by Jacob Stone
“She definitely said a friend’s secret lover?”
There was what sounded like a stifled sob, as if the woman was struggling to keep from crying. “Yes, I’m sure of that.”
“Any idea who this friend is?”
“No. Gail is—” A sob finally broke out as she remembered that Hawes was now in the past tense. It took several seconds before the woman was able to compose herself. Her voice sounded as if she were on the verge of tears as she said, “Gail was very sociable. She was always making friends.”
“Did she say where she ran into this person? Outside her building? Someplace else?”
“She didn’t say. Only that she was now running late because of it.”
“How’d you know she was late for a lunch meeting?”
“Because Gail had posted a message ten or so minutes earlier that she was leaving her apartment to meet some people at a restaurant about a party she was going to be throwing. I think the place was local, only a few blocks from where she lived.”
Morris thought about that, piecing together in his mind what must’ve happened. SCK had to have been waiting for her. Probably right outside her apartment building. Then when he “accidentally” bumped into her, he maneuvered her into inviting him to her apartment.
He told the friend, “Try to remember what time you saw Gail’s status update about the secret lover. It’s important.”
“I think twelve thirty.”
“When did you see that the message was gone?”
“I’m not sure. It’s hard to think clearly right now. Wait.” A half a minute later she was back on the phone. “I tried calling Gail right after I saw her status missing. According to my cellphone’s call log, I tried calling her at twelve forty-seven.”
Morris thanked the woman for her help, then got on the line with a sergeant at the Wilcox Avenue precinct, and told him that the woman was free to go, and that she should be escorted home. After he got off the phone, he told the detective they needed to be canvassing the area. “There’s a good chance that sometime around twelve thirty the victim was outside this building with the perp.”
The detective nodded. “I’ve got four patrolmen right now doing that.”
“Door to door also in this apartment building. And we need to know if there are any surveillance cameras in the area.”
The detective told Morris he’d get right on it.
“Do you realize what this means?” Stonehedge whispered to Morris as they entered the apartment. “A friend of this victim can point you to SCK.”
“If the friend is still alive.”
That thought appeared to stun the actor. “Oh, wow.” He absently stroked his fake beard as he considered that. “You’re right. SCK must know deleting the status update won’t be enough.”
Morris grunted in response to Stonehedge’s comment. It was a small apartment, and because of the crowd milling about the room, Morris could see Gail Hawes’s legs from the knees down and no other part of her. That was more than okay with him. He’d just as soon not see her broken apart skull if he could help it.
He spotted Smichen and Goodman standing among the crowd of forensic and crime-scene specialists. They noticed him also and made their way over to him. Smichen told him the murder looked mostly the same as Corey Freeman’s. “I found a similar shaped hematoma on the back of her head. I haven’t been able to find any traces of rust yet, but I’m fairly convinced the same object was used to incapacitate her. Residue found on her wrists, as with Freeman, indicating that after he knocked her dizzy, he taped her wrists together. Residue this time was found on her ankles, so he must’ve taped them together also. One difference, he gagged her. I found wool fibers in her mouth. Another difference, this time he clawed out eight lumps of brain matter. He must’ve remembered that was his preference. One final note, the victim had three cats who, among other things, nosed around the open skull, and contaminated the crime scene, but we should still be able to tell whether the same chisel and hammer were used.”
“Okay, thanks.” Then to Goodman, “Any doubts we’re dealing with SCK?”
Goodman looked glum. “I’m thinking more that we could be dealing with a copycat. Her age is right, but let me show you a picture of the victim I found on her cellphone.”
He handed Morris the iPhone, and it showed a selfie that the victim must’ve recently taken. She didn’t have a thin, longish face like the other women in their forties that SCK had killed. Instead her face was more of a square shape. Whether it was SCK or a copycat at that moment seemed immaterial to Morris. Whoever he was, he was killing in a similar pattern, and Morris had more pressing concerns. He told Goodman about the deleted Facebook post.
“She invited him up here, and while he was off making a phone call or using the bathroom or whatever excuse he used to get her alone up here, she posted that status update, and he didn’t know about it until after he had killed her. What are the odds that Hawes’s friend who had SCK as her ‘secret lover’ is in cahoots with SCK?”
“Slim. Probably close to zero.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Morris used the iPhone to bring up Gail Hawes’s phone contacts and started calling in order all of the women who had phone numbers in the Los Angeles area. After each one answered, he identified himself, briefly explained why he was calling, and asked when was the last time that they’d seen Hawes. If any of them at first thought this was a prank, the severity of Morris’s tone and the fact that he was calling them from Gail Hawes’s phone quickly convinced them otherwise, and all of them ended up expressing a mix of concern and shock. Morris asked the ones who had seen her within the last week whether Hawes had recently caught them with a “secret lover,” explaining that it was critically important for their safety and the public at large that they answer truthfully. He knew there was a chance that out of embarrassment or some other reason that one of them might lie to him, but he trusted his instincts to be able to tell if that happened. After twenty-six calls, he had worked his way to Susan Twilitter. When she didn’t answer, he knew in his gut that she was the one. He brought up the Facebook app on Hawes’s iPhone and found Twilitter’s profile page. Unfortunately, there were no pictures of her, but he did discover the name of the boutique where she worked. He called the boutique and asked the owner about Twilitter.
“She’s not here,” the owner said, sounding worried. “Susie earlier asked if she could have an hour off, and I told her okay. That was two and a half hours ago. This isn’t like her. She’s always here when she says she’s going to be. I’ve tried calling her, but she’s not picking up.”
Thanks to Twilitter having had a stolen recovery system installed in her car, it didn’t take long for them to track her Honda Accord to the parking garage across the street from where Twilitter had worked. Before the patrolman on the scene pointed it out, Morris had spotted the blood on the pavement near the driver’s side door. There wasn’t a lot of it, only a few drops, but it was enough so it wasn’t a surprise when they opened up the trunk and found Twilitter’s body.
“SCK realized he had a loose end, and he cleaned it up,” Stonehedge said.
Morris gritted his teeth but otherwise didn’t respond to the actor’s comment. Twilitter’s body had been folded in half and crammed into the space so that her face was hidden inside of the trunk. Morris wanted to see what her face looked like, but he didn’t want to disturb her body until the crime-scene team had a chance to go over it. Her pocketbook was still hanging on her shoulder, and Morris dug through it and found her driver’s license.
“She’s got the same type of face as those other women SCK killed,” Stonehedge noted as he looked over Morris’s shoulder. “Long and narrow. And she’s skinny like those other women.”
Morris had no doubt that Susan Twilitter was originally going to be SCK’s victim, not Gail Hawes, but Hawes spotted them together so SCK decided to target Hawes. Then because of that Facebook message, he had to do an impromptu killing of Twilitter. Which mean
t he could’ve gotten sloppy. Someone else could’ve seen the two of them together, or possibly seen SCK while he was hiding in the parking garage waiting for Twilitter to return to her car.
“That realtor could still be SCK,” Stonehedge said.
Morris gave him a puzzled look, his mind spinning too much about what he needed to do next to pay attention to what the actor had said.
“That realtor, Glen Blakeman. What if having over a hundred grand stolen from him triggered him into killing again?”
Morris was going to dismiss the idea out of hand, but as he thought about Stonehedge’s theory it didn’t seem impossible. He called Tracy Lacey and asked how long Blakeman had worked at her company, and she told him it had been four years.
“Where’d he work before then?”
“He was a stock broker on Wall Street. The poor man went bust in the 2008 crash, and was unemployed for a few years before moving out here to start over. Have you been able to talk to him yet and clear this up?”
Morris told her not yet, and then called the FBI profiler, Goodman, to tell him about the recent developments. “What are the chances Blakeman’s SCK?” he asked.
“It’s not impossible,” Goodman said.
Chapter Twenty-four
The day’s events had left Henry shaken, and he decided he could use a drink or two to settle his nerves. On the way back to Simi Valley, he got off the highway in North Hills and pulled into the parking lot for the first bar that he spotted. The place was mostly empty, and he took a booth.
“Hon, you look like you’ve been having a rough day.”
This came from the waitress. A cute blonde who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five. Full-figured too. Henry flashed her his most charming smile. “You know the expression man plans God laughs?” he asked, chuckling softly over the futility of anyone ever believing that they could control anything. “It’s been one of those days. Do you serve food?”
“Sure do, hon. Want me to get you a menu?”
“No need if you serve steak. Bring me your best sirloin, medium rare, with mashed potatoes, and a pint of something local. A pilsner would be perfect. Surprise me.”
“I’ll make sure the cook gets the steak on the grill right away, and I’ll be back soon with a really nice pilsner that’s brewed in Calabasas.”
Henry watched her as she walked away, admiring her from the back. A very cute girl, and perfect for what he needed. Later he would leave a hefty tip. Not enough so she’d talk about it (or about him) to her coworkers, but enough so that she’d remember him. If it were at all possible, he would’ve liked to grab her tonight when she left work, except that would be far too dangerous. But that was okay. When he was leaving Santa Monica, he observed what had to be a very common occurrence these days, and that sparked an idea for how he’d be able to get his next victim. If that didn’t work out, he could focus on this waitress. He was sure with a little planning he’d be able to grab her in the next day or two if it came to that.
She brought over the beer as promised, and he engaged her in small talk about what a long day it had been, getting her to talk about her day also, and coaxing a few laughs out of her over some of his corny jokes. The same when she brought over his steak. He continued chatting her up and joking around when he ordered his second beer, and then a third. By this point she had volunteered quite a bit about herself, including what time she had to show up at work, and how much she hated driving home in the dark when her shift ended at one each night. Yeah, she wouldn’t be hard at all, Henry thought. If it came to that.
The three beers and the steak were helping him to relax, and he would’ve liked to have ordered a fourth beer. It was comfortable in the bar, very pleasant, actually, and he enjoyed chatting and joking around with Brenda, the blonde waitress, even if she might end up very soon being his next victim. She was certainly nice on the eyes, no denying that! But it was already past six, and once again he had left Sheila alone without arranging for anyone to look in on her since he didn’t want people to know that he’d been gone all day. Yet the idea of having another beer was tempting. He was dreading going home and finding Sheila sitting in her filth, and much worse, seeing her loathing and those unspoken accusations in her eyes. Or if she actually deigned to speak to him, hearing her utter disgust for him in her voice.
Sighing, he signaled Brenda over, and asked for the check. When she returned with it, he gave her sixty dollars on a thirty-nine-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change for putting up with all of his bad jokes. From the way she touched his arm and smiled at him when she thanked him, he had no doubt that if he approached her late tomorrow night in the parking lot, she might be surprised to see him but she wouldn’t be frightened by him. She also wouldn’t know what hit her, at least not until it was too late. If it came to that.
* * *
No surprise that Sheila was where he had left her. Where else was she going to be? And of course she had soiled herself. Henry could smell it the moment he stepped into the house. He switched the TV to a local news channel, and carried Sheila to the bathroom so he could undress and clean her, and she refused to look at him while he did this. Once he had her washed and into a freshly laundered pair of pajamas he brought her to the kitchen and sat her in her wheelchair.
“What’s it going to be for dinner, huh?” he asked. He waited for her to answer him, and when she didn’t, he said, “Okay, how about I switch things up and make us some breakfast for dinner? Scrambled eggs and sausage? French toast?” Again no answer, so he set about making enough scrambled eggs and sausage for the two of them. Even though he’d had a steak dinner only a little while ago, he was already feeling like he could eat again, probably because it had been such a stressful and hectic day. Besides, he didn’t want Sheila to have to dine alone.
The sausages were frying and he’d just cracked six eggs into a large bowl when he heard the words Skull Cracker from the TV. That drew him into the living room and he saw that the sort of funny-looking but tough guy from yesterday’s press conference was giving another one. Henry had forgotten his name, but they soon showed it on the bottom of the screen. Morris Brick. They next brought up on the screen pictures of Hawes and the apartment building where she had lived, with Brick asking for anyone who had seen her outside her building with a man today, most likely around twelve thirty, to call the hotline number on the screen. It surprised Henry when after that they showed a picture of Susan and again asked for calls from anyone who might’ve seen Susan accompanied by a man over the last few weeks, and also if they’d seen a man acting suspiciously today around one forty-five inside the Santa Monica parking garage where Susan was found dead.
“That was damn fast,” Henry muttered to himself. They’d switched back to Brick again, and Henry found himself staring intently at the man. You’re good, Brick, he thought, I’ll give you that, and I’ll be waiting with baited breath to see what you come up with next.
That last thought was with a forced bravado, because he couldn’t be sure whether he’d been seen at either the parking garage or with Susan, although he thought it unlikely. If he had been, so what? How could they track him from a police sketch to his home in Simi Valley? Certainly not if anyone’d spotted his license plates today since he had waited until he returned home and had pulled his car into the garage before replacing the stolen plates with the real ones. If the police did come up with a sketch that looked anything like him, he’d pack himself and Sheila up and they’d move somewhere else. Still, though, this Brick character was proving himself dangerous, and these new developments made Henry nervous enough that he only half paid attention as Brick warned that blonde women in their early twenties needed to be especially vigilant in the coming days, and to call the police if they notice anything out of the ordinary, especially if a stranger tries to get them alone. When his nerves calmed down enough so that he was able to make sense of what Brick had said, he snorted loudly.
“Fat chance. You’re wasting your breath with that warni
ng, Brick,” he whispered to himself. “Plenty of young blonde girls out there for me to grab no matter what you have to say.”
He started smelling smoke then, and it took him a few seconds to realize where it was coming from. “Ah jeeze,” he swore as he rushed back into the kitchen and saw that the sausages had burnt to a crisp and were smoking up the room. He used a potholder to grab the frying pan and had to scrape the ruined sausage patties out of the pan with a spatula. “Why didn’t you give me a shout that these were burning?”
Sheila didn’t bother answering him as she sat bug-eyed, her savaged face twisted into a deathlike rictus.
Henry had had enough. “It’s not my fault!” he shouted. “None of this is my fault, so quit acting like it is!”
He took several deep breaths as his anger subsided into guilt. “I’m sorry, okay?”
Still not a word from Sheila. Not even a blink from her, which Henry found amazing given all the smoke in the room. He opened up several windows, and then set about frying up a new batch of sausages, and once he had those underway, he prepared the scrambled eggs the way Sheila liked them. After he had the food spooned out onto two plates and her sausages cut up into tiny pieces, he rolled Sheila over to the kitchen table, placed a fork in her somewhat useable hand, and was relieved that she at least consented to eat. It took her over forty minutes to finish up what he had given her since she needed to chew her food into a fine paste before she could swallow, but once she was done he rolled her out into the living room and placed her in front of the TV. Then he hooked up his iPhone to the television’s video feed and played the recording of what he had done to Gail Hawes. When it was over, he could see that Sheila’s deathlike rictus had become more rigid.