Killers Among

by S. E. Green

  “Well anyway…” Sabrina picks up her phone, glances at it, and puts it right back down. “Thought I’d better give you a heads up about something.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You know my friend, Erna?”

  Not really, but I nod anyway.

  “She was in here a few days ago really upset.”

  That must have been the sobbing I heard coming from the room.

  “There are naked and incredibly crude pictures of her circulating the campus and she has no recollection of them being taken. She thinks maybe she was drugged or something. Like Rohypnol, I guess.”

  I straighten up. “She doesn’t remember where she was?”

  “She was at that bar over by the used bookstore. You know the one with the blues bands and the picnic style tables, Wish You Were Beer Bar?”

  Stupid name, but I nod.

  “That’s the last thing she remembers. She was talking to one of her professors, doesn’t remember anything after that, and then woke up in her car fully clothed.” Sabrina picks her phone up again, slides her finger across, and shows me the screen.

  I recognize her now. Erna, a Swiss exchange student. Tall and pretty with olive skin and light brown hair. I’ve seen her around campus and here in the dorm, too. Always smiling and laughing, a happy girl. In this naked picture, though, she’s clearly drugged.

  Sabrina swipes the screen to show me another photo taken from behind with her propped and posed in a vulnerable and beyond exposed position. My blood boils. “Did she report this?”

  “Yes, and campus IT worked at getting them taken down, but this photo went out wide and so many people have seen it. Apparently, this has happened before, too, with other girls. Erna is humiliated and has decided to go back home.” My roommate puts her phone back down. “All to say, please be careful out there.”

  “Oh, I will.” I’m finding the son of a bitch who did this and taking him down. “Who is the professor, by the way—the one who she remembers talking to?”

  “Professor Kane Gregg, but he’s well known around here and liked. He didn’t have anything to do with this. It’s probably one of the frat guys.”

  “Hm,” I simply say.

  40

  Professor Kane Gregg, thirty-nine years old, six feet tall, sandy brown hair, brown eyes, a competitive cyclist, unmarried, no kids, lives alone in a condo a few blocks from campus. Well-loved by students. Heads up the clean campus initiative. Was an Associate Professor for five years and has been a tenured professor for the same.

  Six years ago there was a rumor he was seeing a student but other than that, the man “appears” clean.

  Appears being the operative word.

  Compared to the Suicide Killer, this guy is a chump, but Bart Novak can wait. He isn’t going anywhere. Until next November, his killing is over. He’s not an immediate threat. I can’t say the same for the professor. He could target another victim as soon as tonight.

  Yes, Professor Kane Gregg deserves my focus.

  I sit in my Jeep eyeing people as they move in and out of Wish You Were Beer Bar. This is the last thing Erna remembers before waking up disoriented only to find naked pictures of her all over the internet.

  According to my digging, Professor Kane Gregg comes here almost every night, though he hasn’t made an appearance yet.

  My phone buzzes with a text and my first inclination is to ignore it, but after what happened the last time I did that with Victor and the heart attack, I pick it up and look at it.

  Daisy: DAD DOESN’T KNOW MARJI IS MOM’S SISTER, DOES HE?

  Me: NO. HE THINKS THEY WERE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS.

  Daisy: WHAT THE HELL, LANE? WHY DID MOM HAVE SO MANY SECRETS?

  Me: I DON’T KNOW…

  Daisy: SHOULD WE TELL HIM?

  I want to say no but with all the lies and secrets I type: YOU DECIDE AND I’LL BACK YOU UP.

  Daisy: YOU SAID YOU TRACKED MARJI TO RICHMOND AND THAT SHE HAD MOVED. WHAT WAS MARJI’S LAST NAME?

  It’s only a matter of time before Daisy finds out. Pointing her in the wrong direction is my first inclination, but with a deep breath, I type the truth: MARJOREAM VEGA.

  I have officially opened Pandora’s box. Anybody can type that name into a search engine and read that she was found stabbed in the woods next to that horrible trailer with the cage, the kidnapped young woman, the torturing devices, and the photos of her kills.

  But no one but Daisy and I knows our mother was Marji’s sister.

  Marji leads to Mom, leads to Seth, leads to their killing spree. It’s one big disgusting circle that then leads back to me.

  They say cycles can be broken and I fully intend on permanently severing this one.

  41

  Professor Kane Gregg never showed at the bar. I did a drive-by of his condo and sat for a bit watching him watch TV through his open living room blinds. And when he got up to get undressed for bed, I finally called it a night.

  The next morning, classes come and go. I do a shift at Patch and Paw, and as I arrive to volunteer at Aveda Retirement, Bart Novak is on his way out.

  I jog over to him. “Hello, Mr. Novak, heading out?”

  “It’s Bart,” he grumbles, barely looking at me as he buttons up his thick flannel jacket and continues walking across the parking lot.

  Interesting mood. Where’s the jovial man I’ve seen so many times now?

  He comes to a stop at a truck with Aveda Retirement Living painted on the doors. In the back lays an ax, a chainsaw, and rope. Well, now, where are you going with those supplies, Bart Novak?

  “Heading out?” I ask all innocent curiosity.

  “Yes.” He opens the driver’s door and steps up in.

  “It looks like you’re doing Aveda business. I’m happy to help.”

  He nods me to get in. “Fine.”

  With a little skip around the front of the truck, I climb up in. He cranks the engine followed by the heat and pulls away.

  Bart Novak doesn’t say a word and so neither do I. He’s in a mood. And I’m just curious enough to see why.

  At a red light, I glance over to see the driver in the car beside us give me a cursory look. I nod. Don’t mind us, folks, we’re just two killers, sitting side-by-side in a truck, heading out of the city and into the country to do God knows what.

  But honestly, I wouldn’t want to be any other place right now.

  He exits off the highway and bumps his way over a dirt road, weaving through trees and eventually coming to a stop. He cuts the engine and climbs out. I follow.

  Lowering the tailgate of the truck, he points to the chainsaw. “Ever used one?”

  “No.”

  “Heavy and difficult to manipulate, but sometimes a necessity.”

  Is he giving me a lesson in murder weapons? I don’t think so. To my knowledge, he’s never used a chainsaw on a victim.

  He picks it up, nods for me to take the ax, and disappears through the trees. This is a bit too into the woods for me, but I go with it.

  I heft the ax over my shoulder. “So what are we doing? Cutting down a tree?”

  “Yes.” He stops at a small pine tree, giving it a good study.

  “Isn’t early to be decorating? Thanksgiving isn’t even over yet.”

  “My mother decorated in November and so I do, too.” Done talking, he cranks the chainsaw.

  It whirls, then dies.

  He cranks it again.

  It whirls, then dies.

  He cranks it again.

  It whirls, then dies.

  “Goddamn it!” Bart yells, throwing the chainsaw down. He spins on me so fast that I freeze. But he just grabs the ax from my hands, turns back, and violently assaults the small tree trunk.

  Not for the first time, his quick movement has thrown me off. Something tells me Bart’s trained in more than Tai Chi.

  I’ve never cut down a tree, but it doesn’t look too difficult, especially one that small. “Want me to help?”

  “No,” he gr
unts, whacking at the trunk.

  For an old man, he is really attacking that thing. “Will you decorate your room with this?”

  “No.” Whack. Whack.

  “Small for the lobby,” I note.

  Whack. Whack. “This is one of three.”

  “Why not just buy them from a lot?”

  “Because this is better.” Whack. Whack.

  The small tree falls, and Bart moves onto another.

  “Three trees, huh? What, you decorate them Christmas past, present, and future?”

  Whack. Whack. “Yes.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to do one?”

  “No.” Whack. Whack.

  “Mr. Novak, you’re a bit off today.”

  Whack. Whack. “It’s. Bart.”

  A few more hard chops, and the second small tree falls. While he starts in on the third one, I grab the first one and drag it over to the truck. I hoist it up and in, listening to his furious chops echoing through the trees.

  I go back for the second one, glancing over at Bart’s back as he bends over to get a good angle. I can easily take him out. He’ll be exhausted after all of this. He won’t see me coming. I can knock him unconscious, take the rope he brought, and string him up from a tree.

  Death by hanging. Just like his final victims.

  Justice.

  Instead, I slide the second tree into the truck and as I step through the woods back toward Bart and the third tree, his chopping has subsided. Through the leaves and branches, he kneels beside the third fallen tree, his back hunched over. The sound of soft sobs filter over to me.

  What the hell?

  Quietly I walk toward him and he glances up. The tears streaming down his cheeks stop me cold.

  “I didn’t mean to kill it,” he quietly says.

  It’s then I notice a crushed squirrel under the tree. Oh, no.

  “It was an accident,” he whispers, his voice so quiet I barely hear him.

  “Of course it was.”

  He sniffs. “Is it dead? I don’t want it to suffer.”

  Kneeling down beside him, I give the squirrel a good long study. “Yes, it’s dead.” This man has spent decades killing innocent women and he sobs over a squirrel? I don’t get it.

  But the truth is, I would be just as upset, too. Dead humans are one thing, but dead animals? They’re just so innocent.

  The ax lays in the pine needles where he must have dropped it. Yes, pick it up and end this killer’s life. Right now.

  But somehow I find myself helping him to his feet. Assisting him in burying a little squirrel. Securing all three trees with the rope I should have hung him with. Taking the keys from him. And driving him back to Aveda.

  I’m not sure what is going on with me, but Bart Novak has nestled in and I can’t bring myself to kill him.

  At least not yet.

  42

  When I get back to the dorm, I find Sabrina sitting in the middle of our room on the striped throw rug. Photos spread out around her of various girls all in compromising positions just like Erna.

  Sabrina glances up at me. “This is bigger than I thought.” She motions to a photo of a redhead girl. “From Argentina.” She points to a photo of dark-haired girl. “Spain.” A blonde. “Australia.” She points to another. “Germany.” And another. “Mexico.”

  Squatting down, I give them all a glance. “Easier to pick on the exchange students. Once they’ve been photographed and dispersed, the families are less likely to follow up. Like Erna, they want their daughter home.”

  Sabrina nods. “Yes. I did some follow up with our campus police and they’ve done some queries, but unless the families are pushing, it falls through the cracks.”

  Yeah, well, it’s not falling through mine.

  Picking up a photo of the blonde, I study the surroundings. It looks like the inside of a garage. Professor Kane Gregg’s condo comes with a garage. “Not to sound un-empathetic, but why do you care so much about these girls that you don’t even know?”

  My roommate picks the photos back up. “Because this happened to me in high school. I was at a party and someone drugged my drink. I woke up naked and violated. It was horrible.”

  Reaching out, I take her hand, and it’s only after I’m squeezing her fingers that I realize I’m touching her. I’m consoling her. It’s not something I do on instinct and I love that I am. “This son of a bitch will be found and he will pay for what he’s done.”

  She lifts dark brown eyes to mine and she doesn’t say a word, but she believes me.

  43

  That night I’m sitting in the parking lot of Wish You Were Beer Bar with Professor Kane Gregg inside. I followed him from his condo, and since he just got here, I’ll have hours to do a bit of recon.

  I backtrack to his condo and park along the street. Through the shadows, I cross over the grounds and come to his building. His condo sits on the second floor with the garage directly underneath. He pulls in and probably walks an interior stairwell up to his condo.

  Perfect.

  This particular building houses the smaller units typically owned by single people—professionals or retired individuals. Being nine at night and a weekday, most of the occupants are in for the night.

  Unless they’re out trolling for innocent girls.

  Other than a few interior lights of other units, there is no movement and so I don’t bother disguising myself as I walk up the few steps that lead to his front door. It’s a standard lock and deadbolt and with my lock picks I gain entry.

  Professor Kane Gregg has left a few interior lights on dim, and I use them to navigate by. As expected, he lives in a small one-bedroom condo. Not as expected, the place is a mess. Unmade bed, dishes in the sink, piles of unfolded laundry, a bathroom in dire need of cleaning, and dust covering everything.

  For such a good looking and well-dressed man, he keeps a disgusting home.

  I don’t bother searching his place for evidence of the photos. Frankly, it would take me too long to sift through the mess.

  Instead, I head straight down to his garage.

  And bingo.

  Over in the corner sits the mattress in all the photos and covered in red silk sheets. Black silk sheets drape the wall behind it. Quite the boudoir.

  A large spotlight sits beside the mattress in some juvenile attempt to make it look like a studio. Off to the side sits a rickety metal table with a camera and the props I saw in the photos—a lollipop, a doll, a silver dildo, crotch-less white panties, and a few other items.

  Oh, I am going to have fun with you, Professor Kane Gregg.

  From his condo, I drive back to the bar and I park in the lot. Across to the other side sits his green hatchback. Turning my engine off, I settle back to watch. If he doesn’t make a move tonight, I have a few new ideas on how to handle him.

  I begin to visualize all the positions I’m going to pose him in, and right as I’m imagining one that involves the lollipop, I get a call from Reggie.

  Still, with my attention on the green hatchback, I answer, “Hey.”

  “I figured it out—the degraded DNA sample.”

  I sit up a little. “And?”

  “The woman who died in the house forty years ago used to babysit your mom. The woman had a daughter a few years older named Marjoream. Your mom was hiding in the closet when the murder occurred. She would have been five and Marjoream eight. Apparently, Marjoream was asleep on the couch and she woke up to find her mother butchered. Though if you ask me, I don’t know how Marjoream slept through that. She was probably drugged.

  Either way, your mom, Lane, saw it all happen from her spot in the closet. Marjoream then got in the closet with your mom. They were too scared to do anything else. They hid in that closet the entire night. Your grandmother showed up the following morning to pick your mom up and found the murdered babysitter.

  Your mom didn’t give an accurate enough description, probably because the poor thing was traumatized. The investigators believed she was confus
ed at what she saw and ruled it a suicide. Your grandparents, though, believed your mom and that there had been a murder that occurred. They were scared the killer would come after the girls next and so they changed their names and moved to another city.

  Your grandparents ended up adopting Marjoream and the girls were raised as sisters. And, of course, your grandparents died when your mom was in her early twenties.” Reggie stops talking. “Holy shit, right?”

  “To the nth degree.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Reggie takes a breath. “Somewhere along the way, Marjoream dropped off the radar. Who knows, perhaps she had lingering fear the killer would one day find her and your mom.”

  Or the two of them became killers in their own right.

  “She resurfaced in Richmond some time back under yet another name. She was found stabbed to death outside of a trailer in the woods. In the trailer, a woman was held captive in a cage. There were also photos of other young people tortured to death. The local law linked Marjoream to several unsolved cases.” Reggie pauses. “I’m sorry, Lane. This is horrible news.”

  “It is.”

  “I’m sure what Marjoream witnessed all those years ago shaped her into who she became. That’s probably why your mom cut ties with her. Because after your grandparents died, there’s little record of them every communicating again.”

  Or it was their elaborate plan to be monsters and exist off the radar.

  “Well…I don’t know what to say.” I pause. “Thank you for digging around. That makes sense now as to why Mom’s degraded DNA was found in that closet. Who knows, she may have had a nose bleed or bitten her fingernails raw.”

  “Do you think the FBI knew all of this? Victor? Oh, God, are you going to tell him?”

  “Considering the FBI does thorough background checks, they had to know.” I mean, who the hell knows? My mom was trained on how to hide facts and falsify information. “But, no, I truly believe Victor is in the dark. And, yes, I’m going to tell him, and Daisy, too.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something you would do.”