Dead Air

by Michael Bradley

  This wasn’t how he’d envisioned things going this morning. He’d hoped to hide Kaitlyn somewhere where no one could find her, giving him and Julie time to make some progress on the case. The growing number of people who knew where Kaitlyn was going concerned him. He should’ve expected this. It was foolish for him to think that he could shelter her without anyone knowing where. Now, three people knew where she was going to be. It’d only be a matter of time before more did as well.

  As he and Julie waited, Kevin O’Neill came through the lobby, heading toward the front door. Kevin’s eyes met his. There was a darkness within the grey eyes that made Rodney shudder. Kevin turned his gaze away and seemed to consider returning into the offices from where he’d just come. Then, with a nervous smile, he nodded at Rodney and stepped through the front door. Rodney glanced at his watch. It was still before noon. Shouldn’t Kevin be on the air? Why is he leaving during his shift? Could he be making a run for it?

  He turned to Julie. “Can you run her over to Sammy’s house, then stay with her till she gets settled? I’ve got something I want to follow up on.” He glanced at the conference room door. “I’ll swing by Sammy’s house later to check up.”

  Julie nodded. “Sure. You have an address?”

  “Yeah. She lives in Fishtown.”

  “That’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  “I know. I’ll see if the captain can get round-the-clock surveillance from the city police.” The conference room door swung open, and he glanced over as Kaitlyn and Sammy emerged. He turned back to Julie. “Let’s get her out of sight. We can worry about the details later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve got a hunch it won’t be good. Just make sure Kaitlyn’s safe.”

  Julie smiled. “Of course.”

  37

  Rodney had driven for almost an hour, following Kevin first through downtown Philadelphia and then north toward Conshohocken. The midday traffic was light and made it difficult to avoid being seen. At one point, he lost sight of Kevin’s Volkswagen and, in a panic, raced ahead, accidentally passing him on the highway. It took some creative driving, using a dump truck as cover, to get behind him again.

  It did not escape Rodney’s notice that Kevin drove a Volkswagen. A Volkswagen was the heart of this mystery. Could this be the one that ran down Kaitlyn on that rainy night on Walnut Street? What kind of VW had passed him that night? A Beetle? Kevin drove a Golf. He wondered, could his hunch be wrong?

  When they exited the interstate, Kevin sped through the Conshohocken side streets, and Rodney wondered if he’d been seen. The Volkswagen turned into an alley that ran between two rows of homes. Rodney looked down the alley. A line of detached garages lined one side and a high chain-link fence ran along the other. The Volkswagen was parked about halfway down the alleyway in front of a garage. He couldn’t remember the exact street address, but Rodney knew Kevin lived somewhere in Conshohocken. Could this be his house?

  Kevin climbed from the car, opened the trunk, and lifted out a dark duffel bag. Closing the trunk, Kevin glanced around and then disappeared from view.

  Rodney pulled the car forward and parked along the curb. He was out of his jurisdiction and had no reason to do anything other than observe. No warrant. No probable cause. Perhaps he could get in the house under the pretense of having additional questions to ask. Rodney didn’t know what he thought he might find. Possibly nothing. But something about Kevin O’Neill bothered him. He wasn’t at work, first and foremost. It was the middle of the day and Kevin had gone home without working his shift. Granted, he could’ve been ill, but Rodney doubted it. There had been fear in Kevin’s eyes at the radio station. But fear of what? Being caught?

  Rodney got out and made his way down the alleyway. His steps were slow and cautious. He kept close to the front of each garage he passed. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he reached the Volkswagen. Just play it by ear, he guessed.

  There was no one around when he reached the car. Rodney peered around the corner of the garage, studying the house beyond. The blinds in all the windows were drawn. It gave the impression that the house itself had drifted off for a quick nap. He wandered over to the Volkswagen, careful to always glance back at the house. He peered through the back window. There was nothing unusual in the back seat. He rounded the car, peeking in through each window, half-hoping to find something suspicious that would give him probable cause to search further. Nothing.

  He moved back to the garage, stepping out of sight of the house. Was he wrong? The suspicious behavior. The lying about his childhood. The animosity toward the police. The history of violence. It all seemed to add up. He might have just found Brad’s murderer and Kaitlyn’s stalker. There was no known motive as of yet, but he had an instinct for this sort of thing. He was usually right. This time, however, he was starting to think he might have missed something along the way.

  Rodney decided to return to his car to think over his next move. He started walking down the alley. A metallic crash came from inside the garage. He leaned toward the door. A muffled moan was barely audible. He tugged on the door latch. The garage door wouldn’t rise. He rounded the corner and found a side door, wooden with peeling paint. Locked. He listened again. Another moan. Rodney reached for his gun. Then, he drove his shoulder against the door. Hard. The wood around the frame splintered with a crack. The door swung open and Rodney rushed into shadows beyond.

  The garage was a clutter of odds and ends. An antiquated push lawn mower. Several large flower pots. A stack—three bags high—of mulch. Two spare tires, one on a rim and the other rimless. And, sprawled on the concrete floor, a man. He was gagged. His arms and legs tied behind his back like a hog at a rodeo. The young man’s face was battered. His right eye was bruised and swollen shut. Dried blood caked the end of his nose. He tried to speak when Rodney entered, but his words were muffled and unintelligible.

  Rodney knelt beside him and pulled the gag from the man’s mouth. “You okay? What happened?”

  The man gasped for air, coughed, and then said, “Thank god you found me!”

  Rodney slid his gun back into the holster and tried to untie the knots that restrained the man. “I’m a police officer. Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s him. The Strangler.”

  The knots were tight, and Rodney struggled to loosen them. “What?”

  “I met him last night at a bar. He invited me back to his house. He beat me, tied me up and dragged me out here. He said he was going to kill me.”

  “Who? Kevin O’Neill?”

  “Yes. That’s him.”

  Rodney worked at the knots more feverishly. He could barely believe what he was hearing. Could it be true? Was it possible that he had stumbled upon the identity of the man the Philadelphia Police had been seeking for seven months? He remembered the leather cord in Kevin’s desk drawer. There were ligature marks on the victim’s neck.

  Rodney struggled with the knots. They were tight, expertly tied. The rope dug into the young man’s wrists and ankles.

  “Damn it,” Rodney said.

  A sudden roar of rage came from behind him. He turned toward the door. The silhouette framed in the doorway launched itself across the garage. Rodney threw his arms up in defense. Kevin O’Neill—his face red with a fevered frenzy—crashed into Rodney. They tumbled across the concrete floor. The air rushed from Rodney’s lungs on impact. He gasped for breath, fighting the tight vacuum that consumed his lungs. Kevin was already on his knees and threw a punch. Rodney’s head jerked back and smacked the cold floor. His head spun and a wave of nausea rose from within him. A pair of strong hands gripped his throat. He grabbed at Kevin’s wrists, trying to wrestle himself free. Kevin hung over him, mouth frothed with spit and eyes filled with murderous fury.

  Rodney felt lightheaded. He punched the side of Kevin’s head to no avail. He couldn’t get enough leverage for a good swing. He reached up with both hands and grabbed Kevin’s ears. Rodney pulled
hard. Kevin screamed. His grip lessened for a moment. That was all Rodney needed. With all the strength he could muster, he pulled down while lunging upward. His forehead smashed into Kevin’s nose. Blood poured out. Kevin fell backward and stumbled over the young man who was still tied up on the floor. Rodney rolled away, reached for his gun and struggled to his feet. His head reeled and he fought to remain standing. Kevin was a blur in the corner of his eye. He only saw the shovel moments before it smashed into his shoulder. The gun clattered on the concrete. Rodney fell into some nearby metal shelving. Half-empty paint cans tumbled onto the floor. Some spilled open, splattering the floor with globs of blue and red.

  It took Rodney a moment to get back to his feet. He turned, expecting another assault, but none came. The garage was empty except for the young man who was half covered in paint. Still dizzy, Rodney steadied himself on the wall and searched the floor for his gun. He spotted it by the lawn mower and rushed to pick it up.

  He paused over the young man. “You okay?”

  “Go! Get the bastard.”

  Rodney hurried out of the garage. He heard faint footsteps running in the alley. The Volkswagen sat nearby. Kevin O’Neill was on foot. Rodney stepped out into the alley and glanced each way. He caught sight of Kevin down the far end of the alley. The son of a bitch was fast. Rodney wanted to give chase, but his battered body raged against him. Kevin was almost to the end of the alley, and there was no way that Rodney could catch him.

  He watched as Kevin ran from the alley. But, instead of turning and disappearing from sight as Rodney expected, Kevin ran straight out into traffic. Blind frenzy or suicidal fervor, Rodney didn’t know which. He heard the blare of horns, the screech of tires. Kevin disappeared from view and traffic came to an abrupt halt.

  38

  I pull the car up to the curb and shut off the engine. Nightfall has shrouded the front porch in shadows, which will play to my advantage. The less the neighbors see, the better. I pick up the revolver from the passenger seat and open the cylinder. All of the chambers are loaded. I’d prefer to use my 9mm Glock but leaving the .38 Smith & Wesson at the scene is icing on the cake. It’s not as if I expect him to come to the correct conclusions any time soon. I’ve been careful to not leave any clues that might point to me.

  Raindrops start to fall onto the windshield. Should I postpone my plans? It could get messy at the Shallows. No, it is too late to stop now. It has to be tonight. Rain or no rain. Laura must return tonight, the night that Jesse died. We’re going to celebrate the anniversary together. Celebrate as if our lives depended on it . . . well, at least hers.

  I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes. Just need a quick one to calm my nerves. I stare at the crumpled, empty pack for a moment. Damn it! I throw it against the dashboard, then dig through the compartment beneath the center armrest. Nothing there either. I jerk open the glove compartment and yank everything out onto the passenger seat. Owner’s manual. Registration. Insurance card. Penlight. Tire pressure gauge. No cigarettes. No damn cigarettes. I lean back in the seat and slam my hands on the steering wheel. The horn lets out a quick chirp. Shit. Hope no one heard that. I stare at the house. No one looks out the windows.

  Got to calm myself. I need to be fast and accurate with this. No room for mistakes. I close my eyes, breathe deep and step through my plan once more. In and out in five minutes. That’s my goal. The longer I linger, the greater the chance that something will go wrong. I grab the gun again from the seat and balance it in my hand. It’s lighter than my Glock, but not uncomfortable to handle. It will serve its purpose.

  The lights in the front bedroom come on. A silhouette appears before the window and lingers for a moment before pulling the blinds closed. It can only be Laura. That’s the room where she’s staying. It’s time to go.

  Standing outside the car, I scrutinize the surrounding street for any witnesses. No one’s about on the sidewalk on either side of the road. A car is approaching from the north and I turn my face away from the glare of the headlights. What the driver can’t see, the driver can’t use to identify me. There’ll be no connection between me and whoever the driver thought he saw standing along the edge of the street.

  I climb the three steps onto the porch and pause by the door. This is the culmination of a year’s worth of work and planning. Yes, I’ve had to adjust my plans, and things haven’t quite worked out the way I’d originally hoped. But it’s the end that matters—and tonight, it’ll end just as I had envisioned.

  I’m a little lightheaded at the thought that it will soon be over. In a few hours, a murderer will face justice, and I’ll be the source of that justice. Not like the others, where someone else prosecuted, judged, and doled out the sentence. I will be prosecutor, judge, and executioner. And, there will be no appeals.

  I pull open the door. The small wad of folded paper I shoved into the striker plate earlier kept the door from latching. The carpeted stairs to the second-floor apartment are dimly lit by a single light hanging from the ceiling at the top of the stairway. I unscrewed the bulb from the overhead light here at the bottom of the stairs the same time that I rigged the latch on the door. Again, the less anyone can see, the better.

  While ascending the stairs, I finger the grip of the revolver in my coat pocket. The steel is cold against my skin, even through my surgical gloves. My heart races and I can almost feel the adrenaline coursing its way through my body. My muscles tighten in anticipation with each step upward.

  At the door, I take a deep breath. I need a clear head. Nothing must go wrong. Once I cross that threshold, I’m on a path of no return. Everything must be just right. Taking one more deep breath, I ring the doorbell.

  39

  Sammy cleared the dishes and carried them to the sink. The kitchen was small and cramped, with the round table that dominated a generous portion of the floorspace. Kaitlyn sat with her back to the wall, watching Sammy’s husband twist the cap off a bottle of Corona. He was a tall man who looked almost malnourished. His dark curly hair was long and messy, like something straight out of the seventies. Kaitlyn had met Sammy’s “old man” only once before, when she helped them move into their apartment. His name was Zachary, but he preferred to be called Zeek. All she knew about him was that he worked in the Center City and did “computer stuff.”

  He was taking this invasion of their small but cozy apartment in stride. Kaitlyn didn’t like to impose on Sammy and her husband, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else she could go. She didn’t want to sleep alone in another hotel, and staying in her own home was out of the question. She hoped this wouldn’t last long. Perhaps the police—Rodney—will get a break in the case and find this bastard quick. She could only hope.

  “Kate, you want a drink?” Sammy said.

  “Do you have red wine?”

  Sammy pursed her lips. “Got Corona, Jack Daniels, Grey Goose, Jim Beam, and Bacardi.”

  “So . . . no red wine?”

  “Nope. Afraid not.”

  Kaitlyn thought for a moment, then gestured toward Zeek. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  “Good choice,” he said.

  Drinks in hand, they moved into the living room, which wasn’t much larger than the kitchen. The room was sparsely furnished with an oversized sofa stretching from wall to wall on one side of the room. It faced a large flat-screen television on the other. The white walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of framed movie posters from the likes of Casablanca, Citizen Kane, and Some Like It Hot.

  Zeek took a seat at the far end of the sofa and Sammy curled up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Kaitlyn lowered herself onto an oversized beanbag near a black wireframe DVD rack filled with classic films from cinema’s golden age. Kaitlyn took a sip from her Corona, then rested the bottle on her leg. The condensation soaked through her jeans and was cold on her skin.

  “Thanks again for letting me stay.” Kaitlyn had already thanked them twice over dinner but still felt as if she needed to say it once more. I
t was the first time she’d felt safe in weeks. Her own house now harbored dark memories that would be difficult to shake. Perhaps, when this was all over, she’d sell it and move into the city. Or maybe it was time to leave altogether. Perhaps a new city, a new job, maybe even a new name. Somewhere far from the Shallows.

  “Enough already with the ‘thanks,’” Sammy said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as it takes to catch this asshole.”

  “I was talking to your old man.” Kaitlyn shifted in the beanbag and laughed. It was good to laugh again. When had she done it last? Perhaps a few weeks ago. Maybe the morning Brad proposed. The memory struck her hard and hurt like hell. She wiped a tear away from her eye, hoping Sammy and Zeek didn’t notice. Taking another long sip from her Corona, Kaitlyn forced a smile.

  “Sam’s right. Stay as long as you need to,” Zeek said.

  His words were reassuring. She wasn’t planning to stay long, even if Brad’s killer wasn’t caught. She didn’t want to place her friends in any more danger than she already had. But for a few nights, she could sleep soundly.

  With the television on, Kaitlyn sank deeper into the bean bag. The soft corduroy fabric cradled her body. They watched the evening news, then Jeopardy. Zeek and Sammy competed to see who could shout out the question to each answer first. Neither of them got many correct, but it was fun to watch the effort. After Final Jeopardy, Kaitlyn struggled out of the bean bag and got to her feet.

  “Gonna take a shower. Then crash for the night,” she said.

  Sammy scrambled up from the sofa and gave her a tight hug. “Good night. You’ll get through this.”

  The apartment’s spare bedroom was at the end of the hall. Like everything else, it was small, almost claustrophobic. The full-size bed was pushed against the wall. Kaitlyn’s suitcase rested atop the floral comforter. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off her shoes. The weeks of lackluster sleep were catching up to her. Exhaustion had overrun her body days ago and she’d been running on adrenaline ever since. She was tempted to fall back on the bed and go straight to sleep, but she wanted to shower first. She forced herself up, grabbed underwear, shorts and a T-shirt from the suitcase, and moved up the hall to the bathroom.