by Zach Lamb
“Or they just forgot to lock up.”
“Perhaps. Speaking of which, you did not leave your door unlocked, so I did have to break in. And for that, I am sorry. This is a first for me. It goes against my morals, but you’re the only one I could talk to about my problem. However, I’ll make a deal with you. If you do a good job with the article, I promise I will have the window and screen replaced for you.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have somebody take care of it.”
The words rolled around in Morgan’s mouth. They tasted acrid, like she hadn’t brushed her teeth in days. They sounded too nonchalant, as if she were having a conversation with a friend and they offered to do something for her as a way of being polite, and she was returning the politeness with a “hey, don’t worry about it, pal.” She didn’t want to give the impression that she was getting comfortable with the guy. She was tired and trying to show this man that she was not as terrified and shaking as she was on the inside.
He walked to the counter, put a bagel in the toaster and stood above the appliance like he wanted to intimidate it to cook faster. The stare down made Morgan feel uncomfortable, and she adjusted herself in the seat. His head snapped up, and he looked at her over his shoulder from the corner of his eye. When he was satisfied she hadn’t moved in a threatening motion toward him, he looked back to the toaster in time for it to pop up the browned bread. He threw the two halves on a plate and sat down at the table and spread cream cheese on both sides. He took a bite from his half and slid the other across the table to Morgan. She didn’t pay attention to the bagel. All she could focus on was the knife lying on the table less than a foot away from her.
“It’s the least I can do really,” he said, finally breaking the silence.
His smile swam behind the mouth opening of the mask he wore. He wanted to continue the guise of a friendly conversation, and it disgusted her even more. She needed to bring the conversation back to him so she could hurry up and hopefully, he would leave, but he didn’t seem to be in too big of a hurry.
“You said they wanted to die, and you were assisting them. Does that mean you see yourself as some new age Kevorkian? Is that why you leave a fake suicide note?
“Yes, thank you for bringing us back on topic. Definitely don’t see myself as a Kevorkian rip-off, but he did do good work. The notes are just a signature.”
“Why sign them with an N or is it a lightning bolt?” she asked and held the notebook for him to see.
“So you have heard about the case? Guess even the Crystal Valley police department has its leaks. As for the signature, my fans are going to be a little disappointed. It doesn’t mean anything. I saw it drawn somewhere, or it is on a logo or something.”
“Your fans? Why do you think you would have any fans for killing innocent women?”
She asked it, but she knew it was a stupid question. All of these insane people develop a following, but it’s usually after they are caught and paraded on the TV and make outlandish claims while on trial. Once in prison, the groupies come out, some people even end up getting married while incarcerated. It made her sick every time she saw a story like that. But this guy was different. He wanted the adoring fans now. He sounded arrogant enough to believe they would never catch him.
“Every serial killer gets a fan club. Well, at least the charismatic and good-looking ones do. And they all have books written about them. Even the ugly ones. The books about me will be different because I will never be caught. I’ll have rows of them like the Zodiac killer. All of those books written about him are all just speculation. One of the authors got caught making shit up about who he thought it was, and his books still sell. Hell, I’ve read them.”
“That doesn’t bother you to think if you were never caught your whole story would never be told? That everything written about you could be a lie. That would kind of tarnish your legacy, right?”
He draped his arm on the top of the chair to his left and put his foot in the chair to his right. He was comfortable around her. She wanted to use it against him, but there wasn’t anything she could say or do to him to worry him.
“I see what you’re saying, in a sense. But all of that true crime stuff is bullshit to a certain extent. Even the ones interviewed for the books probably made most of it up. It’s part of the game of infamy. On the other hand, it is also the story that they want to be told about them. There is a dichotomy in everybody. Even people who society would label as normal have a separation between what is perceived and what is. To answer your question though, if a writer made up stuff like giving the credit of everything I did to some loser who he thought was the perfect suspect, I would have no choice but to kill the writer. Probably after I killed his suspect, though. So that he would feel a little humiliation before I killed him. I almost wish that would happen just so I can do it.”
Morgan sat back and let his words sink in. She agreed that everybody had an internal contradiction that they lived with every day. Everybody thought they were more than who they actually were. Especially this guy. Too many times this paradox creates a sense of entitlement within the person. She didn’t think people should accept their lot in life. They should try to achieve as much success as they want, but they should also know where they are so they can make their situation better. Not assume somebody should give it to them because they want it. His words were starting to seep into her mind, and she hated herself for allowing it to happen. She wished he would finish spewing his garbage and leave her alone.
“That’s one way of looking at it,” she said.
“It’s a pretty accurate picture, and I think you know it too.”
“There is one thing that those serial killers have that you don’t.”
“Oh, really? And what’s that?”
He sat up in a fast, fluid motion. Not as a threat to her, but as if he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. She kept her hands together on the table. The knife still lay inches away from her fingertips. Since he left it on the table, she tried to not look at it so he wouldn’t catch her and move it. But now, it looked like the blade was reflecting all the light from the room toward her, mocking her. She stretched her fingers out and retracted them.
“A name. All of them have a name. The media usually gives it to them, so I guess you’ll be getting yours later. Once they know you exist. Too bad you won’t have one for the article title.”
“Scary,” he said, and laughed. “I was just thinking the exact same thing. Great minds and all.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
He slid up in the chair and rested his face on his hands.
“You never know, someday, maybe. Anyway, I was thinking about that, and I didn’t want to leave it up to the media to use some generic name. I mean, come on, how many Rippers and Butchers and Stranglers do we need, really?”
“So what do you want to call yourself then?”
He paused and seemed to be thinking it over, but she knew he had a name in mind already.
“I was thinking about The Suicide Killer. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“It sounds oxymoronic to me.”
“Hmm. I guess it does. But I still like the sound of it,” he said, looking off like he was lost in thought. “Tell me something. Have you ever wanted to kill anybody? I don’t mean the way everybody says that they would so they can to prove how mad they are at somebody. No, I mean really want to take somebody’s life.”
The Suicide Killer had a ring to it and all the news outlets would eat it up. Given his M.O., it made sense, but it was enough of a contradiction to make people pay attention and want to read or hear more about him. Almost like a marketing ploy. Maybe he had marketing in his background.
“No.”
“Seriously? You wouldn’t like to find that miserable piece of trash who took your sister away from you and jab a knife through his heart or perhaps something a bit more creative?
“No. That’s what the police and judicial system are for.�
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“Wow, that is without a doubt the lamest answer you could have given me. The ‘police and judicial system’ you believe in has let you down. They still haven’t found her killer. I bet I could find him and take him out before Detective Burns even looks at the case again.”
Morgan looked past him and stared at the wall. She knew her answer was a horrible lie. She would love nothing more than to see the man responsible for her sister’s horrific death suffer. But this guy didn’t need to believe she was anything like him. If he was feeling like an outsider, and she made him believe they were on the same wavelength, it would help him justify his actions. She hated the way he was making her feel. She wanted to grab the knife and jump across the table and take him out for all the people he killed or would potentially kill.
“You look like you’re thinking about it,” he said. Morgan only shook her head. “I would do that for you. If you’d like.”
She looked directly at his lonely dark eyes. “No,” she said, and sat back in her chair.
He threw his hands up in mock surrender.
“Okay, no worries. I thought I felt a connection and was trying to take our relationship to the next level,” he said, and laughed.
She gave a tip-lipped smile and scrunched her eyes. He looked at her for a beat, pushed away from the table, and swept his crumbs from the surface onto his plate, then grabbed hers. Morgan watched the knife, hoping he wasn’t going to pick it up next. When he started to turn his back without it, she relaxed. He stopped midway to the sink. She knew he was going to turn around and grab the knife, but he hesitated and launched into a sneezing fit. She counted six sneezes in a row before he finally stopped.
“Excuse me. This damn mask is driving me crazy,” he said.
“You could take it off.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t want me to do that.”
“Why? Are you disfigured or something? Scared I’ll turn away and reject you?”
He let out a booming laugh she had not expected.
“Now, that’s funny. But you watch too many movies. If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you. And that would be no good. Cause then who would write my story? I picked you because you were damaged, that way I could try to help you. But, if you want to write that I threatened to slice your face off and use it as a mask like they did in those movies, be my guest. That would sell some papers, I guarantee.”
He scraped her uneaten bagel into the trashcan, and the thought of him peeling her face from her skull and parading around the house flashed in her mind. She shivered as he walked to the kitchen sink. He was talking to her, but she had turned her focus back to the knife and what she could do with it. The words sounded fuzzy and far away.
She leaned forward, and her hand hovered above the handle. He still had his back to her, while he rinsed the dishes off. Morgan had to react now or risk doing nothing. Keeping the mask on made her feel safe, although he might kill her after his story runs.
Her chair screeched on the floor as she went to stand, but he didn’t seem to notice over the sound of the running water. She walked on the balls of her feet with the knife poised above her head, ready to strike. She quickly closed the gap between her and the killer and plunged the knife down as he turned to face her.
Everything moved in slow motion. She could see the fear in his eyes when he turned, and she was on top of him. The fear changed to something like anger or hatred as he threw his left arm up, hitting her descending forearm, the knife inches away from the soft spot on this collarbone.
Morgan was focused on the near miss and tried to force her arm down further. She did not see his right fist cross toward her face. Blue spots with white tracers filled her eyesight, and the knife fell from her hands. The clanking sounded louder than it should have when it hit the floor. It sounded like failure and certain death. She stumbled back, falling hard on the tile floor.
He grabbed her by her hair and slid her against the cabinets. A new spark of color flooded her eyes as the back of her head hit the dense wood. He scraped the knife’s blade across the tile as he picked it up and pressed the point of the blade at her throat.
“And you said you never thought of killing anybody before. Sure as hell didn’t stop you from taking a swipe at me. I guess you need the anger there to feed that instinct. I’m sorry I had to mangle that pretty face of yours, but you did try to kill me.”
“Don’t kill me, please,” was all she could muster.
Tears ran down her face. She wasn’t crying at the thought of death. She was crying because her one chance to save herself went wrong and now she was waiting for him to end her life. Memories of her sister’s funeral came to mind. There must have been over three-hundred people who showed up, all dressed in black. There wouldn’t be near that many people show up to hers. Amanda had always been the outgoing one. Morgan was the quiet introvert who everybody treated differently because she was a journalist. It was like they thought she would write something about their mundane lives or maybe overhear their salacious secrets and print those. People were so self-centered, like anything they did would be newsworthy to other people.
“Aw, don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. You still have to write that piece on me. It’s getting late, so I should probably be going. Don’t worry. I know it won’t be in tomorrow’s issue, but I fully expect to see it in the next days or else, you know?” He made a sweeping motion across his throat, using his thumb as the blade and made a sickening ripping sound with his mouth. “With your mother, and all that.” Then he laughed.
Morgan tried not to look in his direction as he spoke. He walked to the back door and stepped outside. The breath she held for too long burst from her mouth. He stuck his head back through the door, and her breath caught again.
“You know, earlier I had you pegged as a runner, not a fighter. I left the door unlocked to see if you would try. You surprised me tonight. I didn’t think you had it in you. Thanks for the hospitality. I’m leaving now. Good night and sweet dreams,” he said, and closed the door.
Morgan slid to the floor. The pent-up tears flowed. She could no longer stop them, nor did she want to. She lay on the floor until she finally fell asleep. Dark and twisted nightmares awaited her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Greg woke up alone. These last few days were the longest he had slept without his wife since before they got married twelve years ago. The first couple of nights hadn’t been so hard, but now, waking up without her by his side and one or both of the kids already awake and running around the house or terrorizing the cat, left him feeling empty and alone. His muscles ached as he rolled out of bed. He checked his cell phone for any calls he may have missed and then stumbled into the shower. The direct blast of cold water shocked his senses before it warmed and relaxed him. Stress and tension from the cases piling up on him were starting to take their toll as well, but the largest burden came from being in contact with the killer.
Not that the conversations were especially trying, but he had not told anybody about the phone calls, not even Don knew about them. He should have told everybody after the first call. There was a part of him that wanted to and then another part of him that wanted to keep it a secret so he could use it to catch the guy and then he could take the credit. It wasn’t an ego trip; he needed to prove to himself that he could still do it. When he was unable to solve Amanda Cramer’s murder, his ego did take a hit, but the perp didn’t leave any incriminating evidence and as far as anybody knew, never committed another crime. Greg would still pull out the case from time to time and look over it to see if he had missed anything. He never found anything new. Neither did any of the other detectives who he asked to look at it.
The Cramer case started a three-year trend of backed up case logs. A lot of those remained unsolved. They say everything comes in threes. There were more than three cases, but Greg hoped his bad streak would end after three years, and he needed this case to be the one to end it all. If anybody found out about the phone calls, at the least th
ey would suspend him for a while and possibly demote him, and at worst they would fire him. He would never be able to work in law enforcement again if that happened. Nobody would want to hire a washed up detective who hid potential evidence from the department. He dressed and contemplated all of his decisions. If he called Don and confessed all of his sins, maybe they could still work everything out and catch the guy. Maybe he wouldn’t lose his badge in the process. Risks weighed, he went with option one and put the phone in his pocket.
Shelly cooked breakfast for him every morning before he went to work. She would cook bacon and eggs with a side of toast, and on special occasions, she would make him waffles or French toast. He thought about his morning rituals as he stirred his lumpy oatmeal. He missed his family and their routine. Tomorrow he would switch to cereal. The cold breakfast congealed around his spoon, and he picked the entire bowl up with his spoon. He walked to the sink and washed what he could down the sink. Water ran down the drain, and he flipped the switch to turn on the disposal. The whirling blades cut up his gelatinous meal and pushed it on down the line. The sound of the spinning knives caused a moment of clarity in the hazy mood he found himself in.
The last time he spoke to the killer, he said he was where it all began. Greg thought he was talking about Rachel Martin’s house. But he wasn’t. He was where the police found Emily. Greg reached for the notebook he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket, but it wasn’t there. Thoughts of the killer breaking into his house and walking around while Greg slept ran through his mind. The alarm keypad beside the door still read armed. He ran up the stairs to his office and found the notebook lying open on his desk. He must have left it in there last night when he was going over everything for the thousandth time before he finally forced himself to go to bed.
By now Greg had memorized all of his notes on the killer, but the dead girl in the woods had never been part of the case. He flipped through the book and found the girl’s name. It was Emily. When the killer said he wasn’t at the Martin house, Greg hadn’t given much thought about who Emily was. The day in Rusted Lakes Park came back to him now. Police found the missing girl with slit wrists deep in the park woods. The boyfriend made the call about her disappearance when he found her abandoned car. He was an asshole, but he couldn’t be the killer, he was too emotional and stupid to stage a scene like that. Anything would push that guy over the edge. If he were mad enough to kill, they would be looking at a bloody crime of passion. For the most part, the guy Greg was looking for remained calm and restrained.