The Red Mohawk

by AnonYMous

  He smiled broadly and for the first time she noticed that he was missing his front teeth. The sight of his gappy smile shocked her a little and she began to feel light headed again.

  ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she said, aware that she was slurring.

  ‘That’s okay Baby,’ he said approaching her, his features blurring out of focus as he got nearer. ‘You’re in safe hands now.’

  As everything around her darkened and blurred again she knew she was about to blackout. Litgo reached out and grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from sliding off the chair.

  As she drifted into a state of unconsciousness she managed to ask him one last question. ‘How do you know my name?’

  Sixteen

  Dr Carter led Fonseca and Munson into the Asylum’s staff room.

  ‘I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly The Ritz,’ she said apologetically, gesturing around the room.

  She wasn’t kidding either. Munson checked out the selection of battered old sofas that were strung out around the perimeter of the room. In the centre of it all was a white wooden kitchen table with a few plastic chairs around it. Munson had better furniture in his own apartment. Even his cockroaches would turn their noses up at this stuff.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said politely. ‘This is fine, really.’

  ‘All of the furniture is either second hand or was donated by a charity,’ Dr Carter added. ‘Can I fix either of you a coffee?’

  At the far end of the room was a small kitchenette. On a sideboard was a microwave, a kettle and a half full jug of filter coffee.

  ‘Black, two sugars,’ said Munson.

  ‘White, no sugar for me please,’ said Fonseca.

  Dr Carter gestured to the white table in the middle of the room. ‘Please take a seat.’

  While Munson and Fonseca took up seats on opposite sides of the table, Carter rummaged around in a cupboard above the jug of filter coffee and pulled out a couple of mugs, one red and one blue and a jar of powdered milk. The mugs were covered in cracks and brown stains. There was a distinct whiff of burnt coffee in the air.

  ‘How long has that coffee been brewing?’ Munson asked.

  Dr Carter shrugged, but offered no verbal response. She poured a spoonful of powdered milk into the red mug. As she lifted the coffee jug off the hotplate, Munson could see the stuff was far from fresh. The contents at the bottom were much darker and thicker than the stuff at the top.

  ‘Are you having one yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I can’t stand the stuff,’ Carter replied.

  Munson glanced across at Fonseca and saw that she too had seen the state of the coffee and was well aware that one of them was about to luck out and get the gritty, shitty stuff from the bottom.

  Both of them craned their necks to see which mug got the good stuff. The red mug had the powdered milk so it was obviously for Fonseca. Dr Carter held the jug over the blue mug. She was about to pour the contents in when Fonseca called out to her.

  ‘Has Joey Conrad ever been violent?’ she asked.

  Dr Carter turned around, swinging the rancid jug of coffee with her. ‘Yes. He beheaded someone last night. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Fonseca. ‘Mine’s the red mug is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dr Carter turned back to the coffee mugs and poured the first drink into Fonseca’s red mug. Fonseca winked at Munson who mouthed the word “Bitch” in return, then smiled to show he was only kidding.

  Carter finished pouring the coffee, and brought the two mugs over to them. She placed them down on the table in front of the two agents and sat herself down at the head of the table.

  ‘Has he been violent before?’ asked Munson, flicking at something that was floating at the top of his coffee. ‘I mean, like recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Are you aware yet that he’s killed again this morning?’ Dr Carter asked.

  Munson and Fonseca shared a concerned look. It was news to both of them. ‘Who? What’s happened this morning?’ Munson asked.

  ‘He’s killed a car salesman and stolen a car. He’s still in B Movie Hell.’

  Fonseca leant forward in her chair. ‘How long ago did this happen?’

  ‘An hour ago maybe. It came on the news just before you arrived. It’s why I wasn’t here to greet you. I was getting up to speed with the latest information.’

  ‘Just one person dead?’ Munson asked.

  ‘That’s what they’re saying on the news.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Same as the cop last night. Head hacked off with a meat cleaver. Feet and hands too apparently.’

  Fonseca grimaced. ‘Have you any idea where he got this meat cleaver? Or the mask and clothes he’s wearing?’

  ‘I’d guess he’s stopped off at a butcher’s and a party store.’

  ‘Is there definitely no way he could have got the stuff here?’

  ‘No.’

  Munson scratched his chin. ‘And you said he’s stolen a car?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying on the news.’

  ‘But they haven’t worked out his real identity yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you haven’t told anyone?’

  Dr Carter shook her head. ‘We’re under strict instructions not to say a word to anyone.’

  ‘Good,’ said Munson looking over at Fonseca. ‘You know I can’t be here any longer. I’m going to have to move faster than this, especially if he’s got a car now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ said Dr Carter.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s only one road in and out of B Movie Hell. It’s across a bridge a hundred feet above Lake Flaccid. The local police have a roadblock stopping anyone from getting in or out without them approving it first.’

  ‘That’s brave of them,’ said Munson. ‘Most people would probably be glad to see the back of a serial killer. Keeping him in town is an admirable thing to do.’

  ‘It’s a close knit community,’ said Dr Carter. ‘From what I know of the place they’ll want to find Joey Conrad and dish out their own form of justice before you get your hands on him.’

  Munson took in the information. A community that was willing to deal with a serial killer rather than hand him over to the government. That could be problematic. He needed to get to Joey Conrad before the locals discovered his identity.

  Fonseca continued quizzing Dr Carter. ‘Did you know about the videos in Conrad’s room?’ she asked.

  ‘I knew he had some DVD’s yes, but I wasn’t aware that he had the horror films you were talking about before.’

  ‘How does he get hold of the films? Who supplies them?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Carter. ‘It’s one of those things we turn a blind eye to. And to be honest, we’ve encouraged him to watch films because he’s shown a great deal of interest in a drama class we have here. In fact a lot of the patients have responded to it.’

  Fonseca shook her head. ‘If you’re turning a blind eye to the DVD’s, then how can you be sure that the same person smuggling them in didn’t get him the mask and meat cleaver too?’

  ‘That’s unlikely. We’d spot stuff like that.’

  Munson butted in. ‘A drama class you say? Doing what?’

  ‘Doing drama,’ Dr Carter replied. For a moment it looked like she would keep her response brief and sarcastic, but eventually she continued. ‘A lot of the patients here have multiple personality disorders. Joey Conrad is one of them. The drama class allows them to show off these personalities without fear of being judged or analysed.’

  ‘Great,’ said Munson under his breath. ‘A bunch of nutjobs re-enacting One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest. Nothing mental about that.’

  ‘What personalities does Conrad have?’ Fonseca asked.

  Dr Carter took a deep breath. ‘He takes on the personality of characters he’s seen in film
s. He’s a kind of film nut. Knows a lot of trivia. He can quote and re-enact entire scenes from most of his favourite films.’

  ‘So it’s entirely possible that now he’s wearing a mask and beheading people, he’s pretending to be a character from one of the horror movies we found in his room.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Like the Last Action Hero,’ Munson snapped.

  ‘What?’ asked Fonseca.

  ‘Last Action Hero.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He’s out of your theatre now. He’s out in the real world, playing the part of a fictional character.’ He looked at Fonseca. ‘I didn’t want to mention this upstairs because it was little more than a hunch, but those Last Action Hero and Galaxy Quest movies got me thinking.’

  Dr Carter looked at Munson quizzically. ‘I’m not following.’

  Fonseca understood immediately. ‘I know what you’re getting at,’ she said.

  ‘Well I don’t,’ said Dr Carter.

  Munson spelled it out for her. ‘Last Action Hero, a fictional character from a movie comes out into the real world. Now if Joey Conrad thinks he’s say, the killer from the movie Halloween, he could go round B Movie Hell terrorising and murdering the locals.’

  Dr Carter didn’t look convinced. ‘Wasn’t the Halloween killer trying to kill Jamie Lee Curtis?’

  Munson took a swig of his coffee. It was as foul as it looked. ‘Yeah, she was his sister, or something.’

  Fonseca had been about to take a sip of her own coffee but saw the look on Munson’s face and wisely put her own mug back down. ‘Do you think he might be looking for a relative?’ she asked.

  ‘He has no relatives,’ said Dr Carter. ‘I thought you’d know that.’

  ‘No long lost aunts or uncles?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Munson. ‘That rules out the plot of Halloween then. But the mask could still mean he’s pretending to be the guy from Halloween or the one from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Or both.’

  ‘Both?’ said Fonseca and Dr Carter at the same time.

  ‘Well they both wore masks, and probably both killed with a meat cleaver at some point.’

  ‘And what was the Terminator known for? Did he use a meat cleaver or wear a mask?’ Fonseca asked.

  Munson shrugged. ‘Technically he wore a mask, but the Terminator’s main thing really was that he was trying to kill a woman named Sarah Connor.’

  He was about to take another sip of coffee when he remembered how rancid it was. He stopped short with the mug a few inches from his mouth. Fonseca took up the questioning.

  ‘Dr Carter, are you aware of the slaughter of the innocents?’ she asked.

  Dr Carter nodded. ‘Of course. That’s when King Herod ordered his men to execute all the boys in Bethlehem under the age of two.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Munson, acting as if he’d known the story for more than five minutes. ‘He was trying to kill Jesus, the son of God.’

  He noticed Fonseca raising her eyebrows at him, no doubt amused by his sudden claim to be knowledgeable about the subject. Before he could delve any further into the matter, Justin the nurse poked his head around the door.

  ‘Have you guys seen the news?’ he asked.

  ‘What is it now?’ asked Dr Carter.

  ‘The Red Mohawk has just killed three more people at the Alaska Roadside Diner in B Movie Hell. The cops are after him in a high speed pursuit. This is gonna get huge about now.’

  Munson stood up from his seat at the table. ‘Milena I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to head into B Movie Hell and make Joey Conrad disappear before it’s too late. When you’re finished here, call me.’

  Seventeen

  The first police squad car to respond to the report of the disturbance at The Alaska Roadside diner was a black and white Plymouth Fury designed for high-speed chases. It arrived at the crime scene just as the yellow and red stock car pulled away with its tyres screeching and a ball of dirt and smoke in its wake. Without hesitation the lone officer in the Plymouth flicked on the siren and the flashing blue and red lights, radioed for backup and floored the accelerator. There was no way he was letting the psychotic masked killer get away this time.

  Up ahead, the Red Mohawk checked his rear view mirror. Beneath the hideous mask that covered his face, he allowed himself a sly grin. These motherfucking police scumbags were playing right into his hands. He pressed his boot down on the accelerator of the yellow Chevrolet he had stolen from Hank Jackson an hour earlier. The car was a piece of shit, with a fucked up, clapped out old engine under the hood. He knew that when he chose it. But engine size and speed weren’t priorities. Hell, he wanted, no needed, the cops to stay in pursuit of him. If he outran them or threw them off his tail, he wouldn’t be able to kill the sons of bitches.

  There was one car in pursuit. One was not enough.

  He needed…. no actually fuck it, he wanted at least three police cars on his tail. These incompetent redneck B Movie Hell fuckwits could surely manage to get three cop cars in pursuit of him. It’s not like he was hard to spot.

  Well, it took them the best part of five minutes, by which time the Red Mohawk was losing patience. The first squad car on his tail was irritating him in the extreme with its shitty never-ending siren. The asshole let everyone know he was in pursuit with his flashing blue lights, but the Red Mohawk was certain that the gutless asshole had no intention whatsoever of catching up with him. Not on his own.

  It took a swift turn onto a second deserted road that led to Who-the-fuck-knows-where, before the second and third squad cars made their appearance. Thanks to the dumbass bastards on the police frequency that the Red Mohawk had tuned his car radio into, he knew that two further Plymouth Furys were waiting behind a giant billboard, ready to join in the chase the second he drove past it.

  Now it wasn’t wasted on the violent killer that these two patrol cars could have formed a roadblock, albeit a flimsy one, but they had chosen not to. Reason? They didn’t want to confront him any more than the loser who’d been on his tail since the diner. So now he had the three squad cars on his tail, just as he planned. It was time to take them down. None of them wanted to be at the front of the chasing pack. None of them wanted to pull up level with him. But all of them were probably hoping to God that he crashed his car and killed himself.

  The Red Mohawk had no further need to listen to the police frequency on the radio. Some driving music was required in order to soundtrack what was to follow. Any music would do. He turned the dial on the radio. The first tune to hit the airwaves was The Star Spangled Banner by Enrico Pallazzo. Not the most appropriate killing tune, but murderous nonetheless.

  He took one more glance in the rear view mirror. The three pursuing vehicles were chasing in single file, all keeping their distance. Just enough distance for him to pull some fucked up shit on them.

  ‘Get ready for this, muthafuckers,’ he muttered to himself.

  He reached down and grabbed the handbrake, yanking it up hard. The front wheels locked and his car spun around viciously. It turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees before he dropped the handbrake and slammed the gear into reverse in one quick move. As he’d expected, the cops panicked and slammed their brakes on. The car furthest back almost crashed into the trunk of the one in the middle. The crash was avoided but the poor sucker who had previously been at the rear had to swerve around the fucker in front of him, which meant he reluctantly found himself second in line for what was to come.

  From the Red Mohawk’s point of view, things were going perfectly. He’d shown them he was unpredictable and foolhardy. As he pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and began reversing at high speed down the highway with the cops pursuing him in an extremely passive aggressive manner, he prepared to give them surprise number two.

  He wound down the electric window on the driver side of his car and rea
ched over to the passenger seat where he had a sports bag full of good shit. He pulled out his weapon of choice. An Uzi 9mm. Already loaded and ready to use.

  He pointed the Uzi out of the window at the first cop car. It was twenty-feet away, keeping up the façade that it couldn’t quite catch up with him. As he took aim he saw the facial expression of the driver change. No more steely-eyed I’m-coming-to-get-you bullshit. This was now one wide-eyed motherfucker.

  The Uzi fired off a shitload of rounds in a matter of seconds. It was hard to control the aim, but with an Uzi, who the fuck cares? The job was done in emphatic fashion.

  One of the front tyres burst on the first cop car, the front grill took a few shots too, but more importantly, the windscreen took the majority of the bullets. One side of it, the driver’s side, turned crimson too. The driver had taken at least a couple of shots in the head. Before the Red Mohawk even had a chance to turn the Uzi on the second car, things began to take shape. The lead car ground to a halt almost as soon as the driver’s head hit the steering wheel. The driver of the second car tried to avoid a full on crash into the rear of it but succeeded only in catching the rear corner. It flew up over the top of the front car and flipped over in mid air. Further back, car number three attempted an emergency stop but skidded and crashed “side on” into the back of the front car. Half a second later the middle car landed upside down on the highway with an almighty bang. Its roof crumpled as if it was made from tin foil.

  The Red Mohawk, eased his stock car to a crawl then stopped in the middle of the road. He opened the car door. Over the warbling of Enrico Pallazzo singing about “the rocket’s red glare” he heard the sound of cops dying and the distant muttering of the police radio frequency asking them if they were okay.

  He climbed out of the car, his Uzi primed and ready to use. The nearest squad car was on its side. The driver was already dead. A few yards further back was the second car, the one that had flipped over onto its roof. Its wheels were still spinning round at quite a high speed. This was the one with the police radio still working. A female voice was inquiring about their current situation. The Red Mohawk opened fire on the car, peppering it with rounds as he walked towards it. Bullet holes rattled through the crumpled remains of the vehicle.