Deranged

by Jacob Stone

  Susan smiled thinly at that. “So we’re not seen walking out of here together.”

  “A necessary precaution, but just for a little bit longer. My lawyer’s promising me he’s going to have everything in order by next week.”

  “Okay, okay, I understand.” Her look shifted subtly, becoming somewhat guarded, accusatory, “You’re not still sleeping with your wife, are you?”

  That certainly came out of left field, and made Henry raise an eyebrow.

  “No, that hasn’t happened in years, and I assure you will never happen again,” Henry said, which was the absolute truth.

  Susan couldn’t deny the obvious truthfulness in Henry’s tone, and she accepted what he said. Whatever momentary doubt and distrust had surfaced vanished just as quickly. Henry gave her a warm smile as he left the booth and headed straight to the men’s room. For a long moment he stood in front of the mirror and grimly stared at the cruel joke genetics and the universe had played on him. Not that he looked grotesque or frightening. Instead he looked utterly harmless and also completely unappealing sexually. Like he could be any woman’s best friend, just not someone they’d ever have romantic thoughts about. It still amazed him that he’d ever found Sheila, or that Susan responded to him the way she did three weeks ago when he was out hunting for a potential victim and approached her while she sat on a bench by one of Santa Monica’s walking trails.

  Once Henry felt that he had given Susan enough time to leave the restaurant, he washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, patted it dry, and then left to meet her at the garage. When he stepped outside, he took three steps and froze before he realized what he was doing. Things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. Susan stood on the sidewalk gabbing with a woman around her age. Or to be fair, the woman was the one gabbing with Susan.

  Somehow this woman sensed Henry standing frozen in place, and turned to face him. Just as quickly, she looked back at Susan and when she caught her helpless expression, she made sense of the surprise she’d seen in Henry’s face and Susan’s reaction. Loudly enough for Henry to hear, she told Susan, “Caught you.” Then she turned and took several quick steps toward Henry and held out her hand.

  “Gail Hawes,” she said introducing herself, her lips twisted into an amused grin. “You must be Susan’s new friend.”

  Before Henry quite realized what he was doing, he took her hand and muttered that his name was Howard Donner.

  “Pleased to meet you, Howard,” she said, obviously tickled pink with herself. “Well, I’ll leave you two to go off and do whatever it is that you have planned.”

  She grinned from ear to ear as she nodded so long to Susan. Henry seemed incapable of movement, at least until this woman disappeared from sight, then he slowly lumbered forward. Susan waited for him, her expression brittle.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said in a hushed voice. “Gail and I have known each other forever, and while we were sharing a bottle of wine a couple of days ago, I told her that I’ve been seeing someone special, but that we had to keep it secret for now. I also let it slip that we were going to be taking things to the next level soon. But I didn’t tell her your name or anything about you. I swear. She figured it out from our reactions.”

  Henry tried to sort through this new development. Gail had stared straight into his face. She didn’t know his real name, but she’d be able to describe him to the police, and Henry had no doubt that it would be an accurate and detailed description. But still, it would be weeks, maybe much longer than that, before Susan’s body would be found, and even much longer after that before they’d be able to identify her, especially if animals got to her remains, so he should have more than enough time to take care of this Gail Hawes.

  “I know how important it is to you to keep us secret for now,” Susan said. “I know how much it will cost you if your wife found out about us. But Gail’s one of my best friends. She’s not going to say anything to anyone. Your wife’s not going to find out about us from her. This really shouldn’t be a big deal, and it certainly shouldn’t interfere with our plans for today.”

  Henry only half-listened to what Susan was saying. He realized he might not have nearly as much time to take care of Susan’s friend as he first thought. This woman might try calling Susan soon, maybe even later tonight, to find out how things had gone with her secret lover, and if she was unable to reach her she might try calling the police next.

  “You look so troubled. Are you okay? Are we still doing this? If it will make you feel better, I can call Gail and make her swear she won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  Henry was so absorbed in his thoughts that he had momentarily forgotten about Susan keeping pace alongside of him. They’d reached the pedestrian entrance for the parking garage, and he held the door for her. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Forget about all the time he’d spent searching for such a perfect victim as Susan, there was also the three weeks he’d invested in her and the perfect plan he came up with, and he hated the idea of throwing that all away. He still had time to sort it out in his mind. It was going to take them at least two hours to reach the isolated spot in the Santa Monica Mountains where he’d been planning to kill her. Once they were alone up there he’d make a decision. Maybe divine inspiration would strike him.

  “No need to do that, Susie darling,” he said. He took a deep silent breath through his nose and let it out slowly, his facial muscles relaxing and leaving him smiling in an unconcerned, pleasant way. “We’ll go on our hike as planned, and I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”

  Chapter Six

  It was late in the afternoon, and Morris stood in front of one of the food tables, ostensibly trying to decide between a custard-filled and chocolate-glazed donut, but really deep in thought over plans he had with Natalie that night. He’d had enough of The Carver and was looking forward to calling it quits for the day and meeting up with his wife at their favorite restaurant, The Banyan Tree Grill, where he planned on ordering the pan roasted Statler chicken with garlic and Cipollini onions.

  A familiar-sounding voice interrupted his thoughts, saying, “Man, you’ve been studying those donuts like you’re expecting to pick them out of a police lineup later.” This person laughed, and added, “If memory serves, those are the same ones they had out first thing this morning, so I’m betting the custard ones have to be rancid by now, maybe even deadly. Much safer to go with chocolate-glazed.”

  The reason the voice had sounded familiar was because it came from the actor who was playing the killer. The actor grinned as he held out his hand to Morris. “Philip Stonehedge,” he said.

  Morris accepted his hand. “Well, of course, I already know who you are. Morris Brick, but please call me Morris,” he said. “Thanks for potentially saving my life here. Or at least my stomach.”

  “Happy to have done so. And Morris, I likewise know all about you. I can’t tell you how excited I was when I heard you were going to be consulting on this film. Like everyone else in Los Angeles, I was held captivated during the Hillside Cannibal murder trials last year. Really remarkable how you caught that sicko.” Stonehedge turned apologetic as he added, “I know we’re on break here, but I’d be eternally grateful if you gave me a chance to pick your brain. I need to better understand the Carver.”

  Morris checked his watch. They had twenty minutes before they were supposed to return to the set. He nodded, and somewhat reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth grabbing a donut and risking ruining his appetite for his dinner out. Besides, as he’d been telling Natalie, he could stand to lose a few pounds, so he ignored the rumbling noises his stomach made and settled on a cup of coffee, bypassing the cream and using skim milk instead. Stonehedge, who was leaner than an anorexic marathon runner, did Morris one better by only grabbing a bottle of water before leading the way to his trailer just outside the set. A minute later they were settled inside it, with Stonehedge offering Morris the sofa while he took the leather armchair.

  “So wh
at do you think so far?” the actor asked.

  Morris sipped his coffee before commenting, “It’s interesting how they’re jumping around with the scenes they’re shooting. Six months ago I consulted on American Killer, and the days I was on set they shot the scenes sequentially.”

  Stonehedge smiled thinly at how skillfully Morris had sidestepped the question. “That’s Jerry’s doing,” he said. “He wants us to shoot all my killings first to help me get in touch with my serial killer side, so to speak, but it’s not helping.” A hint of desperation gleamed in Stonehedge’s eyes as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I’m lost here, Morris. I feel like I’m flailing around in the dark, and I need to find my motivation so I don’t come across as a cartoon character and completely embarrass myself. I’m desperately hoping you can give me some insight as to why Dodd killed. I mean, is it as simple as that he’s a twisted maniac? Is that all there is to it? Am I complicating things trying to find a deeper reason for him doing what he did?”

  “Dodd’s certainly a twisted maniac.”

  “Yeah, that much is obvious.”

  “But he also has a compulsion driving him to kill. You can think of him as an addict who can only get the high that he craves by killing in a way where he thinks he’s outsmarting everyone and getting away with it. And once the high wears off, all he can think about is getting his next high. I have no doubt that right now as he sits on death row, he’s suffering from withdrawal.”

  “That’s what he told you? I read that you met with him in prison.”

  “He wasn’t about to admit something like that to me.” Morris took another sip of coffee, his eyes glazing as he thought back to the unsettling hour he had spent with Heath Dodd. “I’m sure he told himself that he wanted to see me only so he could convince me that he was framed by the police, even though he was caught red-handed during his last murder. But that had nothing to do with what drove him to see me, and that was to convince me that the real killer had to be more clever and brilliant than any of the serial killers I had encountered. There’s no question Dodd’s a piece of work, and at times I could see in his eyes his craving to kill. Although he tried hard to hide it, he was as jittery as any other addict badly needing a fix.”

  Stonehedge’s head slowly moved up and down as he mulled that over. “What caused him to start killing in the first place?” he asked after a long moment.

  Morris shrugged. “A more interesting question to me as a former homicide detective would be when did he start killing, because I’m sure he had victims long before the world ever heard of the Carver. Maybe he experimented first with stray dogs and cats, but I would think the odds are good he killed his first person while he was a teenager, probably picking as early victims prostitutes, drug addicts, and transients—people whose deaths would mostly go unnoticed. As to what drove him to kill in the first place, who knows? There’s some thought that serial killers have a chromosome abnormality that causes their homicidal tendencies. Others think it’s due to brain injuries. Whether it’s either of those, or something else entirely that drove Dodd, I couldn’t say.”

  Morris’s cellphone buzzed. Caller ID showed Los Angeles’s Mayor’s Office. He frowned at the phone for a moment, then told Stonehedge that he had to step outside and take the call. The actor nodded, deep in thought over what Morris had told him.

  Once Morris was outside, he answered the call.

  “This is Doug Gilman from the mayor’s office,” the caller said. “We met at your retirement party.”

  Morris remembered him. When Gilman had approached him at his police retirement dinner, Morris thought he had to be an actor who for some reason crashed his party. Gilman was young, only in his late twenties, and had that hungry Hollywood look about him. Outgoing, assertive personality, a perfect head of hair, teeth that were far too white and straight, and the type of bronze tan that you only get from frequent sessions in a tanning booth. But he wasn’t an actor, and after only a few minutes of talking with him, Morris recognized him as someone highly ambitious who would probably be mayor someday. And no doubt governor also.

  “What can I do for you?” Morris asked.

  “We’ve got something for you. How quickly can you get to Venice?”

  “It depends on what you have.”

  “What we have is something you and MBI are going to want, but I can’t tell you any more until you sign an NDA. Are you near a fax machine?”

  Morris told him he was on a job, and that he’d call him back once he figured out how Gilman could get him the nondisclosure agreement. It didn’t take Morris long to track down a fax machine in one of the studio offices, and after he had the agreement signed and faxed back to the mayor’s office, he called Gilman back.

  “It looks like the Skull Cracker Killer has resurfaced,” Gilman said. “And our luck, the psycho decided to move to Los Angeles.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Morris met Doug Gilman at the murder site, the first thing Gilman did was let it slip that he’d been promoted to the mayor’s deputy assistant since they last met, the pay raise for which must’ve accounted for the expensively tailored suit Gilman wore, as well as the equally rich-looking gray leather dress shoes he had on.

  “No doubt due to your forward thinking,” Morris said.

  “No doubt,” Gilman agreed. “I warned you at your retirement dinner you’d be hearing from me in the future, and when I realized what we were dealing with here, I wasted no time convincing the mayor that for the safety of the community, we needed to get you and MBI leading this investigation.”

  The two of them were alone near the front foyer while the police, forensics, and crime scene investigators mulled about in the back of the house where the murder took place. Gilman gave a quick look to make sure there were no prying ears nearby. Lowering his voice, he continued.

  “I’m sure it must come as no surprise that there was resistance from your former boss. The commissioner is still nursing hard feelings about you taking a few of his detectives with you when you formed MBI, and as you can guess he didn’t like the idea of having his department sharing the spotlight with you on such a high-profile case. But after a persuasive argument and a few moments of reflection on the commissioner’s part, he turned out to be quite reasonable on the matter.”

  Gilman didn’t bother mentioning the obvious, which was the only reason Hadley had backed down and agreed to let Morris and MBI be given the investigation was that it was the politically astute thing to do, which was the same reason Gilman was able to convince the mayor as well.

  A little over six years and two months ago the Skull Cracker Killer began terrorizing New York City, killing nine people over a fourteen-month period, and then seemingly disappearing five years ago. The New York police and FBI had tried to keep a tight lid on the details of the murders, and the Skull Cracker name came from a reporter, not the authorities. This happened when the traumatized janitor who had discovered the first victim commented within earshot of this reporter that the poor guy wouldn’t be able to have an open casket after the way his skull had been cracked open like an egg.

  If this was really the same killer at work, and these killings followed the same pattern as what happened in New York, then there were going to be two more murders very soon, if they hadn’t already happened. Morris knew this because a well-defined pattern emerged with the New York killings. Always three in a very short time span: the first victim being a white-collar man in his forties; the second, a typical housewife-type, also in her forties; and the third, a young woman in her twenties, always a blonde. By hiring Morris, the mayor and police department were shielding themselves from the heat that was going to be coming when the next bodies were found. If Morris was successful in tracking down the killer, the mayor would get the praise for having had the foresight in hiring Morris, but if Morris failed, which was likely given that the NYPD got nowhere with their nine murders, then it would be Morris whose reputation would be tarnished, while the mayor would still
look like a mensch who did everything he could for the people of Los Angeles.

  “How sure are you that this is SCK?” Morris asked, using the familiar acronym for the Skull Cracker Killer.

  Gilman smiled grimly. “Unfortunately, pretty sure. You know Detective Annie Walsh, right? She’s the homicide detective who picked up the case, and when she saw what was done to the victim, she sent photos to the FBI to check whether they had any other murders matching the grisly characteristics of this one.”

  “And of course they did,” Morris said with a sigh. “Nine others.”

  “Yep.” Gilman’s grim smile tightened, leaving his lips bloodless. “There’s a chance it’s a copycat. Someone who found out about the SCK’s complete modus operandi, and not just about what was done to the victims’ skulls. The FBI is sending us Sam Goodman, who was the profiler who worked the murders in New York, and he should be flying into LAX at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. But it doesn’t matter whether it’s a copycat or the original SCK. If it’s a copycat, he’ll still probably be killing his next two victims very soon. We need to catch him pronto.”

  Morris and Gilman had talked during Morris’s drive to Venice, but all Gilman had told him about what was done to the victim was that it was gruesome. When Gilman handed him a small stack of crime-scene photos, Morris had to agree with Gilman’s assessment. After carefully studying them, he handed them back to Gilman.

  “I’m guessing the killer used a chisel and hammer to break apart the skull,” Morris mused as he considered what must’ve happened. “And the claw end of the hammer to dig out the brain?”

  Gilman blanched at the question, his skin showing a tinge of green. Morris noticed Gilman’s reaction and reminded himself that he was talking to a political underling and not a cop. Maybe a very ambitious political underling who had gotten knee-deep in the details of this case so that he could convince his boss, the mayor, to hire Morris, but he certainly wasn’t someone used to dealing with a murder victim whose skull had been obliterated so grotesquely.