“No, I watched the murders through the killer’s eyes.”
“And what have you seen in your dreams?”
“More than I want to, but not as much as you’d like.”
“But your description of the killer is vague.”
“I only caught a glimpse of him in a reflection. But I see his hands, so I’m sure he’s white.”
Williams nodded, more in acknowledgement than in acceptance of the story.
“Are these dreams premonitions?” Williams said. “Or do they happen after the killing has taken place?”
“As near as I can figure,” Brian said, “they happen in real time, or just afterwards. It’s hard to tell.”
“Have you spoken to your therapist about your dreams?” Williams said.
This was just what Brian had dreaded. Some idiot would take his whole life out of context.…
“I don’t have a therapist.”
“Dr. Kaufman seems to think he still has a patient, though,” Williams said. “Your mother says you’ve missed some sessions.”
Of course! he thought. Camilla would certainly be thrilled to give the cops every damning detail she could.
“I’m months away from being twenty-one and then my obligation will be done,” Brian said. “I was fine.”
Williams just stared at him.
“I’m not crazy,” Brian said.
“I didn’t say you were,” Williams said. “How long have you been off your medications?”
“A week or two,” Brian snapped. He paused and ran his fingers through his messy hair. “That’s immaterial. I’m not imagining these things. They’re really happening.”
“When did you last sleep?”
Brian clenched and unclenched his hands into fists three times, rapid fire. He could feel Mr. Jitters warming up in the bull pen, ready to get into the game.
“I get a few hours each night. Can you blame me? Would you want to go back to sleep and watch another victim get strangled?”
“Anything else odd happening to you?” Williams asked. “Headaches, heart palpitations, blackouts, hallucinations? All of those would be common if you’ve been without decent sleep so long.”
He imagined the shrink’s reaction if he shared his hallucinations with him, gave him a little intro to Mr. Jitters. “No. Look, I came here to help. I tried. If you don’t believe me, I’ll leave.”
“Wait here a minute,” Williams said. He left the room.
Brian was so damn tired. Physically tired from lack of sleep. Emotionally tired from watching hell unfold at his hands when he finally did sleep. And especially tired of people thinking he was insane.
* * *
In the interview room’s observation area, Weissbard watched Brian rest his head in his hands. Williams walked in.
“Well, Doc? Nut job?”
Williams sighed and shook his head at the pejorative term.
“It’s hard to be definitive,” Williams said, “with him so sleep deprived. But I have a theory. He’s got a list of psychological issues stemming from an awful prenatal environment. His adoptive family says that he was always troubled. He was under the care of a therapist for years, but quit recently and got off his meds because he considered himself ‘cured’.”
“A little premature on that one,” Weissbard said.
“A deep-seated need to be important and accepted could easily manifest itself in this minor break from reality,” Williams continued. “He sees all the news about the Playing Card Killer, and then convinces himself that he’s seen it all before. Given the depth of local coverage on it, he’d know the details.”
“But we have found red velvet fibers on two of the victims’ necks,” the detective said. “We never released that information.”
“Coincidence,” Williams said. “Red as the color for murder? A subconscious cliché. Plus.…”
Williams pulled out his phone and tapped in a search. He showed Weissbard the result, a movie poster with a picture of two leather-gloved hands pulling a red rope around a woman’s neck.
“Tied in Knots did eighty million at the box office this year. Who knows how many times he saw it? Even if all he saw were the ads for it, it would sure prime his subconscious pump to create a red rope killer.”
Weissbard sighed and leaned back against the wall. “I thought maybe.…”
“Then, add in the vague description of the killer, the man he only saw in a reflection. The description matches his own, except the killer had blond hair and Brian’s is dark. He’s taller, a subconscious cue for better. A reverse image thing, but one good, one evil. That’s also his subconscious, manifesting the guilt of fabricating this whole thing.
“Plus, he has a job as a security guard. Most security guards are wanna-be cops. He also gets to live out that fantasy by helping the police.”
The records showed that Sheridan had once applied for the high school Police Explorers program. Weissbard rubbed his temples. Had a hundred worthless leads made him grasp at this one blindly?
“Eric, seriously,” Williams said. “Do you think he can see visions through the eyes of a killer? Do you think a judge will issue warrants based on that?”
Weissbard had to admit defeat. He wanted to kick himself for even entertaining the thought. “Safe to cut him loose?”
“He’s no threat to himself or others,” Williams said. “A solid night’s sleep and he’ll feel a hell of a lot better.”
The detective looked at Brian with regret. “Great. Another dead end.”
* * *
Brian stepped out of the police station completely dejected. Most people would be elated to hear a detective tell them ‘You’re free to go.’ But that wasn’t what Brian had gone inside to hear. He’d admit to some relief when the shrink’s little interrogation didn’t get him committed, but that wasn’t enough to outweigh the feeling of failure. He’d tried and failed to forge the horror forced upon him each night into a weapon to end it. He would have to live with it on his own.
He walked to his car in a daze. He didn’t want another nightmare, another vision, another whatever it was that ripped his sleep to shreds. Last night’s self-medication still hadn’t been enough. He’d bump up the dose, maybe double it. He’d make himself catatonic if he had to, but he never wanted to see, to feel, that velvet rope again.
His phone buzzed with a message. Another unknown four-digit number. He knew it was spam, but summoned the message anyway.
Your new beginning is right around the corner read the message from the Totally You Institute.
He was too depressed to get angry. A part of him wished the fortune cookie-like spam was true. He could use a new beginning right about now.
Chapter Twenty
Weissbard slipped out of bed the next morning without rousing his wife. He was so proud of the accomplishment he almost woke her up to brag about it. He shivered and put on his robe. Maryanne grew up in Buffalo, couldn’t stand the Florida humidity, and, as far as he was concerned, kept the house two degrees above freezing. Of course, she’d never wanted to move here at all, so he sucked up having cold feet, wore a robe in the summer and paid the high electric bill.
He entered the kitchen and flicked on the light. Goober shook himself awake, rose and sauntered over for some morning affection. Weissbard reached down and thumped his side. The dog grinned and wagged his tail.
Maryanne stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame. Apparently his stealth skills weren’t as good as he thought. She fluffed her long, curly dark hair with her fingertips and squinted at the overhead light. Even over fifty, even in flannel pajamas, he thought she still looked hot.
“I tried not to wake you,” he said.
“Why are you up so early?”
“I don’t know. The case, I guess.” He refused to use the phrase Playing Card Killer.
�
��What are you thinking?”
“That guy who came in midday yesterday? The crazy one? What if he wasn’t crazy?”
Maryanne stepped into the kitchen and started filling the coffeepot with water. “You mean he really saw the murders happen through the murderer’s eyes?”
“Yeah, but not the way he thinks. What if he was the murderer?”
“You think?”
“Not at first. He was such a wreck. Didn’t think he could pull a few murders off. But now…”
She started the coffee maker and pulled a pan from under the sink.
“You making breakfast?” he said.
“As long as I’m up, you’re eating eggs. I let you leave the house hungry, you head straight for Dunkin’ Donuts. And that goes straight where?” She pointed to his waistline.
No one had more love in their nagging than Maryanne. Even after thirty years of it, her good intentions kept it from getting on his nerves.
“That kid,” he continued. “He knew some stuff. Specific stuff.”
“I thought it was coincidental.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Good cops—”
“—never buy coincidences,” they said together.
“So why would he come down to the station?” she said. She dropped two eggs in the pan and they started to sizzle. The coffee machine spit and gurgled.
“Maybe he’s playing us. Wants to feed us enough clues to give chase. Thinks he can outwit us.”
“Maybe he really is crazy,” Maryanne said, “and doesn’t even know he’s turning himself in. Some kind of split personality.”
Weissbard smiled. He had been the envy of the other NYPD detectives. While their wives resented and often even hated the job, Maryanne embraced it, talked shop better than some partners he’d had, and at times had some pretty keen insight.
“Could be. His background sure as hell isn’t stable. Either way, I ought to check into it some more. Just to be sure.”
Maryanne poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of him. He slid the sugar bowl over and popped the top. The grains looked all wrong. Artificial sweetener instead of sugar. She was a doll. He raised a spoonful at her.
“You trying to keep me alive or something?”
“At least until you start drawing a second pension from Tampa.” She kissed the top of his head. “After that, I stop worrying so much.”
* * *
Two eggs and two cups of coffee later, Weissbard piloted his black Dodge Charger down country roads south of Gibsontown. According to the details he’d gotten from Brian Sheridan, Sheridan could see the Tampa skyline from where the killer dumped Carla Alessandro. If that was true, it would be along this shoreline. Somewhere.
The morning hadn’t turned blazing hot yet, and he had the windows rolled down. A light breeze swept the tang of salty water through the car, along with a whiff of algae. After the cold of his house, it felt pretty good.
He kept an eye on the GPS, and one after another, explored whatever road nudged closest to the water. Marshes blocked the view at most spots he found, marshes that would have trapped Carla’s body before it ever got to the bay. Each discovery added to his sense of failure, compounded by knowing, even before he left on this quest, that the county had no records of any boat ramps in the area, past or present.
The road turned south. An old orange grove stretched out on the left, filled with knurled trees long past their fruiting prime. Sandy scrub sloped down and away from the road to the right. A distant tree line blocked the view of the bay beyond.
The blacktop curved back to the left, but to the right ran the twin sandy ruts of an old farm road. The aging grove had probably once covered this side of the road as well, until creeping salinity had poisoned the roots of the trees. On a whim, Weissbard spun the wheel and turned right.
The GPS barked a warning message to turn around. Weissbard silenced it. The car’s stiff pursuit suspension bounced and bucked along the rough road. As he approached the tree line, a chain-link fence became visible beyond it. The section across the road had been cut and peeled to the right like a page in a book. He slowed as he passed through the opening. Rusty edges on the fence indicated that the breach was years old.
The strengthening sun beat down on the car’s roof and the interior began to get stuffy. He continued a slow drive west. According to the map at the precinct, this spit of land was owned by an oil company, but it functioned as little more than a broad barrier for the docks and facilities to the south. He doubted any employees checked on it much. They certainly hadn’t noticed the broken fence.
His car rolled out of the trees and into an open, grassy area. He followed the tire ruts in a sweeping right-hand turn. A thousand yards up, he stopped at the edge of Tampa Bay. His pulse quickened. In the distance rose the city’s towers. They looked far away in the daylight, but at night, all lit up, they would look much closer.
He got out of the car and walked toward the water. A gust ruffled the long grass at his feet. Tiny, gentle waves caressed the thin, sandy shore. Seagulls squawked over some prize at the water’s edge. He caught his breath as he spied a prize of his own off to the right.
The slab foundation of an old beach house stuck out of the weeds. Years ago, it laid flat, probably set well back from the bay. But tides and currents had scoured away the shoreline, and now it canted down toward the water, water only a few feet away.
Weissbard walked over and stood on its dry, upper edge. Damp black algae blanketed the lower half, nurtured by wind-driven spray. He imagined the scene at night, in low light, at a higher tide. This would look like a boat ramp. Out ahead, the water swept out between two small spoil islands. He shaded his eyes with his hand. Even at this distance he could see the retreating tide creating a current that rushed between the islands and out to the bay. A corpse, a light corpse like Carla Alessandro’s, would be gone in no time.
He pumped a fist in victory. His joy was short lived. His discovery wouldn’t prove anything to anyone else. Nightly thunderstorms had washed away any possible evidence. This location would be one of many the forensics guys could confirm as possible sites where Carla’s body could have been dumped. All pretty circumstantial, all useless by itself.
This little revelation certainly strengthened the possibility that Sheridan was telling the truth about what he saw. But it didn’t put Weissbard any closer to knowing how Sheridan saw it. Was it because he did have some special supernatural vision, or was he just another psycho killer? The cop part of him dismissed the first option out of hand.
It was time to start investigating the second.
Chapter Twenty-One
A few hours later, Weissbard beat his fist against Sidney Johnson’s apartment door. Sometimes it paid to start with intimidating, and work his way down to friendly from there. Sometimes he didn’t need to work his way down.
“Sidney Johnson!” he shouted. “Detective Weissbard, Tampa PD. Open the door!”
“Shit! Don’t bust down the door! Coming.”
The door opened a crack, stopped by a flimsy chain. Sidney Johnson’s sleepy face peered out, squinting. Weissbard shoved his badge in front of the man.
“Oh, hey,” Sidney said. “You got the wrong guy. I didn’t do nothing.”
Weissbard’s experience was that people who said they didn’t do anything were the ones who certainly did something. “I’m not here about something you did, Sidney. I need to talk to you about Brian Sheridan.”
“Shit, that figures.” The door closed an inch and the chain dropped away. Sidney opened the door wide. “C’mon in.”
The apartment looked like the usual bachelor disaster zone Weissbard had seen a thousand times. Homes might look neat and clean in the movies, but Weissbard knew that in real life, people were pigs. Sidney sat down on the edge of a beat-up couch. Weissbard stood, again to keep the intimidation factor up, but the apartment’s generally low
level of sanitation was a good reason all on its own. He pulled out his pocket notebook.
“You work with Brian Sheridan?”
“Yeah. He’s a security guard at Orange Trucking. I run the crane.”
“You seemed the furthest thing from surprised when I said I wanted to talk to you about him.”
“The dude’s kind of weird, you know. All jittery and shit. I’m out there because it’s a job. He’s there because it fits him. He actually likes being alone in his little box.”
“Have you seen any recent changes in his behavior?”
“Well, he’s been getting weirder these last weeks. More jittery than usual, and he’s jittery as hell to start with. Kind of distracted.”
That was a little too coincidental with the start of the Playing Card Killer murders for Weissbard. He noted that. “What time do you two get off work?”
“We don’t do nothing together.” Sidney sounded indigent at the assumption. “Shift ends at ten p.m. Me, sometimes earlier if there ain’t no trains due.”
“Where do you guys hang after work?”
Sidney looked repulsed. “Hang? Ain’t you listening? We don’t hang. Like I said, the guy’s weird as shit.”
Weissbard paused to let some silence ratchet up the tension.
“So you’ve been off parole, what, five years now?”
Fear crossed Sidney’s face and Weissbard knew he hit the jackpot.
“That’s all in the past,” Sidney said. “All of it. I’m straight, I’m clean. Don’t go pinning me with whatever shit Brian’s got going down.”
Sidney seemed credible, his answers consistent, his fear genuine. Weissbard finished up with a few innocuous questions and handed Sidney his card.
“What’d the guy do?” Sidney asked.
“Probably nothing,” Weissbard said. “Just checking some background information. Routine. Still, you should keep our conversation between the two of us.”
“You got it.”
Weissbard left Sidney and went back to his car. Sidney didn’t look like he bought Weissbard’s lame explanation for his visit. Perfect. That meant Sidney would tell Brian all about it. That might lead somewhere interesting.
The Playing Card Killer Page 9