Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  “That’s because his cancer was discovered during the autopsy,” he said. “It happens sometimes. These inmates all have different pain tolerances, and if they don’t complain about there being a problem, whatever’s making them sick is not going to be found.” He read further through the autopsy report. “Says here his weight at the time of his death was a hundred and thirty-two pounds. My memory was of a much bigger, stockier man. A guard should’ve noticed the weight loss and reported it, but again, these things slip through.”

  “There was no toxicology report,” Bogle pointed out.

  “There wouldn’t have been,” Schofield said. “Not once the coroner found his body ravaged by cancer.”

  Morris asked, “How prevalent was heroin in Ashfield back in ’92?”

  “It was there, just like all other prisons,” Schofield said. “Some things you just can’t keep out, no matter how hard you try.” He was holding the report nearly an arm’s length away, squinting at it. “There’s nothing mentioned about drug paraphernalia being found by the body. You thinking he might’ve checked out intentionally?”

  “The guy’s serving life without parole and has to know he’s dying of cancer. It seems like a reasonable possibility.”

  “How would it help you to know that?”

  “I’m just trying to get a complete picture. But if he was using, I’d like to know who sold him the stuff.”

  Schofield let out a low whistle. “We’re talking about what might’ve happened more than twenty-five years ago,” he said. “That’s an awfully tall order.”

  “It might be, but if you can give me names of prison guards who would’ve known who was dealing back then, it would be a help. You never know what memories might shake loose. I’d also like names of guards who would’ve paid attention to whom Blount spent time with, especially during his last year.”

  The skin once again crinkled near Schofield’s eyes, suggesting that there was a smile being hidden by his mustache.

  “I was right before about you coming here grasping for straws,” he said. “But I’ll give it some thought, maybe make some phone calls, and see what names I can get for you.”

  Morris had finished his sandwich and coffee. Bogle also. Morris stood and offered Schofield his hand.

  “That’s all I can ask for,” he said. “And at this point, any straw you can hand me, no matter how flimsy, is better than what I’ve got.”

  * * * *

  Morris talked with Gloria Finston during the drive back to Los Angeles. Thanks to deaths, hospitalizations, recidivism, and relocations to other countries, both voluntary and forced, they’d been able to narrow the list of ex-inmates to eighty-seven, of which only twenty-four were still in circulation.

  “You’ve been busy,” Morris said.

  “We have been,” Gloria agreed. “As it turns out, all twenty-four of these ex-convicts were released after Blount’s death, so knowing the date of his cancer diagnosis wouldn’t have helped.”

  “Any of these twenty-four stand out as more likely than the others?”

  “Not at this time,” she said. “They were all sentenced for violent crimes. I’ve done a cursory look at their police records, and they all have some level of sociopathic tendencies. Seven of them were at one time charged with sexual assault, and those are the ones I’m directing Greg, Ray, and Franklin to focus on first.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.” Morris grew silent as he stared out the window. They were twenty minutes outside of Ashfield, and his mind drifted as he looked out over the terrain. For miles all he could see were small trees planted in rows. They must’ve been fruit trees of some kind, but they seemed too small for orange trees, and it must’ve been the wrong season for fruit to be growing. He shook himself out of his daydreaming. “Let’s assume I’m right about Blount. Is there anything special about the pathology of whoever took over for him?”

  “The new killer would be a sadist,” the FBI profiler said. “Also an opportunist. Other than that, it’s hard to say.”

  After he got off the phone with Finston, he called Margot Denoir, host of the hugely popular Los Angeles morning show The Hollywood Peeper. She’d earlier left eight messages with him, and she picked up his call before the first ring finished.

  Morris said, “You’re supposed to let it ring a few times so you don’t appear too desperate.”

  She laughed at that. “What’s the point of that, darling? You’d see right through me. Besides, it’s a waste to play hard to get when the other party knows that it will take all of two seconds to get your panties off.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” he agreed. “How’d you like to get me on the air tonight at eight for a special edition of The Hollywood Peeper?”

  “Is this in regard to the Nightmare Man?”

  “What else?”

  “A scoop?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Give me fifteen minutes before you call anyone else. Promise?”

  “You got it.”

  Margot didn’t need fifteen minutes. She called back six minutes later sounding breathless.

  “Darling, you wouldn’t believe the hoops the bean counters here made me jump through,” she said. “But it’s all arranged. Be at the studio by seven thirty. And please do bring your delightful dog. Our switchboard lit up like you wouldn’t believe when you had him with you last time.”

  “As long as you don’t call him delightful to his face. I don’t want Parker getting a swelled head.”

  “Deal.”

  Morris got off the phone with Margot, and Bogle, showing a smart-alecky smile, asked, “What’s this about your dog being delightful?”

  “Never mind,” Morris said.

  “Must be some Hollywood thing,” Bogle said. “I can’t imagine Bill Schofield calling his bull terrier, or any dog, delightful.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Your good buddy Stonehedge, on the other hand…?”

  Morris gave Bogle a sideways glance to see his deadpan expression. “Hard to say.”

  Later, when they were a half hour from Los Angeles, Morris got a call from Roger Smichen.

  “I did find a difference between the 1984 and 2001 murders,” Smichen said. “The 2001 victims had higher elevated levels of liver enzymes.”

  “He used more smelling salts on them.”

  “Yes, exactly. Neither the 1984 or 2001 coroner reports provide the level of clotting, so it’s very possible that the 2001 murders took longer to carry out. It’s also possible that the killer was more intent on keeping his victims awake, and because of that used more ammonium carbonate. It’s also possible that the 1984 killer was more skilled in administering it, so was able to use less for the same effect. Whichever it turns out to be, it’s a strong indication that different individuals performed the 1984 and 2001 murders.”

  “Okay, thanks, Roger.”

  “You might want to hold off thanking me just yet. Ms. Fletcher’s murder shows a similar level of elevated liver enzymes as the 1984 victims.”

  Morris groaned at what that implied. Yet a third Nightmare Man.

  “The killer could simply be refining his technique from 2001,” Morris offered. “There were other changes that were obviously deliberate. The sewn lips. The way the rat was left.”

  “It’s possible,” Smichen admitted.

  He had put the call on speaker so Bogle could listen in. After he ended the call, Bogle asked, “We got someone new taking over this year?”

  Morris hoped that wasn’t the case. It was going to be hard enough tracking down a second Nightmare Man without having to worry about a third. He felt exhausted right then as if the weariness hit him like his namesake, a ton of bricks. It soon became a struggle to keep his eyes open, but napping now wouldn’t do any good, and would only leave him groggier when he
had to wake up in twenty minutes. What he needed was coffee, maybe a full pot, or better yet, have Bogle find a Starbucks so they could hook him up to an IV, the higher the octane the better. Especially since he knew tonight was going to be another long one. If he was lucky, he’d be home by one.

  “Hell if I know,” Morris admitted.

  Chapter 48

  “You send me to Toledo and what do I do?”

  Morris was distracted from his phone conversation with Polk by the cameraman signaling that they would be live in three minutes. Margot Denoir had swapped out the easy chair on the set for a loveseat so that he and Parker could sit on it together instead of Parker lying on the floor like last time. The bull terrier was blissfully gnawing on a rawhide bone while Morris listened to Polk and Margot looked on with heightened expectation. Nobody was better at smelling sensational ratings than Margot.

  “I’ve got less than three minutes,” Morris told Polk. “Whatever you got, tell me it quickly.”

  “I delivered, that’s what I did,” Polk said, sounding disappointed that he couldn’t play out his news more dramatically. “If Jack Blount was once a hell-raiser, he isn’t anymore. Now he’s an accountant. Kind of a milquetoast at present if you ask me.”

  “Speed it up,” Morris said. “I’m going live with Margot Denoir in two and a half minutes.”

  “Okay, okay. Take all the fun out of it for me, why don’t you? A long story short, he never broke into his old man’s workshop like his brothers thought. What he did was hide in the bushes when his old man cleaned out the workshop, and after his old man left some boxes in the car and headed back for more, the younger Blount rummaged through them, saw what he thought were metal cage traps for catching rats, and also found a certain mask that he salvaged and kept all these years. And I got it now.”

  “The mask looks like the ’84 police sketch?”

  “Exactly like it.”

  “Jesus,” Morris said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Text me a photo.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Sounds like something big,” Margot said after Morris got off the phone.

  Morris told her that was an understatement. When the text came in, he saw Polk had been right. It had to be the mask Ed Blount wore when a witness saw him leaving Denise Lowenstein’s apartment building.

  “I’m forwarding you a photo,” Morris said. “We’ll need to get this on the air.”

  The cameraman was counting down from ten. Margot must’ve arranged with her assistant to wait until the count reached three before rushing onto the set, distracting Parker with a treat, and grabbing the rawhide bone. God only knew why. Maybe Margot thought Parker would look more photogenic lying on the loveseat without the bone, but if Morris knew she’d been planning that, he would’ve explained why it was a bad idea. Since he didn’t, it surprised him as much as it did Parker, and he didn’t have a chance to grab his dog in time.

  A split second later the cameraman signaled they were live, Margot went into her wide-eyed breathless act, and Parker bounded off the loveseat and landed in Margot’s lap. The bull terrier proceeded to lick her mouth and cheeks, streaking her expertly applied makeup. The look of stunned amazement on Margot’s face as she was left sputtering in midsentence was priceless. No one was better on the local TV scene at faking shock and outrage on the air than Margot, but right then her audience was seeing the real thing. Morris took his time grabbing Parker and carrying him back to the loveseat. He wasn’t happy with the dumb stunt Margot had pulled.

  “Parker’s clearly a big fan of yours,” he said, tongue in cheek.

  Margot was too flustered to speak, which might’ve been a first for her. The moment passed.

  “He must be,” she said with an exaggerated sense of mortification. “I guess I should be thankful I’m still wearing my bra.”

  While her makeup was ruined, Margot’s poofy blond hair remained undisturbed. Given all the styling mousse she used, it was doubtful a hurricane could have budged it. She wagged a finger at Parker. “Now you behave yourself! It usually takes at least three dates to get as far with me as you just did, buster!”

  Parker thought she was playing a game with him, and he let out a couple of pig grunts as he tried to squirm free from Morris’s grasp, but Morris held tight. He mouthed to Margot to bring Parker back his bone. The director must’ve picked up on it because seconds later the assistant was hurrying over with the partially chewed rawhide bone. Soon after that the bull terrier was gnawing on it and once again ignoring all the activity around him.

  “Well, that was exciting,” Margot declared. As fast as someone could snap their fingers, her expression became deathly somber. “We all need moments of levity during such difficult times. When we come back from commercial break, famed serial killer hunter Morris Brick will be revealing to us shocking new developments in the Nightmare Man case.”

  There wasn’t supposed to be a commercial break at that time, but there also wasn’t a TV director alive who would’ve risked Margot’s ire right then. The cameraman signaled they were off the air, and Margot bellowed for her makeup artist. A skinny woman in her sixties rushed onto the set and began feverishly fixing the damage Parker had done.

  “I should have your dog stuffed and mounted for what he did,” Margot said.

  “When we go live again, I should put you on my knee and spank you for what you did,” Morris growled back at her. “With all the stimuli on the set and his toy being grabbed from him, he got overly excited and thought you were playing with him. He reacted exactly the way you should’ve expected.”

  Margot sat sullenly after that. As her makeup artist was finishing up, she complained, “I must’ve looked absolutely hideous.”

  “The most stunningly gorgeous woman on morning TV?” Morris said. “Not possible.”

  “Your flattery won’t change the fact that I’ll be a laughingstock!”

  “If that’s so, you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank. Your ratings will be off the charts with the news I’ll be breaking.”

  Talk of high ratings appeased her. The cameraman began to count down from five, and when he reached one, Margot’s expression instantly transformed into one reflecting the utmost urgency.

  “Exclusive to The Hollywood Peeper, we will be revealing the identity of the first Nightmare Man. I say first, because there have actually been two of these demented killers.”

  “That’s right,” Morris said. He gave the director a prearranged nod, and Ed Blount’s mugshot, the 1984 police sketch, and the photo of the mask Polk had sent were shown on a split screen, and Morris told the whole sordid story of why he believed Ed Blount created the Nightmare Man.

  “That’s simply incredible,” Margot said in her patented breathless voice as she raised a hand to her throat so that her fingers grazed the base of it.

  Saying it aloud, it sounded impossible, but Morris knew it was true.

  “This hired killer, Ed Blount—he died in prison in 1992?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So who is the second Nightmare Man?”

  “We don’t know yet, but we believe it’s someone he met while in Ashfield State Prison. We’re now looking at the inmates he had contact with, and we can use any help the public can provide.”

  Morris then made an appeal to viewers asking them to call the hotline number if they saw anything unusual near Lori Fletcher’s apartment building during the weeks leading up to the murder. He also asked the same of anyone who might know someone catching and keeping live rats. This of course got Margot’s curiosity, and she tried her damnedest to pry out of him whatever salacious details she could about what the Nightmare Man did with rats. She didn’t get anywhere, and she must’ve known she wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop her from giving it her all. If nothing else, it made for riveting television and would send her audience’s imaginations into
overdrive, although nothing they came up with would match the sickening truth of what was done with them.

  Revealing crucial information was always a dilemma for a number of reasons: First and most obvious in this case was the potential of being overwhelmed with false leads involving rats. Another factor that weighed heavily on Morris was that he might inspire copycat killers to come up with their own creative ways to use rats in a murder. But when he discussed this with Gloria Finston, she suggested he mention the rats. Even if nobody saw the killer collecting them, the killer could be worried that someone did, and the added stress could lead to him slipping up. She was convinced they had more to gain than to lose, and he agreed with her.

  Margot finally gave up on pressing him about the rats, and he caught a glimmer in her eyes and a flash of a cunning smile. She didn’t quite wink at him, but she just as well could’ve.

  She said, “It seems that Police Commissioner Martin Hadley made the right call in bringing you and your firm, MBI, into this investigation.”

  He always suspected Hadley and Margot traded favors—that he slipped her confidential information in exchange for favorable treatment on her show, at least more favorable than he deserved. This proved it beyond any doubt.

  Morris said with a straight face, “The man’s a visionary.”

  Chapter 49

  Joplin was alone in her apartment watching The Hollywood Peeper, and when that former cop Brick talked about what they had discovered about the Nightmare Man it left her too numb to move. She was affected at such a deep primeval level, and even if her life depended on it she wouldn’t have been able to explain why. The same was true yesterday when she had seen the story on the news about the Nightmare Man resurfacing after seventeen years to take a new victim. Those stories had left her feeling far more vulnerable than she would’ve imagined possible, but she took solace knowing that the police had a sketch of the suspected killer and that they believed this man was now in his eighties. At least she had an idea of who to look out for. Now that had been taken away. Still, why would this news leave her nearly stricken with terror? Then she remembered the creep from earlier and understood her subconscious reaction. Almost as if he were in the living room with her, she heard clearly in her mind the words that the creep had whispered to her just before he fled the restaurant.