by David Levien
The yard itself is more of a patch of grass, bordered by her neighbors’ chain-link fences on two sides and on the other her detached garage—which she doesn’t seem to use since she parks her car in front. There are a few skinny young trees, red maples maybe, without leaves, and he stays near them in order to break up his silhouette, although he isn’t much worried about being seen now. The lights are on inside, which makes her visible to him and prevents the opposite. From where he stands, he sees her emerge from the depths of the house and enter the kitchen. She pours herself a glass of red wine. She opens the refrigerator and cabinets repeatedly as she prepares some kind of food. She shakes and moves as she works, and he realizes music must be playing because she is dancing.
He glances at the glass sliders—which wouldn’t be difficult to bypass unless she was smart enough to place a bar or wooden dowel in the track. Then he looks past them and stares for a long moment and drinks in her life force. It is beautiful. It is why he is here. He wonders if she takes that energy for granted, if she recognizes how important her life is right now. Then he wonders how long she’s lived in the house, wonders from where she’s moved, where she grew up …
Suddenly he knows how he’ll get inside and be with her, and he won’t need to break any locks or climb through any windows to do it. No, she’ll invite him in. He doesn’t have his hit kit with him right now, so it won’t be tonight. But it will be very, very soon. It is practically done already.
42
“I don’t want to do it,” Breslau said.
“Yeah, but will you?” Behr asked.
“A police-backed community outreach meeting …” Breslau mused aloud. “Shit.”
They were at Floral Crown Cemetery, a run-down place on the west side, standing inside a vestibule in the memorial chapel, holding but not drinking foam cups of burnt, overly hot coffee. The occasion was Danielle Crawley’s funeral. Behr was there on the hoary theory that killers attend their victim’s funeral, Breslau on behalf of the department.
“I don’t need captain-level brass and a detective squad,” Behr said. “Give me one body. You come.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m gonna be there,” Breslau said. “No way in hell that’s happening …”
There had been a bleak, sparsely attended graveside ceremony. The cemetery spread big and flat around them, with its winterbrown grass broken by low headstones, and just enough bare trees to remind everyone that there should’ve been more trees. And more mourners. It was only Crawley’s sister and her husband, an aunt, and an aged female family friend. The sister, dry-eyed in her sorrow, read a message from a recovery sponsor from Milwaukee who couldn’t attend, but who commended Danielle on her efforts at getting clean and her hopes for the future, and expressed his fondness for her. The event was completely devoid of suspects in Behr’s opinion. Breslau agreed. Out of respect they had followed along as the funeral moved inside for a last prayer.
“Shit,” Breslau said again.
“The department rep, whoever you send, tells people to lock their doors and take care when alone at night. We show a couple of the more palatable crime scene photos, we advertise that in advance, in the hopes of drawing this animal in. In the meantime I’m getting license plate numbers, video. I run ’em and cross ’em against any parking tickets or violations or eyewits’ sightings at the times and locations where the snatches or drops have taken place.”
“That’s a lot of ball sweat,” Breslau said.
“My sweat, my balls,” Behr said. “The thing’s in the news already. Have you seen the comment section on the websites? People are freaking out over it.”
“Don’t I know it. And doesn’t your girlfriend work over at the Star? Couldn’t you have had her spike the story for us?”
“First of all, she sells ads these days, she isn’t in editorial. And at the moment my favor account with her is seriously overdrawn.”
“Oh, you do have a way with the people, don’t you?”
“Come on, Gary, what’s the harm that can come from what I’m asking?”
“The harm is that we look like a bunch of dipshits with no leads,” Breslau said.
“As opposed to what you look like if I do it on my own without Department backing,” Behr suggested. “A concerned private citizen, in the security field, with a law enforcement background taking action where the department won’t.”
Breslau slowly looked at Behr. “You’re not doing that,” he said.
“Oh no?”
“Listen, you go there, it’s the deep freeze for you. Every time you get out of your car it’ll be ticketed and towed. And that’s just for starters.”
“I don’t mind walking—”
“Don’t play hardball with me, fuckstick,” Breslau said.
“Settle down. We both want the same thing here. Help me out.”
The funeral service in the main room had ended, and the family was ready to leave. Behr and Breslau jettisoned their coffee cups and turned to give their final condolences.
“I’ll have to check it with my superiors … but it’ll probably fly. Just don’t make jerks out of us.”
Behr raised his palms in innocence. “Who, me?”
43
A thousand things can go wrong when you work quickly. But they won’t. They didn’t. Not for him.
He is alone and alive in the night, every nerve ending firing, perceiving, sending him information as he gets out of his car, dusk just falling, an unthreatening canvas shoulder bag dangling in his left hand, and knocks on her door with his right. This is the moment. The door swings open and Sunbeam faces him. Her eyes are blue and clear, her teeth are white, her skin pale, and her hair the color of Acacia honey. It shines like liquid glass. There can be fleeting disappointment when he is finally up close and personal with a subject. But not this time. No, this time perfection is close at hand.
“Hold on,” she says into the cell phone she is talking on, and then addresses him. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, maybe. It’s no big deal,” he says. “I used to live here. In this house. I can come back some other time …”
He sees her eyes light with curiosity, then she speaks into the phone again. “I’ll call you back, sweetie, someone’s here.” She hangs up.
“Like I said, I used to live here.”
“When was this?”
“It was a while back. A long time ago. When I was in high school. Did you guys buy the house from the Halls? We sold it to them.”
“No. It’s just me, and I bought it from the Putnams—with a little help from my dad. The Putnams bought it from the Halls. I think.” She is right, they had. He’s researched the chain of buyers and sellers on the place going back thirty years. It is all in the library and on the Internet—tax payments, real estate listings, sales announcements. He is pretty sure he knows it all better than she does.
“Right, we sold when my dad got transferred. We moved away right when I was supposed to finish high school. Then they held on to it for quite some time,” he says.
“They did.”
“It sure looks different now.”
“The Halls did a lot of work on it, I did the rest. I’m doing it anyway, as fast as I can.”
“You’re doing good, the place looks great.” He smiles. “I carved my initials on the wall down in the basement. You see that?”
“Basement? You mean the little furnace room?”
“Yep, that.” He feels a momentary sense of concern surge in his chest. He didn’t anticipate there not being a basement.
“I never saw any initials down there,” she says.
“I could show you where.”
She hesitates for the first time then.
“I know, I know,” he says. “Just feeling nostalgic, I guess.” Then he looks at his watch. “Well, I have to go meet my wife in five minutes.”
The idea that he has someplace to be, and a wife, puts her at ease. Then he reaches for his back pocket.
“This is me by the way …”
He extends his driver’s license. It doesn’t provide her any protection, of course, but he’s learned that a willingness to show who he is creates some kind of instant, misguided trust in his target, and this time is no different. The fact that she can identify him makes her feel safe. As if she’ll get the chance.
“Oh, I see you don’t live too far away,” she says.
“No, just moved back kind of recently.”
“Well, okay, come on and take a quick look,” she says, and steps away from the door to allow him in.
44
You don’t deserve them. You’re an asshole who doesn’t deserve them and that’s why they’re there and you’re sitting here …
Behr was in his car across the street from Susan’s place watching her get Trevor out of his car seat. He didn’t care much about being spotted, so he didn’t bother parking out of sight, and when Susan turned she saw him. Her hands full with the baby and plastic shopping bags, she kicked the car door shut and marched right toward him.
“What are you doing?” she said when he’d lowered the window.
“Just wanted to see him. You. But wanted to respect your wishes—”
“You’re weirding me out, Frank,” she said. Then she pointed Trevor toward him. “Okay, say hi, Trev, say hi to Daddy.”
Behr smiled despite himself when he saw his boy.
“How you doing, buddy?” he asked.
“He’s doing fine now,” Susan said, “just going to day care and being with me. Not chasing murderers.”
“I said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m sorry,” Behr said.
“Good,” she said. “And now you’ve seen him, so you can go.” Susan turned and walked away, leaving him sitting there.
45
Sunbeam lies on her bed, trembling and sweating, as tears squeeze out of her eyes and slide down the sides of her face. It is very quiet. She hasn’t had a chance to scream. She’d followed him down into the tiny space that houses the boiler and hot-water heater. He walked over to the corner in the dim light of the weak, bare bulb hanging overhead and pointed.
“There it is,” he said.
He stepped aside so she could take a look, and that’s when he leapt on her and choked her unconscious. It was really quite easy, like a game the kids played at school growing up, before they’d even learned how to sniff glue. When she came to, she saw she was hog-tied and bound to her bed, most of her clothing having been disposed of via a sharp knife that had left several nicks on her previously pristine skin, and that’s when the shaking set in. He’s gagged her with rags. All of it has been precut, knotted, and arranged in his shoulder bag, his little hit kit. But he isn’t sure he even needs the gag, she’s so docile when her eyes open. Then she starts to try to say something. He edges the wad of cloth to the side of her mouth so she can speak.
“I’m … I’m going to be sick.” He pulls the gag further aside and she turns her head and vomits softly. Things can get messy.
“You’re okay,” he says. He takes another hank of rag from the shoulder bag and wipes beads of perspiration from her forehead. There is a glass of water on her bedside table, and he holds her head and gives her a small sip.
“My husband will be home any minute,” she says.
“No, Pam,” he answers. The knowing in his voice seems to devastate her. She begins hyperventilating. He considers putting a plastic bag over her head and strangling her now, but he waits. Her name is Pam Cupersmith. She is five foot seven, one hundred and twenty pounds. Hair: blond. She is an organ donor. He smiles at that. He is looking at her driver’s license, which was on her dresser, and though he’ll forget all the particulars soon enough, he’ll never forget Sunbeam. That’s what she’ll always be to him. Just like all the others, he’ll have to rack his brain or study news archives to recall their real names, but it is easy for him to call forth who they are to him. Besides Sunbeam and Cinnamon there are Kit Kat and Sweetie, Muffin, Plummy, Bean and Malibu—not the place—Starbuck, Nova, Coco, Baby, Tawny, Stork, Misty, Lonely and Pearl … All the pretty women, how he cut them up.
He stops thinking about his list when her breathing calms and the room grows quiet. That’s when he hears footsteps somewhere across the house, the sound of a door closing, and the faint splash of someone urinating while seated.
“Who the fuck is that?” he says quietly.
“My niece. My sister’s daughter. She’s staying with me. She’s feeling ill and took a nap. She’s only eleven years old please don’t hurt—” He shoves the gag back in her mouth and flies from the room, his shoulder bag clutched in his hand.
By the time he reaches the bathroom door there is water running and then the sink shuts off. The door opens in toward the bathroom, and he holds the knob pulled firmly closed with one hand and digs in his bag for a length of paracord with the other. He feels the knob jiggle, and then a girl’s voice calls out.
“Auntie Pam? I’m stuck.”
“You’re going to need to stay in there,” he says firmly.
“Who’s there? Let me out,” the girl says.
“I’m a friend of your aunt’s. Is there a window in there?” he asks.
“No. Let me out.” He hears fear in the girl’s voice.
“I’m locking you in—”
“No …”
The girl lets out a scream.
“Be quiet or I’ll have to hurt you,” he says.
The scream stops and some gulping and gasping replace the sound.
“Get away from the door now,” he commands. He loops the paracord around the knob, ties it tightly, and secures the other end to the leg of a heavy metal shelving unit. He sees the cord straining and the knob working against it. It holds, but the girl is trying to get out. “Get away from the door, I said. If you try and come out I’m going to kill your aunt and you.”
“Oh my God,” the girl screams again.
“Shut up,” he says, “or I’ll come in there and do it now.” The action on the cord stops, and he hears feet on the floor as the girl scrabbles away from the door. “Are there towels or a bathrobe in there?” he asks.
“Yes,” comes the reply.
“Wrap yourself up in ’em then, and get comfortable,” he says. He hears some movement, then waits for a moment until he hears nothing, not even sobbing, and returns to Sunbeam.
When he moves the gag again she speaks quickly.
“She’s my sister’s daughter, please don’t hurt her.”
“That’s none of your concern right now,” he says.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no …” she cries softly, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Look the monster in the eye,” he says. But her eyes remain shut. “Come on now, do it,” he says. He wonders if when she does she’ll be able to see what’s really deep inside him, and if he’ll be able to tell she has by looking at her. Finally, her eyes open and she stares into his face. “See? I’m just a man.”
He learned long ago that everyone compartmentalizes, but what is inside of him isn’t something inhuman. It’s the most human part of me, he thinks.
“I can’t take this,” she says, real desperation in her voice, which rises in volume to a near scream. “Let me go.”
“You have to take it. The other girls did, so you have to take it too. It’s just what you have to face. Call it your punishment if you want, or just your lot,” he tells her. He tries to wipe down her face with the rag again, but she tosses from side to side and refuses to be comforted. She begins bucking and straining against the ropes and he sees how it is going to be, so even though it isn’t exactly how he wants it, he puts the plastic bag over her head and starts in suffocating her right there and then.
46
“You’re batshit crazy, Behr,” Lisa Mistretta said, “and I love it.”
Behr was sitting somewhere he hadn’t expected to be again anytime soon—certainly not this soon—and that was at the island of Mistretta’s kitchen. He’d told her about his community outreach meeting scheme and asked for
her help.
“I am so in,” she said. “Honestly, the way you ran out the other night, I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“Sorry about that,” Behr said, “I’m not in a real clear place.”
“Who is?” she said and turned her back to him and her attention to the sauté pan where she stirred delicious-smelling Asian food. “Wha-cha!” she said, flinging in a dollop of garlic chili paste that crackled as it hit the heat.
“How good of a cook are you?” Behr asked.
“I suck.”
“That shrimp pad Thai looks pro.”
“Don’t check my garbage can, where you’ll find the Siam Square containers. I’m just heating it up,” Mistretta said. “And, as promised …” She handed him a thick stack of printed pages held together by a binder clip. “Good timing. This might give us a better idea of who we’re looking for. That is, if you really think the guy will show?”
“I have no idea,” Behr said. “But I have to try something.”
“You read, I’ll cook and drink,” Mistretta said, putting a bottle of Thai beer by his elbow. “We’ll eat once you’ve gotten through it.”
Behr nodded and started in on the pages, which were an abstract psychological profile written in a straightforward, quasi-clinical style:
Subject in question is male, organized/disorganized sadistic-lust serial predator engaged in restraint, torture, picquerism, and vivisection. Race probably Caucasian. Not possible at this time to predict identity, age with any degree of accuracy, but if suppositions regarding related cases are correct, sixteen-year span indicates subject is likely in middle age.
Subject likely sustained head injuries, among other abuse, as a child. Likely to have engaged/been forced into traditionally masculine activities such as boxing-wrestling-hunting by dominant male figure (likely that father was not present in home) as a child. Signs and symbols of wealth, authority, and greater masculinity in this male role model would likely have diminished subject’s sense of self.