The Suicide Killer

by Zach Lamb

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Look, I—”

  “You can’t go yet. Don’t you want to know what I have been up to?”

  Greg didn’t know where to go, but found himself on Morgan’s street again.

  “Yeah, I do, but I didn’t think you would be that forthcoming about it.”

  “All you had to do was ask. When you first called me, I was sitting in the grocery store parking lot.”

  The closest grocery store was two miles away. Greg punched the gas and hoped he wasn’t too late.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was waiting for somebody.”

  Greg’s stomach turned and soured. He didn’t call him while he was on a smoke break. He called him while he was stalking his next victim. But he didn’t typically follow his victims first. Or did he? The only information he ever had on how he selected his victims came directly from him, and he could have been lying.

  “Imagine my surprise when I happened to be getting gas, and she pulled up.”

  Horns blared as Greg ran a four-way stop sign.

  “When who pulled up?”

  He didn’t acknowledge Greg and continued talking.

  “We exchanged pleasantries at the pump and then she went to a yoga studio down the street. It took an hour, but she finally came out.”

  The woman sounded familiar to Greg, but it couldn’t be her. She should have been at her mother’s. His foot hesitated on the gas.

  “What have you done, you son of a bitch?”

  “Whoa, Detective. I haven’t done anything. She was in the grocery store while we were talking. I was surprised she was back in town.”

  “Leave her out of this,” Greg yelled into the phone.

  He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and headed to his house.

  “That’s too late. I’m at her house now, watching her walk back and forth from her car to the house unloading the groceries. Everybody eats well in this house. I thought about getting out and asking if she needed any help, but it’s hot out here. I think I’ll wait until she’s finished. Do you think she’ll leave the door unlocked for me, Detective?”

  “If you hurt her, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you,” Greg said between clenched teeth.

  “It’s touching that you care about your partner that much.”

  “Go to hell,” Greg said, and threw the phone into the floorboard.

  It seemed like everybody in town was out today, and they all wanted to drive as slow as they could. He swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic to pass the cars going below the speed limit. Why was she back in town? She shouldn’t have come home until he told her it was safe. It didn’t make any sense for her to be home and go to yoga. He understood the grocery shopping. There hadn’t been food in the house in days. The killer didn’t say anything about the kids. Were they with her or did she leave them at her mother’s house? He hadn’t been hostile toward his kids before, but he never knew what could change his mind.

  Greg tucked back into his lane, and the car in front of him pulled over and stopped their car. He blew through two red lights without slowing down to check for traffic crossing from the side roads. He prayed he wasn’t too late as he fishtailed onto his road.

  The engine revved, and he pushed the pedal to the floor again. He slammed on breaks in front of his neighbor’s house and jumped the curb, landing in his front yard. The tires hit the soft grass and ripped it from its roots. When the car finally came to a stop, two deep moats ran across his front yard.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “That was a little rude,” Bobby said to himself and put his phone in the center console. “Time to go to work.”

  He looked around the neighborhood and pulled his mask down over his face. It was hot outside, and the sweat formed before he stepped outside of his vehicle. The only other time he had worn a mask was when he was at Morgan’s house for the interview. He didn’t want to wear it now, but this was the first time he’d attempted anything during the middle of the day. He checked the streets again and slipped out of his car. Two doors down, he doubled back, crossed the street and ducked behind the minivan. He picked up the newspaper behind the rear tire and skipped up to the house. The doorknob turned freely in his hand. It was unlocked.

  “I guess you do need my help.”

  A rush of cold air blew through the holes in his mask as he entered the house. He pulled the mask off and checked himself in the mirror. Cabinet doors slammed in the back of the house. Bobby walked into the living room. A TV hung above the fireplace, flanked on both sides by built-in bookcases full of picture frames. Wedding and vacation pictures of the happy wife and tolerating husband lined the shelves. A dust-covered piano sat in front of French doors that looked out over the well-manicured backyard. Bobby ran his fingers across the keys and wished he could at least play the famous part of Beethoven’s fifth. That would make an excellent entrance in the middle of the night. Dun, dun, duh dun sounded like Death creeping through the house and announcing you’re, go—ing, to die. Dun, dun, duh dun. He would have to look into that later.

  Bobby stopped at the foot of the stairs and propped his foot on the edge of the banister. The cabinets continued to open and close; he still had time. He ran up the stairs and opened the first door he came to. It was the master bedroom with a king size bed in the middle of the wall, making it look smaller than it actually was. Bobby fell onto the comforter and looked at the crowded walls. Paintings of flowers hung on each wall, accompanied by more photos of the detective and his wife. He went back into the hall and opened the next door. It was an office containing two small desks. One was messy, littered with papers, and a row of used coffee cups. The other neat. Paper sat stacked with the edges squared, and a cup full of pens organized by color sat at the right corner. Bobby didn’t need to guess which desk belonged to whom.

  He closed the door and walked to the last room on the floor. The door stuck in the jamb and Bobby had to use a little more force to open it. Dusty air hit him as he stepped in. Nobody had been in this room for a long time. Two of the walls were painted a pastoral green, and the opposite two were painted a pale yellow. Bobby twirled the safari animal mobile that hung above the white crib. A stuffed lion ready to pounce on a giraffe sat on the dresser. The only other furniture was a changing table and rocking chair. Bobby picked up a small frame on the dresser and wiped away the dust concealing the printout of an ultrasound. He put the frame down and walked out. Apparently, he wasn’t the only person with a closed off vault in his house.

  In the hallway, he could smell food, but couldn’t tell what she was making for him. He followed the scent and light humming into the kitchen. She stood at the stove with her back to him. Bobby didn’t know the song she hummed, but he had heard it many times on the horrible pop radio station they have to play at all times in the coffee shop.

  “I brought the paper in for you,” Bobby said, throwing it high in the air so it would make a loud snap when it landed on the table.

  Her body went rigid at the sound of his voice. She turned around and backed up against the stove, burning her hand on the red eye. Shock from the burn outweighed the intruder long enough for her to grab the nearest towel and wrap it around the scorched hand.

  “Who … who are you? What do you want from muh, muh … me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “Damn, that had to hurt. I’m Stephen, and I think it is what you need from me, not what I want from you.”

  Fear flashed in her eyes. He knew thoughts of his intentions must have flashed through her head. It would be interesting to know which she landed on.

  “My … my husband is a cop and is on his way home. You better leave before he gets here,” she yelled and moved to keep the rolling island between them.

  “I know who and what he is. I also know he’s not on his way home.”

  She began to cry and tried to outmaneuver him. Bobby stopped the island with one hand and rolled it across the kitchen. The island hit the wall and left a large gas
h in the drywall.

  “Stay away from me,” she yelled.

  She grabbed the pot on the stove and threw it at him. Bobby dove out of the way, and it hit the floor. Boiling spaghetti spattered the wall and kitchen table. She jumped in the hallway and headed for the front door, but Bobby circled around through the dining room and blocked her exit. Like the agile prey of a lion, she turned and headed up the stairs. Bobby shook his head and stomped on each stair.

  “You’re just prolonging the inevitable by hiding up here. I will find you. It’s too late to change your mind. You should have locked the door.”

  Bobby stalked down the hall and threw open the doors to all the rooms.

  “Come on, let’s make this easier for both of us.”

  He walked to the window at the end of the hallway and looked out. A child ran down the road after his friend, riding a bike, who left him behind, or maybe it was an older brother leaving the younger one behind because he wasn’t cool enough to play with the big kids. Bobby waited to see if the situation would play itself out.

  The pattering of small feet running toward him interrupted his observations. He turned in time to see the woman running in his direction with a pair of scissors in her hand. She raised them above her head as she barreled into him.

  The domestic daggers missed his head by inches and buried the blades in the wall. The weight of her body pushed Bobby into the window and shattered the glass. She backed up and drove her shoulder into his chest, trying to push him out the window. He buckled from the blow but managed to keep his balance.

  Time was running out for her, and she must have realized he would get the upper hand because she abruptly stopped fighting and turned to run away. Bobby leaped and grabbed her ankle and she stretched her arms out toward a small table, but could not reach it.

  He released her leg to readjust his grip, giving her the amount of space to reach the table. She picked up the vase sitting on the surface and swung it by the neck at his head. Bobby twisted to the side, and the vase struck his arm with a glancing blow and shattered on the floor. The drawer slid from the table, and she swung it, connecting with the side of his head. Starbursts of blue and green filled his vision. In an attempt to stop the spinning, he held the side of his head. Blood trickled down his temple and ran between his fingers.

  She ran down the stairs and collapsed against the front door, breathing hard. When she looked back, he was not at the top of the stairs. She twisted and fought with the doorknob, but it fought back, locked.

  “Unlike you, I always lock the door,” he said from the bottom of the stairs.

  She screamed and twisted the button to unlock the door. The lock clicked, but the door did not budge when she pulled it. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the floor against the foot of the stairs.

  “I lock the deadbolt too,” he said with a laugh.

  Bobby jumped on top of her, straddling her legs and holding her arms down. He pulled a small rope he made by tying two shoelaces together and tied her hands above her head to the banister. The pressure on her wrists caused her to scream, and she tried to wiggle loose. He lifted his shirt and pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt, and she stopped struggling.

  “Please. You don’t have to do this. Leave now and I won’t tell anybody you were here.”

  “Now we both know that’s not going to happen. You say it like you have the upper hand, and clearly …” he looked at her hands tie about her head, “it is I who has the upper hand.”

  The knife sliding against the leather sheath wasn’t quite as loud as the movies, but the sound still excited him. He slid the edge of the blade across her red face, and she squeezed her eyes tight. He moved the knife down, tracing her neck and the curve of her breasts. When he reached her waist, her eyes shot open.

  “No. No. Please don’t rape me. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t rape me,” she pleaded and burst into fresh tears.

  What kind of world was this lady living in? To think he would do something so vile and disgusting. There was a special place in hell for men like that, and Bobby hoped it was nowhere near his.

  “Shh. Be quiet now. Honey, I’m not going to rape you. I’m not a fucking monster.”

  Slight relief flashed in her eyes, and it perplexed him, again. How could he threaten this woman with a knife and rape still be her main fear?

  “Then what are you going to do to me?”

  “Oh, I’m going to kill you. But even I have some morals.”

  She screamed, and Bobby turned his knife sideways, plunging it between her ribs. All of his weight fell onto the knife and drove it in until her ribs stopped the handle. She gasped, and blood ran from her mouth as he felt her last heartbeats through the pulse of his knife.

  When she stopped breathing, he carried her up the stairs to the final door on the second floor. He sat her in the wicker rocking chair and placed her right hand on the handle of the knife. He placed his note on the changing table and left, locking the front door behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Greg spilled out of his car and closed the door softly. It wasn’t lost on him that his dramatic entrance alerted everybody in the neighborhood, not to mention anybody who may be in his house. Being quiet was a moot point now. He drew his gun and tripped his way across the gorges left by his lawn darting sedan and crashed into the railing of the front porch. Pain shot from his hip, up his spine.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned and watched for movement in the streets. Harold and Janice from two doors down watched him with the rapt attention of a couple watching their favorite detective show. Nothing happened in the subdivision without those two noticing. They even employed the neighborhood kids to ride their bikes and come back with recon. Aside from the two snoops, there was nothing else.

  An eerie lukewarm feeling wormed its way down his spine and unnerved Greg. There were no cars parked on the road that could be the killer’s, and worst of all, Shelly’s van was not in the driveway. He could have left his car down the road and taken her car with him. Did he take Shelly with him, or was Greg too late with Shelly inside with a mocking note? Why would she have come home? She didn’t say anything about coming home early when he talked to her last night.

  Greg pushed all thoughts from his head and opened the screen door. The keys to the house hung from the key ring in the car’s ignition. He held his breath and tried the door. It pushed open. A new surge of adrenaline poured through his body, and he ran into the house, preparing to shoot the first person he did not recognize. He wouldn’t give the son of a bitch the time to make any smart quips or talk to him long enough to distract him. Just pull the trigger and call it in, after he made sure the guy was no longer breathing.

  The house was quiet. Footsteps echoed through the house as Greg ran through all the rooms on the ground level; everything looked exactly as he left it this morning. He went upstairs, but nobody was there either. Greg was too late. The killer had taken her somewhere else. Maybe she was still alive. The killer took his daughter and brought her home safely. This was another scheme to scare the hell out of Greg. He walked out on the front porch and contemplated calling him and trying to reason with him. The killer never said anything about the kids. Greg needed to call their grandmother and make sure they were with her, and everything was all right.

  Harold and Janice stood beside the mailbox at the end of the driveway. They didn’t say anything to Greg. They only stared. Harold’s face looked like he wanted to find the right words, but ended up with a generic question.

  “Eva’thing ’ight, Mr. Burns?”

  Greg’s anger flared, and he prepared to unleash his wrath upon this nosy old man. They always knew what was going on and what didn’t look right. Why hadn’t they called the police? Greg attempted to calm himself enough to try and sound polite enough to get some information out of him.

  “No, Harold. It’s not ’ight.”

  “If there’s something me and Janice can do for ya, alls ya gotta do is ask and we’d be
happy to help.”

  Greg wanted to shoot Harold. What could they possibly do to help him catch a serial killer? Harold stood with his hands interlaced on his protruding stomach, while Janice tried to figure out what to do with her hands. Instead, she resided to straightening the nightgown that she wore for the majority of every day. Greg walked to his car and looked for his cell phone in the floorboard.

  “Have you happened to see any cars today that you didn’t recognize? Anything out of the ordinary?” Greg asked.

  “Naw, sir. Day’s been mighty quiet ’round heuh. The Smith’s down thar got uh delivery ’bout an hour ago. It was a couch. Ugly thang, mustard yella wid white polka dots. Janice here loved it. Said we should get one too. Told her not in my house.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Harold,” Greg said, and walked back to the front door.

  “It was an ugly thang. You should of seen it.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Harold.”

  Greg walked back into the house, and the old couple started down the road, probably so Janice could check out how the Smith’s new couch looked through the living room window. They hadn’t seen anything. If an unknown car had been sitting outside of anybody’s house in the middle of the day or Shelly had come home early they would have seen the cars. And they definitely would have seen a struggle if one took place. Greg pulled out his phone and called his wife.

  “Hello?”

  Greg choked.

  “Shell? Shell, baby, are you okay?”

  Tears ran down his face.

  “Of course I am. What’s happened? Are you okay, Greg? It sounds like you’re crying.”

  He wiped the tears from his face to conceal them from his wife on the other end of the phone.

  “I thought. I thought you came home and something happened to you.”

  “Why would you think that? I’m still at Mom’s. What happened?”

  All the deadly possibilities of what could have happened ran through his head.

  “Nothing. I just had a bad feeling, and I guess the more I thought about it, the realer it seemed. I love you. I’ve gotta go. Call you later.”