Mr Grimm

by Gary Winston Brown

“This is beyond theory,” Jordan said. “There’s method to his madness. There’s so much variance in the crimes. They don’t fit a pattern. Perhaps that’s the whole point. What if each of the murders is meant to be different, unique… one of a kind?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Work with me on this, okay?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We know most serial killers follow the same modus operandi… method of operation. It becomes their signature. The BTK Killer would bind, torture and kill. Jeffrey Dahmer cannibalized his victims. Zodiac’s process was to shoot his victims in cars at close range and send the police an unbreakable cipher. Maybe Scroll’s process is to make every kill different. Maybe that’s his signature. The scrolls are his ciphers. He leaves them behind to call attention to the crimes. I’d be willing to bet the NYPD would never have attributed these murders to the same killer had it not been for the scrolls.”

  Chris nodded. “That’s true. Courtney Valentine’s body was disposed of in pieces, none of which were found at the actual crime scene. But the scroll was.”

  Jordan agreed. She pointed to the first and second articles. “In Bedford-Stuyvesant, he claims the woman’s hands were removed at the request of the Devil. In the case of this victim, he chops away at her feet then disposes of her, referring to her as Cinderella. My guess is that when we look deeper into every one of these murders, the one thing they’ll have in common is a bizarre set of circumstances relative to each of the deaths and the scroll found at the scene.”

  “That will make finding this guy hard as hell.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That he’s following a manual of murder, of sorts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did your parent’s ever read you bedtime stories?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mine too. When I was a kid, I loved fairy tales. One day my father read Grimm’s Fairy Tales to me. My mother put an end to that in a hurry. She told him they were far too violent, which they were. They gave me nightmares. My mother hid the book.”

  “Let me guess. You searched for it, found it and read it.”

  Jordan smiled. “Cover to cover. Every last story. Which is why something felt familiar when I reviewed the case files. These murders aren’t random. I think he’s recreating them from a book.”

  “Grimm’s Fairy Tales?”

  Jordan nodded. “Or one like it. Courtney Valentine’s head was found with her long hair intact. The bag contained leaves. Do you know what kind they were?”

  “Sorry, I failed botany. Haven’t got a clue.”

  “Rapunzel leaves.”

  Chris got the connection. “As in Rapunzel, the fairy tale?”

  “Yes,” Jordan replied. “The victims in these stories fit the theory. There’s a story called The Girl with No Hands, whose hands were cut off by her father to give to the Devil... just like the woman in Bed-Stuy. The woman found in the alley had no shoes and her feet had been mutilated… like he was trying to make a shoe fit, as in Cinderella. I think when he realized she wasn’t the one he was looking for he killed her.”

  Chris crossed his arms. “This is one hell of a stretch, Jordan.”

  “Maybe,” Jordan replied. “But everything in me is telling me I’m right.”

  Agent Penner interrupted. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “I got a phone call from Keon. Four women just identified themselves to NYPD as kidnap victims. One of them had layers of her skin removed. She’s on her way to the hospital right now. How much do you want to bet they’re connected to Scroll?”

  “Which hospital?” Chris asked.

  “Bellevue.”

  “Let’s go,” Jordan said.

  CHAPTER 27

  ANTON JUMPED OUT of the car as Mike Degario pulled the limo to the curb. The police had cordoned off the street outside Kessel’s Bookbinding and Restoration. Plain-clothes officers walked in and out of the unassuming shop. Some carried boxes, others paper bags, all labeled EVIDENCE.

  Anton ran to the police tape, lifted it, ducked under.

  “Whoa!” a uniformed officer called out. “Where do you think you’re going?” He grabbed Anton by the arm, held him back.

  “Lacey Chastain,” Anton said. There was panic in his voice. “Is she here? Is she all right?”

  “Slow down a minute, mister,” the officer said. “Catch your breath. Who is it you’re asking for?”

  Anton forced himself to calm down. The sight of the overwhelming police presence at Kessel’s had gotten the better of him. “Lacey Chastain,” he repeated.

  “And who is she to you?”

  “A friend.”

  The cop wasn’t buying it. “A friend you ask about while entering a crime scene without permission. Care to explain that?”

  “What happened here?” Anton insisted.

  “Police business,” the officer replied. He took Anton by the arm and escorted him back to the barrier. “Now tell me who Lacey Chastain is and why you think she’s here.”

  A voice called out from behind. “I’ve got this, officer.” The man walked up. He wore a dark blue windbreaker with large gold letters on the sleeves that read NYPD. “My name is Detective Rick Pallister, NYPD Homicide. And you are?”

  “Anton Moore, sir.”

  “What’s with all the drama, Mr. Moore? You know something about what went down here? Something you’d care to share with me?”

  “Went down?”

  “Come on, Mr. Moore. You know what I’m talking about. Citizens don’t just burst through police barriers without a damn good reason.”

  “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Your friend doesn’t have a phone? You can’t just call her?”

  “I’m sorry. I had reason to believe she might be here,” Anton said. “I was wrong.” He turned to leave.

  Pallister stopped him. “Not so fast, Mr. Moore. We’re not finished here.”

  Pallister grabbed him by his arm. Anton looked down, then up at the detective. “Are you arresting me?” he asked.

  “Do I need to?” Pallister asked.

  “We both know that’s an international sign of arrest,” Anton said. “If you’re not detaining me, then I strongly suggest you let go of me.”

  Pallister slowly released his grip. He studied Anton. “You’re not a cop but you sure as hell look like one. Talk like one too.”

  “I work the door at the Odyssey,” Anton said. “I provide protection for the dancers. That’s who I’m looking for. One of the girls, Lacey Chastain. No one can reach her. I’m concerned for her safety.”

  “Fair enough. But why does that bring you here?”

  “I visited her apartment this morning. Ran into a little trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Anton said. “It didn’t go so well. I’ll probably be feeling the effects for the next couple of days.”

  “Someone assaulted you?

  “You could say that.”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy that someone gets the drop on easily.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What can you tell me about Lacey Chastain?” Pallister asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because she’s one of four victims whose case we’re now investigating.”

  Victim? The word struck Anton hard as he heard it. He felt the blood rush out of his face, suddenly felt weak. “What— what happened?” he asked. “Is Lacey…?”

  “Dead?” Pallister finished. “No, Mr. Moore. Quite the opposite. She’s very much alive. From what we understand she’s the reason they all survived.”

  “All? How many are we talking about?”

  “Three other women. Seems like they’d been held here for some time. Your friend orchestrated their escape. They made themselves known to police. I’m he
re following up. You read the papers?”

  “Of course,” Anton said.

  “Then you’re aware of the Scroll Killer murders.”

  Anton nodded. “Who isn’t?”

  “We believe this is where he was keeping his victims. At least the ones he didn’t kill.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet. But its only a matter of time before we do.”

  “Where’s Lacey now?” Anton asked.

  “Accompanying one of the victims to Bellevue Hospital. I’m heading over there now. Want to join me?”

  “Please.”

  “Maybe you can help us.”

  “Anything.”

  “Talk to Ms. Chastain when we get to Bellevue. Find out whatever you can about Scroll. He’s not finished yet. We need to find him before anyone else gets hurt or killed.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Detective.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Moore.” Pallister offered his hand.

  Anton shook it. “It’s Anton.”

  The cop smiled. “Maybe on the way you can fill me in on everything you haven’t told me so far.”

  Anton nodded. “That’s a two-way street.”

  “Fair enough. You play your hand, I’ll play mine.”

  “Deal,” Anton said. “Give me a second. I need to talk to my friend.”

  “All right,” Pallister said. “But we leave in five.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Mike Degario stood beside the limo. “Lacey’s safe,” Anton explained. “She’s at Bellevue. Detective Pallister and I are heading over there now.”

  “Detective Pallister?” Mike asked.

  “He’s with NYPD Homicide.”

  “Jesus Christ, Anton. What’s the homicide department doing here?”

  “They think the Scroll Killer had Lacey.”

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me? And she escaped?”

  “Yeah. Listen Mike, I’ve gotta go. I’ll fill you in later. Tell Russ to hold off on the cavalry for now. This situation is a lot heavier than we thought it was.”

  “All right. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

  Anton shook his friend’s hand. “I will. Thanks, Mike. I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 28

  FATHER FRANK HEARD the rumble of the heavy garbage truck as it backed into the parking lot of the Pick ’n Go convenience store and hissed to a stop in front of the disposal bin behind which he had been told to hide. He remained out of sight, wary of the driver, unsure what to do next.

  He peered around the corner, watched the cab door open and the driver step down. Another man, his passenger, jumped down from the truck, turned his back and watched the street.

  Never had he felt so defenseless. In his rush to leave the shanty he had left his knife under his pillow. He had placed Biscuit in the care of Brooklyn Bob, his only friend in the city of makeshift dwellings. The old man loved Biscuit as much as he did. He knew the dog would be safe and in good hands. Perhaps one day when he and Otto had resettled in Miami he would call for Biscuit. He was sure the dog hated New York winters as much as he did. The warm south-Florida climate would be much more suitable to them both.

  How had he gotten himself into this mess? He had known Otto for years. They had served together overseas. Ironically, the killer had saved his life when an IED took out their patrol, blew their Humvee twenty feet into the air and left him without the use of one eye. Otto had survived the blast, pulled him from the wreckage, administered first aid to the wounded, and laid down protective fire until help had arrived. Otto was an interrogator, not a battle-worn soldier like the others in his unit. On the day of the attack, Otto was being transported to a black site to interrogate a high-value target reputedly responsible for the deaths of hundreds of American soldiers. But the anxiety of the ambush had proven to be too much for him. Otto shot and wounded three of his countrymen before being shot himself by retaliatory fire. Simply put, he had snapped. Later, after he had been returned Stateside for evaluation, it was determined that in the moment of the attack he had suffered a complete separation from reality. He had told the doctors and nurses who treated him he was not a soldier at all but rather a famous writer and demanded to be released. They deemed him psychologically unfit for a return to duty.

  Father Frank’s injury had taken him out of the field and garnered him a ticket home as well. A man of the cloth, he had visited his friend in the VA hospital every day, partly because he owed him his life, but also because he was concerned about the possibility that he might strike out one day as a citizen. Otto had survived months of torture at the hands of the enemy, taken lives, and endured a horrific explosion. He had watched men die, seen bodies blown to pieces, and been so traumatically affected by it all that his body had manifested a physical reaction to stress which his doctors had diagnosed as allodynia.

  On the day of his first murder, Otto confessed to his friend and asked for absolution. Father Frank accompanied him to the abandoned construction site where he observed the dead girl lying in the room. He wanted to tell Otto to surrender himself to the authorities immediately but changed his mind. As much as his friend was now a killer, he was also a victim of his own debilitated and fragile mind. War had destroyed them both, made it impossible for them to function in modern society. There was no place for him here. He was a man caught between good and evil. It was then he decided to do the unthinkable. He would turn his back on the Cross and help his friend cover up the murder. Together they cut up and disposed of the body. For reasons he did not understand, Otto insisted that the girl be covered in leaves. He talked incessantly at the time of her disposal, complimenting her on her perfect golden blonde hair, what an inspiration she had been to him, how one day he would write a wonderful story about her and that the world would know her name. He paid no attention. These were the ramblings of a man who had lost all touch with reality. He would get him the help he needed. He owed him that, but it would take time. He would have to make a case for his friend’s insanity. One murder led to another, one confession to the next. Before long he found himself immersed in Otto’s psychopathic world. What had started out as an intention to help his friend had resulted in his direct involvement in the crimes. Now there were too many to count. Otto was a man on a murderous rampage, intent on fulfilling a destiny which only he understood.

  When they resettled in Miami, he would have a long talk with his friend, try to help him see the error of his ways and put an end to the murder spree once and for all.

  A voice called out from the driver’s side of the garbage truck. “Hey, pal. You like to surf?”

  Father Frank recognized the code. Otto had mentioned the man would use it when he made contact. “Yes,” he replied. “The best waves are in Big Sur.”

  The man nodded. “Otto sent me,” he said. “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah.”

  The man whistled to his partner who looked over his shoulder, nodded, then resumed his surveillance of the street.

  “You look familiar,” Father Frank said.

  “You too. The convoy, right? Iraq?”

  Father Frank nodded. He recognized the soldier from the day of the attack, had even given him last rights. “Glad to see you made it back. How long have you been out of the service?”

  “A while.”

  Frank pointed to the sign on the back of the garbage truck. “This your business?” he asked.

  “Sort of. These days I mostly take care of other people’s problems.”

  Father Frank was suddenly terror-struck when he understood what the ex-soldier meant. Before he had time to react, the man placed the silencer to his forehead and fired twice. Thwup, thwup.

  A second whistle. The passenger ran back, joined the gunman. Father Frank’s body was thrown into the bin.

  The two men climbed back into the truck and drove off, leaving the dead man behind.

  Back in the shanty, laying beside Brooklyn Ben, Biscuit suddenly looked up and whined.

  �
��What’s the matter, boy?” the old man asked.

  The dog let out a sorrowful cry.

  CHAPTER 29

  BONNIE COLE MOANED in the back of the ambulance. Lacey took her hand. “It’s okay, honey. We’ll be there soon.”

  Every nerve in her body felt as though it was on fire. “Must have been adrenaline,” Bonnie said. “I never really felt the pain until now. I guess I was putting all of my energy into trying to stay alive.”

  “You did that and more,” Lacey said. “You helped get us out of there.”

  The driver’s partner, paramedic Rhonda Attwell, monitored Bonnie’s heart rate and blood pressure, checked her saline drip. Bonnie cried out once more. “Lace, I don’t feel well.”

  “Can’t you give her something?” Lacey asked.

  Attwell shook her head. “Her wounds are septic. Given the level of infection she’s presenting with we’re leaving that decision up to the docs.”

  “But she’s in so much pain.”

  “We’re two minutes out. Soon she’ll have all the help she… dammit!”

  Bonnie’s body started to shake. The paramedic leaned forward, spoke anxiously to the driver. Suddenly the siren blared. The ambulance sped up.

  “Oh, God, she’s seizing,” Lacey yelled.

  Bonnie was fully convulsive. The paramedic prepared a syringe, called out to the driver. “Tell them to have a crash team ready.”

  “Copy that.” The driver grabbed his microphone from the console, communicated with the hospital, related the response. “Standing by,” he replied.

  The convulsions suddenly ceased. Bonnie fell back on the gurney, face slack, eyes vacant. She stared past Lacey.

  “No… no… no,” Lacey cried.

  The paramedic yelled. “Code Blue!”

  More radio chatter. “Thirty seconds to door,” the driver called out, then yelled at his rig. “Come on, come on, come on…”

  To Lacey, Attwell said, “Brace yourself.”

  Lacey grabbed the gurney side rail and steadied herself. The ambulance took a hard left, slowed, then braked to a stop.

  The rear doors flew open. The crash team assisted the paramedics, pulled the gurney out of the ambulance, dropped the wheels. “Clear!” the lead doctor yelled. She received updates from Attwell as they whisked Bonnie down the hall.