by Blake Pierce
“I don’t buy that,” Ava argued.
“There’s nothing to buy. What about that little skirmish overseas? July 1914 to November 1918. That delightful little war is evidence that we are very good at killing one another. That many of us enjoy it.”
“I did not come here for any social or civics lessons,” Ava said, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. This was a mistake.”
She took three steps away, hating the way it felt to have her back to Willie. But then his voice stopped her. One word in his dry voice. “Power.”
She turned to him and glared. “It’s that simple?”
“Yes. At the core of why I killed my wife…it was the need to exert power over her. Only…when I watched the life flee from her eyes, it wasn’t enough. I realized I had taken a life. I realized that I had crossed a line and I would never be the same. And God, how I loved that feeling. I needed more. I needed…”
He paused here, as if conflicted. “There were things I attempted to do to her before I cut her head off, but simply couldn’t,” Willie said. “I can go into detail if you like.”
“No need,” she said her stomach turning. “Explain the line. Crossing that line.”
“I wanted more. There had to be more I could do to her than just taking her life. So I took her head off. And as a final insult, I figured I’d deliver it to her mother. But then that damned copper stopped me. And really, it wasn’t even a question. I killed him without a thought. I wanted to really lay into him. I had this picture in my head of cutting off his hands but I knew I did not have time.”
“Please start making this make sense to me,” Ava said, sitting back down across from him.
“Have you ever killed someone, Mrs. Gold?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t properly explain. All I can say is that I crossed that line and there was no turning back. I’m sure there are some people that kill another human—maybe out of self-defense or in a situation like the one we had overseas a few years back—that hate it. That loathe it. They take a life and spend the rest of their own trying to forget it. But I was the opposite. It was a compulsion. It was like a child, discovering a new toy and wanting to play and play and play.” He was leaning forward and seemed to realize he was getting too involved in his explanation. He sat back and said: “How many has this murderer taken?”
“Two so far,” Ava answered. “A third was attempted but he was stopped.”
“Then he will certainly do it again. How is he doing it?”
“A hatchet.”
The smile returned to his face and she could practically see him recalling the feel of his own hatchet in his hand.
“Where is he striking them?”
“The head and neck.”
Willie nodded as if he understood perfectly. “Yes, then he will do it again. As a matter of fact, if he’s doing it with such…with such enthusiasm, I can pretty much guarantee you this is not the first time he’s killed.”
“How do you know?”
He grinned, and she could sense a secret lurking behind it. She resisted that particular rabbit hole and stayed on track.
“I need to be able to predict when and where.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. If he’s anything like me…I wanted to do it that entire time. I did not sleep for that entire three days I was on the run. When I wasn’t killing, I was thinking of killing. I was dreaming up ways to dismember and maim and—”
“Did you hear voices?” Ava interrupted?
“You know, lots of people asked me that when I was captured and they always seemed disappointed at my answer. No. There were no voices guiding me. I did the things I did because I wanted to. Plain and simple.” He smiled once again and there was pure malice in it. “Were you hoping to come in here and find that I was crazy? Is your killer crazy? Is he hearing voices?”
“I don’t know,” Ava said, sensing the conversation coming to a close. “But he’s talking to himself. Something about his mother, from what we gather.”
“Maybe he’s killed her, too,” Willie said. This was followed by a roar of laughter through which he also said, “And what man in his sane mind hasn’t wanted to kill his mother at some time or another?”
When he started roaring with laughter again, Ava got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Snide.”
“Oh, please don’t go! I don’t get visitors. People think I’m mad, I suppose.” He laughed at this, too; it was as if a faucet had been opened and it was now pouring out.
Ava left the room and found herself in another corridor. But she knew the way to the lobby and her cab beyond. And as she walked toward it, the sound of Willie Snide’s maniacal laughter followed her, as if taunting her even now that she was gone—teasing her because her visit to this madman had resulted in the smallest of possibilities.
He’ll almost certainly kill again…
And what man hasn’t wanted to kill his mother…
Two more pieces of the puzzle, small and undefined, but Ava couldn’t help but wonder if there might be something there.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The cab driver seemed to understand that Ava was processing something on the ride back into the city. He kept quiet as Ava stared out to the darkening streets. A very fine sprinkling of rain started to fall and it seemed to fit Ava’s train of thoughts perfectly. As she tried to put some very fractured pieces together, she realized that Willie Snide had affected her more than she realized while sitting in front of him. In the back of the cab, Ava felt like she had just left some deep, dark cave, craving sunlight.
With Willie’s face in mind, she did her best to recall some of the things she’d heard Clarence say about murderers and psychopaths. He was always willing to share stories of his day with her, careful not to get too grotesque or explicit. Ava had always listened intently, having always had a passing interest in criminal law. Clarence had often described how he and his fellow officers would track killers based on their habits and preferences—on timetables and even comforts.
She used some of Clarence’s stories and methods, trying to tie them to what she knew of the hatchet killer. He was using alleys and he seemed to know which ones would lead him to his victims without being seen at very certain times of night. That indicated that he knew the city well. So he had likely been living here for a while. And if he had been living here for a while and was killing with such ease, it made her think a bit harder about something Willie Snide had told her:
If he’s doing it with such enthusiasm, I can pretty much guarantee you this is not the first time he’s killed.
Ava felt like there was something huge there. Watching the drizzling rain from the back of the cab, she wondered how likely this was. And if it wasn’t the first time he’d killed…had he been caught before and the police department had somehow not made the connection? No…that seemed pretty unlikely. And if he had killed and been caught he would have ended up in a prison just like the one Snide was currently in, and he’d still be there.
But he’s been spotted talking to himself, she thought. And if he has indeed killed before, that combination paints a whole new portrait of our killer…
“Hey, this is your stop, right, lady?”
The cabbie’s voice broke apart her speculations. She looked out the rain-streaked window, not sure how she’d totally missed that they’d arrived back at the precinct. “Yes,” she said, faintly. “Thank you.”
Ava paid her fare and stepped out into the drizzle. She hurried into the building with the remnants of the last thought in her head. Maybe he killed and no one knew about it. Or maybe there was speculation. And he’s talking to himself…about his mother…
Ava felt that she was on to something, but refused to get too excited about it. Instead, she walked through the precinct, realizing she had never been inside it at night, other than when she’d brought in Tony Two. Without that sort of commotion, the place was quiet and dimly lit. Oddly, it reminded her of a library.
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She started for the stairs that would take her down to the WB offices, but paused at the records department. As discreetly as she could, she entered and returned the file of Willie Snide. She looked at the rows of filing cabinets, wondering if there might be answers or further links to her growing theory. Even if there were, she had no idea where to start.
She nearly left the room, but then hesitated. She went back to the filing cabinet where she’d stored Willie Snide’s records and pulled them back out. She read through some of the notes and comments, finally landing on a section she had only glossed over when she’d read through. Early in his trial, Willie had been referred to a specialist at a mental institution, likely trying to determine if he needed to be housed there or in a prison. Ultimately, it had been prison for Willie, but the name and number of the head shrinker who had seen him—along with the name and phone exchange information—was listed.
Committing it to memory, Ava made her way down to the WB office. The room was empty, though there was clutter on Frances’s desk. And there was also a candlestick phone. She walked over to it, took Frances’s seat, and picked the receiver off of the switch hook. She dialed the four-digit exchange number into the rotary and listened to the hiss and crack as the lines were connected.
After a while, a gruff elderly voice answered: “Rumsfield Mental Facility. How can I assist you?”
“My name is Ava Gold, and I am a member of the NYPD Women’s Bureau. I’ve been assigned to keep tabs on any patients who have been cleared and released over the past year—particularly those who had showed violent tendencies toward women. Who could I speak to in order to get that list of names?”
“That would be Harvey, in records. But he’s gone for the day, ma’am.”
“Is there no one who can get into the records and give me the list right away?” she asked, pressing.
The man sighed and asked her to hold. A few moments later, he picked the phone back up, showing her that accessing the records had not been very hard at all. “I’ve got a list here,” he said, “but without Harvey, I can’t narrow it down to men who only acted violently toward women.”
“How long is the list?”
“Twelve names.”
“Could I have them, please?”
The elderly man recited the twelve names, and Ava wrote them all down.
“Anything else, ma’am?” he asked, tiredly.
“Yes, actually. There is one more mental institution, correct? Just off to the north of the city?”
“That’s correct.”
“Could I please have that number?”
The old man sighed, asked her to hold again, and came back moments later. Ava jotted down the number as he recited it and ended the call. She then fired up the line to the asylum just north of the city, expecting similar results. She figured after this, she’d call other local ones: Bellevue, Buffalo State Hospital, Bloomingdale, Rockdale. Jesus, this is going to take longer than I thought, she griped to herself.
“Baker Asylum,” a woman’s cheerful voice said—a stark contrast to the man she’d just spoken with.
Ava went through the same spiel with this woman, starting to feel like one of those parrots at the circus that mimicked their owners.
“Hello. My name is Ava Gold, and I am a member of the NYPD Women’s Bureau. I’ve been assigned to look into any patients who have been cleared and released over the past year, especially ones who showed violent tendencies toward women. Who could I speak to in order to get that list of names?”
Ava was surprised when she came back with only two names. “I’ve got an Alan Hatfield and Lester Stubbs. But I know for a fact that Lester Stubbs killed himself when he was checked out of here…not even a week after, in fact.”
“And what about Hatfield?”
“Haven’t heard a thing about him. He was discharged about six months ago from what I see here.”
“Any incidents while he was there?”
“None that I know of…other than the occasional screaming fit he’d get into with his mother.”
“During visits?” Ava asked, perking up. A little flicker of excitement passed through her; it was almost like a tiny shock of current passing through her.
The woman chuckled nervously. “Oh, no…she was never there. But Lester sure would scream at her as though she was.”
“Ma’am, listen,” Ava said. “This is very important. I need to speak with someone as soon as possible about Lester Stubbs. He may be a suspect in a case the department is working feverishly to wrap.”
“That would be Dr. Huffman,” the woman said. “He typically gets in around seven in the morning. Would you like for me to leave a note for him to expect a visit?”
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”
Ava ended the call with that growing spark of certainty now catching flame into something bigger. She nearly went to Frank’s desk to leave him a note, but thought better of it. No sense in getting him involved unless she was absolutely sure. Wired with promise and adrenaline, Ava continued making calls. She had just enough of a theory and, in her estimation, a solid lead being built up. As far as she was concerned, nothing was going to get in her way now.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Ava used cash she’d stashed away in an old grease tin to pay the cabbie the following morning, giving him the same instructions. Stay in the parking lot and wait for her to come out. Seeing the ease at which she flashed the dough, the cabbie nodded gratefully.
Baker Asylum was a beautiful building, much smaller and elegant-looking than the institutions in the city proper. The landscaping alone gave it the feel of a hotel rather than a mental asylum. It put her at ease as she entered the front door. And almost right away, that ease was dropped.
She entered through a lobby that looked mostly normal, but as soon as she walked toward the front desk, the comforting façade of the place fell away completely. She could hear someone shrieking somewhere further into the building and there was the faint smell of urine in the air—urine that had clearly been cleaned with some sort of industrial solution but still clung to the air. The walls had recently been painted, though it was clear there was only dull concrete beneath. Even the counter that sat at the back of the lobby looked second-rate. The women behind it, though, seemed to not notice or care about these things.
“Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”
Before Ava could answer, she heard that shrieking again, lost and far away. It was the sort of high-pitched shriek that made it hard to tell if the shrieker was male or female.
“Yes, I’m Officer Ava Gold,” she said. It was a bit surreal, as she wasn’t sure she’d ever referred to herself as officer yet. “I’m here to speak with Dr. Huffman. A lady I spoke with last night should have left him a note.”
The receptionist checked a series of notes on her desk, finally nodding. “Yes, I see it right here. I’m to take you right back to Dr. Huffman,” she said, getting to her feet. “This way, please.”
Ava followed the receptionist away from the desk and down a hall to the right. Here, just a few steps down, the smell of urine was stronger. She also smelled body odor and some other pungent scent she could not identify. She was led past what she assumed was some sort of common room where several patients were going about their own business. She saw a man of about fifty furiously coloring something on a sheet of paper, and another staring at a picture book, unblinking, with a sliver of drool running down his chin.
When the shrieker further down the hall yelled again, she jumped. Ahead of her, the receptionist only chuckled. “Some of them get a little wild in the morning, as you can see.”
Ava had, of course, heard of some of the barbaric treatments that sometimes took place at some asylums. While there were new laws being passed, they were mostly flippant and vague. She knew of the electric shock therapies that, as far as she knew, did next to nothing to improve the state of patients. She’d also heard horror stories about lobotomies, but she would not allow he
rself to pull those tidbits to mind as she walked through the halls.
They came to the end of the corridor and then took a right. Here, the interior looked in a bit better shape, chiefly because it seemed to be where the doctor’s office was located. The receptionist pointed Ava to the second door and then made her way back to the front of the building.
Ava approached the partially open door and knocked while also poking her head inside. “Dr. Huffman?”
The man sitting behind the large desk was slightly overweight and sported a finely combed moustache. He was dressed in what Ava assumed passed as a doctor’s smock at this institution, with a set of bifocals tucked into the breast pocket. He looked up to her from a pile of notes and folders, giving her a smile.
“Officer Gold?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, noting the tiny bit of humor in his tone when he said the word Officer.
“Come on in. I’ve saved fifteen minutes for you before I have to get out there and make my rounds.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, taking the single seat that sat on her side of the desk.
“I’m told you needed to speak to me about Lester Stubbs, correct?”
“I do.”
“Well, Lester was a—”
He was interrupted by a wailing scream from elsewhere in the building. It was almost like a hooting primate sound. Huffman stood, walked to the door, and closed it with a smile. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, though the entire visit so far had put her on edge. “In terms of Lester, the woman I spoke with last night indicated that he would often get into screaming fits that sounded like conversations with his mother. Does that sound accurate?”
“Yes, that’s Lester,” he said with an odd sort of joy. It was as if he were speaking about a pet dog he had that was guilty of chasing squirrels.