by Susan Fleet
He eased into the archway and braced himself.
No shots, no sounds, just silence.
A red-faced man with blood-spattered cheeks stood in front of Gina’s futon. A short dumpy man, holding a black semi-automatic in his hands.
Frank had expected an innocent-looking man, a man able to convince unsuspecting women to let him into their homes. Part of it was true. Billy had a round chubby face and average features, but his wide blue eyes projected a mix of cruelty and malevolence. Directed at him.
Crouched in the doorway, Frank glanced at Nigel Heath. Ten feet away, the conductor lay on the floor, his head resting in a pool of congealed blood. Another victim of this demented egomaniac.
Anger bubbled into his throat, but he fought it down.
Stay cool and focus on the killer.
“I bet you remember the names of all those lottery winners you killed, don’t you, Billy?”
“Yes.”
“You kill someone, you never forget them, right?” Frank said, gripping his weapon, alert for the slightest motion, the tiniest indication that Billy was going to shoot.
“That’s right. My lucky winners. I remember every one of them.”
Right, you sick-O. You named your goldfish after them.
“What about your mother? Was she a lucky winner?”
“Shut up! Don’t talk to me about my mother!”
“Why did you kill her?”
“All the suffering she caused? I made her pay!” A vicious snarl.
“Whose suffering?”
“Mine!” Billy was breathing hard, his cheeks mottled a deep red, his face twisted in a vindictive mask.
“What kind of suffering?”
Billy said nothing, glaring at him, still as a statue, both hands clenched on the gun.
Frank tried to work up some sympathy for him. Maybe he’d been jilted by a girl as a teenager. Maybe someone made fun of him because he was short and had a boyish face with chubby red cheeks. His mother, maybe.
Or his father. Or his brother. J&B. John and Billy.
“What about your father? Did he make you suffer?”
“Shut up! My father’s dead!”
“Maybe it was your brother. But he died in the car accident, didn’t he?”
“Yes, and I’m glad! He deserved it.”
“So that left your mother, right?”
“Stop bugging me about my mother. She got what was coming to her!”
“You can’t bring yourself to say her name, can you?”
“Shut up shut up shut up!”
“Her name was Judy, right?”
“Don’t talk about Judy!”
He had an instant flashback to the mangled goldfish on the floor in Billy’s basement room. The mother seemed to be a sore point. If he provoked him, Billy might make a mistake.
“Which Judy?” Frank said. “Judy Garland? Or your mother?”
Billy pulled the trigger.
The slug hit him square in the chest.
The Kevlar vest absorbed part of the impact. Even so, the slug knocked him backwards onto the floor, punching his chest, ripping the air from his lungs. He rolled away and scrambled under Gina’s piano.
Billy shot at him again. Bam, bam, bam.
Even after his ammo ran out, Billy kept shooting, the firing pin clicking on an empty chamber.
Frank squirmed out from under the piano, struggled to his feet and advanced on Billy.
“Leave me alone!” Billy screamed, and threw the Mark IV at him.
He ducked and the gun clattered to the floor near one leg of the piano.
“I hate you!” Billy’s face turned crimson. “You never loved me! You only loved John. You said I wasn’t even your son.”
Who said that? Frank wondered. Billy’s father?
But he had no time to analyze it.
With a scream of rage, Billy lowered his head and charged at him.
He braced himself, whacked the side of Billy’s head with his Sig, and they fell to the floor.
Yelling and screaming, Billy squirmed away, but Frank caught him.
Billy kicked out with one foot, slamming it into Frank’s chest.
He grabbed Billy’s ankles, jerked hard and rolled him onto his back.
“I hate you!” Billy screamed, his face contorted in rage.
Frank sat on his mid-section and pinned his arms against his sides with his knees. Breathing hard, sweating profusely, he tried to catch his breath. Sweat ran down his nose and dripped onto Billy’s face.
“Get off me!” Billy screamed, beating at his chest with his fists.
Frank heard voices outside the front door. Abbott and his troops were following the plan: If you hear shots, break through the front door. Which didn’t leave him much time. He stuck the Sig in his waistband, grabbed Billy’s hands, squeezed hard and saw the pain register in Billy’s eyes.
“Stop,” Billy whimpered.
Billy thought this was as bad as it was going to get. It wasn’t.
Frank squeezed harder.
“Stop hurting me. I didn’t do anything to you.”
Frank thought about Vicky, a talented clarinetist with a brilliant career ahead of her, thought about the pain and anguish her death had caused her family, not to mention her lover, Nigel Heath. It took all the restraint he could muster not to punch Billy in the face.
He stared into Billy’s eyes and squeezed his hands as hard as he could.
“Shut up you worthless piece of shit. The women you murdered didn’t deserve to die. You’re a coward. You didn’t even have the guts to look them in the face, had to put a bag over their head. Those women had friends and family, people who loved them. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be alive.”
Then the front door shattered and the cops burst inside and it was bedlam, footsteps pounding the floor, voices screaming: Drop your weapon!
A moment later Abbott put a hand on his arm.
“It’s okay, Frank. You can let him up. We got him.”
Frank let go of Billy, rose to his feet and felt an enormous weight come off his shoulders.
At last it was over. Billy was going to jail.
Never again would the Jackpot Killer kill another innocent person.
CHAPTER 41
Hunched over in the police cruiser, reliving the horror, Gina shivered uncontrollably, unable to rid her mind of the hideous images. The hatred in Billy’s eyes. The gun in his hands. The blood gushing from Nigel’s mouth.
Now she was safe, but Franco wasn’t.
He was inside her house with Billy. And Nigel. Poor Nigel.
Was he alive? It seemed like an eternity had passed since Billy shot him.
After the police officer helped her down the ladder, he had asked if she needed medical attention. She said she didn’t, but a seriously-wounded man was still in the house. The officer told her the emergency workers couldn’t go inside until the gunman was disarmed. Then he’d brought her to Franco’s squad car.
Endless minutes crawled by, like cars inching past a wreck on the Expressway. She wanted to scream, wanted to tell the policemen to hurry up and break into her house. But her legs felt like jelly, every muscle in her body quivering with exhaustion. Most of all, she wanted Franco to be safe.
Her body felt weird, hot and cold at the same time. It was hot outside, hotter still in the squad car, but she felt like a giant bag of ice was inside her, freezing her in place. She stared at her front door, willing it to open.
More than anything in the world she wanted to see Franco walk out that door, safe and sound.
There had to be a dozen policemen clustered around the cruisers in front of her house. Why didn’t they go in and help him?
Then she heard a gunshot.
A chill ran down her neck and her throat closed up.
More shots, one after another.
“No,” she whispered.
Billy was shooting at Franco. She’d seen the fury in his eyes. He was insane, full of rage and hate.
Damn it to hell! What was taking them so long?
At last the door gave way and the policemen burst into her house.
Eyes fixed on the door, she held her breath.
Her vision blurred and she realized she was crying. But it felt like someone else was crying, a strange out-of-body sensation, as though she were on a faraway planet, watching herself from a great distance.
One agonizing minute passed. Then another.
Her heart pounded. She could hardly breathe. Please let Franco be all right.
Two policemen muscled Billy through the front door, his hands cuffed behind him, and led him to a police van.
But where was Franco?
Was he lying on the floor in a puddle of blood like Nigel?
Her throat closed up. She clenched her fists, staring at the door, willing him to appear.
More minutes ticked by, an eternity of increments, each one more painful than the last.
Where was Franco?
At long last, when she’d almost given up hope, he came out the door, carrying his shirt in his hand. Her heart surged. Franco was alive!
He stripped off the bulky gray vest he was wearing and gave it to a police officer. Then he saw her and ran toward the squad car.
Tears of relief spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
____
Frank jumped in his squad car and looked at Gina. Tears were running down her cheeks. “Hey,” he said.
He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. Her body was shaking, as though she had chills from the flu.
“Franco,” she gasped, her breath warm against his neck. “When I heard all those gunshots, I thought Billy shot you.”
Frank stroked her cheek. “He did, but the slug hit the Kevlar vest. See?” He showed her the hole in his shirt. “Then I dived under your piano. He kept shooting until he was out of ammo, but he didn’t hit anything.”
She wiped away the tears, gazing at him with her dark eyes. “If he killed you, I don’t know what I would have done.”
“But he didn’t. And now he’s going away for a long time. Justice for Vicky and all the other victims.”
“What about Nigel?”
He hesitated. He was certain Nigel was dead, but he didn’t want to tell her. “He didn’t look good.”
“He saved my life,” Gina said in a shaky voice.
“Don’t think about it,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “We can talk about it later.”
She looked at him. Her eyes had that thousand-yard stare, the look he’d seen in the eyes of other victims of violent crimes.
“Billy was acting crazy,” she said, “walking around, ranting, waving the gun at us. Nigel was sitting on the futon. I was standing near the stairs. All of a sudden Nigel yelled: Run, Vicky, run away. Then he jumped up and tackled Billy and the gun went off and they fell on the floor. It was horrible.”
Frank listened to the torrent of words, rubbing her back, knowing she had to get it out.
“It happened so fast. Nigel was bleeding, blood gushing from his mouth. I knew he was hurt. I took out my cell phone to call 9-1-1, but Billy and Nigel were on the floor, fighting for the gun. When Nigel tried to get the gun away from Billy, the gun went off again and then—” She swallowed hard.
“You don’t have to talk about it now. We can talk later when you’re feeling better.”
“No. I have to explain about Nigel.” Gina looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he was here. But when he called me Wednesday night, he sounded desperate. Suicidal, like his mother. I was afraid he might kill himself. The next morning I snuck him out of the hotel and brought him to the beach house. I only wanted to help, but now he’s dead.” Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
Aching for her, he kissed her cheek. “Don’t second-guess yourself, Gina. You did what you thought was right. People do what they do.”
“I know, but I should have told you.”
Frank smiled. “Yeah, well, I suspected it might be you that smuggled him out of the hotel. Gerry Mulligan was furious when he went there and Nigel was gone.”
“But if Gerry had arrested him, Nigel would have been in jail and—”
“Gina, stop. You did what you could. Maybe Nigel wanted to be with Vicky. Maybe he didn’t want to live without her.”
She sucked in a big breath and let it out. “I can still see the haunted look in his eyes. He felt so guilty about Vicky. Nigel jumped Billy and that saved my life. After Billy shot him again, I heard him say: Vicky.”
“He was brave to do what he did, going after a maniac with a gun. But in the end his thoughts were with the woman he loved.” Frank took a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his glove compartment.
In a crisis, never give up your favorite crutch.
He rolled down his window, lit two cigarettes, and gave one to Gina.
Anything to make her feel better. Would he ever see her smile again?
She took a drag and exhaled, a heavy sigh. “What about Billy’s mother?”
Telling her about Billy’s mother would be another devastating blow. But she’d find out soon enough. This would be a huge story. Tonight it would be all over the news.
“Billy killed her.”
Gina’s face crumpled. “Why? Why would he kill his own mother? And all those other women?”
Frank visualized the horrific scene at Billy’s house. “Only Billy knows for sure. But it’s clear that he hated his mother. Maybe that’s why he killed older women who won the lottery. Maybe they were stand-ins for his mother. Maybe he was working up the guts to kill his mother all along.”
Gina puffed her cigarette and blew smoke out the window, staring off into the distance.
“Try not to think about it,” he said, and threw his butt out the window. His mouth tasted awful, dry as sawdust. He wanted to drink a gallon of water, followed by a large bottle of beer.
A cell phone rang. He checked, but it wasn’t his. Gina took hers out and checked the ID. Her shoulder slumped. “Sorry, Franco, I need to take this.” She clicked on and said, “Hello.”
Frank watched noxious emotions ripple over her face: distress, anxiety, then fear. Whoever was calling wasn’t someone she wanted to talk to.
She stayed silent for awhile. At last she said, “Ryan, this is not a good time to talk.”
Her husband. Maybe he should leave and give her some privacy.
But then he heard Ryan’s voice, loud and strident, indistinct sounds, not individual words. Frank clenched his fists.
Gina didn’t need more hassles right now. A tear ran down her cheek.
That tore him up. He reached over and gently took the cell phone out of her hand. When he held it to his ear, he heard a voice yell: “. . . told you to start acting like a wife, but you’re too wrapped up in your stupid job to pay any attention to me. I don’t know why I married you. I invite you to go away for a weekend and you blow me off. Today I came home to an empty house. Again. You’re screwing that Pops conductor, aren’t you? When I find out where you are, I’m going to come over and slap the shit out of you.”
“Are you done?” Frank said.
Silence on the other end. Then, “Who’s this?”
“Never mind who’s this. Your wife just went through a traumatic experience. She’s in no shape to listen to the crap you’re dishing out.”
“Who are you? What gives you the right to tell me how I should talk to my wife?”
A haze of anger blurred his vision. “You married a terrific woman, Ryan, and you blew it. You don’t deserve her. She’s is a great reporter, intelligent and gutsy, and she cares about people. All you care about is yourself. If I ever hear
you threaten to slap her again, you will regret it. Understand?”
Silence on the other end.
“Tell me you understand, asshole, or I’ll come over to that fancy house in Westwood and rip your fucking balls off.”
Silence. Then a click. He looked at Gina.
She shook her head, not laughing but close. Moments ago her dark eyes had looked lifeless. Now there was a spark in them.
“Gee, Franco, why not tell him what you really think?”
“I meant it,” he said, and closed her cell phone. His hands were shaking.
Gina reached over and touched his face. “Thanks, Franco. I can’t handle another crisis right now.”
He took her hands in his. They were ice cold and clammy with sweat. “Exactly right. You don’t need an abusive husband yelling at you. I think you better stay with me tonight.”
When she looked at him, her eyes had that familiar spark. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
“But the Quincy police are going to want to get a statement from you.”
The spark left her eyes and her shoulders slumped. “Now?”
“Maybe I can stall them off. Wait here.”
Gina reached for her cell phone, but he put it in his pocket. “We’re going to get you a new cell with a new number so your asshole husband can’t call you. Be back in a second.”
He left the car and hurried toward Abbott’s police van, marshalling his arguments. He’d just handed Abbott a helluva coup. The lead officer in a hostage situation, collaring a serial killer? Abbot’s name would be all over the news, local, national, the works. He figured Abbott owed him a favor.
Abbott saw him coming and got out of the van. “I had my officers take the subject to headquarters. As soon as I wrap things up here, I’ll interview him. Want to sit in on it?”
“Yes, but here’s the thing. I know you need statements from me and Gina Bevilaqua, but she’s very shaken up. Any way we can postpone that?”
Abbott frowned. “Frank, you’re a detective. You know it’s best to nail things down as soon as possible after an incident like this.” Abbott checked his watch. “Man, it’s after four. Where did the day go?”
“I don’t know. Gina hasn’t eaten since breakfast. How about if I bring her to the station in a couple of hours? Six o’clock, say?”