Cruel

by Jacob Stone

  She looked at him with alarm. “Rosalyn Krate,” she said. “Do you know her?”

  “We’ve been introduced. Would you have expected her to recognize Joplin Cole and Lori Fletcher as members here if she were shown their pictures?”

  “Rosalyn has been working here for quite some time,” she said. There was a flurry of mouse clicks, and her eyes narrowed as she scanned through several screens of information. “The times when Ms. Cole and Ms. Fletcher came here coincided enough with Rosalyn’s work schedule that I would expect her to know them both by sight. Would you like me to print out Rosalyn’s address and phone number?”

  “Not necessary. Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”

  After leaving the gym, Bogle asked Morris whether Rosalyn was in cahoots with the blond guy from the sketch. “Could Smalley have told her his Nightmare Man secrets?”

  Morris said, “All I know right now is I want to talk to her again.”

  They drove in silence to Rosalyn’s address, and Morris had to restrain himself from racing up the four flights of stairs. When they got within five feet of her apartment, Parker started growling again and bulling his way to the door.

  Bogle asked, “What gives with him?”

  Morris held a finger to his mouth. He knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he told Bogle, “Terriers are natural ratters. Ten to one odds there are rats in there.”

  Morris got down on one knee and rubbed Parker vigorously behind the ears and on the snout. “You smelled rat hair on her earlier, didn’t you?” he said. “You were telling me she’s our killer, and I was too stupid to listen to you. No wonder you were in such a rotten mood.”

  Parker stopped his growling to let out several appeased grunts, his tail wagging. Just like that, his bad mood was gone. All was forgiven.

  “Sonofabitch,” Bogle whispered under his breath, because it all made sense. “What about the blond guy?”

  “She must be working with him. Maybe he’s the one who’s doing the killing, but she’s the one picking out the victims, sneaking into their gym lockers to make copies of their keys, and trapping and keeping the rats.” Morris let out a bitter laugh. “She even tried to convince me today that Travis Smalley is still alive.”

  Bogle said, “Maybe not just you.”

  Morris agreed that made sense, and he called Felger to ask him to see if anyone was trying to make it look like Travis Smalley could still be alive. “Check social media or anywhere else where he might have a presence.” After he got off the phone with Felger, he called Annie Walsh and told her they needed a search warrant. She didn’t like the thinness of what he had. “You don’t even know if Smalley committed the 2001 murders, which makes her connection with him irrelevant. Can you give me one solid piece of evidence?”

  “She lied to me, Annie, and tried to mislead me.”

  “Speculation.”

  “Come on, you’ve gotten warrants on less than that.”

  “I’m just telling you what a judge will say.”

  “How about this, a trained ratter is indicating that rats are being kept in her apartment.”

  She sighed. “I’ll see if I can pull off a miracle. I’ll call you.”

  After Morris got off the phone, Bogle gave him an unhappy look. “So we wait?” he asked. Morris shrugged. He had his lockpicks with him, but he couldn’t afford to break in and let Rosalyn skate on a technicality.

  Bogle said, “I know the name is spelled differently, but a krait is one of the deadliest snakes in the world.”

  Morris hadn’t ever heard of that before. “It figures,” he said.

  Chapter 69

  Annie Walsh called Morris to tell him that Judge John Kelley had some questions for him. She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “Morris, he’s the fourth judge I’ve been able to track down, and I’m running out of ideas of whom to try next. Just saying.”

  “Understood.”

  The phone must’ve been handed to the judge, because Morris heard a man making a show of clearing his throat, and then a gruff voice asked, “Mr. Brick, are you the one who’s determined to ruin my Saturday night?”

  “Judge, if I don’t get that search warrant, someone else’s night might be ruined far worse.”

  That seemed to have an effect. The judge’s voice sounded more restrained as he asked about Morris’s dog’s professional training as a ratter.

  “He doesn’t have professional training per se, but his father was a champion, so it’s in his bloodline.”

  “I see. You’ve witnessed this behavior before?”

  “Many times.”

  This was partially true if you looked at it sideways and squinted enough. Parker liked to chase squirrels, but Morris couldn’t remember him ever encountering a rat before.

  There was more throat clearing from the judge, then, “Tell me what evidence you have that Ms. Rosalyn Krate purposely deceived you earlier today.”

  “It’s my professional judgment that she did.”

  “I see. In other words, you have no evidence.”

  “Only if you want to discount my many years as a decorated and accomplished police detective.”

  “You’re making this hard for me, Mr. Brick.”

  “Judge, if I don’t get the warrant there’s a chance somebody will be dying tonight.”

  “There’s a chance every night that somebody will be dying. In fact, it’s a near certainty.”

  “But not in the way the Nightmare Man forces his victims to die.”

  “I see. You understand that if I give you this warrant and you don’t find rats being kept in the apartment, it will all but ruin any case the district attorney might want to bring against Ms. Krate, assuming she’s involved.”

  Morris thumped Parker on the side. “I trust my dog.”

  The phone was handed back to Walsh, and two minutes later she told Morris she had a signed warrant. Twenty-five minutes later she arrived with the warrant in hand. Morris had already arranged with the landlord to unlock Krate’s apartment door once the warrant arrived, and a representative from the management company gave the paper a quick look, and then did just that. Once the door was opened, Parker bulled his way into a small living room and strained on his leash, pulling Morris to the back of the room. The bull terrier then stood grunting and growling and pawing at the wall. Morris took down a ceiling-to-floor wallcovering that exposed a seam for a hidden door. Bogle moved a chair and end table, and this revealed a keyhole. There was no knob for the door, just the keyhole.

  “The tenant must’ve had part of the room partitioned to whatever this is,” the management company representative said. “I guarantee you none of the other units have this.”

  Morris used a lockpick, and after he felt the lock release he pushed the door inward. A flashlight revealed four rat cages on the floor, two of which were occupied. He found a light switch, which turned on a sixty-watt bulb. Hung on the wall were photos of women he recognized as the 2001 Nightmare Man victims. There seemed to be a flimsy homemade altar. He walked over and shined the flashlight on it. He guessed the lipstick canister and other items were trophies Travis Smalley had collected from his victims. Added to the altar were the gym membership cards taken from Lori Fletcher and Joplin Cole.

  Bogle called him and Walsh over to look at photos he had found. They were all taken in darkened rooms, but Morris was able to recognize Lori Fletcher in the first four pictures. In all of them, Fletcher appeared to be sleeping. The next ones were of Joplin Cole, also taken while she slept. The next subject was a familiar-looking woman who also appeared to be sleeping.

  Bogle said to Morris, “This is the redhead we saw at the gym tonight.”

  Morris recognized her, and Bogle showed them another photo, this one a brunette in her twenties.

  Bogle said, “We don’t know who she is either.”

  Walsh as
ked, “How about the fifth woman?”

  “There are only four.”

  “I thought the Nightmare Man kills five women before disappearing?”

  Bogle said, “I don’t know what to tell you. But here’s something else. I found three door keys. I’m guessing two of them are for the victims he already killed. Or I guess I should be saying she, but for now let’s assume the blond dude is doing the killing and Krate the planning.”

  “So a key’s missing,” Morris said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Shit,” Walsh said.

  “We need to identify these two women,” Morris said, referring to the redhead and brunette. “Pronto.”

  Morris grabbed a pair of handwritten journals that he spotted, and they left the Nightmare Man room or temple or whatever it was supposed to be. Once they were back in the living room where there was more light, he took pictures of the photos of the two unknown women, texted them to the gym manager, and asked for her help in identifying them. Walsh took the photos. She told Morris she planned to head over to the gym and make sure the manager made it a priority. “I’ll also have someone check these against the DMV database. I hope the brunette’s a member of that gym also. It could take hours to identify her through license photos.”

  Once Walsh left, Morris tossed Bogle one of the journals, and the two of them settled in for some reading.

  Chapter 70

  Samantha found a policeman waiting at her door. When he saw her approaching, he asked whether she was Samantha Fine. She nodded, too flustered to say anything.

  He asked, “Have you been at home yet this evening?”

  “Not yet.” She held up her gym bag. “I was at the gym earlier, then dinner and a movie. What’s this about, Officer?”

  He gave her what looked like an attempt at a reassuring smile. “I need to check your apartment to make sure it’s safe. This is only a precaution and nothing to be upset about. A detective will be here soon to explain what’s going on.”

  Samantha’s hands shook slightly as she unlocked the door. Even though the officer didn’t say this was about the Nightmare Man, she knew it had to be about that.

  “Should I come in with you or stay out in the hallway?” she asked.

  “How about you stay out here until I tell you it’s safe.”

  She watched as he removed his service revolver and entered the apartment. It was a small one-bedroom, and she heard him moving through it. Less than a minute later, he yelled out that the coast was clear. She walked in and found him grinning at her, relief washing over his face, his gun back in its holster.

  “As I said, nothing to worry about,” he said. “Do you want me to wait with you until the detective shows up? He should be here in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Officer.”

  He took a step toward the door but frowned as he glanced in the direction of a hallway coat closet. “I missed that earlier,” he said. He grinned again at Samantha. “Better safe than sorry.”

  The officer walked to the closet and opened the door. He froze before reaching for his service revolver. A gunshot rang out. Blood exploded from the officer’s chest, and he collapsed onto his back. Samantha’s natural instinct was to go to the fallen officer’s aid as opposed to fleeing, and she rushed toward him. A vaguely familiar-looking woman came out of the closet and pointed a gun at her.

  Samantha was terror-stricken. Her voice came out as a whisper as she told this woman that the officer was still breathing. “I need to apply pressure to his wound. He doesn’t need to die.”

  “I’m afraid he does. And I’ll be shooting you in the face if you touch him.” The woman was carrying a large gym bag, which she tossed to Samantha. Samantha thought she heard a squeal come from inside.

  “You’re going to carry this,” the woman said. “And you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do, or I’m going to shoot you. Now turn around.”

  Samantha had never stared down the barrel of a gun before, and it was frightening now doing so. She turned around and felt the barrel push into her spine.

  “We’re going to walk to the stairs and exit the building from the back fire door. If you scream or try to run away from me, I will shoot you and leave you paralyzed. Do you understand me?”

  Samantha bit her lip to keep from crying.

  The woman must’ve taken out a cell phone, because Samantha could hear a phone dialing, then the woman arguing with someone before ordering the person to meet her at an alley behind the building. When the call ended, the woman ordered Samantha to start moving.

  “You ask anyone for help, and I’ll shoot both of you,” the woman threatened.

  She marched Samantha out of the apartment and into an empty hallway. None of her neighbors had bothered investigating the gunshot. Maybe they thought it was only the TV.

  A promise that Samantha had made to her mom when she moved to LA was that she would take self-defense classes, but they never taught her what to do when someone was pushing a gun into her back. As she made her way down the back stairs, she tried desperately to remember something from her class she could use, but her mind was blank. She was just too frightened. After they left the building and were walking across the parking lot to the connecting alley, she remembered something. Would it work? She didn’t know, but it was all she could think of. Soon she was being marched down the darkened alley, and she steeled herself, playing out in her mind what she planned to do.

  They made their way out of the alley, and a car tapped its horn. Samantha could almost feel the woman look toward the noise, and she acted then, throwing the gym bag into the air, then sweeping her left foot toward her right and then outward and back so that her leg was now behind the woman and she could feel the woman’s thigh against her thigh. An elbow in the face sent the woman toppling backward, and Samantha started running.

  * * * *

  Rosalyn Krate picked herself up off the sidewalk. Samantha was gone, and the blond freak had left the car and was giving her a dumbfounded look.

  “You couldn’t stop her?” she hissed.

  His head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “It happened too fast.”

  Useless. Absolutely useless. She heard police sirens in the distance. The gym bag had landed a few feet from her. She picked it up and heard the rat inside squealing. She got into the car’s passenger seat and ordered the freak to get back behind the wheel.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A change of plans,” she said. “Start driving.”

  “Where to?”

  “You know where.”

  The freak drove five blocks before pulling into the back of a building and parking in an assigned spot. Without saying a word, they walked to the back door, then up three flights of stairs before using a key to open an apartment door. The apartment was a studio, and the only piece of furniture was a small bed. Once the door closed, the freak asked Rosalyn again what had happened, and she slapped him in the face.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “Why’d you do that?”

  “You really have to ask me? You pull a dumb stunt like stalking Joplin, and you’re going to ask me that? You put everything at risk!”

  He touched his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made one mistake—”

  She kneed him in the groin, and he fell to the floor, tears now streaming down his cheeks. She grabbed his earlobe and twisted it.

  “One mistake? I caught you stalking me also. You really didn’t think I’d see that? How many of the others did you stalk? Samantha too?”

  “I swear I didn’t stalk her! Only you and Joplin! I swear!”

  She let go of his ear. She didn’t believe him. The police had visited Samantha’s apartment for a reason, and the only thing that made sense was that the freak had been seen stalking her. But it wouldn’t do her any good beating up this
pathetic excuse for a freak. The Nightmare Man was too important. She could still salvage this.

  She said, “You need to kill me now.”

  His mouth dropped open as he stared at her. “I wasn’t supposed to kill you until the nineteenth,” he sputtered.

  “It can’t be helped.”

  “But what about the other two victims? There has to be five of them, right?”

  “You’ll have to find two more on your own and complete the cycle on the nineteenth. You can do it, Duane. I made you a part of this for a reason. I can see greatness in you.”

  He looked like he was fighting to keep from bursting out crying. He’d been planning to kill Jamie Siegel later that night, but he was still a virgin having not yet taken a life. Never really even hurt anyone badly. He told Rosalyn this.

  “I thought I’d have more time to prepare myself,” he moaned.

  “Tonight’s as good a night as any to pop your cherry. And you know you want to do it. You know you’ve been aching to do it.”

  “I guess,” he said.

  She laughed. “Duane, come on, show some enthusiasm. You’re going to be part of something great. Something Los Angeles will never forget. The Nightmare Man will live on forever because of you.”

  A determination now showed in his face.

  “After you kill me, you’ll need to go to my apartment and clean out the sacred room. We can’t allow the police to find it. But you’ll be safe doing this. The police won’t be discovering my body for days. If you want, you can punch me in the face and knock me out before tying me up and cutting off my clothing. Would you like to do that?”

  His jaw was clenched, and his eyes now shone with a dark cruelty.

  “Just make sure to use smelling salts on me every time I pass out. And follow the formula precisely—”

  “How about you shut up already!”

  The freak jumped to his feet and slammed a fist into Rosalyn’s jaw. He then carried her unconscious body to the bed.

  Chapter 71

  Morris’s cell phone rang. Felger.