The Suicide Killer

by Zach Lamb

  “Okay, but I’m still worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise. Bye.”

  Fresh tears flooded his eyes before he hung up the phone. He wanted nothing more than to get in his car and drive to his mother-in-law’s house and hold his wife and kids, but he couldn’t. If Shelly wasn’t the target then who was? Was the killer just screwing with Greg while he sat with his feet kicked up in his living room somewhere or was he talking about somebody else and Greg missed it?

  Greg tried to remember what he could from his last conversation. They spoke about Morgan, but Greg had been in front of the house when he was watching the woman on the phone and Morgan hadn’t left her house in days. Roy left, and he was never on a phone while at the house. Then he talked about running into the woman at the gas station. He knew she had been out of town. When Greg told him he would kill him if he hurt her, the killer said it was touching that he cared about his partner that much.

  The killer had already convinced Greg that his target was Shelly, and she was the partner he was talking about, but he was wrong. The killer was talking about his work partner, Don. Don’s wife, Mary, had just gotten back from a cruise with her sisters. Greg’s stomach sank. He ran out of the house and got in his car. Muddy grass flew behind the rear tires and covered the neighbors yard. The rear tires spun, couldn’t find traction.

  Greg let off the gas pedal, jammed it down again, and the tires bit. The car bounced over the curb, throwing dirt in all directions, in front of Harold and Janice. They turned and headed back to the Smith’s house as Greg spun tires out of the subdivision. Greg was ten minutes away from Don’s house, but he could make it in five if everybody would get out of his way. He slowed enough to look for Don’s name in his phone.

  “Did you get any information out of her?” Don asked, answering the phone.

  Don never got worried about the formalities of how to answer a phone. If he knew the number that was calling, he would go straight into having a conversation. Greg hated when he did that. It was Don’s way of controlling the conversation and showing the caller that he was the one in charge.

  “Don, you have got to get to your house right now. Mary is in danger.”

  “What? Greg, I don’t have time for your shit right now. Do you have anything or not?”

  Greg shot through a gas station parking lot to avoid the line at the stop sign.

  “Yeah, I have information that the killer is probably already at your house. So quit giving me your shit, and get everybody to your house now,” Greg yelled into the phone.

  “Shit,” was the only response Greg got before the line went dead.

  He meandered through the slower traffic. Don’s house was still a few minutes away. If they were too late to save Mary, it would be all Greg’s fault. He would not forgive himself if she died because he didn’t pay attention to what the killer said. It was natural for him to assume he was talking about Shelly and went straight home.

  There would be no coming back from this. The killer’s escalation would be more than he could handle on his own. Maybe more than the entire Crystal Valley Police Department could handle. He swung into the Ivory Crest subdivision on two wheels. Don lived in an upscale neighborhood. The only police activity they ever saw was Don’s unmarked car coming and going from work. Greg pulled into Ivory Crest Court. Police cruisers and nervous onlookers already filled the cul-de-sac. It didn’t look like anybody had been inside the house yet. Greg jumped from his car.

  “Has anybody been in the house yet?”

  The closest uniformed officer walked up to him.

  “No, Sir. Detective Murphy instructed us to stay outside until he arrived. We have somebody on all sides of the house. Nobody is getting out.”

  “Screw that. What if he already left? Follow me.”

  Greg ran up to the front door and tried the knob, but it was locked. He stepped back and kicked the door. The sound of splintering wood echoed under the porch, but the door barely moved. He reared back and kicked the door three more times before it gave way.

  “You three search down here while me and this guy go upstairs.”

  “Barnes, Sir.”

  “Whatever. We can introduce ourselves if this goes well,” Greg said, and stormed the stairs.

  It was warmer on the second floor. Greg pointed Barnes to the master bedroom and continued down the hall. Shouts of “clear” rang through the house from the officers downstairs. Greg walked to the broken window at the end of the hall and looked out. He only saw pieces of broken glass glinting in the sunlight.

  The door to Greg’s left was the nursery. Don and Mary painted and decorated the spare room five years ago when they found out she was pregnant. That was the happiest Greg could ever remember seeing Don. For seven months, that is all Don would talk about. When he found out he was having a boy, it pushed the proud father over the edge with excitement. Nothing could bring him down from his high.

  On a late night in July, Mary started bleeding, and it wouldn’t stop. Don rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. The baby came early and was stillborn. Don was never the same after that; he felt screwed over by life. They were afraid to try to have another child and decided it wasn’t in the cards for them and started traveling. They talked about traveling later in life when their son moved out and they both retired, but with nothing keeping them home, they spent every vacation day they had checking destinations off their bucket list.

  Greg turned the handle and eased the door open. Mary sat in a rocking chair with her hand still clinging to the knife buried in her chest. Greg dropped his gun and stumbled to Mary’s body and felt for a pulse. Officer Barnes walked into the room.

  “Dispatch, I need an ambulance at 17 Ivory Crest Court.”

  “There’s no need. She’s already gone. We need the crime scene group and the coroner,” Greg said. Barnes hesitated and stepped into the hallway.

  “Mary. Mary, where are you?” came from the front door.

  It was Don. Greg heard thunder coming up the stairs and stepped into the doorway.

  “Where is she, Greg? Is she okay?” Don asked, but it was all over Greg’s face.

  There was no hiding it or breaking it gently. Mary was dead. Don walked toward to nursery and Greg stepped out, blocking the entrance as best he could.

  “Don, you don’t want to go in there.”

  “Mary. Mary,” Don yelled, trying to see past Greg.

  “She’s gone, Don. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “No, you’re wrong. Now get out of my way, or I will move you out of my way.”

  Greg half stepped to the side so Don could see into the room, but he was still barring Don from freely walking in.

  “No, no, Mary. It can’t be her,” Don said, and pushed past Greg.

  A roar of anguish filled the house. Don walked to Mary on shaky knees and placed both hands on her shoulders. He pulled her hand from the knife and buried his face in her neck and sobbed. When he finally stood, he held her head in his giant hands.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mary,” he said.

  Greg watched from outside the door. He didn’t know where to begin on trying to comfort Don. Nothing he could say could ever help. Don saw the note on the changing table and picked it up.

  “Life is a beautiful thing that I no longer see. I have surrounded myself with memories that I can no longer fight. I want to be part of the memories. I will see you in the end. Love, N.”

  Don’s body convulsed as another wave of pain and tears wracked his body and he fell to his knees. He looked up at the ceiling and seemed to be listening for an answer from a God he swore off five years ago in the same room. Paramedics ran into the room. When they realized there was nothing they could do for the woman, they attended to the man of the floor. Don pushed their prying hands away.

  “How? Greg, how did you know?”

  “I … uh. I was told.”

  “You were told?” Don forced himself up from his knees. “Were you told by that
reporter? Has she known that he was going to kill my wife? I’m going over there right now,” he said, and headed for the door. Greg stepped in his way.

  “No, Don. It wasn’t Morgan who told me.”

  Don stopped with Greg’s hand gently pushing against his chest. If he didn’t calm down, he would have a heart attack.

  “Then who was it, Greg? You called me and told me to get home. Somebody told you.”

  “It was him,” Greg said, and looked at the floor. “It was the killer. I talked to him on the phone.”

  “You talked to him? He called you and told you he was going to kill my wife?”

  “I talked to him, and he said that he was following somebody and I thought he was talking about Shelly and I went home, and she wasn’t there.”

  Greg was not going to volunteer that he was the one who called the killer. This would be bad enough without going into every last detail.

  “And then you realized he was talking about my wife, not yours. And you didn’t think to call anybody to let them know on the off chance that you were wrong?”

  “I didn’t think I was wrong. You would have done the same thing in my place.”

  “Bullshit. You’re always going off on your own. How many times have you talked to him?”

  Greg didn’t answer. He only looked into Don’s hurting eyes. He was lashing out, looking for anybody to blame, and the person who was at fault stood between him and the door.

  “You’ve talked to him more than just once? How long have you been talking to him?” Don yelled and grabbed Greg by his jacket. Greg didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to, Don could tell from the way he was looking at him it had been a while.

  “Since the Cline girl?”

  Greg continued to look at Don, longing for him to drop his line of questioning.

  “The Martin case?”

  Greg looked away from Don.

  “Jesus. You’ve talked to him since the very beginning.”

  “Look, Don. I can explain. He got my number from my card in her house. He wanted to rub it in my face. He never said anything worth a damn. If he had, I would have told you.”

  “You mother—” Don started and punched Greg in the mouth before he finished.

  Greg fell to the floor. All the officers on the second floor stopped averting their eyes and watched. Greg deserved to get hit, but they would only allow the fight to go so far. They moved toward the two detectives as Don stood over Greg.

  “I’m not going to hit this piece of shit again, don’t worry about it,” Don said to the circling cops and then looked back down at Greg and pointed at him. “Mary is dead because of you. The Cline girl is dead because of you. You need to get the hell out of my house right now. I wouldn’t worry about the case anymore. You’re finished. When I get done talking to the Captain, the only call you’ll be getting is for your badge.”

  Greg got up off the ground and wiped the blood from his lip.

  “Don, look. I know you’re upset, but come on. We’ve been through too much. Let’s catch this asshole together.”

  “I’m going to walk back into that room with my dead wife. If I come back out and you’re still here, I promise, I will shoot you,” Don said, and walked away.

  Greg looked around at the other officers, and they all turned their backs to him. That was it. A jury of fellow officers listened and judged him guilty of all charges. There was nothing left for him to say or do. Greg picked up his gun, and the officers moved their hands to the butts of their guns.

  Greg holstered it, and they relaxed and parted as he walked toward the stairs. He didn’t know why they would think he might use his gun. Don was the one who threatened him. He walked outside, and the heat enveloped him, but it was welcome from the cold he’d been in. He walked with heavy feet to his car and looked around at the growing crowd of neighbors and news stations. There was nobody at the house representing the newspaper. Apparently, Morgan had not gotten over recent events and decided to sit this one out. He wished he could have stayed on the bench too. There was only one place he belonged now. He headed to his mother-in-law’s house. Don was right, he would never work another case again. He needed to see his family. Seeing their smiling faces would show him he hadn’t lost everything. Don was the one who would feel that kind of loss tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The other side of the bed was cool where Shelly had been sleeping last night. Greg rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was 11:47. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in that late. After he left Don’s house, he rode around town aimlessly. He didn’t want to face Shelly and have to tell her somebody killed Mary. They had been friends as long as he and Don had been partners. He especially didn’t want to tell her it was his fault she died.

  Instead, he drove and stopped at a bar and had a few rounds with the town drunk in Hawthorne County where Shelly’s mother lived. When he left the bar, he tried calling The Suicide Killer back. He was going to call him out and tell him to meet him somewhere, and then Greg was going to kill him. But he didn’t answer. Not even a serial killer wanted to talk to Greg now. By the time Greg arrived, Shelly already knew. She was still red faced when he walked into the living room, but was void of tears. He sat with her and held her close as a new wave of tears overtook her. Greg cried with her.

  Don had called to let her know, but he didn’t tell her Greg could have prevented it, he only told her to tell Greg to call the station if she heard from him. Don would let Greg tell Shelly why her friend was dead. Greg didn’t tell her anything. He turned his phone off and held her. When they laid down to go to bed, Shelly cried herself to sleep, and Greg listened, helpless. Shelly was asleep for a few hours before Greg finally fell asleep from mental exhaustion.

  Greg walked into the kitchen. Shelly sat at the table in her pajamas, her right leg tucked under her, staring at an untouched cup of coffee. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, and a greasy ponytail lay flat against her head. The sight of Shelly startled him. She always took the time to get ready. The last time he remembered her falling apart like this was when her father died ten years prior. Greg hoped she wouldn’t stay in this state as long as she had with her dad and immediately felt ashamed and wouldn’t look at her for fear she would know what he was thinking.

  “Why does Don keep calling trying to find you?” she asked without looking up.

  “I don’t know. He probably wants me to come in and help with the case.”

  “Why did you turn your phone off and come out here?”

  Shelly was suspicious. It wasn’t like Greg to run away from a case, and he definitely wouldn’t be running from a case involving a friend. He needed to figure out what he was going to do to find The Suicide Killer and leave before she asked more questions.

  “Because, when I saw Mary, all I wanted to do was be alone with my family.”

  He put his hand on hers. Hope walked into the kitchen and jumped in Greg’s lap.

  “Morning, Daddy. Why did you come to Grandma’s house? I thought you were working hard.”

  “Good morning, angel. I have been working hard. And I was missing you so much, I decided to drop everything and come see you.”

  “I miss you too, Daddy,” Hope said, and sneezed twice.

  “Whoa. Those were some big sneezes from such a little girl. Almost a serial sneezer.”

  “I’m not little. Mommy says it’s all the pollen, but I haven’t sneezed that big before. Maybe I’m allergic to you, Daddy,” Hope said, pulling away in feigned disgust.

  “Yeah, maybe you are,” Greg said, half paying attention to his daughter.

  The only thing Morgan could tell Greg about the killer was the sneezing fit he had. She told him as he walked out the door and he brushed it off as inconsequential, but it wasn’t. When Greg interviewed the barista, he remembered him sneezing six times in a row. The barista had served the guy and given a description, but it was all an attempt to misdirect Greg, and it worked. Greg’s body tingled all over like it
had fallen asleep. He put his daughter down and stood.

  “What’s the matter, Daddy?”

  “Nothing, Hope, honey. I’m fine. I just started feeling a little sick.”

  “Yuck. Don’t throw up on me,” Hope said, and fled from the room.

  A concerned look crossed Shelly’s face. Greg stumbled to the sink. It was his fault. He knew the killer the entire time. If he’d been paying attention, he could have saved lives and his career. Instead, he played stupid mind games with a killer, and Mary was dead. Everybody would find out he could have stopped it. He would never keep his job and would probably have to move his family away from Crystal Valley. Unless maybe he could track down the barista and stop him. Perhaps he could somehow save his job. He thought about calling Don and felt his cell phone in his pocket through his pants. Even if Don did answer, he wouldn’t give Greg a chance to speak. He would yell and scream and tell him to get downtown because the chief wanted to fire him in person. Shelly’s death was on Greg alone, and alone he needed to rectify the situation. They would probably still fire him, but maybe he could hold on to some dignity in the process.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he finally said, more to his reflection in the window above the sink than to anybody else.

  “Go where?”

  “I know who he is. I know who killed Mary and all the other women.”

  “Don’t you need to call Don or somebody?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll call on the way back into town,” he said, and ran out the door.

  He didn’t intend on calling anybody. There would be time to explain everything to her later. But for now, he had a twenty-minute ride to figure out how he was going to handle the situation.

  Greg parked his car down the road from the coffee shop. He was close enough to tell who was coming and going, but far enough away that nobody should notice him watching. The entire ride back to town he contemplated what he was going to do, and this was all he came up with. Sit outside where he works until he shows up. The rest of the time he thought of ways to drain the life from him as slowly as possible.