by Jacob Stone
“Did Rachel accompany you?” Morris asked.
“She was busy studying so I took Claudia.”
Claudia Franzetti was an osteopath who had an office in the same building where Natalie had her therapist office. “A nice woman,” Morris said. “I hope you had an enjoyable dinner.”
“Delicious. The swordfish was excellent.”
Morris raised an eyebrow at that. “You didn’t order their famous pan-roasted chicken? Sacrilege!”
Natalie dug her fingers a bit deeper into Morris’s neck muscles. “I hate to break this to you, hon, but not everybody has to order their favorite dish every single time they dine out. You do, of course. You’re such a creature of habit. At Banyan Tree, it’s the pan-roasted chicken, at Bernie’s Deli, the corned beef on rye, at Seven Star, the kung pao chicken, at Masala Dhaba, the tandoori lamb, at Lucca’s, the lasagna.”
“It’s not so much that I’m a creature of habit, it’s more that I know what I like,” Morris argued. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “That feels really good. You’ve got magic fingers, Nat.”
“The reason you married me.”
“One of the reasons. The fact you’re a knockout didn’t hurt.”
Natalie moved her hands down to Morris’s shoulders. “You’re so tense,” she said. “A little less so after working on your neck, but still it’s almost like I’m trying to massage stone.” Her voice grew softer as she said, “I’m surprised you took on this investigation. I thought you were done with serial killers. Especially after that Vincent Rubosto monster. That case took so much out of you.”
Vincent Rubosto was the Hillside Cannibal, and was a particularly noxious and aberrant personality who’d murdered and ate the internal organs of all eleven of his victims. Morris shrugged. “The name of my company is Morris Brick Investigations. We handle investigation,” he said.
“Don’t be smart with me. What you’ve just signed up for is a far cry from the movie and TV consultations and the handful of background checks and burglary cases you’ve been working on.”
“I know. I certainly didn’t expect to be offered something like this, and if you’d asked me yesterday if I’d willingly take on another serial-killer case, I would’ve said no. But when this was presented to me, I couldn’t turn it down.”
“Why not?”
“The idea of stopping this psycho seemed too important.”
“Hmm,” Natalie murmured as she considered this. “I could see how you’d especially feel that way after spending a day watching them film that idiotic movie. Is the rest of your team onboard with taking on another serial killer?”
“I called them, and yeah, they all want to do this.”
Natalie continued to rub Morris’s shoulder for several more minutes before announcing that her hands were getting tired. She joined Morris at the table, and looked preoccupied as she sat across from him.
“Don’t worry,” Morris said. “I won’t let the investigation wear me down.”
“You did those other times.”
“Yeah, I did.” He winked at his wife. “But I’d like to think I’ve learned something over the years about taking these cases too personally. I’ll make sure to keep more distance this time, I promise. Besides, I’ve got a feeling that we’ll be catching this psycho soon.”
Natalie looked at Morris as if she didn’t fully believe him on either count, but whether she was too tired or thought it would be pointless, she kept her arguments to herself. After several minutes of silence, Morris asked whether she had warned Rachel not to dye her hair blonde.
“She’s not going to dye her hair.”
Morris knew his wife too well to know what she was really saying, and he felt a jumpiness in his stomach. “You didn’t warn her,” he complained.
“No, I didn’t, and for good reason. All I told Rachel was that MBI was hired to investigate today’s murder in Venice, and that you’d be taking part in the press conference the police department was giving.” Natalie showed Morris a weary smile, and added, “If I had told Rachel anything else, she would’ve cross-examined me until she had ferreted out the truth. And if I had told her anything about this Skull Cracker Killer targeting blonde girls, and she knew the city wasn’t warning other girls about that, she would’ve dyed her hair blonde in protest. As it was, our daughter demonstrated her future prosecutorial skills by giving me the fifth degree over why the city would hire a private firm to investigate a murder. You should be amazed that I didn’t crack.”
Morris knew his wife was right. If Rachel had gotten even the slightest hint that blonde girls in their early twenties were more at risk of being targeted by this killer, she would be dying her hair out of solidarity. There was no reason for him to feel the uneasiness he was feeling. They didn’t even know yet that this was SCK, which was why they had decided only to warn the public about taking necessary safety precautions, instead of panicking every woman in her forties and every blonde girl in her twenties. Besides, there was no reason Rachel would dye her hair, even though she had done it twice when she was an undergraduate student at Stanford—once dying her hair green, another time a shocking pink. And even if she were a blonde and this was SCK, the chances of her being picked by him given the thousands of other blonde girls in Los Angeles were minuscule. Still, as tiny as the possibility was, the idea of either Natalie or Rachel being targeted by SCK freaked him out. Even if he accepted that he was only being paranoid and that his wife and daughter were going to be safe, knowing that women like them were potential victims of this psycho angered him, and that was also partly why he took the job.
As Morris sat momentarily lost in his thoughts, he looked up and saw that Natalie now understood why he wanted to hunt down SCK. He was going to explain himself, but he was saved by the bell when the oven timer went off. He got up from the table so he could get the reheated pan-roasted chicken that he’d been dreaming of all day. Parker rolled to his feet and let out one of his pig grunts, knowing he was going to be getting his midnight snack.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam Goodman’s plane arrived on schedule at LAX, and he looked no worse for wear when he walked into the MBI office suite on Wilshire Boulevard after his six-hour-and-twenty-minute flight and thirty-eight-minute cab ride. Morris already had the rest of the MBI team assembled, along with Dr. Roger Smichen, Detectives Walsh and Malevich, and two other LAPD detectives who’d been assigned for the duration to the investigation.
After introductions were made, Morris asked his office manager Greta Lindstrom to make copies of Goodman’s presentation from the flash drive the FBI profiler had brought. While they waited for these, Goodman poured himself a cup of coffee and helped himself to a bagel and cream cheese, and then engaged in small talk with Morris and other members of the team. Ten minutes later Greta brought in enough copies for everyone present, and MBI’s computer and hacking specialist, Adam Felger, had everything set up for a video presentation. Goodman took one last bite of his bagel, used a napkin to wipe a smear of cream cheese from his lips, and was about to begin when Morris received a call from the mayor’s deputy assistant, Doug Gilman.
“An unusual situation has arisen,” Gilman said.
Morris excused himself from the gathering, and once he was out in the hallway with the conference-room door closed, asked Gilman if he was going to be happy with the situation.
“Doubtful,” Gilman said. “I’m certainly not thrilled by it.”
“What is it?”
Gilman hesitated, then said, “I believe you’re personally acquainted with Philip Stonehedge?”
Because he wasn’t expecting that name, it took Morris a moment before he remembered that Stonehedge was the actor starring as the serial killer in The Carver film, and that they’d spent time talking together in the actor’s trailer. Even though it had been less than a day, it seemed like this had happened months ago.
“I met him yesterday,” Morris said. “So?”
“So Stonehedge saw las
t night’s press conference and decided he wants to tag along with you on this investigation. The studio that’s making his latest film—the one you’ve been consulting on—has been calling the mayor all morning to make that happen, and they’ve succeeded. The mayor has given his blessing.”
Jerry had called a half hour earlier to tell Morris that filming for The Carver was being shut down for a week. Now he knew why.
“How about Hadley?” Morris asked.
“The Commissioner signed off.”
“Why in the world would they do that?”
“Because the studio will be paying the city two million dollars for this privilege,” Gilman said. “I guess they see this as a unique promotional opportunity for when this movie comes out. Having Stonehedge stumping around, giving interviews about how he was on the team that tracked Corey Freeman’s killer.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would. But it’s only going to be for seven days. That’s all we agreed to, and then you’re free of him. Besides, according to Stonehedge you two have a good rapport.”
That was a stretch. Morris had spent no more than twenty minutes talking to the actor, and his feelings had been pretty much neutral regarding Stonehedge.
“This isn’t a game,” Morris said, his voice growing tight from his growing exasperation. “Nor is it a Hollywood publicity stunt. We’re trying to catch this maniac before he breaks open any more skulls.”
“I know that, but Morris, we’re talking about seven days. That’s all. Besides, if you think about it it’s not that big a deal. You cops have been having ride-alongs with actors for years.”
A throbbing had started in Morris’s temples, and he squeezed his eyes closed and slowly began massaging the area around his eyes with his thumb and index finger from his left hand as he held his cellphone with his right. “Not when we’re dealing with a serial killer,” he said. “We’ll be putting Stonehedge’s safety at risk—”
“He’s been warned about that.”
“Yeah, well, that’s only one issue. Another is that we need to control the messages we give out to the media. What we put out there could be critical in capturing this killer. Not only does Stonehedge risk making this into an even bigger media circus than it’s going to be, but if he says the wrong thing either on social media or in an interview, it could ruin our chances of catching this guy.”
“He won’t say anything,” Gilman said. “At least he better not. Stonehedge signed a nondisclosure agreement that forbids him from saying anything about the investigation while it’s ongoing. If he does we’ll be prosecuting him, and he understands that.” There was a deep breath and exhalation from Gilman, then, “Look, Morris, this is happening. There’s nothing I can do about it, and nothing you can do about it. I called to give you a heads-up, but deal with it the best you can, okay?”
Morris applied more pressure as he massaged the area around his eyes. “Was he told this might be SCK?” he asked.
“No.”
“When’s he coming?”
“Any minute.”
The office suite door opened and Morris looked up to see Stonehedge walking into MBI’s lobby. He told Gilman he’d talk to him again later, and signaled for Stonehedge to join him.
The actor had on thick-rimmed eyeglasses, a fake prosthetic nose, scruffy blond wig, and had an equally scruffy fake mustache and beard attached to his face. He also wore badly faded jeans, a Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt, and old running shoes. It was a decent disguise; the nose, wig, facial hair all looked real. If Morris hadn’t been expecting the actor, he might’ve been fooled by it.
Stonehedge shot Morris a sheepish grin as he walked over to him and offered his hand, which Morris ignored. The actor seemed momentarily taken aback by the slight, but recovered quickly and acted as if Morris hadn’t just dissed him. “You like my disguise? This is what I wear when I don’t want to be recognized,” he said. “I really appreciate you letting me do this.” This last part was said as if Morris actually had any say in the matter.
“Why do you even want to do this?”
Stonehedge’s grin turned a bit strained. “The scenes I shot yesterday were lousy. I was lousy. A ridiculous walking cartoon, nothing more than that. Jerry’s going to have to reshoot those scenes. But if I can immerse myself in this for a week, I’ll crack this nut, I’m sure of it, and I won’t embarrass myself in this role.”
“Really? Why do you think a murder investigation will help you do that?”
“Morris, man, don’t kid a kidder. This isn’t just a murder. The city of Los Angeles isn’t going to hire you for a run-of-the-mill murder. This is the real deal. Am I right?”
Morris was going to try bluffing him and see if he could change Stonehedge’s mind, but he accepted that the actor was too stubborn and he’d only be wasting his time.
“It could be,” Morris admitted. “Here’s how we’ll do this. I’ll allow you to observe as long as you don’t interfere. I want you to be as good as invisible. Okay?”
“Not a problem, man. I’ll blend into the walls. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“No tweets, no instagrams, no postings on Facebook. No social media, period. You do any of that, or leak anything to the press, and not only will I make sure you’re prosecuted, but I’ll break your jaw. I’m not kidding about that.”
Stonehedge smiled wickedly. “Morris, man, first impression I never would’ve guessed what a badass you are. This is going to be great. Truly. And don’t worry, I won’t be mentioning a word about this to anyone. That’s not why I’m doing this. My only reason is for my craft, that’s it.”
Morris didn’t fully believe him since all actors were in effect professional liars, but nodded anyway. “Okay, then,” he said, and he offered the actor his hand, which Stonehedge enthusiastically took.
“I might actually be able to help you with this, whatever this turns out to be,” Stonehedge said. “I have access to people and organizations that you and the Los Angeles police department don’t. Anything I can do to help, just say the word.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So what are you dealing with here?”
Morris saw no reason to hide it any longer. It wasn’t his call anyway. “Possibly SCK,” he said.
The actor gave him a confused look.
“The Skull Cracker Killer.”
For a fraction of a second, nothing, but Morris could the see the wheels turning in Stonehedge’s eyes and then the precise moment that the actor connected the name to the news stories that came out of New York over five years ago. Immediately after that, the actor’s jaw dropped.
“Exactly,” Morris said.
Chapter Fifteen
More than a few eyebrows were raised when Morris brought Stonehedge into the conference room. Since the room was soundproofed and the door had been closed, no one had heard their conversation in the hallway, nor did anyone recognize the actor in his disguise, so none of them had any idea who this scruffy-looking stranger was. It didn’t go over particularly well when Morris told them. The Los Angeles police detectives all looked annoyed, Smichen amused, and Goodman concerned. The MBI team mostly hid their reactions behind poker faces, although Charlie Bogle couldn’t help chuckling.
“Wow. Camera not only adds ten pounds like they say, but it must also give you a nose job, ’cause that’s some beak you got in real life,” deadpanned Dennis Polk, who was another member of the MBI team.
Stonehedge, who didn’t know that Polk was a natural-born wiseass, tried answering him as if Polk had been serious. “This is a disguise so I’m not recognized when I go out in the field with you guys,” the actor said. “The nose is a prosthetic.”
“Never would’ve guessed that,” Polk again deadpanned.
Stonehedge’s face reddened as he realized Polk was being a wiseass. Bogle commented that Stonehedge was dressed like an actor trying to slum it with the police. “If he goes out wearing that outfit with any of us, the pub
lic’s going to know something’s not right.”
“Very true,” Morris agreed. He asked Polk where he bought his suits, then called Greta, made a guess on Stonehedge’s shirt, pants, and jacket sizes, and asked her to pick the actor up a shirt, tie and a discounted suit off the rack at the same store Polk shopped at. “Don’t spend more than two hundred for it,” he added. “We want him to look like one of us. Or at least like Polk.”
“I’m impressed,” Stonehedge said. “You nailed my sizes exactly. How about these sneakers? Okay if I wear them, or should I get some shoes?”
“The sneakers will be fine.”
Sam Goodman had been mulling all this over, and finally he spoke up. “We at the FBI, and the same with the New York police department, have taken extraordinary precautions to keep this information from the public for obvious reasons, and I don’t feel comfortable divulging it to a private citizen, especially an actor.”
“I’ve got to agree,” Walsh said. “That’s all we need is Hollywood over there leaking stuff to TMZ.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Morris stated. “Is it, Phil?”
“Not a chance,” Stonehedge said.
Morris continued, “The reason it’s not going to happen, other than the fact that Phil is giving us his word and he’s an honorable man, is that he knows what the consequences will be if he leaks anything, which will include, but not be limited to, prosecution for obstruction of justice.”
“This is still bull,” Walsh grumbled. “If you don’t mind, I’m calling my captain.”
“Go ahead, but this wasn’t my decision. Hadley already signed off on it.”
Walsh stared openmouthed at Morris. “You’re kidding,” she said.
“Nope.”
Goodman made up his mind. “I guess the federal government can bring charges also if Mr. Stonehedge interferes adversely with this investigation.”