by David Ellis
Ditchin’ life kitchen knife no more itch and no more strife no more hate I passed the test
And on the seventh day I rest.
The second verse ended in suicide, just like the first verse—the Mickey Mouse lyrics. Ditchin’ life ... no more itch and no more strife. No more of that because he killed himself. It only bolstered the interpretation of the final murder in the first verse—stick it right between those teeth and fire so happily—suicide. But Burgos hadn’t killed himself. He’d taken Cassie instead, and presumably was getting ready to move on to the second verse when he was apprehended. They had found all of the weapons described in the second verse—the ice pick, straight razor, chain saw, machete, and kitchen knife—in Burgos’s basement. All of them seemingly pristine, unused. Not a trace of blood or anything else found on any of them.
They had caught him before he could get to the second verse.
Joel Lightner walked in while Riley sat against a long table, staring at the lyrics on the board and listening to the music. Lightner raised his eyebrows to indicate his opinion of the lyrics. They were not different, in any meaningful way, from the first verse. They listened, together, to the refrain, which was a slight variation on the refrain following the first verse:
That someone is me you still haven’t caught me I tried to warn you but you never sought me you don’t under stand I’ll never be done it won’t ever stop
The music, already loud and vicious, exploded with a heavy percussion line, guitars blaring, as Tyler Skye completed his final rhyme, screaming it ferociously:
I’m not the only one
Riley killed the cassette player. They didn’t speak for a long time. I’m not the only one, probably the most horrific of all the lyrics. This music was out there, for any deranged person to buy into, to act upon.
“We’re absolutely positive there’s not a second burial site,” Riley said.
Lightner made an equivocal grunt. They’d used the county dogs and covered the entire Mansbury campus. They’d searched every inch of Terry Burgos’s house, excavating his garage and basement, digging up his yard. They’d looked everywhere and come up empty. “There’s no reason to think so,” Lightner said. “The murder weapons were totally clean. The machete was still in its wrapping. And I think ol’ Terry would tell us if there was another site. He’s not exactly shy about this.”
That much was true. Burgos had not been shy with the psychiatrists, who had begun to examine him after Burgos pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity two weeks earlier. He’d gone into great detail, not on how he committed the murders but why. He’d recounted the biblical verses and Tyler Skye’s lyrics, and the sins committed by the victims that made them worthy of his wrath.
“So,” Lightner said, “we’re officially down to five kills now.”
Last Friday, August 11, Riley informed the court that the prosecution was dropping the charges on the murder of Cassandra Bentley. Within about five seconds of the words leaving his mouth, simultaneous press releases came from the offices of the county attorney and the Bentley family. It was the Bentleys’ express wish that their daughter not be subjected to the cruel innuendo that would accompany this insanity defense, their accusations of promiscuity and whatever else a “desperate defendant” might try to say. It was enough, the Bentleys’ press release said, that Burgos was now conceding that he had killed Cassie, and that he would be prosecuted for the other five murders.
Riley forgot about it the moment he left the courtroom. It didn’t matter anymore. It was all about the insanity defense now. Burgos would have to demonstrate that he was suffering from a mental defect and that he was unable to appreciate the criminality of his actions. So it was now the prosecution’s job to prove the opposite—that Burgos was not suffering from a mental defect and that he knew that what he was doing was a crime.
Burgos had a decent argument on mental defect. He’d been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic for several years. And he had the easy, commonsense argument, too. How could someone who did this not be crazy?
The second prong of the insanity test was another story. Burgos would have to establish that he did not appreciate that he was committing a crime when he murdered those girls. Appreciation of criminality was less about shrinks and more about facts. So the task force focused on gathering such evidence, and things were already looking hopeful on that score. Burgos had killed the girls during the short break between the end of the spring term and summer school, knowing that no one would be checking the basement of Bramhall Auditorium during that time period. And he’d picked prostitutes from different parts of the city, so that he’d never have to show his face back in the same neighborhood while he continued on his murderous spree. All of these actions were indicative of a man who knew he was breaking the law and didn’t want to be stopped—a man who was not legally insane.
Lightner moved in for a closer look at Riley. “You eaten anything today, sweetheart?”
Riley waved him off, but his wife had made the same comment. Riley had dropped about six pounds in the last three weeks. Food was the last thing on his mind. This prosecution would be the biggest thing he’d ever do as a lawyer, and on top of that, he was trying to oversee one of the largest prosecutorial offices in the country.
“Let’s get a greasy cheeseburger at Baby‘s,” Lightner suggested.
Riley glanced at the clock. It was past one o‘clock. He’d been in the office since seven and hadn’t eaten a thing. He walked with Lightner back to his office for his suit jacket and found his secretary, Betty, placing the mail on his chair.
“More fan mail,” Betty said when she saw them.
The cops and prosecutors had received all kinds of weird mail about the Old Testament and wrath of God stuff since they began to prosecute Burgos. Almost none of the correspondence actually favored what Burgos had done, but many letters warned “sinners” of the consequences of their actions.
“This one, I thought, was especially weird,” Betty said.
Riley took the letter and, along with Lightner, read it:
As justice or belief will eternally live, likewise do others need evil. I must ask your new, educated elite: Does opportunity now evade morality or respect ethics and love? Behold a new year.
He looked at Betty, who shrugged. “This is weirder,” he agreed. Most of the letters they got simply recited verse from the Old Testament, or predicted rather dire consequences for people who did not follow the Lord’s teachings. But whatever else they were, they were not vague. “You have the original?”
She nodded. “Tagged and stored.”
As a precaution, the county attorney was tracking all of the original letters sent to its office, keeping each one sealed in plastic and dated.
“I don’t even get what this says,” Riley said.
“Some people need evil like others need faith,” Betty speculated, looking over his shoulder. “And today’s generation is greedy and immoral.”
“What is this, Philosophy 101?” Lightner asked. “Today’s generation is greedy and immoral? Today’s cop is hungry for a cheeseburger.” He nodded at Riley. “Can we go?”
Riley reread the letter. “This is weirder,” he repeated.
“Lawyers.” Lightner sighed. “Don’t make this more difficult, Riley. I’m starving over here: ”
“Yeah.” Riley thought for a moment. Don’t make this more difficult. He dropped the copy of the letter into the garbage and headed out for lunch.
Wednesday
June 22, 2005
24
THE DETECTIVES’ squad room at Area Four, Third Precinct, is filled with detectives and some uniformed officers, too. Detectives Ricki Stoletti and Mike McDermott stand up front. It’s nine in the morning. Everyone is on alert, a collective energy in the room.
Everyone is reading the sheet that has been put in front of them, the now-numbered lyrics to the second verse of Tyler Skye’s song “Someone.”
(1) An ice pick a nice trick praying that he dies quick
(
2) A switchblade oughta be great for lobotomy insane a call to me
(3) Precision blade incisions made a closer shave a bloody spray
(4) Trim-Meter chain saw cheerleader’s brain’s all paint on the stained wall
(5) Machete in the head he isn’t ready to be dead I can’t explain why I’m in pain why I’m unable to refrain from getting in somebody’s brain
(6) Ditchin’ life kitchen knife no more itch and no more strife no more hate I passed the test
And on the seventh day I rest.
Ricki Stoletti speaks first. “‘An ice pick a nice trick praying that he dies quick.’ That’s Ciancio. ‘A switchblade oughta be great for lobotomy.’ That’s Evelyn Pendry.”
“So next up is a razor blade,” says someone in the back of the room.
Another guy, seated at the table, says, “So all we have to do is find out who has bought a shaving kit over the last ten years.” He gets some laughter, but this isn’t exactly a merry moment, least of all for Mike McDermott.
Still another guy raises a hand and nods to me. “It says ‘on the seventh day I rest.’”
I nod. “The sixth kill is suicide. He kills himself. No more itch. No more strife. No more hate. He’s done now. He kills himself on the sixth day, with the kitchen knife. On the seventh day, he rests. Obviously comparing his actions with those of God, in creating the world.”
A woman in the back says, “So the offender’s gonna do us all a favor and kill himself?”
“Burgos didn’t.” I shrug. “The first verse called for suicide at the end, too, and he ignored it.”
“That’s one of the reasons you beat his insanity defense, right?” says an older guy in the back. “Because he didn’t follow the song lyrics.”
Score one for the old-timer.
“Maybe when he’s done with this song,” says a big guy, standing against the wall, “he’ll follow the lyrics to that old Randy New-man song and start killing short people.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” says McDermott. “That’s strictly fucking hilarious.”
The minor burst of animation in the room quiets. When McDermott talks, they listen.
McDermott squints into the air. “Let’s start with what we know. We know this offender leaves a totally pristine crime scene. Two kills, no prints, no trace evidence. He holds them down and tortures them. Controls them. The scene is highly organized. Clean entries and exits. He leaves the weapons behind.”
He leaves the weapons behind. A good point. Everything else he did, he did on purpose.
He wants us to know.
“And then, page four of the packet,” McDermott continues. “We think this is our same guy who sent Riley these.”
Everyone flips to the back page.
“The first one—‘If new evil emerges’—Riley got on Monday. Two days ago.”
If new evil emerge do heathens ever link past actions? God’s answer is near.
“The second one, he got yesterday.”
I will inevitably lose life. Ultimately, sorrow echoes the heavens. Ever sensing. Ever calling out. Never does vindication ever really surrender easily. The immediate messenger endures the opposition, but understanding requires new and loving betrayal and new yearning.
“In the first one,” I say, “he’s saying, if the murders start again, will we link it to Burgos—to past actions? Apparently, he’s about to tell us.”
“Yeah, and what about the second one?” Stoletti asks.
We’ve already been through these notes. I went to my office last night and showed them to Stoletti and McDermott.
“Hell if I know,” I say, rereading the message myself. “He’s mortal? He won’t go easily, but he’ll go at some point?” I look at McDermott.
“He’s talking about understanding,” he says. “Understanding the true message, whatever he thinks that message is. Right?”
“You have to be willing to betray convention,” I speculate. “To think outside the box. Understanding requires betrayal of the conventional, and the yearning to want to understand.”
No one comments on that. If anyone has a better idea, they sure as hell aren’t speaking up.
“He uses the word ‘new’ twice,” Stoletti says. “He didn’t need it the second time. ’New betrayal’ and ‘new yearning.’”
“Now it’s a grammar lesson,” says the guy sitting next to her.
She isn’t in the mood. “I’m saying he’s deliberate about his choice of words. This handwriting is very careful. He didn’t write this quickly. He took his time. He thought about every word. ‘Never does vindication ever really surrender easily.’ It’s sloppy. He doesn’t need ‘ever’ because he wrote ‘never’. I don’t know what it means, but it’s weird.”
She’s right. I hadn’t looked at it that way. The handwriting is meticulous. But the choice of words here is odd.
“Let’s everyone think about this,” says McDermott. “We’ve got the originals being worked up right now. Impressions, ninhydrin, everything. Let’s talk about Fred Ciancio.”
Last night, Carolyn Pendry dropped this on us: When she was reporting on Terry Burgos back in 1989, she got a call from a man who said he had some information about Terry Burgos. The man seemed scared, Carolyn said. He said it was important, but he wasn’t sure whether to share the information with her. Then he hung up. But Carolyn, ever the reporter, traced the phone call back to a house. The house was owned by a man named Fred Ciancio.
She visited him at the house and he refused to talk to her. She tried more than once to get him to talk, without success. She looked into his background and came up with nothing. And then the trial began and she never followed up.
“So we have no idea what information Ciancio had for Carolyn Pendry,” McDermott concludes. “All that we know about him is that he was a prison guard in the sixties and seventies, and then a security guard, until he retired two years ago.”
“And,” Stoletti adds, “we know that two days before he was murdered, he called the Daily Watch newsroom.”
Presumably, Ciancio’s phone call to the Watch newsroom was to speak with Carolyn’s daughter, Evelyn Pendry, a Watch reporter. Whatever it was that Fred Ciancio had wanted to say to Carolyn Pendry back in 1989, we assume he said to her daughter Evelyn only a few days ago. That would explain Evelyn’s questions to me about Terry Burgos. That would also explain her unusual interest in the Ciancio crime scene, according to McDermott.
I look at the handouts McDermott has given us. There is a sheet with the lyrics and sheets with brief rundowns on the two victims, Fred Ciancio and Evelyn Pendry. Something on Ciancio’s sheet catches my eye. “Security guard, Bristol Security Services, 1978-2003.”
I knew, from McDermott last night, that Ciancio had been a security guard. But I didn’t know where.
“Bristol,” I say. “Ciancio worked for Bristol Security?”
“Yes.” Stoletti nods. “He worked security at the shopping mall in Wilshire. Why?”
I check the dates again. Ciancio worked for Ensign Correctional, a maximum security prison on the southwest side of the county, until 1978. Then he worked for twenty-five years for Bristol. “Bristol Security was the firm that contracted with Mansbury College,” I say. “Back in the day.”
McDermott watches me a moment. “Did that come into play at all?”
Bristol Security helped us with the search of the grounds for more bodies. I’m sure they were embarrassed that the murders happened on their watch. I think Mansbury canceled their contract after the bodies were found. Like it was their fault. But no, I don’t see anything. I tell McDermott so.
“Bristol Security is a huge security firm,” I add. “They probably have hundreds of contracts all over. It could be a coincidence.”
McDermott nods his head once. “Is that what you think? It’s just a coincidence?”
I shrug. “Wally Monk was the head guy assigned to Mansbury,” I tell him. “Call him. Ask him if he knows Ciancio. I think he’s retired but you can find him.”
Stoletti makes a note, clarifying the spelling with me.
“So,” she asks. “Can we assume that this guy is a copycat?”
There’s a collective release in the room. It’s on everyone’s mind.
Me, I’ve never been a big fan of the copycat theory. These guys either want fame—in which case, why be known as some other killer’s imitator?—or they are deranged and have their own issues to deal with.
But there’s no denying the first two kills, patterned after the second verse. There’s no denying what he wrote—“I’m not the only one”—on the bathroom mirror.
“Why now?” I ask. “Why sixteen years later?”
No one has an answer for that, of course. Hell, they’re looking to me for the answers.
“And why,” Stoletti adds, “are people associated with those murders dying now?”
Another one nobody can answer.
A woman sitting on a desk, her feet on a chair, asks me, “Were Burgos’s victims random?”
I tell her, Burgos always wanted us to think they weren’t. He could ascribe a particular sin to each of the women he murdered. “But I don’t think these victims are random, either.”
McDermott shakes his head, but he’s agreeing with me. We both thought that, last night—too coincidental to be random. Evelyn Pendry was at Ciancio’s crime scene, seemingly troubled. And we know from the phone records that Ciancio had called Evelyn just before he was murdered. Then there was the conversation that I had with her, where she pretended to be interested in Senator Almundo’s prosecution but, in fact, seemed much more focused on the Burgos case.
She seemed, if memory serves, particularly interested in why Harland Bentley hired me so soon after I prosecuted his daughter’s killer.