Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “The number seventeen made up of severed flesh and nails? A rat found stuck in the victim’s throat?”

  An iciness crept down Morris’s spine. “You’ve seen this before?” he asked.

  “I did. Seventeen years ago. Do you remember the Nightmare Man murders?”

  Morris remembered them. He had been a kid at the time, only fourteen. He remembered how worn out his dad had looked during the months when he investigated the murders, and that his dad never spoke a word about them to the family.

  “We need to talk face-to-face,” Sam Brick said. “The sooner the better.”

  Chapter 56

  Los Angeles, October 8, 2001

  Hadley sputtered with outrage when he saw Morris had returned empty-handed. “You’ve been gone almost an hour!” he barked. “Where’s my coffee and lemon crèmes? Can’t you do anything right?”

  If Hadley’s outburst bothered Morris, he didn’t show it. “I consulted with my dad instead,” he said.

  Hadley was too livid at first to talk, his mouth pushing in and out as if he were adjusting dentures. Finally he spat out, “What was that?”

  “My dad has seen murders like this one before.”

  “You discussed an ongoing investigation with a civilian?” he asked, indignant.

  Morris was still three days shy of his one-month anniversary, but he decided he was close enough to take his dad’s advice. Besides, he was sick of Hadley’s antics, and he found it infuriating that Hadley was so caught up in his little power trip that he would dismiss what he’d just been told.

  “Martin, don’t get your boxers in a twist. I discussed the situation with a retired LAPD homicide detective who had thirty years on the job. This murder matches unsolved homicides from 1984 attributed to the Nightmare Man.”

  Hadley was flabbergasted. He opened his mouth and closed it. Like a fish gulping. “Disobeying orders from a higher-ranking detective,” he croaked in a raspier than normal voice. A stubby index finger was raised. “Violating departmental rules.” A second finger joined the first to form a backward peace sign. “That’s it, sonny boy, I’m going to see you busted back down to patrolman, if you’re lucky.”

  Morris said, “You can try. But how about for now we get the FBI involved?”

  Hadley was angry enough that Morris could imagine steam rising from his fat head. Before Hadley could utter a word, his phone rang. He barked out at it, demanding, “What do you want!” and then his face deflated as he listened to what the caller had to say. Morris stood close enough to listen in. A woman had been murdered last night in her San Fernando Valley apartment, and a grisly “17” was left behind.

  * * * *

  Aside from the gray hair and deeper lines in his face, Captain Jim Marshall looked pretty much the way he had back in 1984. He still had the same office and command position, but he was now addressing a different Detective Brick, and after clearing his throat, he informed Morris that Hadley wanted him drummed out of the LAPD.

  Morris said, “I was only doing my job.”

  Marshall sat erect in his chair, his clasped hands resting lightly on his desk. He forced a patient smile.

  “You’ve still got training wheels on, son,” he said.

  “Don’t you think it’s about time they came off?” Morris didn’t give Marshall a chance to contemplate an answer. He shifted forward onto the edge of the seat and quickly went into the speech he’d been practicing in his head. “My dad’s ideas on this murder make a lot of sense,” he said. “If my dad was right and Donald Trilling hired a hitman in 1984 to kill his wife, then this same hitman could’ve been laying low or been in prison until recently, and he could’ve brought back the Nightmare Man to hide another contract killing. We need to work with the OC task force and put pressure on these mob guys to give up this hitman. We also need to look hard at Buchalla’s finances. His home has got to be worth at least five million, and he’d be a perfect candidate to be hiring a hitman.”

  Captain Marshall stared blankly at Morris.

  “You’ve been a detective a week now and you’re already giving orders?”

  Morris said, “Almost a month.”

  “Almost a month. Imagine that. And you’re already turning out to be the same pain in the ass as Sam.” His tone softened. “But your old man was a good detective, and maybe someday you’ll be the same, so I’ll tell you how this is going to work. We’re going to follow the book on this, and you’re only doing what the ranking detective on the case tells you to do. Within reason. If I hear anything about you bothering Mr. Buchalla, or about you freelancing and interfering with organized crime investigations, or wasting even a minute of their valuable time, you’ll be looking for another job. Have I made myself clear?”

  Morris sat grinding his teeth, not wanting to give in. “Sir, with all due respect, I think we’ll be ignoring an important avenue of investigation.”

  “That will be Martin Hadley’s call, not yours, since he’s the ranking detective on this, not you.” Captain Marshall’s expression weakened, and in a confidential tone he added, “These murders tormented me seventeen years ago. Back then I gave your old man months of leeway to explore this same hitman theory, and he got nowhere. We’re not going on any more wild-goose chases. This time around, we’re following procedure straight down the line.”

  He checked his watch and told Morris he believed they were done. Morris got up and closed the door behind him on his way out. Hadley was waiting for him at his desk, his pale blue eyes watching Morris carefully.

  Hadley asked, “You still employed by the LAPD?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “So I’m still stuck with you, huh? That’s a shame.”

  Morris swallowed back what he wanted to say and sat down behind his desk, ignoring Hadley as he leaned against it.

  “I thought about your dumbass idea about this being a hitman,” Hadley said. “We’re not wasting any time on that. Capisce?”

  Morris said, “You’re the ranking detective on the case.”

  “You’re damn straight I am. And don’t you forget you’re a know-nothing waste of space. There’s a chance, mind you, a small one at best, that if you keep your eyes open and mouth shut you just might learn enough from me so you’re not totally useless.”

  If Hadley expected a thank-you from Morris, he didn’t get one. After a minute of waiting, he lost patience.

  “I take that back,” Hadley said. His gaze had shifted to the framed picture of Natalie and a seven-year-old Rachel, and he was staring at it in an almost obscene way. “As long as you’ve got that photo on your desk you’re not completely useless. But how about doing all of us here in Homicide a favor and getting one with the wife in a skimpy bikini?”

  He let out a guffaw.

  Morris pushed himself to his feet, and he used his right hand to grip Hadley by the shoulder. It was a gesture that could’ve looked friendly, but from the way Morris squeezed the shoulder, it was anything but. He had gone to UCLA on a full baseball scholarship, a starter at third base all four years. He was good enough that he disappointed Major League scouts when he told them he had no interest in playing professional baseball and planned to go into law enforcement instead. Third basemen and bricklayers tended to have powerful hands, and Morris’s hands were as strong as any. He soon had Hadley squirming under his grip.

  “If you ever say another word disrespecting my wife, I will tear you apart,” Morris said softly into Hadley’s ear. “Capisce?”

  Hadley was struggling to break free but had no chance. “Okay, okay,” he forced out, wincing from the pain.

  Morris let go of Hadley’s shoulder. They exchanged a look then, and it told Morris that Hadley was afraid of him just enough to stop his nonsense. His dad had been right. When it came down to it, Hadley didn’t have the stones to stand up to him. But he also k
new Hadley wasn’t going to change his mind about talking with organized crime. The fact that the idea came from Morris’s dad sealed that.

  Hadley said, “I want you back at Leary’s apartment building at five this evening, and I don’t want you leaving there until you’ve talked with every single tenant. You got that?”

  Cynthia Leary was the name of the twenty-seven-year-old woman murdered last night in the valley. Earlier that afternoon while Morris was given busywork, Hadley and two other detectives canvassed the apartments, but only a handful of tenants were home. So Hadley was now consenting to give him real detective work. At least that was something. Still, in Morris’s gut he didn’t believe following standard procedure would lead them to the Nightmare Man. Talking to organized crime was out—he knew Captain Marshall meant business—but he still planned to go through the mugshot books and look at every prisoner photo. If the Nightmare Man was a hitman who had gotten out of prison, Morris still had a chance of finding him. At least if the police sketch from 1984 was a close enough match to the real killer.

  “Yes, sir,” Morris said.

  That seemed to mollify Hadley. The older detective nodded in a way to show they had a truce, and that as far as Hadley was concerned, Morris had earned his respect. Or at least his fear.

  Morris checked his watch. Four thirty-five. If he was going to get to the San Fernando Valley apartment building by five, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. He waited until he was in the car and started driving before calling Natalie.

  “It’s going to be a late one,” he said. “I might be out until midnight. My folks would like to come over and keep you company until I get home. Is that okay?”

  “Of course, Rachel will be thrilled to see Grandma Ruthie and Pops.” Natalie lowered her voice. “They’ve been reporting about the Nightmare Man on the news. Is that what you’re investigating?”

  In his mind’s eye, he could see Natalie’s brow furrowed deeply as she tried hard to sound unconcerned and cheery. Rachel had to be in the room with her.

  “It is,” he admitted. “How many murders have they been reporting?”

  “One.” He caught the hitch in her voice as she asked if there had been more than that.

  “There have been two. I’ll be spending part of the night canvassing the apartment building where one of the murders took place, part of it searching through mugshot books.”

  “There’s a witness?”

  “From 1984. We’ve got a police sketch from back then. It’s being updated now to age the suspect seventeen years.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know why I want my parents with you until I come home?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I know.” Then sounding especially cheery again, “I’ve got a mischievous little girl who’s eager to talk to you.”

  Morris heard Rachel giggling in the background. “Has she been causing trouble?” he asked.

  “I’ll let her tell you.”

  The giggling got out of control as the phone was handed to Rachel.

  “I didn’t do anything, Daddy,” Rachel insisted earnestly. “Simba jumped up on the counter and knocked over the flour canister and got flour everywhere. It was so funny!”

  She broke out into a giggling fit. Simba was the family cat. Morris had no idea what type he was, only that he was black and white, and that he liked to dig his claws into Morris’s stomach whenever he settled down on him. When Rachel was four, she had won the cat at a Purim party. A dirty trick, giving away kittens that way. Morris and Natalie had been talking about getting a dog when their daughter was older, but what were they going to say to their four-year-old little girl when she came running to them with the kitten she’d just “won”? And so they were stuck with a cat who liked to jump on kitchen counters and leave Morris dead little gifts in his shoes.

  Rachel’s giggle wound down, and she proceeded to tell Morris all about the trouble Simba had caused and how funny it was.

  Morris asked, “Who’s cleaning up the mess?”

  “Mommy did, but I helped.”

  “Don’t you think Simba should’ve cleaned up his own mess?”

  “That’s silly, Daddy,” she said in a patronizing voice. “Cats don’t clean up their own messes. That’s why they have us.”

  Morris couldn’t argue with that logic.

  Chapter 57

  Los Angeles, October 27, 2001

  Travis Smalley found the next woman he was going to kill in a downtown nightclub. The instant he saw her, he knew she was the one. Mid-twenties, long mousy brown hair hanging well past her shoulders, and a cute face bordering on pretty, even with her slightly upturned nose. What made her so perfect was (a) this could be Rosalyn in ten years and (b) she was skinny.

  The fact that she strongly resembled an older version of Rosalyn Krate was what first drew his attention, but he had learned during the last three weeks that the pain he administered was so much more excruciating when he was carving the flesh off of women who didn’t have much to spare.

  The last three nights he’d been to two dozen bars and almost a dozen nightclubs hunting for his next victim, and he’d spent a good chunk of money on cover charges and buying drinks he barely sipped. That was all part of the process and to be expected, and to be fair, he saw other women he almost chose instead. He even had several drunken or stoned women approaching him, and any one of them would’ve been easy to take. Somehow, though, they weren’t quite what he was looking for. Once he saw this woman, he understood the reason for that.

  He first spotted her on the dance floor where jammed bodies gyrated to ear-splitting, head-banging heavy metal music. It was a miracle he saw her at all. When the people blocking her parted long enough for him to see her, he took it as a sign that this was meant to be. She wore a T-shirt that looked painted on and fit so tightly he could make out her ribs, and a black leather mini-skirt barely covering four inches of her skinny thighs. Completing the outfit were black ankle boots. Before she was swallowed up again by the crowd, he watched her raise both skinny arms high above her head, the movement pulling up her shirt and revealing an emaciated stomach and a pierced belly button. Since then he’d been spying on her from a distance, following her around the club while he carried an untouched rum and coke. She was with a ratty-looking dude her age, also skinny, and with tattoos covering both arms from his shoulders to his wrists. As far as Smalley was concerned, this was a plus. He liked the idea of butchering his next victim while her boyfriend was tied up and forced to watch. More than that, he was anxious to venture into new territory.

  Blount had been right. Smalley followed Blount’s playbook to the letter, not deviating once from the formula he was given, and because of that he’d been able to kill five women without the police ever suspecting him. Even better, he had them chasing after a phantom. He got a charge every time he turned on the TV and saw their updated sketch of the Nightmare Man: A sixty-year-old geezer who never existed.

  Blount had also been right about how this was his destiny. Travis Smalley had found that it was pure ecstasy torturing and snuffing out his victims, his senses heightened to a level he never would’ve imagined possible. He didn’t just watch as they squirmed in their final agonies; instead it was as if he could smell and taste their suffering, as if he could feel vibrations of it on his skin. The experiences left him hungering for more.

  At first, he tried to ignore this hunger. There was a simple symmetry with the number seventeen. He’d done as Blount suggested, killing five women in seventeen days, and his original plan was to wait seventeen years and then do it all over again. Easy peasy. He was thirty-three, and he could remember back to when he was eleven and first felt the urge to kill. The little girl he first wanted to torture and snuff out was five-year-old Betsy Jackson who lived three doors away, but he fought against the urge then. He even let her tag along after him, and he would listen patiently as she droned on abou
t her favorite dollies, all the while daydreaming about what he’d like to do to her. If he could tamp down those urges for twenty-two years, he should be able to ignore them for another seventeen years. Except easier said than done.

  The genie was out of the bottle.

  Four days ago he had woken up with a throbbing head and his mouth so dry he would’ve sworn he had swallowed a handful of sawdust. It didn’t matter how much he drank or how many aspirins he took; he couldn’t get rid of the dryness or stop that unrelenting drumbeat deep in his head. He also couldn’t stop thinking about killing more women. He knew the reason. He was an addict. When he had his way with his victims a flood of endorphins was released, so he experienced the mother of all highs.

  He couldn’t go cold turkey, even if he wanted to, and he was just like any other junkie badly needing a fix. Barely sleeping, jittery every waking second, brain throbbing, an endless cold sweat. He was still living in the Krates’ guesthouse and he almost gave in to his impulse to slaughter Rosalyn, her freakin’ annoying mother, and the equally annoying fat slob who had moved in with them six months ago, but as satisfying as that might’ve been, the police would be chasing after him if he did that. And then he realized he didn’t have to give up the Nightmare Man. Just because Blount only took five victims didn’t mean his own hands were tied. He could still make the police think the number seventeen was special if he took seventeen victims, spreading out the killings so that each were further away from the last. This way he could wean himself off this oh-so-powerful drug. But that would be for later. For now, all he could think about was his next fix, and just the sight of the skinny woman who looked so much like an older Rosalyn made his mouth drier and the drumbeat in his brain louder.

  The woman’s punk boyfriend had disappeared—either a trip to the men’s room or the bar for drinks—and Smalley watched as she moved rhythmically to the music. As her body swayed, he imagined all the places he’d be cutting off her flesh. She surprised him by turning his way, and before he could move her eyes caught his. She maintained eye contact, challenging him. He didn’t look away either. Of course, she mistook his interest in her, thinking it was sexual.