Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  The key for the guesthouse had been left next to the phone in the kitchen, and Rosalyn felt lightheaded as she walked around the outside of the house so she could enter the apartment where Travis had lived for two years. She’d had many sleepless nights lying in bed wondering what it would be like to sneak into the guesthouse and cuddle up next to Travis. She had dropped hints that she wanted him to invite her into his apartment, but he either acted obtuse or made it into a joke. “God only knows what I’d do to you if we were ever alone together,” he said with a wink that made Rosalyn blush down to her toes.

  She felt as if she could start weeping at any moment, but she steeled herself and unlocked the door, then entered the apartment. He appeared to have lived a simple, austere life. There were no photographs or paintings on the walls, no little knickknacks or souvenirs, no expensive Sony PlayStations or stereo systems. Nothing to give his life any special meaning. Aside from his clothing there was only a small TV, a clock radio next to the bed, and a few dozen books that had been carefully arranged on a bookshelf. Most of the books were about criminal investigations or deviant psychology, although there were a few others mixed in—Silence of the Lambs, Helter Skelter, and something called The Killer Inside Me. Tears began streaming down her cheeks as she walked around the apartment and saw how Travis’s life had been reduced to so little. It was just so unbearably sad.

  When she opened the closet, she saw the metal cage traps stacked up inside as well as a toolbox. The cage traps were an odd thing to find, but she assumed he needed them for his job. She carefully, reverentially, folded the clothing hanging in the closet and placed it in the boxes. Then she moved to the three-drawer dresser so she could do the same. This dresser used to be hers, but four years ago her mother had bought her new furniture and she and her mother had moved her old dresser to the guesthouse. It broke her heart all over again knowing that she and Travis had shared this piece of furniture. Of course, he had changed the lining paper inside the drawers. Hers had rainbows and unicorns, and the paper being used now was a solid dark gray. This made Rosalyn smile. Of course he’d pick paper like that. Solid, dependable. And of course he had his clothing neatly stored away, all his shirts and pants folded precisely. Still, after she took them out of the drawers, she refolded everything before packing it. After all, this was the last possible thing she could do for Travis.

  Rosalyn worked quickly, efficiently, and soon had the dresser emptied, but she found herself staring with befuddlement at the bottom drawer. It wasn’t as deep as she remembered it. Curious, she felt around inside. The dark gray lining paper did a good job camouflaging the small finger hold that allowed her to lift up the false bottom revealing Travis’s secret cache: a handwritten journal, camera, stack of photos, large envelope, pair of panties, stockings, lipstick canister, women’s sunglasses, and a cheap pair of earrings.

  Rosalyn first looked at the photos. They were taken in the dark with a flash, and each one showed a different woman lying naked on a bed. The women were all gagged, and their wrists and ankles were bound. She next looked at what was inside the large envelope and found clipped newspaper articles about the Nightmare Man murders. She read a few of these before storing the articles back in the envelope. The articles she read had shown photographs of the victims when they were alive, and she recognized these women from the other photographs. A coolness filled her head as she took the handwritten journal and brought it to the beat-up La-Z-Boy recliner that her mother had put in the guesthouse years ago.

  There was no doubt Travis had written the journal, and it talked about how a dying inmate at Ashfield State Prison had been the Nightmare Man back in 1984. The journal further revealed all of the Nightmare Man’s secrets, and how Travis hunted and chose the women to kill in 2001. He wrote in detail about each of his victims and how euphoric he found the killings. Rosalyn soon understood that the lipstick and other items were trophies Travis had taken from his victims. When she read about his plans for her, she also understood her true destiny.

  Chapter 66

  Los Angeles, the present

  Samantha woke up with the mother of all headaches and her mouth tasting like she’d been gagged with a pair of wool socks. She slowly remembered drinking heavily last night with Toni, then returning to Toni’s apartment to smoke weed and eat pizza. She was so wasted that Toni insisted she sleep on the couch.

  “Gah!”

  Samantha bolted up, contorting her mouth as she tried to get rid of that awful taste. She noticed she was wearing a pair of Toni’s pajamas, which was a good thing since Toni’s boyfriend Ben was sitting at the dining room table drinking coffee and reading the paper.

  “Coffee, please,” she begged.

  He looked up from the paper and grinned. “Ah, you’re up. Toni’s still sleeping it off. You two were so wasted last night.”

  “Ben, I’m begging you. I might die without coffee.”

  He bowed. “Right away.” He walked into the kitchen and began listing different flavors of coffee, and she chose the first one mentioned. Seconds later she sighed with relief hearing the whirring from the single-cup coffee maker. Ben called out again, asking about milk and sugar.

  “Plenty of both, please.”

  He brought her a mug, and her hands shook as she took it from him and sipped the coffee as if her life depended on it.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” she said.

  “I do my best. Congratulations are in order. Before Toni started snoring like a lumberjack, she told me you got the big part. Jeff must be thrilled.”

  She remembered then about getting the part. She also realized she had never called Jeff last night. She told Ben that.

  “You better call him, then.”

  She found her pocketbook next to the couch and fumbled for her phone. Once it was powered on, she saw a screen full of text messages from Jeff. He wanted to know that she was okay, and without spelling it out, he was worried about the Nightmare Man. Her eyes misted up with tears seeing that. He had also left voice messages, and it was obvious that he was trying hard not to sound worried.

  It was nine fifty, which meant it was twelve fifty in New York. Jeff’s play had a one o’clock matinee show on Saturdays. She hated the thought that she might screw up his performance, but she wasn’t going to wait another second to call him. He answered on the first ring, and Samantha began apologizing profusely. She told him about getting the part, that she and Toni had gone out celebrating afterward, and that she had crashed last night at Toni’s apartment.

  “Later I’ll be excited for you for winning that part, but right now I’m just relieved you’re okay.” He laughed and added, “I let some really crazy thoughts get into my head.”

  “About the Nightmare Man.”

  Samantha didn’t say that as a question. More as a statement of fact.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “How about taking the first plane you can to New York?”

  “Monday after my meeting. I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” He laughed again. “It’s crazy I let myself get as worked up as I did. With all the millions of people in Los Angeles, I had to drive myself nearly insane thinking absolutely crazy thoughts. As if that nuttiness was actually a possibility.”

  She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She bit her tongue to keep from doing either and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “As if,” she said.

  * * * *

  The freak discovered that Joplin Cole’s friend was named Jamie Siegel by perusing Joplin’s Facebook page. There were nine Jamie Siegels living in Los Angeles, and he had already visited four of them, knocking on their doors and seeing that none of them were the Jamie Siegel he wanted. If any of them were that Jamie Siegel he would’ve used the knife he had brought to cut the woman’s throat, but instead he simply asked if he could interest them in a magazine subscription, and all of them closed the door quickly on him after that. />
  He was approaching the apartment building for the fifth Jamie Siegel when he saw a sedan pull up in front of the entrance and two men get out, both of them looking like plainclothes detectives. The freak was wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled down almost to his eyes to hide his hair. The odds were good no one would recognize him from the police sketch they’d been showing, but he stepped back anyway and hid behind a tree. His Spidey sense was telling him this meant trouble, and sure enough, a few minutes later the two men escorted the fifth Jamie Siegel into their car. They must’ve been bringing her to the police station for more questioning. That was a shame, but it didn’t matter. He’d just have to come back later.

  Chapter 67

  Morris and the rest of the team had a busy morning. The police sketch brought in ninety-seven calls from concerned citizens who thought they recognized the human Ken doll, and caused eighteen blond thirty-something guys to voluntarily show up at the Wilcox Avenue precinct to claim they weren’t the person in the sketch. Jamie Siegel agreed to come in, and Franklin Strong and Ray Vestra picked her up and brought her to the precinct so she could look at potential suspects through a one-way glass. While this was happening Morris and the rest of the team tracked down potential suspects from the hotline calls. Some could prove they weren’t at Petit Bistro, others had their pictures taken or, if they acted suspiciously, were brought to the precinct. By three o’clock the team had eliminated these potential suspects, and Morris, Bogle, and a still grumpy Parker were in MBI’s conference room eating lunch.

  Morris asked Bogle, “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “That you should’ve gotten yourself prosciutto and mozzarella instead of tuna fish?”

  “That too,” Morris agreed. “But I keep thinking that there’s a connection between the two victims and if we dig deep enough we’ll find it.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.” Morris took another bite of sandwich. “Maybe they frequented the same bar or restaurant or spa or whatever, and that’s where this guy found them.”

  Parker had gotten under the conference table and made a demanding grunt. Morris ordered the bull terrier to get out from under there. Parker made several more unhappy grunts before complying.

  “He’s been in a pissy mood all day,” Bogle remarked. “What’s gotten into him?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Lemmon and Walsh joined them. They had done what they could to trace back Joplin Cole’s movements and had gotten nowhere. Morris told them his thoughts about trying to find a link between Fletcher and Cole. He added, “It would help if we had their credit card statements.”

  Walsh showed a helpless gesture. “The request has been put in,” she said. “I’m still waiting, just like I’m still waiting for the FBI to unlock Cole’s phone. What’s up with your dog? Every time I’ve seen him today he’s been moping around.”

  “It’s a mystery.”

  They decided to split up the calls. Lemmon and Walsh would focus on bars and restaurants, and Morris and Bogle would cover everything else. Twenty minutes later while Morris was on hold with a nail salon, his cell phone rang. Roger Smichen.

  “I’ve got good news and good news,” Smichen said. “Which do you want to hear first.”

  “You sound as punch drunk as I feel,” Morris said.

  “No doubt. It’s what can happen when you spend a day chasing after a seventeen-year-old coroner’s report. So I’ll give you the good news first. You can’t do an exhumation. Smalley’s remains were cremated.”

  “How is that good news?”

  “Because an exhumation isn’t needed. The coroner, bless him, was exceedingly thorough and took dental X-rays and included Smalley’s dental records in the report. The X-rays match up. Travis Smalley was killed in that alley. No other possibility.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Roger, and sorry for having you spend your Saturday on that goose chase.”

  “It happens.”

  Morris was still on hold with the nail salon. He called Polk to tell him he could drop the tail.

  “Thank God,” Polk said in a hushed voice. “I followed her into a movie theater where she’s watching the sappiest chick flick imaginable. Another minute of this and I might’ve gone blind.”

  “If you want to wait until the movie’s over before heading back, feel free.”

  Polk chuckled at that. “I don’t think so. Assuming traffic’s not a bear, I’ll be there in ten.”

  The owner of the nail salon finally came on, and like the other calls Morris had made, it was a dead end. Two hours later he had finished calling all of the West Hollywood nail and hair salons and was feeling as grumpy as Parker was acting when Bogle entered the office with a hard grin etched on his face. “Bingo,” he said.

  “Sure, go ahead. Keep me in suspense.”

  “They were both members of the same West Hollywood gym. A place called Muscles Incorporated.”

  Morris frowned hearing that. Neither woman had gym membership cards in their pocketbooks. The killer must’ve taken them.

  “Do you know by any chance whether they give you keys for a locker or if you need to supply your own lock?”

  “I asked that exact question,” Bogle said, his grin hardening. “They give you a key to a locker. And yes, they have duplicates for every locker in case a key is lost. Or in case a psycho serial killer working there needs access to a locker so he can make a silicone putty impression of a person’s apartment key.”

  A grimness tightened Morris’s features. Lori Fletcher and Joplin Cole never had a chance.

  “Let’s get the hell over there,” he said.

  Chapter 68

  Morris caught the way Bogle eyed the stunningly gorgeous redhead who walked into the gym ahead of them.

  “So all that talk about you changing your ways and only wanting to get back together with Jenny was lip service,” he said.

  Bogle gave him a look as if he were nuts. “You’re acting as pissy as your dog,” he said. “Even if I were twenty years younger I wouldn’t have a shot with a babe like that. I was only practicing my deductive powers. For example, from her lithe body and the way she carried herself, she’s trained as a dancer and is most likely an actress.”

  “Lithe, huh?”

  Bogle grinned. “A word I picked up working at Starlight Pictures. After spending two months working with a more erudite crowd, I might even now be able to fill in a word or two in a crossword puzzle.”

  “Erudite, huh?”

  “Keep hanging around me now, and you’ll have to get a dictionary. Another deduction I made regarding that lovely lass is from her slightly blotchy skin and less than clear eyes, she got blotto last night. But it takes a special kind of woman to work out while hungover.”

  “Charlie, I hardly know you right now.”

  Bogle’s grin soured. “I’m just punchy from this case. Or maybe I caught whatever your dog has.”

  Almost on cue, Parker let out an irritable grunt. Morris gave the bull terrier a hard look. He had never seen the dog in such a bad mood, and he considered calling Natalie to take Parker off his hands. First, though, he wanted to see if Muscles Incorporated could help them identify the guy in the sketch.

  The woman working at the front desk was expecting them, and her face flushed with excitement as she pointed out where the manager could be found. The manager, an attractive woman in her thirties who Morris guessed was also quite lithe, was waiting for them. But in her case she was nervous rather than excited. He could appreciate why. Not only did this involve the Nightmare Man, but she understood that two of her gym members might’ve met the killer here.

  “Anything I can do to help,” she said.

  Morris showed her the police sketch. “Do your gym ID cards have photos?” he asked.

  “Annual membership cards do,” she said. “But we also se
ll daily, weekly, and monthly passes, and those only have barcodes so we can track their use. Let’s see if he’s in our database.”

  Morris and Bogle stood behind her as she brought up each photo that was on record, but none of them was the guy they were looking for.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but she also sounded relieved that the Nightmare Man wasn’t a member of her gym, or at least not an annual member.

  Morris asked, “Your software records each member’s visits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me the last time Joplin Cole was here?”

  She typed in Joplin’s name and hit a button with the mouse, and that brought up a screen showing dates and times. She squinted as she read the last entry on the screen.

  “That would’ve been last Thursday,” she said. “She was here at five minutes to seven and returned her locker key at eight twenty-seven.”

  “Were any of your daily, weekly, or monthly pass members here then?”

  This took more typing and mouse-clicking, but she brought up a screen with a single name.

  “Someone who had bought a monthly pass. His name is Dale Cooper.”

  Bogle remarked dryly that that was the name of the FBI agent from Twin Peaks.

  “Did he use a credit card when he bought his pass?”

  Another mouse click. The manager told Morris that Dale Cooper paid with cash. “I can print out his phone number and address if you want.”

  Morris expected it to be fake, but he told her that would be helpful. Odds were this fake “Dale Cooper” had bothered Joplin that morning and stalked her to Petit Bistro, which meant he needed to talk to whoever had been working at the front desk that morning, and he asked the manager for the information. Her brow furrowed with concentration as she clicked on more buttons.

  “Rosalyn Krate was working that morning.”

  Morris felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. “What was that?” he asked.