Malicious

by Jacob Stone

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

  Morris found the Caesar salad, handed it to the FBI profiler, and then grabbed two of the prime rib sandwiches: one for himself, and one without horseradish for Parker. When he handed the sandwich to an overly excited Parker, Polk let out a disgusted groan.

  “You’re going to give good food like this to a mutt?” he asked.

  “He’s a full-bred bull terrier.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard the noises he makes and seen him eat. He’s gotta have some American Yorkshire in him.”

  Morris had no idea what Polk was talking about. He had heard of Yorkshire terriers, but he’d never heard of a dog breed called an American Yorkshire. Polk, for his part, was staring back with a straight face, as if what he said made perfect sense.

  “American Yorkshire is a breed of pig,” Gloria Finston said. She explained to Morris that she was a fan of the game show Jeopardy.

  If Parker was insulted, he didn’t show it, as he was too busy chewing on a piece of the prime rib sandwich.

  Polk broke out laughing. “I’ve been waiting weeks to use that.”

  Morris said, “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Definitely.”

  Bogle walked into the conference room and asked if anyone was dying in there.

  Felger said, “Just Polk cackling,”

  “I thought it was someone’s death rattle.”

  Polk made a face. “What are you talking about? I’ve got a pleasing laugh. Just ask my mom.”

  Bogle shrugged, looked over the food piled up on the table, and took one of the wrapped sandwiches marked prime rib. They were the favorite among the MBI investigators, and whenever Morris ordered from the Oak Grill, he always made sure to get extras since Polk usually binged on three of them.

  For the next ten minutes, they ate in silence. Polk broke the quiet by telling Bogle he screwed up giving him the M60 assignment, that he already had it done.

  “That’s why I gave it to you,” Bogle said. “I wanted to make sure you had an easy enough job.”

  “Damn nice of you.” Polk reached over and grabbed another prime rib sandwich. He unwrapped it, but before taking a bite, he announced that the guns had been stolen five months earlier from a Kansas armory. “FBI hit a dead-end back then in their investigation. But those three M60s weren’t the only things stolen. The thieves also took a crate of grenades and six hundred pounds of C-4.”

  “Shit,” Morris said.

  “That’s for damn sure,” Polk said. “At least we know what this prick plans to use for the devastation that’s coming.”

  Chapter 43

  The killer feverishly paced the back rooms of his once-upon-a-time airplane hangar turned movie studio turned private workshop. He had too much on his mind to stand still. Namely, he couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.

  He had been part of the crowd milling about when the police arrived at the boarded-up vacant store he had rented five months earlier using his alias R. G. Berg. Once the police showed up he knew he didn’t have much time until those idiots broke down the door, triggering the next sequence in his death machine, and so he hurried to a safe spot on Rodeo Drive where he’d be able to watch the ensuing carnage. But it never happened. After twenty minutes of standing around and waiting on the side of the street that would be untouched by gunfire, he found a café where they offered him a window seat, but still nothing happened. An hour later the police cleared not only the restaurant, but all of Rodeo Drive.

  They must’ve broken down the door, and that should’ve triggered the small but complex Rube Goldberg machine he had constructed, which would’ve slid open the panel in the wall while at the same time disconnecting the toy car from the power cord that was keeping the car fully charged, and finally switching on both the car and the reconfigured garage door opener. After that the car should’ve been sent on its merry way and hundreds of people should’ve died as a result. He had thoroughly tested every part of it, and it made no sense that it didn’t happen. Even if they had cut power to the building before breaking down the door, everything still should’ve worked since there was nothing requiring electricity in the series of trip wires, pulleys, and levers.

  The killer later watched the local news hoping to learn what went wrong. While the closing of Rodeo Drive dominated the broadcast, no official statement was given about why it happened, and the anchors speculated that it must’ve been due to a gas leak. There was no mention of the three vans the killer had left on the busiest section of the drive. Nothing about the machine guns. Or about Faye Riverstone’s body being discovered. There was nothing about anything, except that Brick would be appearing on a special prime-time episode of The Hollywood Peeper later that night. The killer knew Brick was only going to be spreading more lies about him.

  Until today his death machine had gone off flawlessly, even if there were a few minor hiccups, such as Pettibone thinking he could extort extra money from him, and Brick lying his ass off on TV simply to discredit him. What Pettibone did was insignificant; if anything, it gave the killer an opportunity to devise a rather clever method of taking care of the issue. What Brick did was far more upsetting, but in the end it shouldn’t matter—at least not once the world saw all of it. Today’s fiasco was different. It was a blemish that the killer would never be able to remove, and he felt sick to his stomach over it.

  But in the end, Los Angeles will be in flames and the world will watch on in wonderment.

  That was what the killer had to keep telling himself. Every great work of art must have at least one flaw, even if it’s something only the artist can spot. When this was all done, people would be talking about what the killer did to Heather Brandley, Drea Kane, and Faye Riverstone. Also Brie Evans, because he was going to take her that night. And they’d be talking about the final act.

  The killer sniffed back several tears fighting to come loose, clenched his jaw, and told himself once again that this was all true. When his death machine was seen in its entirety, this one tiny blemish would be looked upon as insignificant. He’d be the only one seeing it as something as large as the ocean.

  The killer’s pacing had taken him to the modeling area. Half of the models were lit, half of them still dark. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at the model he had expected to light today. He had worked so hard to get all the little details just right. Scaled versions of the same stores on Rodeo Drive, bullet holes in the plate glass windows and walls, tiny corpses and pools of blood covering the sidewalk. If someone were to study it closely, they’d also see more dead bodies and splatters of blood in a dozen of the stores. The model had been so beautiful crafted, and now it sat there mocking him. As a tear broke loose and snaked down his cheek, the killer stomped on the model as if he were Godzilla attacking the actual Rodeo Drive, crushing it into pieces. Afterward he brought over a trashcan, and used a dustpan and brush to remove all evidence of the model’s existence.

  A heaviness settled in the killer’s throat as he looked over the remaining models. His Rube Goldberg Death Machine no longer made any sense. There was nothing that would connect the last event to the next.

  Inspiration struck. The killer gasped as he saw a way to do it. He would have to remove most of the remaining unlit models and speed up the timetable of the machine’s completion, but he saw how he could fit in a domino so that it would all work. For the next several minutes he busied himself doing exactly that, reconfiguring the modeling area so that his machine would once again be whole.

  Yes, yes, yes, he whispered to himself. He had saved his masterpiece. It might be different than what he had originally planned, but it would still be a thing of beauty. All that was needed was for him to grab the last elusive domino.

  The feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness that had been crushing him just minutes earlier were replaced by pure elation as he thought about what would be happening
tomorrow when the final domino fell.

  Hell on earth would be coming to Los Angeles.

  Chapter 44

  Morris had turned down the makeup artist’s offer to add a touch of bronzing color to outline his cheekbones and use some powder to touch up his forehead and nose, even after her warnings that he would look pasty and sweaty on the air without it. He didn’t much care how he looked. Margot, however, did not share his sentiments, and had been expertly made up to appear completely natural on TV, as if she weren’t wearing any of the foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, or lipstick that covered her face. Her blond poofy hair, though, would look every bit as shellacked on TV as it did in real life.

  At the moment, they were sitting cattycornered to each other on the set while Parker lay on the floor next to Morris chewing a rawhide bone, seemingly oblivious to the lights and the show’s personnel that were running about. Margot also appeared oblivious to her surroundings as she studied her notes.

  The director kneeled in front of them and began silently counting down from five, mouthing each number while simultaneously using the fingers on one hand. Morris had witnessed this a number of times over the years, and it always amazed him how Margot’s notes would disappear by the time the director reached one, and the way she would be breathlessly facing the camera the exact moment he mouthed action. There had to be something psychic going on.

  Tonight was no exception. The notes disappeared on one, and when action was mouthed, Margot was breathlessly telling her TV audience that the reason for this special prime-time edition of The Hollywood Peeper was to break a startling new development in the Sex Pervert Maniac Killer case. She then introduced Morris, and welcomed Parker back to the show. Parker paid no attention to her speaking his name and continued to chomp away on the bone.

  “Morris, you confided in me only moments before we went on the air that this monster abducted another of our beloved actresses?”

  This was of course a lie, but he played along. “Sadly, yes,” he said. “He abducted Faye Riverstone Thursday night, and he murdered her shortly afterward.”

  Margot recoiled in horror. This wasn’t a surprise since they had discussed Riverstone’s death over the phone and how it should be handled on the show.

  “Oh my God. Faye also? That makes three of our brightest stars taken by this creature!”

  Morris was impressed at how her skin color seemingly dropped a shade and the way she squeezed out two tears. If he didn’t know better he would’ve sworn she was genuinely shaken up by the news. Margot was good, he had to give her that.

  “With the public’s help, we’ll catch him,” he said.

  “Yes, certainly.” Margot turned to address the show’s director. “Diego, please put in the left corner of the screen the police sketch a witness provided, and the hotline phone number for tips.” She then faced the front camera. “Remember, people, there’s a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to this monster’s capture.” Once again she turned to Morris, her expression earnest as she tugged at the fingers on her right hand. “Did he violate poor Faye like he did Heather Brandley and Drea Kane?”

  Morris and Gloria Finston had discussed this before he left for the interview, and they were of the same mindset. He needed to keep sticking in the needle. The killer would be at a low point, desperately trying to revise his plans so his demented Rube Goldberg machine would again make sense, at least in his mind. The more Morris attacked his ego and insulted him, and the more he demeaned him with lies, the more likely it was the killer would make an impulsive mistake.

  Morris said, “I can’t go into specifics, but yes.”

  “Afterward he mutilated Faye Riverstone’s body?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this in greater detail, but yes. This is a very disturbed individual we’re dealing with.”

  “But he does this in a pathetic attempt to hide his sexual deviancies?”

  “That’s what we’ve been able to determine.”

  Margot shivered, exaggerating the reaction enough so that her TV audience would take notice. “What else do you know about SPMK?”

  Morris knew the answer but he feigned confusion and asked what SPMK stood for since it would be sticking another needle into the psycho.

  Margot smiled as she knew exactly what he was doing. “Shorthand for the name we’ve given him. Sex Pervert Maniac Killer.”

  “Of course.” He made a show of shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t known that. “I hadn’t heard him called that yet. I’ll tell you the profile we’ve worked up with the FBI. Early thirties. He’s wealthy due to an inheritance. Extreme narcissism. He also can be superficially charming, but he’s a loner who has never been in a romantic relationship—”

  “Because he only wants to have sex with dead bodies!”

  “There’s that,” he agreed. “But even if he didn’t have this unnatural sexual compulsion, he still would never have any interest in a relationship. He’s someone who’s had few friends in his life, and no close ones. We also know he disguises himself with cosmetic contact lenses, wigs, fake facial hair, and prosthetics, such as fake noses, chins, teeth. He’s handy with tools and electronics. And he’s clever but not nearly as smart as he believes he is. He also has an unusual obsession with Rube Goldberg machines.”

  Margot turned again to the director. “Diego, do you know what a Rube Goldberg machine is?”

  The director said he thought he did. “Let me see if I can find a video.”

  This had been prearranged, and he had a clip from YouTube lined up. As they broke away to show the clip, Margot leaned toward Morris, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

  “Your dog’s a charmer,” she said. “We’ve gotten over forty calls so far asking either what type he is or whether he’s available for adoption. I should rent him for future shows.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it was a mistake bringing him. First, I don’t want him getting a swelled head, and second, I want your audience paying attention to what we’re saying.”

  Parker stopped chewing for a moment to stare up at Morris. He must’ve decided Morris wasn’t serious, because seconds later he was back to gnawing on his bone, a good third of which he’d already ripped to shreds.

  “Darling, don’t fret. I guarantee you, they’re paying attention. I hope you appreciate that I haven’t challenged you regarding the killer’s sexual proclivities. For example, I could’ve asked about the forensic evidence you have.”

  Morris made a face as if he were offended by the accusation. “You think I’d make something like that up?”

  She laughed. “I know you would. But catching this bastard is what matters. That and the ratings. So I’ll be a good girl and play along. I won’t even mention any of the photos that were sent to me, even though I’m dying to.”

  The director signaled that they’d be back on the air in three. After he counted down to zero, Margot asked, “Given his obsession with such a strange thing, should we be calling him the Rube Goldberg Machine Killer instead?”

  “He would love for us to do that.”

  “Then we’ll leave him as the Sex Pervert Maniac Killer. Even though it’s quite a mouthful.”

  “But more appropriate.”

  Margot flashed Morris a gotcha look. It made him think of how a cat might look right before pouncing on a small, helpless critter.

  She asked, “Did SPMK have anything to do with Rodeo Drive being shut down today?”

  That wasn’t something they had talked about. Someone had tipped her off, and he wondered if it could’ve been the killer himself. She wasn’t being such a good girl anymore, but he understood. It was all a matter of ratings. He also knew it wouldn’t do any good denying or stonewalling her. She wouldn’t have flashed him that look if that was all she had.

  “Yes,” he admitted, properly chagrined. “We thought people’s lives were
in danger. I can’t go into specifics, but I can tell you SPMK attempted a mass killing, again to hide the true nature of his other murders. Fortunately, his plans were imbecilic and had no chance of working.” He flashed Margot his own look. “How about we cut to a commercial break?”

  “Morris, darling, it’s not time for that.”

  He leaned in close so he could whisper in her ear, “I think you’d better call for that break. Otherwise you viewers at home will be watching me put you on my knee and paddling your ass raw.”

  While she maintained her smile, her race reddened, even through all the makeup that had been layered on. She signaled to the director to take them to commercial.

  He growled, “Who told you about Rodeo Drive?”

  She laughed, trying to bluff him. “Come on, Morris, it was an educated guess. And a pretty obvious one at that.”

  “Uh uh. I don’t buy it. I saw the look in your eyes. You have something.”

  She dropped her bluff. “Sorry, luv, but I can’t betray a source.”

  “I have to know if the killer contacted you again.”

  She made a face. “Jesus, Morris, if it was him I would’ve told you. But if it was someone, say, Commissioner Hadley, I just wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  So it was Hadley. He hadn’t agreed with Morris’s decision to keep the killer’s involvement with the Rodeo Drive incident quiet, and so he decided to get it out this way. Morris stood up and removed the microphone clipped to his suit jacket. He wasn’t happy with Margot at that moment, and besides, he had accomplished what he wanted to and saw no reason to stick around.