Playing Dead

by R. G. Belsky

  Simply snuff out their lives.

  Make them vanish.

  Poof—and they’re gone.

  David Galvin said he wanted to do something right at the end. And I guess maybe he had. But he never had time to finish. So now I was left with a lot of questions that I couldn’t answer. And Galvin—the only person who knew the answers—was gone for good.

  I remembered the story of the Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. I hadn’t read that book in a long time, but Alice’s encounter with the bizarre cat—who appeared and disappeared at the most inopportune times—always stuck in my mind.

  I thought about it now. Alice told the cat she wished he wouldn’t appear and disappear so quickly. The cat agreed, then disappeared slowly, starting with its tail and ending with its grin, which stayed quite a while after the cat had gone.

  Just like Felix the Cat.

  Was David Galvin grinning at us all now from wherever he was?

  I shook my head sadly and looked down at his list in my hand one more time. I still couldn’t believe it.

  Twenty-one names. Women. Men. Children. But it was two of those names—two of the innocent victims who were on that list—that had suddenly turned my world upside down again.

  Susan and Joseph Dougherty.

  My wife and son.

  Part 2

  The Great Pretenders

  Chapter 11

  I needed a place to start.

  No matter how complicated a story is, no matter how impossible it seems, no matter how confusing—a reporter has to begin somewhere if he hopes to have any chance of unraveling it. Watergate started with a second-rate burglary that nobody paid any attention to for a long time. Son of Sam—maybe the most notorious serial killer of our time—was finally caught because of a parking ticket. Nothing is too small, nothing too insignificant in this business.

  A tangled story is a lot like a tangled piece of string. You have to pull on one piece of it first, then another—and hope the whole thing eventually unravels. Pull on the right thread first, and it’s easy. Pull on the wrong thread, and you just get more and more frustrated.

  I needed to find the right thread to pull on this story.

  I had checked into a hotel in Gramercy Park after filing a long piece to the Banner on Galvin’s death and his list of victims.

  Kramer said he was putting me on special assignment for the paper until the story was over. So there was no way I could deal with the long commute back and forth to Princeton anymore. I had a lot of work to do. I needed all the time I could get.

  There were six new murder cases—a total of eight more mysterious deaths—on the list Galvin had left me.

  That first night, sitting in my hotel room, I took out a pen and yellow legal pad and wrote down all the information I had.

  Thomas MacklinMarried white male, aged 28

  Lawyer for Park Avenue law firm

  Cause of death: stabbing

  Body found in men’s room of notorious gay bar in Greenwich Village on 10/04/86. Victim had no history of gay involvement. In fact, several girlfriends were located and questioned as well as his wife. All were cleared.

  CASE UNSOLVED

  Marilyn DupreeDivorced white female, aged 32

  Waitress at posh East Side restaurant/aspiring actress and dancer

  Cause of death: Gunshot wound

  Body found in apartment on 11/26/86 by restaurant manager, who became concerned when she didn’t show up for work. Found in dancer’s outfit at time of death, although no evidence she had participated in either dance class or performance recently.

  CASE UNSOLVED

  Judith CurranSingle black female, aged 21

  Student at Fordham University

  Cause of death: strangulation

  Body found floating in Hudson River on 3/28/87

  Victim last seen two weeks earlier leaving class on Fordham University campus—time of death estimated as several days before body was found. Whereabouts during unaccounted for time never established.

  CASE UNSOLVED

  Toni Aiello, Rockville Centre, Long IslandSingle white female, age 18

  Student at Rockville Centre HS

  Cause of death: Gunshot wound

  Body found in Washington Square Park during the early morning hours of 6/13/87.

  Victim was still dressed in same formal gown she’d worn to senior prom the night before. Her date and friends all cleared by cops.

  CASE UNSOLVED

  Susan and Joseph DoughertyMarried white female, aged 26, young white child, aged 11/2

  Cause of death: Boating accident in Sag Harbor, Long Island.

  Died on 7/28/91.

  CASE LISTED AS ACCIDENTAL DEATH

  William Franze and Whitney MartinMarried white male aged 45; single white female aged 24

  Cause of death: Multiple gunshot wounds

  Died on 4/26 of this year in bed together at Franze’s townhouse. Appeared to be having sexual encounter at time of death. Woman had been hired by Franze from the Elite Escort Agency.

  CASE UNSOLVED

  None of them—at first glance anyway—seemed to have happened the same way as the original Felix the Cat killings. For one thing, David Galvin had used a gun, the same gun—a .40-caliber semiautomatic—in all of his killings. The new victims had died in a variety of ways.

  Some of them—like the high school girl in her prom dress and the waitress in her dance outfit—now appeared like they certainly could be more of the sick fantasies from the man who called himself Felix the Cat. But, until Galvin put them on his list, no one ever suspected a connection between any of the deaths. And a couple of them—William Franze, for one, and my family too—seemed to bear no resemblance at all to the rest of the murder chain.

  Then there were the two living people on Galvin’s list—who seemed to be the next targets.

  The police were trying to contact them now to offer them special protection.

  One of them was a woman named Linda Hiller. She was thirty-two years old and managed a theatrical agency in midtown Manhattan. The only clip I could find about her in the Banner library was a small piece in New York magazine from a few years ago in which she was listed as one of the magazine’s “Hot 100” up and coming new business women in Manhattan. I couldn’t see anything she’d done to make someone want to kill her.

  The other target was an accountant named Arthur Dodson. Dodson was thirty-four years old, and had just been named a senior partner in his firm. He lived in Westchester County with his wife and two young children, coached a little league team, and belonged to the Kiwanis Club and chamber of commerce. Nothing that seemed particularly controversial in his life either.

  Of course, maybe Linda Hiller and Arthur Dodson had some deep dark secrets in their lives that I knew nothing about.

  On the other hand, it was much more likely they were just picked at random—like the rest of the victims appeared to have been. So they were not likely to know the reason they were on Felix the Cat’s death list.

  It all seemed hopeless.

  Galvin said he had three secret accomplices. But, as far as I could see, he didn’t leave behind any pertinent information that might help me track them down.

  Maybe there were some clues to their identity on the NYU campus. I could go there and investigate Galvin’s college years—what he did, where he lived, who his friends were, etc. Except it all happened eleven years ago. The people at NYU I needed to talk to were long gone. The trail was going to be very cold.

  My best hope for a lead seemed to be William Franze—the recently murdered Wall Street executive who somehow turned up on Galvin’s list of victims.

  Authorities had been going in another direction in that murder investigation, zeroing in on Franze’s ex-girlfriend Lisa Montero—the daughter of wealthy businessman and longtime political mover and shaker John Montero. Was Galvin mistaken? Or have the cops been on a wild goose chase, while the real killer of William Franze sits back and laughs at them
? I wasn’t sure.

  There was one thing I was sure of though.

  Unlike the other deaths, the Franze murder trail wasn’t cold yet. This trail was definitely fresh, the clues in the case new, the murder investigation still very much alive. If Galvin was right—and everything he had told me so far had checked out—then maybe the death of William Franze was connected to the long-ago killing spree at NYU.

  I drew a big circle with my pen around the name of William Franze.

  That was one string I could definitely pull on.

  Of course, I knew there was another aspect of this whole thing that I hadn’t even dealt with yet. My wife Susan and son Joe were on Galvin’s list too. Sooner or later, I needed to find out why. They’d died years ago. But now they couldn’t rest in peace—and neither could I—until I got some answers.

  Except that would have to wait.

  If I opened up those wounds now, I knew I would become consumed by it. It would eat me up alive. I’d become immobilized. All my reporting skills, my perception, my professionalism would go out the window in a rush of emotional frenzy.

  I needed to take this one step at a time.

  I’d solve the mystery of the rest of the names on Felix the Cat’s death list—and that would lead me to the answers I needed about Susan and Joe. That was my theory anyway.

  I was getting sleepy. I put down the pen and legal pad, switched off the light, and closed my eyes. I wondered if I should call Carolyn. I decided not to. It was late, she was probably already asleep. Besides, it hadn’t gone well when I told her I was going to be staying in the city while I worked on the story. But I’d assured her that I’d be home again soon, that this was only temporary.

  When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed about being back in Princeton and lying in bed next to Carolyn. She leaned over and woke me up with a kiss. It was wonderful. I suddenly felt a passion, an excitement I hadn’t felt in years. “I love you,” I told Carolyn. “I really do love you.”

  Then I opened my eyes.

  Except it wasn’t Carolyn there with me.

  It was Susan.

  Chapter 12

  The cop who had arrested Felix the Cat eleven years ago was a homicide lieutenant named Dennis Righetti.

  The last time I’d talked to Righetti was when I was a reporter, and we used to drink together sometimes at a place in Little Italy after we got off work. He’d feed me tips about cases I was covering. In return, I put his name in the paper when he did something good and kept it out if he screwed up. It was a nice little arrangement, as I recall. We became pretty good friends. I even went to a family barbecue at his house on Long Island one Fourth of July.

  Now Righetti had been promoted to captain and worked out of the commissioner’s office—he was a rising star in the department.

  A lot of stuff changes when you’ve been away for eight years.

  Righetti didn’t seem that different though.

  “Boy, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he boomed in a loud voice, pumping my hand when I went to see him at his office in police headquarters in downtown Manhattan. “I wondered what happened to you. Then I heard they ran you out of town. How long have you been back at the Banner?”

  “Well, I’m not really back.”

  “But you said on the phone . . .”

  I gave him an abridged version of everything that had happened to me over the past few days.

  “Yeah, I read your story,” he said when I was finished. “Felix the Cat returns. Now he had people helping him too. Not that I necessarily buy any of it.”

  “Galvin said it was true.”

  “And, of course, you believed the murdering son of a bitch?”

  “He was dying. I think he wanted to tell the truth before the end.”

  Righetti shrugged. “All I know is that I spent hours interviewing this guy after his arrest. And he never said anything about anybody else or any other murders. Not that he was reluctant to boast about his exploits either. I mean he seemed to enjoy it. So if your story is true, it sure makes me look like a horse’s ass after all these years.”

  “Galvin said he took an oath with the other members of this secret group—which he called the Great Pretenders—to never reveal anything about them. And he kept his word. That’s why he never talked about them. Until the day he died.”

  “A sense of honor from a mass murderer?” Righetti asked incredulously.

  “It happens,” I said.

  Righetti still didn’t seem convinced.

  “Tell me everything you remember about the Felix the Cat case,” I said.

  There had never been another serial killer quite like him.

  Not Son of Sam. Not the Zodiac killer. They just murdered their victims. It was over in a matter of seconds. But the full horror of Felix the Cat wasn’t known until he was finally captured—and he delivered his shocking confession to police.

  That’s when he revealed how he had stretched his own special nightmare for his victims out for days, sometimes even weeks.

  First he stalked them. According to what he told cops, he would follow a woman target to work or school or out on dates. Watch her in her house as she did exercises, got dressed, ate meals, watched TV, talked on the telephone, and prepared for bed. He learned the unsuspecting victim’s innermost secrets.

  Then—when he finally tired of the game—he struck.

  He always found a way to get into the house. Maybe he posed as a TV cable repairman or a salesman or someone who needed a phone to report an accident. Maybe he met them on the street or at a singles bar or in the grocery store—and somehow convinced them to invite him back to their house. By all accounts, he could be very charming and persuasive. If all else failed, he’d simply break in and be waiting for them when they got home.

  That’s when the real horror began. And it wasn’t over quickly. I suppose you could compare it to someone like Jeffery Dahmer, who held his victims captive and tortured them for a long time before they died. Galvin didn’t just torture them in the physical sense. What he did was worse.

  He played a sick game with them. Pretended they were lovers, sweethearts, or husband and wife—and made the captive woman play out this bizarre sex fantasy with him. He talked to her about her hopes, her dreams, her plans for the future. He stroked her hair and caressed her cheeks and held her hand. He made her dress up in her prettiest clothes and put on a fashion show for him.

  Until it was finally time to say goodbye.

  The fascinating thing, Galvin said in his long rambling confession more than a decade ago, was the victim’s reaction.

  Most of them fought for awhile. They cried, they begged, they threatened him with all sort of things. But, in the end, they all played the game with him. Trying to be the perfect woman he was seeking, trying to please him, trying to make him fall in love with them. Because they thought, if they could, maybe they could convince him not to kill them.

  Of course, it was a game they could never win. But none of them knew that. They all clung to the thin glimmer of hope—of life—until the very end.

  He killed a total of nine women before he was stopped.

  While he carried out his terrible spree, Galvin made only two missteps along the way.

  The first was Becky Spangler, who somehow managed to get out of the house before he killed her. She was the only eyewitness police had until he was caught. But she was never of much use. After forty-eight hours of captivity by Felix the Cat, she had become pretty much a basket case. She never really recovered and was still in a hospital.

  The other mistake was Janet Parsons, the one he was with when police SWAT teams burst into her house and captured him. She was in pretty bad shape, physically and emotionally, when they got to her. She recovered enough to testify against Galvin at his trial. But she would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody quite as scary as Galvin,” Righetti said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ve i
nterrogated a lot of bad people over the years—rapists, killers, terrorists. But none of them ever affected me like Galvin did. I spent days questioning him after the arrest, taking his confession for all those murders. It really got to me. I used to have nightmares about this case. Sometimes I still do.

  “There was something else too. His eyes. Galvin’s eyes were just so cold and piercing and terrifying. I’ll never forget those eyes. I saw them close up for all that time I spent with him. I looked directly in them.” He shuddered involuntarily even now at the memory. “They were evil, Joe.”

  “So what’s the department doing about my story?” I asked Righetti when he was finished.

  “Well, of course, we want to make sure nothing happens to the two live people on Galvin’s list. Linda Hiller and Arthur Dodson. We’ve already put a twenty-four-hour guard on Hiller. We’re still trying to locate Dodson. We’re also looking into whether there’s any obvious links between Galvin and any of the other deaths he told you about. But, except for the Franze case, it’s been a long time since these people died. It’s going to be really difficult to find out anything new. The bottom line is, Joe, that we may never know the answers.”

  I understood what he was saying, of course.

  But I couldn’t accept that.

  “The difference between you and me,” I told Righetti, “is that I have to know those answers. This is more than just a job or another story to me. It’s very personal.”

  He knew what I meant.

  “Listen, I was really sorry to see that your wife and son were on that list,” he said. “I mean it’s tough enough to lose your family. But to find out that their deaths might be part of some sick asshole’s fantasy . . .”

  Righetti shook his head.

  “I want to help you, Joe. I really do. But after all this time . . . hell, I don’t even know where you start looking to try to find some answers. None of it makes any sense.”