1 Twisted Perception

by Bob Avey

  The mop handle crashed to the floor as Elliot took a step back, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. It was not a classroom, but a closet for supplies. Elliot scolded himself for letting such an innocuous event scare the wits out of him. He continued his journey, the hallway darkening as he put distance between himself and the windows lining the front portion of the building. He stopped more than once, listening to the imagined sounds of someone sneaking up behind him, only to turn around and see nothing.

  When Elliot came to a double doorway, he stopped and looked into the darkness of an auditorium. He hesitated then walked slowly down the slanted aisle, looking between rows of folding seats. Upon reaching the last row, he paused to consider the stage hidden behind a heavy curtain, like in an old-fashioned theatre. Elliot imagined walking up to the booth, a circular glassed-in cage beneath a triangular marquee, and purchasing tickets for a weekend matinee, like he and Carmen had done when they were young.

  A set of stairs led to the stage. Elliot went up, one step at a time then ducked behind the curtain, his flashlight penetrating only a small portion of the black void at which it was pointed. An old piano sat near the front of the stage. Toward the back was a podium surrounded by stacks of boxes. Elliot searched the area but found nothing. Pushing the curtain aside, he went down the small set of stairs and walked back up the aisle, returning to the hallway outside the auditorium where he continued, walking deeper into the school.

  When he came to another room, Elliot held the flashlight in his teeth and pulled the heavy wooden door open. He wedged his foot against it then transferred the flashlight back to his hand, holding both the flashlight and his weapon in front of him while he stepped inside. As the door closed behind him, it became much darker. Elliot grabbed a small chair and stuck it in the opening, propping the door open. He saw no one in the room, but it wasn’t empty. A wooden teacher’s desk, numerous smaller student desks, and a large green chalkboard occupied the classroom. It looked as if the students had stepped away only briefly for recess and would, in a few moments, return from the schoolyard. Elliot walked to the front of the room and looked behind the teacher’s desk. He wondered what had happened to the children who had roamed the hallways throughout the years, and suddenly the loneliness and abandonment of the place saddened him. Lesson notes were still written across the chalkboard. It seemed wasteful for the old school to sit there, unused and unoccupied, like a castle without its king and court.

  Elliot’s reverie didn’t last long. He heard a noise coming from behind, and he turned and ran for the door, arriving just in time to see it slam shut, blocking the opening like a rock slab sealing a tomb. Someone had closed the door, locking him inside. He twisted the knob and pushed. It moved only slightly, less than an inch. Whoever had closed it had also blocked it. To make matters worse, the culprit was standing just outside. Elliot could not see him through the small gap between the door and doorjamb, but he knew he was there just the same. He could feel his presence. It had to be the driver of the hit-and-run vehicle.

  Elliot called out but received no reply. He could picture the man standing there, grinning; pleased with his victory.

  After a long silence, the man finally answered, and when he spoke he sounded mechanical, like a robot, an android from some science fiction film. Elliot wondered if he’d undergone throat surgery that had left him disabled, needing an artificial device with which to speak.

  “When you dance with darkness,” his captor said, “you wear her essence. She blackens you like the night.”

  Elliot tried to discern the meaning of the words but nothing came to mind. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  Again the android voice took awhile to answer. “You could say that, though I doubt you would recognize me.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He made a clicking noise. “When the time comes, you’re always around, lurking like a dog in heat. You’re connected, a harbinger of her vengeance.”

  “Why don’t you open the door?” Elliot asked. “I want to see you, talk face to face.”

  He laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Your disguise might fool your friends, but I know who you are, football stud.”

  Elliot considered his captor’s words, something that finally made a little sense, and he began to wonder if this was someone from his past, perhaps from Porter. “So you know who I am. You have the advantage of me.”

  “And I fully intend to keep it. I saw you that night, embracing the dead. You took her in your arms and kissed her. You should have left the little tramp alone. It would have made all our lives easier.”

  Elliot heard footsteps that grew softer as they continued. The man was leaving. “Are you still there?” Elliot received no answer, for his jailer was gone. But he’d left something behind to replace his machine-like words. It was an odor—the strong odor of gasoline.

  14

  Elliot backed away from the door, expecting to hear the sound of petroleum igniting, but it never came. Moments later, he eased back to the door and shoved it outward, peering through the gap. He saw no flames, but he could still smell the fumes. He suspected his captor was toying with him, trying to prolong the moment of victory, milking it for all it was worth. Elliot called out, “You still out there, Slick?” Nothing. He tried again. “You seem like an interesting guy. Let’s talk football. Come on, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  And then it came, the hollow rumble of rapid combustion, the fire sucking in oxygen. Elliot shined his flashlight to the top of the door, hoping to find a window, the kind designed for ventilation. No such luck. He considered blasting his way out. Not enough time. He had no idea what was blocking the door, and the walls in buildings of this vintage were constructed too well to even think about shooting enough holes to escape. The flashlight batteries were about to go, the light beginning to dim. Elliot shined it around the room, saw a door in the corner and ran to it. It was just a closet.

  Tears blurred Elliot’s vision as the smoke and fumes trickled into the room. At the thought of ventilation, he looked up and saw dingy tiles suspended on aluminum tracks. The ceiling had been lowered to accommodate lighting and to make room for air conditioning and heating ducts.

  Elliot climbed onto the teacher’s desk. Not high enough. He couldn’t reach the tiles. He jumped down, found a student desk, and threw it on top of the teacher’s. Climbing back up, he tore away the tiles, dropping them to the floor. With that done, he grabbed one of the twisted wires that held the ceiling tile tracks and tried to pull himself up, but the wire wouldn’t hold his weight. It was all he could do to maintain his balance. He was actually thankful for that; a busted ankle would not be good right now. He climbed down and lined the desk up with an overhead vent, then shoved the desk to the wall behind the teacher’s area. The wall would be altered, with holes cut into it to allow the ductwork to be installed. He climbed back up and tore away more tiles. He was right. He tugged at the metal pipes; they were sturdy, installed well. Taking the Glock by its barrel, he used it as a hammer, knocking loose a portion of the ductwork. He pulled it down and grabbed the piece running through the wall. When it gave way and fell, Elliot pulled himself through the hole where it had been.

  Balancing himself on the wall, Elliot pounded the tiles loose on the other side and dropped to the floor. He was now in the next classroom. The air felt like sandpaper in his lungs. He ran to the door. It was hot, but he had no other choice. He shoved it open and ran to his left, away from the larger flames, and deeper into the school building. He suspected he would find more windows in the back of the building. The light filtering through the smoke said he was right. He ran, ignoring everything but freedom. When he reached the glass, he lowered his shoulder and dove into it, tucking and rolling as he saw the ground coming.

  Elliot got to his feet, bruised and bleeding in a few places, but feeling no sharp pains; nothing seemed to be broken. He made his way to the front of the schoolyard where he’d left his car. The other vehicle was gone. He cl
imbed into the car and used his radio to call in. The dispatcher put him through to Dombrowski.

  Elliot didn’t tell the captain all the things his attacker had said about football and kissing dead people, only that he’d tried to kill him. Even with that, Dombrowski hadn’t taken him seriously, acting as if Elliot were trying to make a big deal about nothing. Letting his imagination run away with him was how Dombrowski put it. The hit-and-run vehicle turned out to be a stolen car, reported missing two days ago. No big surprise there. Somehow, Elliot had managed to convince Dombrowski he needed another car in a hurry, and that Stillwater would be his next stop. He always kept a change of clothes in a locker at the department, and after cleaning up he left the downtown area and headed onto Highway 412 going west.

  About an hour later, Elliot pulled into Stillwater. He intended to go straight to the police department but followed an urge to take another route instead, driving through the campus of Oklahoma State University to relive some memories of his days there as a student. He didn’t know he would find one that would act as a key, opening doors that had been closed a long time. It happened in front of Eskimo Joe’s Restaurant. As soon as Elliot saw the place, he knew that it was there, while eating dinner with a friend, he’d again seen those eyes, the same eyes that had looked through the car window at him and Marcia that night. He’d looked up from the table and across the restaurant and it was there, in a crowd of people, that he’d seen…someone. He couldn’t put a face with his memory. The eyes were all he remembered.

  Elliot left the campus area and drove to the intersection of 7th and Lewis. There he found the municipal building, a new, sand-colored structure that housed the police station.

  The young man extended his hand. “Dan Wallingford. What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve had a couple murders in Tulsa,” Elliot said. “I’m the investigating officer.”

  The young man nodded, a puzzled look crossing his face.

  “I believe at least one of them is connected to the student murders that occurred here several years ago.”

  The officer raised his eyebrows. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Elliot said. “I was hoping to talk to the officer in charge of that investigation.”

  Dan Wallingford paused, rubbing his chin as if to allow saneness a chance to catch up to the conversation before he answered. “That’d be Phil Malone.”

  “Is he available?”

  “Not really,” the officer said. “He retired last year. But you could probably find him at home. About five miles out of town on 177 there’s an old white house on the west side of the road. Two red wagon wheels mark the driveway. You can’t miss it.”

  As Elliot was leaving, Wallingford said, “Wait a minute. You don’t want to just drive up to Malone’s place and hop out. He’s a little spooky. I’ve heard he’ll take a shot at you if he doesn’t know you. I’ll give a call and warn him that you’re coming.”

  The distance turned out to be more like six miles, but the wagon wheels were there, along with a mailbox marked Malone. Elliot pulled into the gravel driveway and drove across a cattle guard, stopping beside an old green pickup truck at the end of the drive. He honked the horn a couple of times then climbed out.

  Phil Malone stood about five foot six, resembling James Cagney in his later years. He led Elliot to a room in the back of the house that served as an office, and motioned for him to sit down while he perched himself behind a massive desk that looked as if it would swallow him, had his chair not been so high. Frowning, he gestured toward the walls covered with newspaper clippings of police cases, including several recent events. “As you can see, I try to keep up with police matters. Just in case I’m needed.”

  “Well, Mr. Malone, I do need your help.”

  “Call me Phil.”

  Elliot glanced at the clippings on the wall. “What do you think about my theory that your killer could be the same man I’m looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What makes you think it’s the same guy?”

  Elliot remembered reading about the Stillwater murders in the campus newspaper. “The murder shares a lot of similarities. Throat cut in the same manner, the blood writing, that sort of thing.”

  “Sure sounds like it could be,” he said. “Folks around here don’t pay me much mind anymore, think I’m crazy. But I know a few things.”

  “I’d like to go over any leads you might have, and your list of suspects, if you have one.”

  Malone frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t have much. That whole mess was the most frustrating case I was ever involved in. Ruined my career and nearly ruined me as well.”

  Elliot felt bad for Phil Malone. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Malone placed his hands on the desk. “No fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing. Just three young women cheated out of their lives: two college coeds and one high school senior.” He shook his head. “Folks demanded justice and I couldn’t give it to them, didn’t have squat to go on.”

  Elliot wondered if the number three had any significance. There had been two in Tulsa, if Lagayle Zimmerman counted. “I understand how you feel,” he said, “We’re having the same problem.” A vision of Marcia Barnes suddenly invaded Elliot’s thoughts. “Tell me something, Phil. Did the victims fit any type of profile?” Elliot already knew they did, but he wanted to be sure, and maybe there was something else he didn’t know.

  Malone stared at Elliot for a moment, then got up and walked to a bookshelf. He pulled out a large three-ring binder. “Like I said, I don’t have much. But what I do have is yours.” He flipped through a few pages then turned the notebook toward Elliot. What Elliot saw rattled his nerves. They were eight-by-ten photographs of the Stillwater victims. Elliot had to turn the page to see the third one. The pictures were hard to look at, but it wasn’t their graphic nature that shocked him, it was the fact that he could slide the photo of Michele Baker into the mix and it would fit right in.

  Malone wiped his forehead. “No matter how many times I look at them it still gives me the shivers. It started seven years ago. Of course you already know that.” He pointed to the first picture. “Christine Wakefield. According to the few that knew her, she was somewhat of a loner. Had a habit of taking late night walks alone across the campus. She was found just like you see her.”

  The body was leaning against a tree, naked from the waist down and staged, with her hands holding her legs apart, just like Michelle Baker. Also like Michelle, she wore thick red lipstick and heavy eye shadow. A piece of notebook paper had been pinned to her chest, upon which was written in blood: Hush now. From your death, I arose.

  Phil Malone tapped his finger against the second picture. “This one happened six months later. Her name’s Tracy Harper, a high school student. She liked to dress up all provocative-like and drive around the campus trying to pick up college boys. She was found in the front seat of her car, on the passenger side.”

  Elliot swallowed a lump in his throat. It was all he could do to not see Marcia Barnes in the picture. This time the message was scrawled across the passenger window of the victim’s car. It read: I walk in your silence.

  “We thought she was the last one,” Malone said, “Then almost two years later he struck again.” He turned the page to the last picture. “Megan Phillips,” he said, “cheerleader, popular girl. She went home on the weekends, leaving Friday afternoon and returning Sunday evening. She didn’t make it home this time. Found in her car, just like Tracy Harper.”

  The writing on the window read: Cry not from your grave.

  Malone closed the book. “To answer your question, Detective, yes the victims most definitely fit a profile. They were all young, between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, petite, none of them weighing over 115 pounds, and they all had blonde hair and blue eyes. And of course, they were all killed in the same manner.”

  Elliot took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Again it was obvious Lagayle Zimmerman did not fit in. “Looks like we’re dea
ling with the same killer all right.”

  Malone shook his head. “Then God help you, Detective. I’ve got a scanner and a color printer. I’ll give you some copies.”

  “Thanks,” Elliot said. “You must have questioned a lot of people. Do you have a list of suspects?”

  Malone pulled a spiral notebook from the desk. He examined it for a moment then said, “Old Gus Haringer, now there was an odd sort if I ever saw one.”

  “Was?” Elliot asked.

  Malone nodded. “Two weeks ago he got up and ate breakfast, put on his Sunday-best suit, then sat down on a bench in his backyard garden and died of a heart attack, like he knew his time was up or something.”

  “Why did you suspect him?”

  “Strange fellow,” Malone said, “worked as a janitor at the university until they opened his tool chest one day and found it chock-full of things stolen from the girls’ locker room; bras and panties mostly.”

  “What made you rule him out?”

  “Bad back for one thing. It was all Gus could do to lift a twenty-five pound feed bag. His doctor confirmed the injury, but I’d already noticed it.”

  Elliot nodded. The bodies had been staged, often moved to different locations to get the desired effect. With a bad back, lifting 115 pounds of dead weight would be next to impossible.

  “Besides that,” Malone added, “I questioned him good. Old Gus was nutty all right, but he was no killer.”

  “Were there any others?” Elliot asked.

  Malone shrugged. “Well they really don’t deserve to be called suspects, but I got some names. Both were students at the time. William Lathrop was one of them. He was Megan Phillips’s boyfriend and the last one to see her alive, except for the killer that is. Anyway he had an alibi—spent the weekend at the lake with a bunch of his frat buddies. Last I heard, he’d moved up north, working for some engineering firm in Maine. Then there was Conrad Winters. He’d dated Christine Wakefield a couple of times. She broke it off. He wrote a nasty letter saying he’d get even with her some day. But he was also able to account for his whereabouts during the time of the murder of Christine, and he’d already graduated when Megan was killed. He went to dental school and has an office in Tulsa.” Malone shook his head. “Not squat to go on. Didn’t have it then and I don’t have it now. I wish to dickens I could be of more help.”