Deranged

by Jacob Stone

  As Sheila thought about this, she started shivering so badly that she had moments where she thought her heart might give out and she might die. But she didn’t die. Eventually a calmness took over, and she realized she didn’t want Penelope behind bars. Or her parents either.

  It was hours before it started getting lighter out. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see that they had left her right outside of the middle school that she attended. She even drifted off at some point, and was woken up when Principal Brownell covered her with his suit jacket.

  “My God,” he said, his face ashen. “Sheila Proops, is that you? What in the world happened?”

  As gently as he could, he peeled the tape from her mouth and removed the rag that had been gagging her, but Sheila refused to tell him. She also refused to tell the police and instead kept asking that they bring her home. Mr. Proops had already left for work, so Mrs. Proops was asked to come to the school with a change of clothing for Sheila (by this time they had given Sheila gym clothes to put on and had wrapped her in several blankets). Mrs. Proops was at a loss to explain how Sheila had ended up gagged, bound, and naked outside of the middle school, and seemed legitimately flabbergasted over the news. But she didn’t insist that Sheila tell them what had happened. Instead she asked if the police officers and school officials would leave her alone with her daughter. After they left, she demanded Sheila, “What kind of nonsense are you up to now?”

  “Penelope did this to me,” Sheila said.

  Mrs. Proops blinked several times. Her color paled as white as milk. In a harsh whisper, she said, “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not lying. Penelope and her lowlife friends Jimmy Connelly and Tommy Morales grabbed me out of my bed, stripped me naked, tied me up, and threw me into the trunk of Jimmy Connelly’s car. They were going to kill me, but Penelope must’ve changed her mind.”

  Mrs. Proops had recovered somewhat. In the same harsh whisper as earlier she said, “You have grown to become quite a liar. If you tell anyone this outrageous story the consequences for you will be quite severe. Do you understand me, young lady?”

  Sheila shook her head. “If I tell them what Penelope did, they’ll believe me, and they’ll send her to prison. They might even believe me now about the punishments you three give me. You and dad might be joining Penelope in prison.”

  Mrs. Proops again blinked several times as what Sheila had told her sank in. “What do you want?” she forced out in a strangled voice.

  “I want you to take me home.”

  Mrs. Proops conferred with the police and the school officials, and they agreed that it would be best if she took Sheila home with the understanding that she would try to get her daughter to confide in her about what had happened. During the ride home, Mrs. Proops gripped the wheel so tightly that veins bulged from her hands and her knuckles turned bone white.

  “How dare you threaten us the way you did!” she yelled at Sheila, a hysterical edge in her voice. “You stupid, peanut-brained ingrate! Whatever discipline we’ve had to give you was for your own good! And if Penny did that to you, it was a harmless prank! You’re going to threaten to ruin your sister’s life over a harmless prank?”

  Sheila spoke calmly and carefully the words she had rehearsed in her head as she had lay bound and gagged outside of her school, because she had fully expected her mom to say what she did.

  “If you ever call me peanut brain again, I will tell the police what Penelope did. If you say anything that I don’t like, I will tell the police. You better tell Dad that. And Penelope also. Because the same goes for them. And none of you are getting any second chances.”

  Mrs. Proops didn’t say another word to Sheila. When they arrived home, Sheila found a quart of ice cream in the freezer that was Penelope’s favorite and was being saved for her, and she brought it to the den and ate it while watching TV. When Penelope came home from her job as a cashier at a fast-food restaurant, Mrs. Proops was waiting for her, and she dragged Penelope to the back of the house so that she could have a word with her. Penelope avoided Sheila the rest of that day.

  Mr. Proops came home at his usual time, but from the way he looked at Sheila when he stuck his face into the den, it was obvious that he had already had conversations with Mrs. Proops over what had happened.

  “Sheila, honey, could you join us in the kitchen?” he said with a sickly smile. “We would like to have a family meeting.”

  Mrs. Proops and Penelope were already sitting at the kitchen table. Mr. Proops and Sheila joined them.

  Mr. Proops said to Penelope, “Do you have something that you’d like to say to your sister?”

  Penelope looking somewhat ghastly said, “I’m sorry if what we did last night upset you. It was only a joke.”

  “There you have it, honey,” Mr. Proops said. “All done in innocent fun. How about you forgive your sister and let’s drop this nonsense. After all, no harm no foul.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Now, Sheila, let’s be reasonable here.” To show that he was also willing to be reasonable, Mr. Proops spread out his hands with his palms up. “You can’t expect us all to live with something like this hanging over our heads, can you?”

  “Father, you can be a funny man when you want to be,” Sheila said, icily. “I meant what I told mother before. None of you are getting any second chances, and if you say another word about me forgiving Penelope or you or mother, for that matter, that’s it, I’ll be speaking to the police.”

  Mr. Proops exchanged a quick look with Mrs. Proops, and it chilled Sheila because she knew what was behind it. Should we just kill the brat, and be done with her? But just as quickly those looks faded, leaving both their faces aged and defeated. The police were going to be following up on today’s incident, and because of that they knew they couldn’t get away with killing her, even if they had the nerve to try it.

  “What do you want?” Mr. Proops asked.

  “For all of you to leave me alone,” Sheila said.

  She got up from the table then and went back to the den and continued watching TV. As with earlier that day, the thoughts buzzing through her head kept her from paying attention to the program she was blindly watching.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  New York, the present

  At 7 A.M., Bogle, Lemmon, and Polk met NYPD detectives Frank Thompson and Pete Childs, and FBI special investigator Julie Crasmore at the FBI’s lower Manhattan office. All three of the MBI agents looked badly in need of coffee, which made sense since it was only 4 A.M. Los Angeles time. Polk in particular had a ragged appearance—skin an unhealthy gray, eyes bloodshot, and thick bags giving him a basset hound look. Still, after introductions were made, hands shaken, coffees poured, seats taken around the conference table, and blueberry muffins grabbed, that didn’t stop Polk from ogling Crasmore.

  “Jesus, I must be seeing things,” he said between bites of his muffin, crumbs tumbling out of his mouth. “When did the FBI start hiring knockouts?”

  Crasmore, other than wrinkling her nose, ignored him and spoke directly to Bogle. “I talked with Sam Goodman last night. He’s not convinced what you have in Los Angeles is SCK. He thinks it might be a copycat.”

  Bogle shrugged. “It might be a copycat, but from what I’ve been told you guys kept a tight lid on the specifics of how SCK operated.”

  “That’s right,” Thompson said, gruffly.

  “So if it’s a copycat, someone told him SCK’s secret, and that someone might be SCK himself.”

  “What do you propose?” Crasmore asked.

  “We attack this from two angles. Angle one, make a list of everyone in New York who knew SCK’s methods, and since Polk is such a charmer—”

  “That I am,” Polk agreed, more blueberry muffin crumbs tumbling out of his mouth.

  “He’ll interview everyone on the list, and see if any of them spread any tales they shouldn’t have,” Bogle continued. “If they did, Polk will figure it out. He’s got a certain way about
him for worming out information.”

  “You better believe it,” Polk said.

  “No kidding. After a while, the guilty party would rather confess than spend another minute with him,” Lemmon offered.

  “We all got our ways,” Polk said.

  “Angle two,” Bogle continued, “is we try to figure out what happened to SCK. That means going back to his last killing and looking at all arrests and accidents from that day to three months after when you expected SCK to kill again. Not just arrests leading to five years in custody, but longer stays since SCK might’ve revealed his trade secrets to a cellmate who decided to carry on the tradition.”

  “Why accidents?” Childs asked with a smirk. “You think SCK’s been in a coma for five years?”

  “Who knows? Anything’s a possibility with this mess. If he was hurt badly enough, maybe he was in rehab all this time. Or he could’ve ended up in a nursing home, and confided in an orderly who was as much of a psycho as SCK. All I know is we got to do this systematically. SCK didn’t just disappear. Something happened to him five years ago.”

  Crasmore thought this over. “SCK ending up in prison is probably our best bet, but you’re right, we also need to look at accidents, illnesses, and assaults that led to extended hospital stays. This is going to be a tall order, but it makes sense.” She gave Detective Thompson an apologetic smile. “Frank, you mind working with Polk on getting that list together and helping out with the interviews?”

  Thompson gave Polk a sideways glance. “As long as he doesn’t get any crumbs in my car,” he grumbled.

  “I can’t make any promises,” Polk said.

  Crasmore pushed herself away from the table and stood up. “Let’s see if we can finally crack this damn SCK case.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Los Angeles, the present

  Morris woke up with Parker sitting on his chest licking his face.

  “Gah,” Morris spat out as he held the dog back with both hands. “Sardine breath!”

  This made Parker more enthusiastically try to bull his way forward, his rear end wiggling like crazy. Morris squinted at the clock next to the bed and saw that it was just after seven. He spotted Natalie by the open door.

  “You’re enjoying this,” he said.

  “Somewhat. But it was an accident. Parker was waiting quietly outside the door, and he squeezed his way through before I realized he was there.”

  Morris successfully wrestled Parker away and maneuvered himself off the bed. He rubbed the bull terrier’s muzzle. “Are you ready for a day of crime fighting?” he asked.

  Parker responded with one of his excited piglike grunts.

  After he showered, shaved, and dressed in the same wrinkled suit he wore the day before, although with a fresh shirt and a different tie, Morris kissed Natalie good-bye and took Parker with him. On the way to the MBI offices, he stopped off for a coffee and bagel and cream cheese, and picked up a bagel, bacon, and egg sandwich for Parker, which the dog greedily devoured.

  Stonehedge was waiting at MBI. The actor had on the same disguise as he did the previous day, and he gave Parker a careful look. “Is this bring your dog to work day?” he asked.

  “Whatever you want to call it. I often bring Parker to the office with me,” Morris said. “At least the days that my wife doesn’t take him with her. Best dog in the world, no question about it, but not the kind you can leave at home all day by himself. He’s also a superlative judge of character, and offers certain other advantages in my kind of work. With some witnesses, Parker proves to be very disarming, and they relax with him around. Others get more nervous when they try lying in front of him. I can’t explain why the latter happens, but it does.”

  The dog watched attentively as Morris handed Stonehedge a strip of bacon that he had removed earlier from the sandwich.

  “Give him that, and he’ll be your friend for life.”

  Stonehedge did as Morris suggested, and somehow avoided having one of his fingers snatched off in the process. As promised, the dog gave the actor one of his piglike grunts and wagged his tail.

  “How’d you come up with the name Parker?” Stonehedge asked. “Are you a wine enthusiast?”

  Morris gave him a confused look.

  “Robert Parker, the wine critic? Or did you name him after the other Robert Parker, the author of the Spenser detective books?”

  “I named him after the other Parker books,” Morris said. “The ones written by Richard Stark.” He showed a guilty smile. “That’s right, he’s named after a stone-cold criminal, but one with a strong code of conduct.”

  The actor looked deep in thought, as if he were trying to dredge out a stubborn fact from his memory. “A movie was made with Lee Marvin from one of those books, right? Point Blank?”

  “That’s right.”

  Morris’s cellphone rang. Doug Gilman.

  “I heard from Hadley that the Santa Monica police weren’t able to pull any useful surveillance video,” Gilman complained sourly.

  “I wouldn’t know. I only just got to the office.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the story. And what do you mean you’re just getting to the office? It’s eight o’clock already.”

  “True. But I needed to go to San Diego late last night to cross off a potential suspect, and didn’t get home until three.”

  “We want this psycho caught before he completes his cycle. You know, killing a blonde twenty-something girl. There’s a lot of fear out there, Morris.”

  “I understand that. And I want to catch this psycho as much as anyone, but the odds are he’s already finished his cycle and we just haven’t found the body yet.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not true. Whatever extra resources you need, you give me a call, okay? The mayor is hot on this.”

  “I understand.”

  “Did the hotline generate anything of interest?” Gilman asked, his voice sounding more weary than his earlier petulant tone.

  “It brought a lot of shut-ins and crackpots out of the woodwork, but it also gave us a few leads to follow up on. I’m sure more calls came in overnight, and more will be coming. Doug, we’ll catch him. Either because of a mistake he made here, or from the New York end.”

  “Sooner will be better than later.”

  “No kidding.”

  That seemed as good as any place to end the call. Morris checked in with his office manager, Greta, who, after welcoming Parker with a hug, gave Morris a stack of messages, which included the same news that Gilman had given him regarding the police coming up empty on finding any useful surveillance video. As he had expected, more calls had come in to the hotline overnight, and Morris spent an hour calling these people back. One of them was a psychic who claimed she had a suspicious client the other day.

  “He gave me a fake name. He told me his name is Howard, but his real name is Henry.”

  “What’s his last name?” Morris asked.

  “He never gave it.”

  “Are you a blonde?”

  “Yes. A natural.”

  “Your age?”

  “Forty-one, but I’m told I look younger.”

  Morris started to draw a line through her name, but stopped halfway and asked whether the man had threatened her.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean not exactly?”

  “He didn’t do anything that a typical bystander would think was threatening, but I found his psychic energy extremely threatening. There was a lot of disturbing violence in it.”

  Morris heard Parker let out a soft moan, and looked down to see the dog stretching as he lay on his side by Morris’s feet. “Did he say anything that could be construed in any way as a threat?” he asked.

  “No, nothing he said. Only his energy.”

  Morris finished drawing the line through her name. None of the other callbacks went any better.

  * * *

  At eleven o’clock he met Adam Belkins at the parking garage in Santa Monica where Susan Twilitte
r was murdered. Of the four hotline calls from the other night that had shown a modicum of promise, Morris had crossed out three of them that morning after more detailed questioning, but Belkins might actually have seen SCK while he was lying in wait for Susan Twilitter.

  Belkins, a thin man in his late twenties who was dressed sharply in a light gray suit, stood by the pedestrian entrance of the parking garage waiting for Morris, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “I was in a rush yesterday when I saw someone kneeling by a car,” he said after he exchanged greetings with Morris, gave Stonehedge a nod as if he recognized him but couldn’t quite place where he knew him from, and noted that Parker looked like one cool dog. “I thought he was checking one of his tires and didn’t think anything more of it until I saw you on the news last night. I wish I had gotten a better look at him.”

  Morris had him take them to the location where he had spotted this mystery man, and it was where Susan Twilitter’s car had been parked. Stonehedge volunteered to kneel by the car that was currently parked in that spot, and Belkins positioned the actor so that he was in the same spot and bent down as much as the man Belkins had seen. Once that was done, Belkins moved to where he was standing when he had spotted this mystery man, which was sixty feet away.

  “I had just come up that staircase,” Belkins said, nodding to a staircase to his left. “My car was parked in that empty spot next to where those two vans are now. For some reason I looked over my shoulder, and that was when I saw him. It was just a quick glance, and it barely registered. Again, I thought it was just someone checking a tire.”