowded building.”
“It does if there’s a fire.”
“You can make the case to your network president—what’s his name, Burnside? Who better to make an eloquent, reasoned argument for putting Crime Seen on temporary hiatus?”
Harrow’s laugh was abrupt. “You can’t really think either of these madmen will stop just because the show isn’t on?”
“The brain trust at the BSU thinks Crime Seen is inflaming the killers.”
“Want to see them inflamed? Take their platform away.”
The agent frowned. “Then you won’t talk to Mr. Burnside for us?”
“His name is Byrnes, and with all due respect, Agent Rousch, make the case yourself.”
“J.C.,” Anna began.
But Harrow had already taken off down the corridor. When he got to the stairs, he went down, listening for anyone following—no one was.
In the parking lot, he got Jenny on the cell. He filled her in on the new Billie Shears kill.
Then she asked, “We have anything beside the name Kyle Gerut?”
“He’s dead and he was gay.”
“Hate crime?”
“Billie Shears seems to be an equal-opportunity hater.”
“Probably hates himself most.”
“Pretty sure it’s herself, Jen.”
“Thought you said Gerut was gay.”
“Yeah, but I think we have a real cute killer here. Playing us for chumps.”
“We aren’t chumps.”
“That’s good to hear. Listen, run Eric Stanton, too.” He spelled it. “That’s the name used at check-in.”
“Okay, boss. We have security video?”
“Maybe not. The LAPD is working with the FBI now. They’re talking like we’re still on the team, but I have reason to doubt it.”
“Okay,” she said, not asking why, and they signed off.
He turned and found Anna there.
“And just the other day,” she said, “I was telling somebody how diplomatic you could be.”
“He pissed me off.”
She shrugged. “The Fibbies wrote the book on patronizing pricks. Listen … I didn’t know Rousch would pull that. I didn’t walk you into an ambush. Anyway, I didn’t mean to.”
“I know. And maybe I’d feel the same as Rousch in his place.”
“No you wouldn’t. Don Juan and Billie Shears are just looking for an excuse to escalate, and the show going dark would only hand it to them.”
His cell phone throbbed and Harrow checked caller ID—AN
DERSON.
The youthful Southern-tinged voice said, “So Billie Shears struck again, I hear?”
“He, she, or it did,” Harrow said. He filled Anderson in, leaving out his confrontation with the FBI agent.
“Man, is this a grim one,” Anderson said.
“And not in the fairy-tale way.”
“Don’t know if it’ll help, boss—but I ran that hair that Lieutenant Amari gave us from the first Billy Shears crime scene?”
“And?”
“It’s human, all right, but I couldn’t get DNA.”
“How’s that possible?”
“The follicle is missing. Michael Pall took a swing at it, too, came up the same.”
“So what’s the explanation?”
“From a wig.”
“A wig! How can you tell?”
“Sucker’s soaked in acetic acid.”
“Vinegar?”
“Bingo, boss. Human hair used for wigs is sometimes soaked in an acetic acid solution—to remove nits before the hair is woven into a wig? I thought Lieutenant Amari would want to know, soon as possible.”
“Good work, Chris—she’s right here. I’ll tell her. Keep digging.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harrow clicked off and turned to Anna. “The hair found at the first Billie Shears crime scene—”
“Came from a wig.”
“… Yeah. How d’you know?”
She smiled. “Figured it out from your end of the conversation. I know some about wigs. My mother died of cancer.”
“Sorry to hear.”
“Long time ago. But when she was going through chemo, we got to know all about wigs.”
Once the crime scene was wrapped, Anna, Polk, and Rousch followed Harrow back to UBC. They met up with the Killer TV team in the conference room, the three officers on their feet while Harrow took his seat at the table’s head.
He introduced Rousch, then—to help get him caught up—had Jenny show the latest Don Juan video on the big screen.
As they got near the first blow from the knife, Choi said, “Here comes the new part—”
The camera moved ever so slightly, a flash of blade and another of red cloth, and the woman’s neck erupted with blood.
Choi said, “The camera moved.”
Rousch frowned. “You mean somebody bumped into it?”
“No,” Choi said. “It moved.”
“As in someone moved it,” Anna said, getting it.
Choi turned to Jenny, “Run the last part again.”
This time, Rousch saw it.
“Camera definitely moved,” Anna said.
The FBI agent remained confused. “So it moved—what does that mean?”
Harrow said, “It means Don Juan has somebody running camera for him.”
Choi said, “We figure it’s a hidden camera, behind a two-way mirror or a peephole. We doubt these victims were participating in some kind of porno session, with a cameraman out in the open.”
Chase said, “But it’s possible.”
Choi said, “Possible but not probable.”
“And that means,” Harrow said, “Don Juan has an accomplice.”
“Holy shit,” Rousch said. “Two are in on this?”
Harrow nodded.
“That could change everything….”
“It does change everything,” Harrow said, and leaned forward, eyes traveling from face to face. “We thought we were looking for a single serial killer. This new perspective gives us a fresh start.”
Choi said, “If Don Juan’s had help through all of this, maybe we missed something—something that could lead us to the accomplice, if not Don Juan himself.”
Rousch, impressed, said, “It’s a breakthrough.”
Harrow said, “You’re welcome. … Laurene, where are we with the roses?”
Chase said, “They’re rare, but not impossible to find—we’re still running down the leads.”
“Keep at it,” Harrow said.
Anna asked, “Any luck on the computer front? Tracking the cyber theft side?”
Jenny shook her head. “Guy could give me lessons.”
Everybody on the team gave her an astonished look—that was quite an admission.
Harrow said, “Might be we’re looking at this bass-ackwards. He’s choosing single, at least semi-successful women—what do they have in common?”
Jenny said, “They all were, or wanted to be, actresses.”
“So Don Juan likely got to them by saying he was in show business, too—right?”
“Swell,” Anna said, standing with arms crossed. “We’ve just narrowed our suspect pool to every breathing male in Los Angeles who ever hit on a pretty girl.”
That earned some weary smiles.
Pall, not smiling, said, “But our man had to stalk them—he’s cleaning out their bank accounts, so he’s only going after women he already knows have money. How does know?”
Jenny said, “From their accounts.”
“But how did he get in there in the first place?”
“By sending in the Trojan horse and getting their keystrokes and passwords—we’ve already got that.”
“You’re not seeing it,” Pall said. “Don Juan isn’t randomly e-mailing women, who turn out to have money. Nobody’s that lucky. So he’s starting somewhere.”
“With actresses,” Jenny said.
“Yes. And not every would-be actress has money—most are fairly broke, right?”
“Right,” Harrow said, beginning to get it.
Pall said, “If he’s going in the show-business door, maybe he’s an agent, or an acting teacher, or producer….”
“Or posing as one,” Chase said.
“So,” Pall said, “he must go through a number of women who don’t meet his financial standards. But how many does he have to go through to get to the ones with money?”
Anna said, “And who are they, and how were they contacted?”
Choi said, “If you can’t track the killer …”
“… track the victims,” Harrow said.
Chapter Twenty-six
The late-night visits from the old man started not long after their mother abandoned them. His sister—only twelve at the time—had been the first made to pleasure the old man.
A year or so later, the boy also would receive the occasional nocturnal visit—the old man stuffing that thing into this place and that. If the boy gagged or protested, beatings followed. For several years, sister and brother took turns keeping the old man happy.
Finally a new awful ritual began—their father using one of them for his pleasure while the other one was made to watch. ‘Cause if you didn’t watch, somebody got slapped. Maybe the watcher, maybe the watched, which somehow was even worse than getting slapped yourself.
This had all happened a long time ago … … but tonight he was back there again, back in that tiny, musty attic bedroom of his sister’s. He had long since learned a price was paid when he turned his head, so he watched intently in the darkened room, or anyway his eyes went in that direction though privately, secretly, he was making them blur, as the old man towered over his now sixteen-year-old sister.
That one time, she’d had the temerity to appear without panties, ready for him, having been completely cowed by the old man. That had been a mistake. Turned out, the panties were part of the ritual.
That night the old man had beaten her, severely, not to mention shouting at her that she was a slut and a common whore.
Ever since, they both made sure to play the game by the old man’s rules. That way it would be over sooner and with less pain, if no less shame.
So, while the boy sat in a straight-back wooden chair, his eyes blurred on the action, the old man forced his daughter to stand there facing her brother as father stood sideways and unbuttoned daughter’s blouse and moved in close to stroke her smooth, alabaster skin, nearly luminous with only the moonlight filtering through the flimsy curtains lighting their sins.
That was the o
nly bad thing about the boy blurring his vision—it gave the acts a dreamy look, a kind of gauzy prettiness that wasn’t right.
Dreamy look, but nightmare sounds, smells. Even sitting across the room, the boy could smell that fetid breath—liquor, cigarettes, the very odor of the old man’s hollow existence … must be how Hell smelled. The boy’s sister knew not to protest and had learned to make her whimpers and ouches sound like she liked it though her eyes screamed otherwise.
Briefly, the boy thought about having another go at the old man, but fear overwhelmed him. Every time he had tried to stop their father, the boy ended up on his ass, blood running from his mouth or nose. Once, the old man had kicked him so hard in the ribs, the boy puked blood, continued coughing it up for days.
The old man was solid as a house and had a good fifty pounds on his son’s narrow ass. Knowing he couldn’t win the fight, the boy sat on the chair, willing himself not to cry, to try to show strength for his sister, his fists balled if impotent at his sides.
“Pretty,” the old man said in his scratchy voice.
Even in the moonlit room, the boy could see the old man’s paw tremble as he slowly pulled the girl’s panties down her long, white legs. Then the old man helped her out of them, before he sat her on the edge of the bed.
The old man just stood there, towering over her, not quite blocking her from the boy’s view. When she unzipped the fly, the scratchy sound of metal was like an echo of the old man’s terrible voice.
The boy, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, watched as his sister did what she had to, as he himself had done so many times. He blurred his eyes more, more, more, till he was almost blind, but when he heard the bedsprings and then his sister’s sharp intake of breath, he could see it anyway, in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t blur that. He couldn’t make that go blind.
Looking down, the boy saw the cord for the cheap plastic lamp that was the only light the old man allowed in here.
“What you doin’ there, sonny? Eyes front!”
The boy’s eyes snapped back to his father hunkered over the girl, but as soon as the old man’s attention was back on what he was doing, the boy’s eyes returned to the cord. Just pull the plug and run over there and get the cord around the old man’s neck and then squeeze like a son of a bitch till the old man was dead. …