The Serialist

by David Gordon

  I woke up a minute later in the station. It was Eighth Avenue, my stop. I lurched to my feet and stumbled out the doors before they shut, then ran up the stairs and through the turnstile. As soon as I reached the street, my phone rang. It was the police.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, we have a record of a 911 call placed from this phone?”

  “Yes.” The other line beeped. “Hold on, one second please.” I switched over. It was also the police.

  “Harry Bloch? Mr. Hairy Bloch?”

  “Yes?” I tried crossing Fourteenth against the light and a bus chased me back to the curb.

  “This is Detective Bronchovich of the New York Police Department. I’m at the scene of a crime reported from this phone.”

  “Yes. Sandra Dawson. I know.”

  “Do you know that leaving the scene of a crime is against the law?” There was another beep.

  “Hold on, sorry . . .” I switched over. It was Claire.

  “Harry, we need to talk. I just checked your mail.”

  “Later, Claire, please.”

  “They’re trying to fuck us on Bitch Goddess of Zorg, Harry. This is serious.”

  “Not now.”

  “Well, Harry, now is when they’re fucking us. I am sitting here in your office right now, getting fucked.”

  “Bye,” I said, and switched back to the cops. “Hello? Detective Bronchitis?”

  “Where are you? We need to speak to you immediately, sir.” I was jogging down the avenue now, trying to remember the order and names of streets. There was the Biography bookstore. Where was that, too far or too soon?

  “I know,” I panted, turning around in circles. “But I’m afraid that there might be another victim, you see—”

  “Where?”

  “Horatio Street.”

  “Where?”

  “Horatio Street, in the Village, you know.”

  “Sir, you’re in Manhattan? You left the scene of a murder and went to Manhattan?”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid for this other woman, she lives here . . .”

  “Where? What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know. I just know Horatio, so I’m looking. Shit . . .” Distracted by the phone, I had walked too far and was no longer sure of the way. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  “What? What is it?” The detective was shouting now.

  “I lost my way. You know how these streets in the Village get all twisty?” I ran back up Greenwich and turned onto Horatio. The cop on the phone kept berating me but I was breathing too hard to answer and looking too intently to listen. There it was. I remembered. Morgan Chase’s building.

  “I’ll call you back,” I said and hung up on Detective B.

  Her building was easy to break into. It was one of those old Village buildings, crooked and charming and, as I had hoped, the door lock popped obligingly when I slid my metrocard in the crack. In the movies they use credit cards, but often they are too rigid. Or at least that’s what I’d imagined for my protagonists, who were constantly breaking and entering, and what I’d discovered doing research on my own door, after which I changed the lock.

  As for Morgan Chase’s apartment door, I didn’t have to try and break it—it was unlocked. Fear came surging back, in my veins, in my mouth, and my hand shook as I pushed the door open. Then I smelled that smell. Though I had described it in books without ever knowing it myself, I understood it immediately, as we all would: death.

  Morgan Chase, at least I assumed it was she, was strapped to her bed, arms and legs spread wide. Her head, hands and feet had been severed and now wilted flowers decorated the bloody stumps. A hand extended from the truncated neck. Her two feet rested on either side of her body. The head was nowhere in sight. The bed itself was saturated with drying blood. Flies buzzed all over. I knew I was going to be sick and so, in order not to contaminate the evidence, I ran back downstairs and threw up in the gutter, in full view of several passersby, before calling 911 again.

  41

  This time I waited for the cops to arrive. A regular radio car showed up first with two uniformed officers, both young, a Latino man and a black woman. They had me wait, sitting on the steps while they went up. I felt sorry for them. They came down a minute later, visibly shaken, too distraught to realize they were clutching each other by the arm. By now the super and some neighbors had come out, and the cops held them at bay, calling in for help and blocking the door frame with that yellow tape. Next came another cop car with two more uniforms and after that a truck with crime scene technicians in windbreakers carrying cases of equipment. They looked extremely professional, pushed right by me without a word, and I assumed that, unlike the rookies, they’d seen a lot of awful things in their jobs, but I felt sorry for them too. We would all be having the same nightmares now for a while.

  Then Detective Bronchovich showed up almost at the same time as two other detectives from the local precinct. He was a big ruddy guy with sandy hair, a brush mustache and a cheap blue suit. The two Manhattan detectives, a man and a woman, both wore black suits. They all talked to each other first, with a few glances at me. Then Detective B. came over.

  “You Bloch?”

  “Yes.”

  He showed me his ID, and when I put my hand out he shook it, roughly. He had a lot of red hair on the backs of his hands and wore both wedding and school rings.

  “Don’t move. I need a statement as soon as I get back down.”

  “Right.”

  As he marched past me up the steps, I noticed his socks didn’t match and I felt kind of bad for him too. He seemed pretty tough, and nice enough for a cop, but I sensed he wasn’t that sharp and was about to step way out of his depth. About the Manhattan cops, I didn’t care either way.

  Then, while they were all upstairs, Special Agent Townes arrived. He didn’t say anything. Just gave me a look, like it was all he could do not to kick me, and then went upstairs. Him I didn’t like at all, but I knew he was the smartest. So when they all came back down as a group, silently, their shoes clumping on the old creaky steps, and gathered around me on the stoop, I addressed myself to him.

  “I have a bad feeling we should go to New Jersey.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked. His blue eyes narrowed at me.

  “There might be another victim. A girl named Marie Fontaine. Her address is back at my place but I can find it if we drive. Elm Street in Ridgefield Park. I can explain why, but I think we should talk on the way.”

  His expression of disdain didn’t change, but he only thought for a second before he nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  The same agent was behind the wheel as last time, with another beside him. Townes and I rode in the back. We headed toward the tunnel, scattering traffic with short bursts from the siren. I filled him in, and when I told him about my deal with Darian Clay, the sneer on his face curled back into a growl.

  “Jesus, I knew you writers were sleazebags but this is low even for a bottom-feeder like you. Talk about a deal with the devil.”

  “Talk about a mixed metaphor,” I said. “You want to watch those in your book.”

  His eyes shot toward me, then slid away.

  “How’d you hear about that?” he asked in a flat, menacing tone. But I didn’t care. He couldn’t scare me anymore. I was already completely terrified.

  “Through the bottom-feeding network,” I said. “Guess you want to protect the victims from being exploited by anyone but you.”

  I didn’t see the punch. I guess I wasn’t looking. Suddenly a star burst in my right eye and sent me left, banging my head on the window. When I looked over, Townes was sitting calmly with his hands in his lap. Neither of the agents up front had stirred. It was like nothing had happened except now my face hurt a lot. I suppose I was lucky I was sitting on his left. He spoke in the same flat tone, facing forward.

  “When you’ve stomached as much gore as I have for twenty years, and caught as many killers, then you can think about earning something off of it.�
�

  “Right,” I said. “Good point. I take back everything I said.”

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Fine. Just a headache. Allergies, I guess. It’s spring.”

  With the agents in front using the GPS and radioing in for guidance, we found the right highway exit. Local police met us, one in front and one behind, top lights turning as we rolled through the neighborhood streets. We passed the bus stop. The rusting swings. I searched my scattered memories for the house: white siding leaking black, a spotty lawn, the dogwood.

  “That’s it,” I said. “On the right.”

  “There,” Townes told the driver. “White house on the right.”

  The agent pulled into the driveway while his partner alerted the cops, who screeched to a halt in front of Marie’s.

  “Wait here,” Townes told me. All three doors slammed and I was sealed in the silent car, watching as cops hurried to the door of the main house. A big woman in stretch pants and a pink sweater answered and I assumed she was Marie’s mother. I learned later that she and her husband had been away on vacation, visiting the grandmother in Florida. They hadn’t been concerned when their daughter didn’t answer her door, or no more than usual. She often disappeared for days or weeks or simply went a while without speaking to them. They did notice an odd smell emanating from her room, but that wasn’t unusual either.

  While one female cop urged the mother back inside, Townes, his agents and the other cops sprinted around the house and up the stairs that led to Marie’s studio above the garage. From the backseat of the car, with the window up, the lawn looked like a stage set just before the drama begins: two cops guarding the white house trimmed in faded blue, spinning lights tinting the scene rose. The wind pushed small clouds from the sky. It shook the dogwood, and pink flakes flew diagonally over the ground. Two or three landed softly on the hood of the car, or stuck to the window before me like melting snow.

  A minute later, two cops emerged, holding hankies over their mouths. One slipped on the stairs and his friend grabbed him. The sole of his shoe left a smear of blood. They helped each other down to the lawn, where one fell to his knees, retching, while the other hugged him. The agents came next, their black raincoats fluttering around them. They swooped over the lawn, muttering into their radios. One big, buzz-cut agent stopped and reached up under his mirrored sunglasses to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Townes descended slowly. He opened the car door, and the sound, scent and touch of the outside flowed back in.

  “Come on,” he said. “You saw the others. You might as well see this.”

  Keeping my sore mouth shut, I got out and reluctantly followed him across the lawn. Halfway there I heard a wail come through the screen door to the house. Someone had told the mother. I floated for a second, as if a wave had hit me, lifting my feet, but when Townes looked back I kept a straight face and climbed the steps behind him. The smell was unbearable: sweetness, vomit, shit, bad meat and rotten flowers. At the top he stepped aside to let me pass. I hesitated on the threshold and Townes pushed me from behind. I held my breath and stumbled into hell.

  It was the same room as before—the posters, the bed, the kitchenette, the mirror with the serial killer fan photos—except it had all been repainted in blood. As my eyes focused in the dim light, my mind fought to grasp the images that swam before it: The mattress like a black sponge buzzing with flies. The oozing carpet. The slithering walls. The headboard strewn with intestines like skinless snakes. In the middle of the bed, someone had made a kind of mandala: shoulder blades, flared on either side of a pelvis, bordered by two legs and two arms. In the center lay a heart.

  I gasped, inhaling deeply, and instantly realized my mistake. The poisoned air rushed into me, filling my head with black vileness, and the walls began spinning in a bloody whirl. As my vision went dark, I flailed for the door in terror, as if losing consciousness inside that room, even for a second, meant I would never escape. Townes caught me as I fell into a faint.

  42

  The police kept me for the next eight hours. Since the killings had now crossed state lines, Agent Townes was officially in charge, although all the various local cops were allowed a crack at me too: Detective Bronchovich from Brooklyn, the Manhattan duo, even a skinny Asian-American guy from New Jersey. They didn’t touch me, it wasn’t like that, although a simple beating might have been quicker. As it was, I told them everything I knew in five minutes, then sat there all day and night while they convinced themselves. The method was tag team. Each cop would make me tell the whole story, then leave me sitting there staring at the one-way glass for a while. Then the next one would come and ask the same questions with a slightly different approach—angry, nice, sincere, suspicious—like a series of bad actors all auditioning for the same lame part.

  And I, of course, had written the bad dialogue for this scene, more times than I care to tally: Mordechai Tasered by racist cops or dunked into a vat of moonshine by hillbilly gangsters, Sasha tied to a stake and slow-roasted by vampire hunters. In my books, my people always kept up a brave front, cracking wise while their hearts trembled around their secret knowledge. They never told. I was just the opposite. I was traumatized and eager to spill my guts—just that phrase made me want to swoon again—but I had nothing useful to say.

  It was the female Manhattan detective, Hauser I think was her name, who finally broke me. My patience, that is. I felt bad for her at first. No doubt being a woman on the force, she felt a special need to act like a dick.

  “So why’d you do it, Harry? Did you want them but they said no? Or maybe they said yes but you couldn’t get it up? Or maybe you just wanted to be like your hero?”

  “What hero?”

  “Darian Clay.”

  “What? What’re you talking about? Why did I do what? Agree to write the book?”

  “Why did you kill the girls, Harry?”

  “Are you crazy?” The images of Sandra, Morgan, Marie cracked opened in my head. I was helpless to stop them. I tasted bile. At least I didn’t have to worry about getting sick anymore. I was empty. “Look, I understand you guys need to question me. Even be suspicious. But this is offensive and I’m done. I want my lawyer.”

  She frowned and glanced at whoever was behind the glass, her boss. She leaned in. “Sure, if you want. But that just makes you look guilty.”

  “You already think that.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “You just said so. I want my lawyer.”

  “Let’s relax a minute.”

  “Let me go or get my lawyer. Now.” I sat back with my arms crossed. Hauser looked worried, like she’d blown the play and was going to get towel-snapped later in the locker room. The truth was I didn’t even have a lawyer. I was going to call Claire.

  Hauser stood, hitching her suit pants. “Look, Harry. We’re almost done here. If we bring lawyers into it, we’re back at square one.”

  I silently mouthed the word lawyer one more time. She cursed and walked out. I waved at the glass and then sat back, hands folded on my crossed knees. Townes came in, so quick he had to be watching.

  “OK, you can go,” he said. “But I want to be clear. Right now you are our top suspect. Actually our only suspect. You were there when Sandra Dawson was killed.”

  “I wasn’t there. I discovered her. The killer knocked me out. I could have died too.”

  “So you say.”

  “Feel the lump on my head.”

  “I’m sure we’re going to find your DNA all over those other crime scenes too.”

  “You know I was there. I was there again just now with you.”

  “What else will we find? Semen?”

  “Fuck you. Is that why you made me go back in? To try to frame me?”

  “Fuck you. I don’t have to frame you. It’s already done.”

  “Whatever. I’m going.” I stood up.

  “There’s something else. Something you can’t explain away. The only person who could have done this is Clay, who’s got a
pretty good alibi, or someone he told about his girlfriends. Like you. No one else could have known.”

  “Except the cops,” I said, and regretted it immediately, even before he hit me. I flew back onto the table.

  “You can file a complaint if you want,” he said, walking out.

  “No fanks,” I said. Or tried to. My bottom lip was numb.

  PART THREE

  May 5–17, 2009

  43

  I got home around four in the morning, and despite my exhaustion and the various scuff marks on my head, I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again. Every time I shut my eyes I saw them, the girls, or what used to be girls. I finally drifted off around dawn and slept sporadically through most of the following day. I’d wake up from nightmares, then roll over and pass back out. Claire called at noon. I told her I was sleeping and hung up. She called again at six. The killings were on the news by then, so I told her a brief version of events, minus the horror show details. She wanted to come over but I said, no, tomorrow, I just needed to rest. I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich standing at the counter and went back to sleep. Claire called again at ten.

  “Jesus Christ, Claire, will you please leave me alone?”

  “Put on the news. Channel nine.”

  “I don’t want to. That shit’s already playing in my head around the clock.”

  “Just do it.”

  Sighing, I sat on the couch and picked up the remote. I hit the local news. Carol Flosky was talking into a forest of microphones.

  “All I said was that it raised important questions. I will be meeting with authorities tomorrow to extend every assistance we can. I spoke to my client today and he expressed his deep sympathy for the families of the victims and his sincere hope that the killer is apprehended quickly and that justice is done, in this case as well as his own.”

  “You know . . .” Claire was still on the phone, watching with me. “If he doesn’t get fried, you don’t get a dime.”

  “You’re too young to be that cynical.” Then I thought, maybe it’s because she is young, each generation a bit harder, designed for survival in a world with Darian Clays.