Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  Natalie took Fridays off, and she had been sleeping soundly when he rolled out of bed an hour earlier. If she was up, she would’ve let him know, and he didn’t have the heart to wake her, especially since he had kept her up late the last two nights waiting for him. He wrote her a note telling her Parker had already been out and had been given half a bowl of his dried food and that he was leaving the little guy with her to keep her out of mischief. He left the note on the kitchen counter and smiled inwardly thinking of the face she’d make when she read it.

  Since eating breakfast, Parker had trudged up the stairs so he could camp outside the bedroom door and wait for Natalie. Morris headed upstairs to say his goodbyes to the bull terrier. Parker was lying on his side, and he consented to lift his head and slowly wag his tail. He looked guilty, and Morris knew why. Parker had already made up his mind he was spending the day with Natalie. He was no fool. He knew Fridays with Natalie meant a trip someplace fun, possibly his favorite place, Runyon Canyon Park.

  That was just as well. Morris had a gut feeling Schofield would be giving him the name of the second Nightmare Man, and after that he’d be having a busy day.

  “No hard feelings,” Morris promised. He scratched Parker a final time behind his ear.

  Parker lowered his head back to the floor. He stretched all four legs, then closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  At a little after nine o’clock, Morris and Charlie Bogle stood in MBI’s conference room drinking coffee and staring at the map that showed the locations of the Nightmare Man murders. The 1984 murders were more scattered than the 2001 murders, and took place in Brentwood, Culver City, Inglewood, Marina Del Rey, and downtown Los Angeles. In 2001, the first murder was in Beverly Hills, the next two in the San Fernando Valley, the fourth in Venice, and the final one was again in the valley.

  Morris’s phone rang. Annie Walsh.

  “We’ve got another murder.”

  Walsh gave him the victim’s name and address. Like all the other victims, she was killed in her bedroom. When Morris got off the phone he stuck another yellow thumbtack in the map—this one also in West Hollywood and only two blocks away from where Lori Fletcher had lived.

  “Apartment or private residence?” Bogle asked.

  “Apartment,” Morris said. “Annie’s at the crime scene now. The victim’s name is Joplin Cole, age twenty-six, single, not living with anyone. This psycho left her apartment and bedroom doors open. For whatever reason he wanted her body found this morning.”

  “Was that done with any of the other murders?”

  Morris said, “No. According to Annie it’s otherwise the same as the last murder. Her lips were sewn shut and the rat was still alive and trying to force its way free from her mouth. But he tortured her the same way as the other victims and left the same message at the foot of her bed.”

  He had been planning to give Schofield another hour to get back to him on his own, but not after this. When he called Schofield, the former prison warden sounded surprised to hear from him.

  “We had another murder,” Morris told him. He thought no more pussyfooting around, but he didn’t say it. He knew that wouldn’t go over well with a man like Schofield. “If you have a name, I need it now.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Medical examiner hasn’t shown up yet, but it looks like late last night.”

  “Not this morning?”

  Schofield was really asking whether the murder could’ve happened because he’d been delaying giving Morris the name of a former employee who he thought could be a psychopath.

  “No, not this morning,” Morris said.

  In his mind’s eye, he imagined Schofield saying a silent prayer and crossing himself.

  “I have a name for you,” Schofield said. “There were stories. Nothing substantiated, mind you.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “That he got rougher with inmates than he should’ve.” Schofield made a noise as if he were clearing his throat, and added, “That maybe he enjoyed it. But this was a long time ago, and I could be wrong about this.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Over twenty years. Could be over twenty-five. He left sometime in the nineties.”

  “On his own accord?”

  “As far as I know. I didn’t fire him.”

  “His name?”

  There was a bit of hemming and hawing from Schofield, then, “I hate the idea of maligning a man who could be innocent.”

  “Bill, that’s not what you’d be doing.”

  “I guess not.” He gave up the fight. “He was a prison guard by the name of Travis Smalley.”

  “Any idea what happened to him?”

  “None. I never heard from him or about him since he left Ashfield. He could be dead for all I know.”

  Morris hoped not, at least if Smalley turned out to be the one responsible for the 2001 murders. Because if that was the case and Smalley was now dead, they’d have to start looking for a third Nightmare Man killer.

  Chapter 53

  Ashfield State Prison, 1992

  The human jackals inside Ashfield recognized from the start that they needed to be cautious around Ed Blount, and it was only after cancer had eaten away most of his insides and his weight dropped from 212 to 132 pounds that they started looking at him differently, like he might be vulnerable.

  The thought of that made Blount laugh, which quickly turned into a hacking cough that racked his increasingly frail body. He had been lying on his back, but he maneuvered his feet onto the concrete floor and forced himself into a sitting position. Once the coughing fit subsided, he spat out a viscous mix of blood and mucus and wiped a withered hand across his mouth. Every muscle and bone ached. His blood also, as if it had become something toxic. Even so, he still had enough to take out any of these jackals who tried making a play on him. There probably wouldn’t be anything left of him afterward, but that would be okay as far as he was concerned.

  The horn had blasted minutes ago, warning the prisoners in Blount’s cellblock to leave their cells. Blount had heard the other inmates shuffling out, but he had stayed on his cot. If he needed to, he could’ve gotten onto his feet and made his way to the mess hall, for all the good it would do him. Any food he ate wouldn’t be staying down for long. He doubted at this point he had much of his stomach left. But the fact that eating any of the swill they served in the mess hall would be a pointless activity wasn’t why he stayed on his cot. He knew Travis Smalley was on duty this morning, and sooner or later he’d be checking up on him, and Blount wanted a chance to talk to Smalley privately.

  Smalley had been a guard in Blount’s cellblock for the last five years. He could’ve been assigned to a different cellblock before that, but Blount didn’t think it likely. Smalley looked too young for that to be the case. No older than early twenties, and it was a good bet this was his first job after high school. Even if Blount was wrong about Smalley’s age, word of him would’ve gotten around if he’d been working elsewhere within Ashfield.

  At first glance, Smalley appeared to be an apple-cheeked all-American type. But Blount was never fooled. He knew right away what Smalley was, even before the first time he caught the malicious glee in Smalley’s eyes when the guard rabbit-punched an unsuspecting inmate in the kidneys. Since then he’d seen Smalley dozens of times punch inmates in sensitive areas, trip others and stomp on their fingers as if it were an accident, and inflict other small cruelties whenever the opportunity arose. Smalley had always steered clear of Blount, though, the two of them never exchanging a word. That was going to change today. Blount had a proposal for him.

  His mind drifted, and he couldn’t say how much longer he had to wait before Smalley entered his cell, a curious smile on the guard’s lips. Like the other jackals within Ashfield, Smalley had been careful around Blount, although Blount could see in the prison guard
’s eyes that he was trying to decide how careful he still needed to be. Him lumping Smalley with the other jackals wasn’t really right. He was so much more than that.

  Smalley stopped several feet from Blount’s cot. He was gripping a baton in his hand, and Blount could see in Smalley’s pale blue eyes that he was making up his mind whether Blount was now weak enough.

  “Are you too sick for breakfast?” Smalley asked pleasantly. “Is that why you’re openly disobeying prison rules?”

  “I’ve got something to offer you,” Blount said, his voice a hollow imitation of what it had once been. “I didn’t want any prying ears listening in.”

  The prison guard was amused by that. “What could you possibly offer me?”

  “You mean other than the pleasure you’d get from beating me with your baton?”

  “Precisely.”

  “That was a joke,” Blount said with a grin that left the little skin remaining on his face stretched tight. “You wouldn’t get far if you tried. My bones are brittle enough now I’m sure you’d break some, but I’d still snap your neck before you broke too many.”

  Smalley’s knuckles on the hand holding the baton whitened. “Is that a threat?”

  “Just having some fun.” Blount was still grinning, but his eyes had deadened, looking as lifeless as sand. “What I want to do is offer you what you want most in life.”

  Smalley laughed. “You got a million dollars to give me?”

  “Money isn’t what you want most.”

  Smalley took a step closer. He licked his lips, his eyes glancing to the right and left of Blount before settling back on him. This was a subconscious habit of his, like a poker tell: looking to see whether there was anyone around to witness his violence. So he must’ve decided Blount was weak enough now to garner special attention. Also that Blount was off his rocker.

  “Get off the cot now,” he ordered.

  He lifted his baton so that he held it at shoulder level, and at the same time left his groin exposed. Blount was tempted to teach him a lesson by punching him in the balls, then grabbing the baton while the prison guard lay in a fetal position on the cement floor, but whatever satisfaction he would get from that wouldn’t be worth the cost.

  “Settle down,” Blount said. “What I can give you is being able to kill women in the cruelest, most sadistic way imaginable without you ever being suspected. We both know that’s what you really want. That your extracurricular activities here aren’t giving you enough satisfaction.”

  “You’re crazy,” Smalley said a little too quickly. “Whatever has made you sick must’ve turned your brain into mush.”

  A weak, rattling noise escaped from deep within Blount’s throat. It sounded like a pebble bouncing inside an empty soda can. He was laughing despite himself. He couldn’t help it seeing the piggish look of anticipation on the guard’s face. Smalley’s apple cheeks blushed a deeper red. Blount had been listening to make sure no one else was nearby. He didn’t have to worry about lowering his voice. It was already too weak to carry far.

  “Do you remember the Nightmare Man murders from ’84?” He waited until Smalley said he did before continuing. “The cops never gave out any of the details. I could tell you them and you could take over the killings. You’re more than sneaky enough to pull it off, and as long as you use a few brains, the cops will never suspect you.”

  The hand holding the baton dropped to Smalley’s side. He used his free hand to tug on his lower lip.

  “You’re confessing to me that you were the Nightmare Man?” he asked as if this was a joke.

  “I’m not saying one way or the other. But what I can tell you is the genuine article.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Blount didn’t answer him.

  They engaged in a silent staring contest for a good minute, Smalley looking as if he were trying to make up his mind. He must’ve finally come to a decision, because he shook his head, astonished.

  “I could drag you to the warden’s office and I’d be a hero,” he said.

  “You could, but we both know being a hero isn’t what you really want, so why kid yourself about it? Besides, all the added attention you’d get would prevent you from ever living up to your true potential.”

  Smalley’s eyes grew distant as if he were searching somewhere deep inside himself. When he looked back at Blount, there was an unmistakable hunger in them.

  “Why do you think that about me?” he asked.

  He wasn’t challenging Blount; he was simply curious.

  “Let’s say because of my job I needed to be a student of human nature. I see things most others don’t.”

  “You were a hitman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But I thought you insisted you were innocent?”

  Blount was surprised Smalley had heard that. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his arrest and trial since the first month he’d been in Ashfield. Maybe there was something about it in his prison record. Smalley must’ve been curious enough about him to at some point read his record. Live and learn.

  “What sent me here was a frame, and a damned good one. Not even Houdini could’ve slipped free of it.” He could tell from Smalley’s blank expression that he had no clue who Houdini was. “But just because I’m innocent of the one that sent me over doesn’t mean I’m innocent. I did more jobs than I can remember.”

  Smalley sat down on the cot next to Blount, his face taking on a more piggish look. He edged closer, his breath warm and smelling like cheap cat food. In a soft whisper, he asked, “Did you enjoy killing people?”

  “I took satisfaction in doing a job well done. That’s all.”

  “The Nightmare Man killings were part of a job?”

  Blount didn’t answer him.

  “You said something before about being able to kill women in the cruelest way. Does that mean you tortured the women before killing them?”

  Again, Blount didn’t answer.

  Smalley correctly interpreted Blount’s silence. He had already made his decision and was just being cautious when he asked Blount to explain why the police would never suspect him if he were to continue the Nightmare Man murders.

  “How old were you in October ’84?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Where were you living?”

  “Bakersfield.”

  “That should be reason enough. Cops wouldn’t believe it possible for a sixteen-year-old kid living in Bakersfield to have done those murders. But that doesn’t even matter. They got their sketch from a witness, and the sketch is for a guy in his forties who doesn’t look anything like you. If you start these killings up again, that’s who they’ll be looking for.”

  Smalley absorbed this. “I remember that police sketch,” he said. “They showed it all the time on the news for like a month. I don’t remember it looking like you.”

  “I wore a mask that night. It was something I did when I went out on jobs where I thought I could be seen.”

  “A true professional,” Smalley said with an ugly grin.

  “That’s right.”

  His grin shrunk. There was still something on his mind that was troubling him. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “What do you want in return?”

  Blount had his reason, and he knew it was a lousy one. The evil Trilling had paid him to create should die with him instead of being handed over to someone like Travis Smalley. But as rotten as his reason was, it was important to him. It was all he had left.

  He knew Salvatore Penza was behind the frame that sent him to Ashfield. While he was awaiting trial he heard rumors that the massage parlor owner he was supposed to have killed, Arnie Woods, had a problem with Penza over the weekly amount Penza was squeezing out of him, and the moron had made noises about talking to the cops. Blount’s blood chilled once he understood Penza had set him up. P
enza would’ve only done that if he had learned about Blount being behind the Nightmare Man murders, and Blount could make a good guess how Penza had learned about that: the client, Donald Trilling, talked with another freelancer before Blount, and that freelancer must’ve gone to Penza after Trilling’s wife was killed. Blount had no idea how Penza was then able to figure out that he took the job, but somehow he did and decided to apply his own brand of justice. It made sense that was what happened and explained why Trilling included in his note that torture was necessary. He’d already been turned down once, and he wanted to make sure other freelancers knew up front what the job required.

  Blount could accept a life sentence for killing Arnie Woods, even though he had nothing to do with the hit. He could also handle Lauren and his boys thinking he was a hitman, even if they learned how extensive his career was. He’d do anything, though, to keep them from ever finding out that he’d been the Nightmare Man. He’d rather cut out his own heart than have them ever discover that, and that was why he had to accept the frame and keep his mouth shut.

  He had planned to take his Nightmare Man secret to the grave, but how does that saying go about the best-laid plans of mice and men? How quickly they can go to shit? Lauren visited him during his first four years before sending him divorce papers; his oldest boy, George, visited him a handful of times, his last visit being three years ago; his middle son, Tom, not a single visit, letter, or phone call ever, and it looked like the same was going to be true with his youngest boy, Jack. Then out of the blue Jack came to see him a year ago, but one look and Blount knew it wasn’t a social call, that his son had a specific purpose in mind. Jack wanted to know the truth about Blount working as a hitman, and Blount didn’t lie to him. When his boy pressed him about whether Woods had been his only hit, Blount admitted that he’d done more jobs over two decades than he could remember. If Jack wanted to tell the cops any of that, Blount wouldn’t hold it against his boy. The cancer hadn’t ravaged him yet, but he knew it was inside him and that he’d be dead long before the DA would ever be able to put him on death row, if it ever went that far.