by Ed Gaffney
Samuelson continued. “Just yesterday, police confirmed that another series of murders has begun in Springfield. First, approximately two weeks ago, a fifty-three-year-old computer programmer named Corey Chatham was shot to death in his home in the Indian Oaks section of Springfield. And two days ago, Iris Dubinski, also a resident of Indian Oaks, was found murdered in her home. Police believe that the murders were committed by the same individual.”
“Ten seconds to feed!” cried the voice from the living room.
Samuelson droned on. “But most disturbing is that, just like the original Springfield Shooter, this new killer bound and gagged his victims with duct tape, shot them to death with a small caliber handgun, and then cut off a finger from each.”
“And we are up!” declared the living room voice, just as the television screen changed to show Malcolm, sitting there, looking, well, okay. Steph quickly glanced over her shoulder at her father, and then back at the monitor. It was really happening. Her pathologically shy father was going to be interviewed in public about some of the worst times in his life. Her heart was racing. She had no idea how this was going to turn out. She realized that she was wiping her sweaty palms on her St. Joseph’s striped smock. Good thing she wasn’t on camera. She was so wound up she wouldn’t be able to put two coherent words together.
“We are joined tonight by the bestselling author Malcolm Ayers. Of course, Professor Ayers is with us tonight not because of his writings, but because of his bizarre connection to the Springfield Shooter case, which came about as a result of the publication of a book over twenty years ago called Diary of a Serial Killer, by fellow author Russell Crane. Good evening, Professor Ayers.”
“Good evening, Leif,” Malcolm said. “Although I would take issue with the fact that I’m connected at all to the Springfield Shooter case. And for the record, Russell Crane is less of an author than a fraud.”
At this point, the screen split to show Samuelson on the left and Malcolm on the right. “Well, why don’t we get right into that off the top?” Samuelson said. “You certainly don’t deny that Russell Crane is an author, and that he authored Diary of a Serial Killer, do you?”
Stephanie watched as Malcolm stared into the camera. Oh boy. The bait was out there. How was he going to handle this?
“I have no idea who was responsible for that shameless and appallingly vapid collection of poor writing and half-witted guesswork,” Malcolm began.
Steph found herself cringing. Her father had never spoken to her about Diary of a Serial Killer without completely losing it. What was that going to look like on national television?
But as Malcolm continued, he looked surprisingly under control. “But my charge of fraud is not that Mr. Crane took credit for writing that lurid, parasitic, amoral, and self-serving embarrassment. His crime for that would be conspiring to publish with neither talent nor conscience. No, I say Russell Crane is a fraud because after his book was purchased by tens if not hundreds of thousands of people who were misled by its half-truths and salacious speculation, Mr. Crane, his ego now swollen beyond all understanding, held himself out to the public as an expert in serial killers, and thereby proceeded to do a staggering amount of damage to me personally.”
“Harsh charges, indeed,” said Leif, looking into the camera, and then glancing down at a sheet of paper he was holding. And just at that moment, Steph saw it. A tiny shift in the blond television personality’s manner, or possibly the merest hint of smugness in his expression. But however she knew it, she just knew it. Something awful was about to happen.
“As a result of the damage you claim to have suffered to your reputation, Mr. Ayers, did you sue Mr. Crane for libel, or slander, or defamation of character? Did you ever speak to him about your feelings?”
One of teenage Steph’s guilty pleasures had been a television cartoon called The Ren & Stimpy Show. It was kind of an insane rendering of a ludicrous friendship between a Chihuahua named Ren, and a cat named Stimpy. In one of the episodes, Stimpy destroyed the universe by pressing a big red button.
Ever since then, Steph identified people’s most sensitive personal issues, those that would most likely drive them crazy, as their Big Red Buttons.
The idea of suing Russell Crane, or facing him directly in any way, was Malcolm’s Big Red Button. And Leif Samuelson was dancing very close to it.
“No, I chose not to fan Satan’s malignant flames. I hoped that Mr. Crane’s fundamental stupidity would ultimately bring the curtain down on his moment of glory, and end my personal discomfort without such a confrontation.”
And then, the television screen switched to a picture of a tan, handsome man with hair so light colored it looked almost white. He wore an expensive-looking, soft, cottony white shirt with an open collar and a gold chain around his neck, and a wide, plastic-looking smile.
Leif Samuelson’s voice continued to come through the television. “Well we’d like to offer you the opportunity for just such a confrontation, Professor Ayers. Joining us from his summer home in Marblehead, Massachusetts, is the screenwriter of the new blockbuster movie The Suspect’s Daughter, which is opening next month in theatres all over the country. More importantly, of course, this individual has written several books, including his first, and probably most controversial, Diary of a Serial Killer. His name is Russell Crane. Good evening, Mr. Crane.”
TWELVE
March 30, 1983. I finished Diary of a Serial Killer today. What a joke. Russell Crane couldn’t have been more wrong if he tried.
April 5, 1983. It’s amazing how a stupid book and a stupid reporter could make themselves look so important. One idiot writes some bullshit about what the Springfield Shooter probably is like, and then the other idiot runs around and decides that sounds a lot like Malcolm Ayers. Unbelievable.
April 11, 1983. Oh my God. How perfect is this? I just was watching the news, and Malcolm Ayers doesn’t have an alibi for any of the murders! That is too great. He must be going nuts thinking he’s going to get indicted for five murders he didn’t do.
April 21, 1983. I was lying in bed last night, and I got the idea of a lifetime. First I’ve got to find out where Malcolm Ayers lives. I’ll start tomorrow. If I can pull this off, I’m going to be one of the greatest ever.
July 30, 1983. It’s taken a little while, but I finally found my next winner. It’s Candy Obligado, a stenographer I met over at McFarley’s last weekend. She checks out, so I’m lined up to do her next week sometime. I cannot wait. It’s been a while.
August 12, 1983. This was a new kind of kill, which made it extra special. A little more work, but boy, was it worth it.
First, I waited until about dinnertime, then I went by Malcolm Ayers’s place, and made sure he was home. From what I hear, he never goes out, but I didn’t want to assume anything. Anyway, no problem there. Malcolm was home, and drunk. As usual.
Then, on to Candy’s place. She lived about a half mile from Malcolm, which was fine. I can’t make this too obvious.
What was really awesome, though, was that doing Candy was like doing it for the first time. I mean I was really nervous. My hands were shaking as I knocked on the door. No kidding.
Usually when I do these, I rush in, tape them up, and then, once everything’s under control, slow it down, see what comes to mind.
But with Candy, I decided to play it smooth, see if I could draw it out a little before I had to tape her up. And thanks to Candy, that worked out great.
She was happy to see me, and was all about getting me something to drink, and hanging out, watching some TV, whatever.
So we watched videos on MTV. Nothing special. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too busy watching Candy to worry about the tube.
Anyway, after a little while, I think probably fifteen or twenty minutes, Candy got up to go to the bathroom, and I decided this would be a good time. So I got out the tape and ambushed her as she was coming out of the bathroom.
She was kind of small, but stronger than I expecte
d, so it took me some time to get her totally restrained….
“Zack, are you going to watch the show, or are you going to keeping reading that crazy shit?”
Terry had brought some Chinese food over to Zack’s house to share while they watched Public Forum. Despite the fact that the program was pretty lame, Zack was actually relieved to put down the file. The Candy Obligado excerpt from the Alan Lombardo exhibits was especially disturbing.
Public Forum was hosted by a very successful personality who attempted to portray himself as a fair and reasonable regular guy who invited people to speak with him so he could find out the real story in a world designed to deceive people.
He was actually just a loudmouthed bully who had his mind made up about everything long before he ever began his on-air conversations.
Zack had given up on the show some time ago as a source of useful information, but tonight, he had made an exception, because the guest was Malcolm Ayers, a local author who had become, for a short while, a suspect in the Springfield Shooter case back in the ’80s.
Zack didn’t expect much to come of the interview, but so far, his and Terry’s research hadn’t turned up much that they could use in support of Alan Lombardo’s motion for a new trial. Terry had begun to lose whatever little hope he’d had at the start of the case. As far as he was concerned, Lombardo was guilty, and they were wasting their time.
But Zack was always willing to keep an open mind, until he had explored everything he could reasonably explore.
“Oh, no,” said Terry, pointing at the television. “Great. Now Samuelson’s sandbagging the guy.”
They watched as the show’s host, Leif Samuelson, brought another guest on to the show, apparently as a surprise to Ayers.
The screen was now split three ways, showing pictures of Samuelson and his two guests, Ayers and Crane.
Ayers was speaking. “But you told me this would be a one-on-one interview. I was never informed—”
Samuelson cut him off. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ayers. You were fully advised that there could be additional guests appearing on the program with you. Do you have a problem confronting Mr. Crane with your charges?”
And then, the show delivered another surprise. While Samuelson was talking, a hand reached into the shot of Malcolm Ayers from the left side of the screen, completely startling him. He turned to his right and said something like “Stephanie,” but the hand had already unclipped the small microphone that had been fastened to his lapel.
“Better hope that thing’s grounded,” Terry muttered.
And then the face of a very pretty young woman wearing an incredibly loud red-and-white-striped smock leaned sideways in front of Ayers, and faced the camera. There was something about that woman’s face that was really appealing. Her eyes were positively blazing.
Terry reached for the container of General Tao’s chicken and said, “You’re going to have to tell me what’s happening, because whatever that person is wearing has blinded me for life.”
The woman’s voice may have been a little loud, but then again, that might have been because the mic was so close to her sensuous mouth. Her indignation was palpable, her energy fierce. “Mr. Samuelson. I don’t know if you can see or hear me, but my name is Stephanie Hartz. I’m Malcolm Ayers’s daughter. And you need to know how incredibly unprofessional it is for you to ambush an interview guest on your program like this. My father specifically agreed to appear on your show because—”
But before she could continue, her father spoke into her ear, and she stopped her address. She turned back to Ayers and said, “Are you sure?” and the professor said something else to her that the microphone didn’t pick up. Then she turned back to the camera. “Before I return the microphone to my father, I’d just like to say that cheap tricks might inflate your show’s ratings in the short term, Mr. Samuelson, but over the long haul, you might want to look into integrity and a sense of fair play. I understand that at one time they were really popular in this country.”
Russell Crane just sat at his desk, smiling his California smile. Samuelson wasn’t about to let his program fill up with dead air, though. “Are you staying, or are you going, Professor Ayers? Is there a problem? Is your daughter speaking for you now, sir?”
But while Samuelson blustered, Stephanie Hartz reconnected her father’s microphone to his lapel, and stepped back out of the shot. Probably to be wrestled to the ground by security. “There is no problem.” Ayers spoke directly to the camera. “I am willing to continue the conversation, despite, as my daughter so aptly put it, your stupefying lack of professionalism.”
“Well, I’ve got to admit, for spending time on a case that we can’t possibly win, this is kind of fun,” Terry said.
“Tell me about it,” Zack murmured. He had never even heard of Stephanie Hartz ninety seconds ago. But he found himself hoping that she would lean back into the shot of her father, so Zack could see the fire in those eyes again.
Russell Crane was speaking. “Mr. Ayers, I never once said that you were the Springfield Shooter. Not in Diary of a Serial Killer, and not in any of my public appearances.”
“No, you never had the courage to come out and actually say it, did you? You merely exploited the tragedy of five murder victims and their families by further sensationalizing those homicides through the loathsome, so-called diary of what you thought the murderer might have written, and then you implicated me indirectly.”
“No way,” California Dude shot back. “The facts are the facts. Just as with these latest two murders. I don’t live in Indian Oaks, sir, and I can account for my whereabouts on the nights of the murders. Can you?”
And with that question just hanging there, Samuelson went to commercial.
Terry swigged some of the Sam Adams he’d brought over with the food. “Is Blondie serious? Does he really think Malcolm Ayers killed those two people?”
Zack got some rice and shrugged. “Who knows? Crane seems like one of those guys who would say anything, whether he believed it or not, as long as it got him some press.”
Just then, Justin came into the living room holding a book. He was wearing his favorite SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas, which were now getting a trifle small. It was tough convincing the little guy that new pjs would probably be a great idea. “Daddy, I’m ready for bed,” he announced. “Can I read for a while before lights out?”
“Yes, you may,” said Zack. “But I need two things first. Number one…” and Zack opened his arms expectantly, raising his eyes heavenward.
“A hug!” Justin shouted, putting his book down, running across the room and launching himself into his father’s arms. “I knew that one!”
“You are right!” Zack said, squeezing the boy tight. Then he pulled back and looked at Justin. “And number two, I need to know what you are reading, and how it is going.”
Justin got very serious, slid down to the ground, trotted back to pick up his book, and read the cover. “I’m reading The Reptile Room,” he said. “I’m on page sixty-seven, and it is going great!”
“Whoa,” Terry said. “When did you finish the first one?”
“I finished that one, um, I don’t remember. Dad? When did I finish the first one?”
“Last week, I think,” Zack replied. “Go on up to bed, Justin. I’ll be up in a half hour or so, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.” And away he went.
Lemony Snicket was just the latest thing to confirm that Zack was the most ignorant single father in the world.
The lightning fast acceleration of Justin’s reading and writing skills had completely blown Zack away. Justin had always loved books, even before he really knew what they were. He’d climb up in Zack’s lap while Zack read these gigantic, dry legal treatises. Justin would help turn the pages, and occasionally ask what he knew were silly questions. His favorite, which he would barely be able to utter before collapsing into giggles, was “Daddy, does this book have any pictures of kittens in it?”
Zack had always belie
ved Justin was extremely intelligent, and so he was somewhat taken aback when, in kindergarten, Justin showed average, and occasionally slightly below average, reading skills, despite a ludicrously advanced vocabulary. But then, something happened in first grade, and suddenly, Justin wasn’t sitting in Zack’s lap listening to his father read books. He was in Zack’s lap, reading books to his father.
And then, in second grade, yikes. One day, Justin was asking where the Blue’s Clues books were, and the next, he was halfway through The Unfortunate Beginning, and asking what the definition of menacing was.
The television show had returned, and Malcolm Ayers was speaking.
“I will not be drawn into a bottomless cesspool of counter accusations,” he said. “I would, naturally, be more than willing to speak with any person of authority about any concerns they might have regarding this matter. But please do not expect me to explain myself to this unctuous, sunburned Neanderthal, as if he had any right to interrogate me, or indeed anyone, about these latest tragedies. As far as I am concerned, he is a clay-brained ass, seeking only to profit further from the suffering of others.”
Russell Crane was, incredibly, still smiling. It was not clear whether he understood that he had just been insulted. What he did understand, though, was that it was his turn to speak.
“I have reviewed the evidence in the first Springfield Shooter case,” he said, “and I have come to the conclusion that there is a possibility—a small one, I grant you, but a possibility—that while Alan Lombardo might have been responsible for the first five murders, the final four killings could have been committed by a second perpetrator.”
“Do you have any idea in the world what this guy is talking about?” Terry asked.
“I’d love to find out how Alan only did five of the nine, but ended up with all of the fingers in his freezer,” Zack replied.
Russell Crane was continuing to speak. “I have no definitive proof, of course—”