Night Victims

by John Lutz

  . . . aren’t as safe as they think.

  12

  “Schnick as in prick,” Bickerstaff said, as they climbed out of the unmarked.

  “Try to behave,” Paula told him.

  Gary Schnick’s building didn’t have a doorman, but when Paula and Bickerstaff entered the spacious, rather shabby lobby, a fat man in gray overalls watched them with a sideways gaze from where he sat on a sofa. The lobby had a cracked gray-and-white-tile floor, red concrete planters with obviously fake ferns in them next to the scattered furniture, and an odor that suggested insecticide.

  Paula and Bickerstaff studied the bank of tarnished brass mailboxes.

  “He’s in 106,” Paula said, spotting Schnick’s name above one of the boxes in the top row. Something white was visible through the slot; Schnick hadn’t picked up his mail today.

  Above the name slot was an intercom button, but Paula could tell by the many layers of paint over it that it didn’t work.

  “Help you?” a smoker’s hoarse voice asked behind them.

  “I’m the super.”

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  It was the guy in the overalls, looking much bulkier now that he was standing.

  “We’re looking for Gary Schnick,” Bickerstaff said, showing his badge. “So far we found his mailbox.” The obese super’s complexion turned the drab gray of his uniform. His reaction interested Paula. Bickerstaff, too.

  They moved closer to the man.

  “I can tell you he’s not home,” the super said. Paula noticed he smelled like stale sweat and cigars.

  “What else can you tell us?” she asked.

  The super’s doughy face widened, and flesh beneath one of his eyes began to tick. His mouth worked for a few seconds but no sound came out. Clearly there was an inner struggle going on here.

  “Gary didn’t mention any police,” the super finally said.

  “So what did he mention?” Bickerstaff used his quietly menacing voice. Watching all those Clint Eastwood movies paid off.

  “Said where he was gonna be,” the super spoke up immediately. “Told me to call him if anybody came around looking for him. Didn’t mention any police, though.”

  “Police you got,” Paula said. “What’s your name?”

  “Ernie Pollock.”

  Bickerstaff made a show of writing it down. “Okay, Ernie, what can you tell us about Schnick?” Pollock sucked in air, expanding his already immense torso. “Nice guy, is about all. I don’t hardly know him well enough to tell you more’n that. He does some kinda accounting work in his apartment. He offered once to do my taxes. I told him, hell, they ain’t that complicated. My girl-friend Linda does ’em for me. She says we’d get married, only it’d cost us.”

  “Seems to cost everyone,” Paula said. “Ever known Schnick to have overnight female guests?” Pollock rubbed his sleeve across his glistening forehead.

  He was sweating as if he were working at it. “Once in a while, 86

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  is all. But, hell, he’s young and single. There was never anything like a parade up there.”

  “He ever cause any kind of trouble?”

  “Not in the slightest. I said he was a nice guy. I’m kinda the unofficial doorman here, and he springs for a nice gift at Christmas, which is more’n you can say for some of the other cheap bastards that live here.”

  “Now the big question,” Paula said. “Where might we find Mr. Schnick?”

  Pollock suddenly turned even paler, fixing his gaze beyond Paula. “There,” he said hoarsely. “Right there.” Paula turned around to see a short, dark-haired man about forty, wearing wrinkled khaki pants and a perspiration-soaked blue shirt with a red tie plastered askew across his chest. His face was pudgier than the rest of him, which was actually kind of thin. Paula thought Lightfoot was right to wonder what Redmond had seen in Schnick.

  When he saw Paula and Bickerstaff with Pollock, Schnick’s jaw dropped and he broke stride, actually did a little skip. His body language became pure babble. First, he almost whirled and bolted, but then he took a stride toward them trying to look casual. Then he shuffled his feet and veered away from them. No, he was back on course now. He knew he had to keep coming toward them, but his body wouldn’t accept the message.

  “He always do the hokey-pokey when he comes in?” Bickerstaff asked.

  When he drew closer, Schnick nodded at Pollock.

  “Ernie.” For a second he seemed to consider walking on past, toward the elevators.

  Bickerstaff stopped him with one hand placed lightly on the shoulder; he flashed his shield with the other hand.

  “They’re cops,” Pollock said unnecessarily.

  Paula tried to catch Schnick when she saw him turn a pasty color. He was so slippery with sweat that he oozed through her arms and sank to his knees.

  Ow! Jesus! She’d bent back a fingernail.

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  Schnick’s eyes rolled back, and she managed to hold on to a handful of damp hair and ease his descent, but with the sore finger she couldn’t stop him from going down the rest of way to lie curled and unconscious on the cracked tiles.

  Horn settled into his usual booth at the Home Away. Anne had wolfed down her toast and orange juice at home, then hurried off to her job at the hospital.

  It had become their weekday-morning ritual. Horn would rise first and put on the coffee, then share caffeine and conversation with Anne during her breakfast. It used to be that those times were comfortable, their conversation easy and about the trivial but necessary things a man and his wife discussed. But since the lawsuit Anne hadn’t been sleeping well and was almost always irritable in the mornings. Horn found himself looking forward to her leaving, so he could finish getting dressed, and then on some mornings, walk over to the Home Away to have his own leisurely breakfast while he read the Times.

  There was something about her distance and distraction, their increasingly frequent separation—both physical and mental—that bothered him, but maybe not as much as it should. In some ways it made him feel like a young cop again, on the Job, doing something worthwhile with his life.

  Searching for a killer.

  Though the booth Horn sat in wasn’t that near the window, morning sunlight reflected off the windshield of a parked car and angled in low to cast a rectangular pattern over the table and the newspaper spread alongside his coffee cup. The sun’s warmth felt good on his bare forearms as he read. Part of him was thinking how pleasant sitting there was, how this wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning.

  The news was front page above the fold, emphatic for the Times. The caption read SERIAL KILLER MIGHT BE OPERATING

  IN NEW YORK. The text was factual and matter-of-fact, and referred to the killer as the Night Spider only once. It had al-88

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  ways amused Horn how the Times always politely referred to male suspects as Mr., and he almost expected to come across Mr. Night Spider.

  He finished reading the piece and pushed the paper aside.

  Then he picked up the Post he’d also bought after seeing its headline: NIGHT SPIDER NAILS ANOTHER . The following story contained pretty much the same general information as the one in the Times, though the prose was more sensational. In bringing to the attention of the citizens of New York that a prolific and particularly horrific serial killer was in their midst, it used the term Night Spider twenty-three times.

  In both papers, the story was at the very least unsettling.

  “I see we’ve got another one of those guys killing his mother over and over,” Marla said, as she topped off Horn’s coffee.

  “They don’t all do that,” Horn said.

  “I know. It’s a lot more complicated than that. I read in the paper you came out of retirement to handle this case.

  What made you do it?”

  “I guess because I was an oldest child,” Horn said.

  “No, you weren’t the oldest.”

  H
orn was surprised. Marla was right; he was the middle of three brothers and the only survivor of the three. “So pop psychology can lead us astray,” he said.

  “You better believe it.”

  There were no other customers in the diner, and the glass coffeepot she held was almost empty, so she lingered by his booth as she often did.

  “So what do you think?” Horn asked.

  “About?”

  “This serial killer.”

  “I don’t have all the facts.”

  “None of us do,” Horn said. “That’s the problem. What do you make of it from what you read in the papers and hear on the news?”

  Marla seemed a little surprised he was asking her about NIGHT VICTIMS

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  this seriously, but she walked over and placed the coffeepot back on its burner, and then returned. Her manner was slightly different, but it would take a practiced eye like Horn’s to notice. She wasn’t in her waitress persona now; she seemed involved and thoughtful. There was more going on behind her eyes than over easy and bacon crisp.

  “He kills women he doesn’t know,” she said, “or he’d simply knock on their doors then incapacitate them instead of sneaking through their windows.”

  “He might have a thing about them needing to be asleep,” Horn suggested.

  “I know. I’m only hypothesizing. The victims are all attractive women but not of a particular type.” She saw the curiosity in his eyes. “Television news had their photos on last night. Nina Count’s channel.”

  “It would be hers,” Horn said. “She’s a wolf among news hounds.”

  “Your killer must have some kind of climbing skills,” Marla said. Something in the look she gave him revealed she was locked on like radar, now that he’d asked her opinion.

  She wasn’t interested in his asides about a TV anchorwoman. “So he might be involved in rock climbing—that’s a growing sport—or mountain climbing. Or maybe entomol-ogy.”

  That brought Horn up short as he was lifting his cup to his mouth. He placed the steaming cup back down. “Entomo-logy? The study of insects?”

  Marla nodded. “The media aren’t just calling him the Night Spider because he crawls up and down buildings.

  There’s the way he swathes his victims, like a spider using secretions to wrap and disable a victim before draining it of fluids. And the wounds are stabs rather than slashes, almost as if he’s emulating a spider slowly sapping the life of helpless prey caught in its web. The killer doesn’t seem to be in a rush. Neither is a spider. It feeds at its leisure off insects it’s trapped and wrapped, until they weaken and die and become 90

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  useless husks.” She smiled without humor. “If I were a bug, I wouldn’t want to be at the mercy of a spider. It doesn’t know mercy, and neither does your killer.”

  “You’re saying the killer somehow identifies with spiders?”

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how or why, but it looks that way. And for that he needs familiarity with spiders. Like an entomologist.”

  Horn sat back, studying her. It wasn’t just what she’d said but the way in which she’d said it. “You weren’t always a waitress, Marla.”

  “Who was? I had a life before this.”

  “What kind of life? You don’t look that old.” She laughed. “The past is dead and gone. And I’m . . .

  let’s just say in my early forties.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stray where I shouldn’t.”

  “That’s okay. I understand. It’s the cop in you.”

  “Marla—”

  The bell over the door jingled, and she hurried toward the front of the diner to wait on a guy in a business suit mount-ing a stool at the counter.

  Horn used his cell phone to contact Paula and Bickerstaff.

  It was Bickerstaff who answered.

  “You still interrogating Gary Schnick?” Horn asked.

  “Paula’s in the room with him now. This guy didn’t do it.

  Two of his neighbors saw him arriving home last night a couple of hours before Redmond’s time of death. He doesn’t know that yet, though, so we’re letting him ramble.”

  “He might have returned to her apartment later.”

  “Could have, but I doubt it. Nothing in his apartment suggests he knows anything about climbing, and his hands are soft from years of pushing pencils and tickling tax returns.

  This character’s no more a mountain climber than I am.

  Doin’ it without Viagra’s the extent of his vertical challenge.”

  “You press him hard?”

  “We did. He had a rough night and looks about ready to NIGHT VICTIMS

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  fold. Paula’s easing up now. He didn’t even ask for an attorney for about two hours. Then he got some schmuck tax client of his that knows nothing about criminal law. I think they’re bartering, trading services so they can screw the IRS.

  We were about to release Schnick. His lawyer will be shocked.”

  “You want to cross him off our list entirely?”

  “Almost entirely. I know this guy’s telling the truth, and Paula feels the same way. This is not a hard case. He actually fainted when he knew we were gonna confront him about Redmond’s murder.”

  “Before you uncage him,” Horn said, “have Paula find out if he knows anything about insects.”

  “Incest?”

  “In sects. Bugs.”

  Bickerstaff was silent for a moment. “Like was he ever an exterminator?”

  “Or a scientist. An entomologist or biologist.”

  “We checked out his background,” Bickerstaff said. “Nothing like that in it. No sheet on him, degree in accounting, been a CPA for the last ten years. Course, there’s always hobbies. Maybe he had a butterfly or beetle collection. You know, one of those guys sticks pins through bugs to mount them on a display.”

  “Yeah,” Horn said. “Find out about that. Make sure before you put him back on the street.”

  “Will do,” Bickerstaff said before hanging up. “Bugs . . .”

  “Spiders,” Horn said into the dead phone.

  As he slid the phone back in his pocket, he saw that Marla had finished waiting on the executive type at the counter and was returning to his booth, carrying the coffeepot as an excuse. She was eager to talk to him about this case. He wondered why.

  The cop in him.

  13

  Arkansas, the Ozark Mountains, 1982

  Seven years old and he was terrified.

  But he was used to being frightened, existing with the living lump of fear in his stomach. There was no light or movement of air where he was, only heat and darkness. His mouth was dry, and the corners of his eyes stung with perspiration.

  Listening to the sounds coming from the other side of the locked closet door, he wondered why his mother did this.

  Did all mothers do it?

  He understood some things from hearing his mother and father arguing, yelling and losing their tempers, like he did at times. Their faces would be red, their eyes bulging. Their mouths were ugly and shaped like the ones on the stone things he’d learned about in school, the gargoyles. They would scream at each other sometimes until they got too tired to go on. Did they feel as he did afterward, empty and lost? He thought they did.

  He knew his mother had once been a snake handler in the name of God. At least that’s what his father had said. Both his father and mother said God a lot when they talked or NIGHT VICTIMS

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  yelled at each other. What a snake handler was, the boy didn’t know. It had to do with a special kind of church, he was once told by his father. He was then given a look that made it clear he wasn’t to ask about it again.

  His father was away most of the time because he was in the army, leaving the boy in the care of his mother. She would beat him with one of his father’s belts at times when he was bad, which he deserved though it made him mad for long times. Teaching him respect, she would say, or s
ometimes shout, losing her temper. Teaching him respect.

  Respect in this world that was hard.

  He wished the noise on the other side of the door would stop so he could be let out of the closet, so he could finally have something to eat. He wasn’t sure if his stomachache was from fear or from hunger.

  Here were the spiders!

  After a while in the dark closet they always came. He knew the place he lived was old and all by itself in the woods, and he’d heard his father say the rotted wood house was full of termites. That’s why it had so many spiders, they ate the termites. And there was no shortage of flies and roaches for them to feast on, according to his father.

  Then why did they still bite?

  The first spider was like the touch of a feather on his left arm. He knew better than to knock it off with his hand. The spiders could bite quickly.

  He made himself lie still while the soft exploring tickling sensation traveled up his arm toward his shoulder. There was another tickle on his right ankle. His left arm. His cheek. His mouth was open wide but he knew what would happen if he screamed. So he screamed silently because he had to. He couldn’t be seen or heard in the dark closet.

  Oww! A bite on his left arm. He made himself stay perfectly still. Painful experience had taught him that was his only defense. Lie still. Let the spiders have their way.

  There was one on his right cheek. He hated it when they got near his eyes. It wasn’t a terrible sensation, more like 94

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  somebody slowly dragging a piece of thread across his flesh, but he didn’t like to think about being bitten in the eye. He did take the risk of clenching his eyes tightly shut. Then he closed his mouth and gritted his teeth, protecting his tongue.

  More tickling on his chest and stomach. He wished he was wearing more than his underpants. Lying on his side on the bare wood floor, he wanted to curl up, to sob. But he knew he couldn’t risk crying. It made his body shake. Made them bite. Very slowly he allowed his knees to draw up. He couldn’t help trying to make himself smaller—small as a spider—so he could crawl right out through the crack of dim light beneath the door.

  He told himself it wasn’t all that bad, the slight tickling all over his body. He told himself it could even feel good. He was getting used to it and so were the spiders. They didn’t bite him so many times now.