The Coldest Fear

by Rick Reed

  The station cut back to Lynn Applewhite, who, to Cody’s disgust, was working the evening anchor spot. Lynn was a terrible choice for an anchor position, and if she wasn’t sleeping with the station manager, she would have never made it in front of a camera.

  Lynn had a believable look of concern on her face when she asked, “Claudine, are the police saying what Lieutenant Johnson’s condition is?”

  “Lynn, Lieutenant Johnson had already been taken from the scene when we arrived. As you saw in the earlier live feed, Detective Jack Murphy could give us no solid information,” Claudine said.

  The camera cut back to Lynn in the Channel Six newsroom. She looked into the camera and said, “Claudine, we’re going to show that footage to our viewers again.”

  The television filled with the image of Detective Jack Murphy, his face dark, rage in his eyes. Claudine asked a question and Murphy approached the camera like a gorilla charging a tourist.

  “Lieutenant Johnson is no longer with us, Miss Setera,” Jack said solemnly. His face hardened and he moved even closer to the camera. “I’m here because the coward that poured the gasoline over my friend JJ is watching this program. I want him to know that I’m coming for him. I want him to know that I know who he is.”

  “Detective Murphy,” Claudine asked, “who is the killer?”

  “I have work to do,” Jack said and pushed the camera out of his face. “Let’s go, Bigfoot.”

  The cameraman followed Claudine Setera as she pursued the retreating detectives, shouting questions. “Detective Murphy, is this the work of the serial killer? Is this the work of The Cleaver? Detective Murphy, the public has a right to know who the killer among them is. Detective Murphy?”

  Cody turned the television off. His hand was trembling, but not from fear. He lifted the bone axe from the bed and felt its comforting weight.

  “You’re coming for me?” he said to the blank television screen. “Well, Detective Murphy, your friend and his Thunder-bird will never rise from those ashes.”

  He wrapped the axe in a soft towel and put it in the gym bag he always kept in the car with him. “I’m coming for you, Jack.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  Inside police headquarters in Evansville, Jack and Liddell sat at the large conference table in the chief ’s outer office. Halloween night, the hour was late. Even the television stations had quit calling for information. Chief Pope sat at the end of the table, arms crossing his chest, listening to Jack and his team as they told the story of Cody Morse and how he came to be back in Evansville.

  “Walker and Tunney are rushing the DNA through the system now to see if we can match what we have to the cases the FBI have been working over the past five years,” Garcia said. “Tunney flew to Quantico, but said he’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Liddell leaned back in his chair until he heard the wood creak. Captain Franklin shot him a dirty look and Liddell sat up straight. He recovered his balance and said, “I think we may still have a problem in Shawneetown.” He looked at Jack for support of his idea.

  “Bigfoot’s right,” Jack said. “The chief over there has created an issue with destroying the diary.”

  “I thought Zimmer was looking into filing charges on Chief Johnson for that?” Garcia asked.

  “He’s the chief of police of a two-man department who just had half the department put out of action,” Jack explained. “Even if they could prove that it was the diary of Cordelia that he burnt, they would still have to prove that it was evidence of a crime, and without the diary that can never be determined.”

  Garcia slapped a hand on the tabletop. “You men make things so complicated,” she said, and Liddell chuckled.

  “Life’s complicated,” he said.

  “So where does that leave us as far as proving that Blake is the killer? Here in Evansville, I mean?” she asked.

  “So far, we can only prove that he used a bogus résumé and date of birth to obtain employment at Channel Six,” Jack answered. “But Tunney is checking his employment and trying to tie him to the crimes in the other states. The problem is that Cody may have used other identities there.”

  Liddell added, “And he may not have worked as a reporter in the other places.”

  Chief Pope spoke up. “Well, at least we have Garcia to thank for getting the court records from the death of Denny Morse and the subsequent commitment of young Cody to the asylum.”

  “Yeah, that was good work, Angelina,” Franklin said, and Jack and Liddell pretended to clap.

  Franklin stood up and said, “That’s enough for now. Go get some work done.”

  Jack headed for the war room, but Liddell stopped him in the hallway.

  “Where you going?” he asked.

  “I’m going to look over the files again,” Jack said.

  “Isn’t Susan waiting for you at your place?”

  “Oh shit!” Jack said and changed directions, heading for the back parking lot. He’d completely forgotten that Susan was cooking for him tonight. Well, her version of cooking anyway. Chinese takeout. His favorite. Susan always drank a little wine, got a little frisky, and things got very exciting.

  “Isn’t tomorrow her birthday?” Garcia asked.

  “She’s going to be real happy with you, pod’na,” Liddell added.

  “I’ll call her,” Jack said, and trotted down the hall.

  “Pace yourself, Jack,” Garcia said.

  “Yeah. You might sprain something,” Liddell added.

  Jack stopped at the back door, key in hand, when his cell phone beeped at him, indicating an incoming text message. He looked at the display screen and saw a telephone number. He had expected it to be Susan contacting him, but the number wasn’t hers. It was the private telephone number for the war room. Since it was a text it could only mean that he was supposed to call that number, but there would be no one in the war room. They were all still in the hallway.

  “Look at this,” Jack said, and walked back down the hall to show Garcia and Liddell the display on his phone.

  They looked at each other and turned down the hallway that led to the basement. Only a handful of people had that number, and due to the lateness of the hour, that was limited to police dispatch, Captain Franklin, or the chief.

  Liddell said, “Could be dispatch. Maybe someone’s spotted Cody.”

  Jack only knew that it couldn’t be Susan. Therefore, no Chinese take-out, no frisky, and so on. Sometimes being me sucks, he thought.

  They had barely entered the war room when the phone on the desk began to ring. Jack turned to Garcia, and said, “See if we can get a trace.”

  She reminded him that the calls to the war room came in on a trunk line for the Civic Center because they hadn’t budgeted to have caller ID. Jack threw his hands in the air at the stupidity of city government.

  “Answer it,” Liddell said.

  Jack picked up the phone. “Murphy,” he said.

  The line was silent for thirty seconds and Jack thought maybe the caller had hung up, but then a familiar voice came on the line.

  “Do you know why I killed my father?” Cody asked.

  Jack’s heartbeat picked up pace. He was straining to listen, hoping he would hear something that would tell him where Cody was.

  “I’m tracing this call, asshole,” Jack lied, trying to sound sincere. It was worth a shot.

  “Don’t mess with me, Detective Murphy,” Cody said. “I know you don’t even have a tape recorder on the line.”

  Or not, Jack thought.

  Cody’s voice became all business, and asked again, “Do you know why I killed my father?”

  “Do you want Reader’s Digest, or the long version?” Jack said, and was rewarded at hearing Cody’s intake of breath.

  “I warn you, Jack.” Cody spat Jack’s name out. “I take my work very seriously.”

  The line was silent again; then Cody went on, his voice mellow now, thoughtful. “As do you. I’ve been a fan of your work, you know?”

  �
�Great. Another fan. Just what I needed,” Jack said.

  Jack heard the heavy breathing again. “Okay, I’ll play your game,” Jack said. “Why did you kill your father? Hmmm? Let’s see. Maybe it was because you were unloved. Or maybe because your mommy left you behind. Well, guess what, Cody? Life sucks. We all have a sad story, but not all of us become killers. Most of us don’t kill our sisters and mothers and countless innocent people. Doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that I have to stop you. So here’s my offer to you. Are you listening?”

  The line was quiet, but not dead, so Jack continued. “Come in,” he said.

  Cody chuckled. “You want me to come in? And why would I do that Detective Murphy?”

  “If you do I’ll let you live,” Jack answered.

  Cody’s voice turned playful again, and he said, “Are your parents alive, Detective Murphy?”

  “No,” Jack said.

  “Too bad,” Cody responded. “I would have liked to kill them.”

  “I don’t do phone sex,” Jack said.

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

  Cody closed the cell phone he’d stolen from his sister the night he murdered her. He’d have to dispose of the phone now because it was a piece of evidence that could link him to the murder. His years in reporting crime stories had allowed him to study his pursuers.

  Another thing he’d learned was that the general public was like sheep. They weren’t as aware as the police and media portrayed them. He could probably go anywhere he wanted to in Evansville and no one would notice.

  He doubted that even half of the police department was aware that he, Cody Morse, was wanted by the other half. Tomorrow will be a different story, he reminded himself. But if he played his cards right, he could do what he had planned and be gone by then.

  A change of scenery, maybe a new occupation, new hairstyle, gain a few pounds, and he could become someone else. Maybe darken his hair, get a deep tan, and pass for Hispanic.

  “What are you doing, pod’na?” Liddell asked, when Jack got off the phone call. “Why do you always have to be the Lone Ranger?”

  “He pissed me off,” Jack answered. He hadn’t really intended to make Cody angry, but it wasn’t a bad backup strategy. Just in case what he was planning didn’t work.

  “We stick with the original idea, right?” Liddell said.

  “We’re in this together,” Garcia said in agreement.

  Jack looked at the two of them, trusted friends who loved him. All they were asking was that he not go out and get himself killed. But he knew that he had every intention of lying to them and going up against Cody alone. He couldn’t risk one of them being hurt.

  “Together,” Jack said to his friends. “To the end.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

  Jack sent Angelina and Liddell home and sat down in the office to call Captain Franklin and report that Cody had called him. When he began dialing Franklin’s number he had second thoughts. What was there to report? And if Franklin knew that Jack had punched Cody’s buttons, he’d find a way to sit on Jack to prevent what Jack knew had to happen.

  He dialed the number and waited for two rings before hanging up. Well, I tried, he thought and was about to leave the office when the desk phone rang and shocked him. It was probably Franklin, but he didn’t have a choice now.

  “Murphy,” he growled into the receiver.

  “I’m going to rock your world, cowboy,” the voice on the phone said.

  It wasn’t Captain Franklin.

  “Only my friends, or cross-dressers, have ever called me cowboy, Cody. You’re not a friend so you must be a crossdresser?”

  Cody laughed out loud. “Jack. Can we start over? I don’t want to fight. I’m not a bad guy. I’m doing the job you guys won’t or can’t do.”

  “What job is that, Cody?” Jack asked.

  Cody sighed as if this was testing his patience. “I’m ridding the world of the scumbags that think they can bully anyone they want. I have never killed an innocent person.”

  “Well, now we can agree on something,” Jack said. “Your mother definitely deserved to die for letting you out onto society like some flesh-eating slime. But I still can’t see what your sister did to deserve what you did to her.”

  Cody said, “You haven’t told anyone about my call, have you?” It wasn’t stated like a question.

  “No need,” Jack answered coolly. “You’ll be dead and cold before I’ll have to tell. Why don’t we meet?”

  Cody laughed again. “Not so fast, sport. No wonder you can’t keep a woman in your life. You’re always in a hurry and definitely not a nice man.”

  Jack knew he should just hang up. The second part of the plan was to have Jansen leak the info to Claudine Setera that Lieutenant Johnson was still alive and under guard at Welborn Clinic downtown. The idea was to drive Cody into making a second attempt on JJ. The trick was that JJ was in Indianapolis and not in Evansville.

  But Jack knew Cody would never fall for that. He had probably already figured out that JJ was alive. And JJ hadn’t given the diary up even when Cody was pouring gasoline on him. Zimmer had men watching Cordelia and Samuels’s old apartment on the off chance that Cody might turn up there looking for it.

  “This is between us, Cody,” Jack said. His best chance was to lure Cody out. Then take him out.

  “You’re right about that, Jack. It is between us, but I’m not going to make it easy for you. I know how devious you can be. We have to play a game first.”

  “If it’s a game of minds you’re basically unarmed, so what’s the point?”

  Cody seemed to be enjoying this repartee. “Good one, Jack. So here is the first test. What am I going to do next?” And with that, Cody broke the connection.

  Jack hung up and swore like a sailor, cursing himself for being too anxious.

  The phone rang again.

  “Listen, asshole,” Jack said, but then Captain Franklin broke in.

  “You called me, remember?” Franklin said.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Jack said, and then filled Franklin in on the two phone calls from Cody, leaving out the parts where he had tried to lure Cody out with his smooth style.

  “Get Garcia and Liddell back in there,” Franklin said, when Jack had finished. “I’ll call the chief and we’ll meet you in the war room in twenty minutes.”

  Susan sat at the cabin, alone, the small kitchen table littered with containers of Chinese takeout from Two Brothers, her chopsticks poking into an eggroll that had lost its appeal an hour ago. Jack Murphy was definitely the most infuriating, juvenile, opinionated, interesting, lovely, sexy man she had ever met. She was sure he had gotten caught up in something to do with the cases he was working, and she really did understand how important his job was.

  But why can’t he pick up the phone and make a ten-second call?

  She would give him another half hour. Then she was packing the remnants of this romantic dinner into his refrigerator and heading home. She didn’t like staying in the cabin by herself, and especially at night.

  Cinderella let out a whimper and Susan said to the dog, “Sorry, hon, I’m not mad at you. You’re a good girl.”

  She picked a piece of chicken out of one of the containers and carried it to the makeshift bed she had prepared for the injured animal, who lapped it up and then licked Susan’s fingers.

  Susan patted the dog’s neck, being careful not to touch the long wound on top of Cinderella’s head. She felt so sorry for the poor creature, who had been trying to protect her master. And that thought made her think again of Jack Murphy, who’d had the compassion to bring the dog to his home. Maybe there’s a real man under all that tough exterior after all.

  She knew Jack wasn’t going to be happy that she had used his two extra bed pillows and one of his best blankets to make a bed for the dog. Well, it served him right for standing her up. If he’d been here he could have found his own bedding.

  She sat on the floor beside
the dog and stroked her neck until Cinderella began breathing softly. The pain pill must be working, Susan thought. Poor baby.

  Cody borrowed an old Chevy pickup truck from the man who was staying in the room next to his at the Alpine Motel. The man must have been a traveling salesman because there were maps all over the front seat and the floor was littered with fast-food wrappers. The man wouldn’t need the truck anymore, and had eaten his last chalupa from Taco Bell. Those things weren’t good for him anyway.

  He drove the truck southeast on New Harmony Road until he reached the Hill Top Restaurant, where he knew he would have to turn left and follow that street to Fulton Avenue. The lights were still on inside the Hill Top, but only one or two cars were parked in the front.

  He turned sharply into the gravel lot and bounced over the potholes to the back of the building. He parked in the rear and went to the back door, which he found unlocked and propped open. The smell of ammonia competed with the smell of the day’s cooking.

  “We’re closed,” came a voice inside. Cody saw a large man in his mid-fifties, dressed in khaki pants, a T-shirt, and a stained apron, standing just inside the back door holding a mop.

  “I’m in need of some food,” Cody said, stepping inside.

  A food-prep table held a rack of knives, along with various other cooking tools and pots and pans. “You missed a spot,” Cody said, and pointed to the floor at the man’s feet.

  The man looked down and Cody’s hand was a blur. He plucked a cleaver from the table and drove the blade into the side of the man’s neck, just below his left ear. The heavy cleaver sliced through tendon and muscle and hit the carotid, causing the man’s eyes to roll back in his head before he fell to the floor, hands grasping for the handle of the cleaver.