by David Scott
"Wait a second Bernie, I will see what is going on.” Luke said reassuringly.
Bernie, who was becoming seriously agitated, fearing the worse, that Pulcinella’s promise to revisit her was about to be upheld.
Luke peered his head around the door, and saw the officers tasked with watching over Bernie holding back a middle-aged couple, who were almost overwhelming them with their energetic drive towards the door.
“Let us see our little girl, please! She needs us,” the woman was saying animatedly, “Please, officers, you must let us in!”
Bernie must have heard, and started calling back to the familiar voice, “Mum? Mum!” She called out, reverting to an almost childhood cry for help.
Luke nodded to the officers to let them in. Bernie smiled at him, as he shut the door to give them some privacy for the reunion. Bernie needed this, and Luke knew there was little more information to gain from her at this time.
Luke felt his eyes well up, as he heard the tears and declarations of love echoing out of the room. It reminded him of what is the most important thing of all in life. Love.
“Are you ok, Luke?” Dan spoke in his earpiece. “Come find me, and we can talk it through. You were amazing in there.”
Luke was a sensitive soul, and Dan knew that he would need his support to bring him down from this experience. At least now they had verification that the photograph was of Pulcinella, and Bernie’s description fleshed out a little more of the detail hidden by the poor quality of the image. They could try to work up a profile from this. It was a start.
Dan waited for Luke with a cup of strong coffee in the small, hospital cafeteria. No one was in there at the moment but Dan knew they had to be careful when talking in a public place. The row of high vending machines, selling everything you might need, from toothpaste to trashy magazines, stood along the back wall. Dan sat as far away from them as possible to avoid their flashing lights, and the constant drumming of their electrical hearts.
Luke walked in, pulled out another plastic red chair, and sat down in it.
“Here,” Dan said, “I thought you might need this.”
Dan passed over the coffee, and realised that he was employing exactly the same technique that Luke had just used on Bernie. Luke didn’t seem to notice, or care; he was just grateful to be back with Dan.
“How do you get over something like that, Dan? I have to admit that I am struggling to cope with what I have seen but to actually live through it. To watch people being slaughtered, and then to be hunted down yourself. I don’t see how she will ever recover.”
“I know this is trite to say, Luke, but some people really are stronger than you think. Maybe they will never get over it but they live-on. And maybe they will be grateful for being alive, or perhaps they will feel guilty for being the one to survive, or just get angry that this ever happened. Other things will come into her life to distract her from the horrors of the past. It will get easier for her with time, even if now that seems like an impossibility. Bernie is strong. I know she will get through it. Just as you will, Luke.”
Dan thought back to his time with the Tennessee Torturer. He spoke from personal experience.
“I know you’re right, Dan. I just find it hard to take it all in just now.” Luke paused for a second staring into his swirling coffee, “Hey, what time is it?”
“It’s just gone 11,” Dan replied, glancing at his plastic watch, “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just thinking we have a lot to consider before your press announcement.” Luke was trying to move the focus away from his feelings, and back to the job at hand, “We had better get back to the hotel.”
Dan and Luke drank the last dregs of their coffee, and headed out of the hospital and back to the hotel. It was pretty close by, so they walked. On the way they discussed in detail what Dan should say to the press. There was no easy way of dealing with this, and they agreed that he should just tell it how it is, notwithstanding the repercussions that might follow.
The thought of the press conference filled Dan with dread. He hated public speaking but admonished himself for dwelling on his own concerns, given how petty they seemed in light of what was going on around him. Still, it was difficult not to feel the nerves well up inside of him, no matter how much he tried to coach himself, or received comforting assurances from Luke.
The heightened camera lights surrounded Dan, focusing their blinding glares onto his pale face. An arc of microphones came next, closer to Dan and penning him in, ready and waiting to pick up his every word in perfect digital sound. And beside them, were a line of hodgepodge reporters pressing forward with their various news channel brands.
Dan inhaled deeply and breathed out slowly. The newscasters were intimidating enough in themselves but the thought of the watching millions was an unfathomable terror. Dan felt his leg twitch involuntarily due to the tension building up inside of him.
“Come on, calm down,” Dan said to himself aloud, biting his lip. He glanced over to Luke, who smiled reassuringly back at him. His lips were parched. He licked at them repeatedly, and kept swallowing every couple of seconds, desperate to moisten his throat to ensure that he could at least talk. He suddenly imagined himself letting out a loud croak. The absurdity of that, not to mention the reaction, sufficiently distracted his mind to allow him to relax a little. He took a final, deep breath. And then he heard himself speaking, as though he was somehow removed from his body. Dan could hear his own voice, see his own hands, but it didn’t feel like him. The inner professional had taken control to protect the scared, little boy occupying Dan’s mind. It was all very surreal but he was saying the right words, that he had rehearsed with Luke. It was going as well as could be expected.
“We know that we are dealing with an individual.” Dan spoke confidently, having detailed the recent killings, and the messages left behind at each crime scene, he was moving on to the description of the suspect, “A tall, thin man. Estimated to be around six-and-a-half foot tall. Highly athletic, and proficient in the use of a variety of weaponry. He was last seen dressed in a long, black cloak, and wore what we believe to be some sort of Venetian, leather mask to hide his identity. The key feature of this mask is a long, beak-like, nose. We believe that he also uses modern technology to track his targets. The accuracy of his aim in the dark, together with what we believe to be red, laser sightings attached to his eyes, backs this up. Following this interview, we will release an image taken by a brave, young victim. We ask that any information that may help us in our investigations is immediately passed on to your local sheriff’s department, or passed on directly to my team, who can be contacted on the telephone number now showing at the bottom of your screen. We know these are worrying times, and we are doing everything we can to stop Pulcinella, but we need your help and urge you to come forward. My thoughts are with the families of those affected by these terrible attacks, and rest assured that we will be doing everything within our power to bring this murderer to justice. You will understand that I have to press on with the investigation, and so I will not be taking any questions directly at this time.”
Dan stepped back into the hotel, and was quickly followed in by Luke. He could hear the cries of his name coming from outside, as the reporters pressed towards the entrance, hungry for more information, and for any exclusive detail which they might be able to get, to help advance their own careers, rather than to help catch the killer. The officers on patrol kept them away.
Luke was waiting for him, already inside. He smiled at Dan, and raised his thumb upwards. The performance had gone well.
The online reporting was immediate. A prolific serial killer was on the loose. The purge of Pulcinella. Prowling Pulcinella. Pulcinella the Predator. Live now or die. Find the joy in every day. So many differing warnings. The message was out.
Every day from then on, the news reporters crafted their stories and reports for maximum effect, constantly providing visuals of the killings and repeatedly reading out Pulcinella’s mess
ages. The fear and panic setting in society was almost palpable. The people listened, and started adhering to their orders. Sales in overseas holidays peaked. Self-defence classes filled. Personal credit sky-rocketed. Shops selling luxury goods became over-crowded. Divorce and emigration applications soared. Gun sales hit new highs. Bullets ran out.
Then, as the evening of the last day of the month approached, the streets completely emptied as everyone rushed home to hide-away behind locked doors, hoping that Pulcinella would not find them. But no one was safe.
NINE
The golden, glittering letters spelling out the Northern Hotel’s name, and marking its entrance, stood out starkly against the onyx backdrop.
Looking at the sign, you would be forgiven for thinking it was a jewellery shop and, even after the addition of the word “Hotel” to the sign, the receptionists still sometimes found lovers lost in their lobby looking for that perfect ring.
The hotel had grown over the years. The demand for rooms was such that they had taken over the adjacent department store, and converted it into more rooms. Now, the towering conjoined building was one of the biggest hotels in the up-and-coming business district.
The manager made false promises of five-star luxury for three-star prices. The economic downturn, coupled with the ever-present need for social media updates, assured the hotel’s success, as vainglorious adults described yet another amazing stay in a top establishment. The illusion of superiority more important than the reality of the experience.
Pulcinella had chosen it for this very reason. A crowded lobby of self-interested individuals was guaranteed. It could come and go at will without being noticed or questioned. The management had cut costs wherever it could; staff numbers and security systems were efficiently minimal.
Transforming its appearance to that of a middle-aged male, matching its plastic skin tone to one of the commonly seen pink hues, and wearing an ubiquitous navy suit, meant that Pulcinella looked like nearly half of those passing through the corridors on any given day.
The one security guard, disguised as a lobby assistant, could not possibly recognise all of the guests or differentiate between the indistinguishable masses. Pulcinella could come and go as it pleased.
The small steel lifts had no surveillance devices installed or extra security measures.
Each floor looked almost identical, with long, narrow corridors, flanked on either side by plain wooden doors facing each other.
Two cameras were installed at either end of each of the long corridors, one of which was a dummy camera; Pulcinella found that the one working device could be disabled remotely, and that no one responded when this happened, which suggested they were not actively monitored.
The room doors had no “spy holes”, and a card merely needed to be flashed at the door to open it, which Pulcinella could easily replicate or override.
The crowded warren of rooms provided an accessible source of prey. There would be no escape from these comfortable burrows.
On the last night of the month, Pulcinella stood outside in the rain, watching and waiting for nightfall. It did not feel the delicate splashes of cool water bouncing off its plastic frame, or the cold kisses of the late Autumn air. Dusk fell, and the hotel sign glowed welcomingly.
Pulcinella entered through the revolving door, and proceeded to the lift. It looked at the panel of illuminated numbers. A deathly lottery for the sleeping masses above. A push of a button which would decide their fate; live or die.
Pulcinella did not choose at random, it had calculated that the top floor was preferable to minimise the risk of any escape. The windows were restricted so that they would only open a little; even if they were forced, there would be nowhere to go, as the rooms were so high up. The fire exit stairs would take a long time to go down. There was no one above to hear, and the sound proofing would stop most of the noise from travelling below. Floor 15, your number is up.
Marshall disliked business trips, and yet he found himself often in hotel rooms. Travel was a necessary element of his role and there was little he could do about it, except start-over. Realistically, he could not do this. He felt 44 was too old to take-up a new career or try something different. And it was not so far off until retirement. Only 20 years or so. He spent many a moment dreaming of the day when he would no longer have to work, and wishing his life away.
Marshall sighed, as he looked down at yet another tray of familiar food. At first, Marshall found ordering whatever he wanted and eating carefree, sitting in nothing but his underwear, chewing with his mouth open, and using his fingers, to be liberating and enjoyable. But the novelty of room service soon wore off, and now it just left him feeling unhealthy and disgusting, like some kind of fat ape.
The ubiquitous burger with fries was tonight’s speciality. Marshall wondered how this could ever be passed off as a notable offering. He looked at the plate smeared with tomato ketchup and rice-sized grains of salt. His lips felt dry due to the combined attack coming from the heavy seasoning coupled with the powerful air conditioning.
Marshall never felt as lonely as on these occasions. He missed his wife, and wondered what she was doing. They spent their life together, with no children and only a few, transient friends.
Here, in this room, there was only CNN for company, with the same story playing on a loop. Or his sales pitch, which he had learnt by rote. Marshall didn’t particularly like convincing people to buy his company’s products but he was good at it.
He thought of the effort he had put in at college to get the best grades. The hours he had worked, not to mention the pressure and stress, to become the best. And with a joint high income, he and his wife had moved to an expensive neighbourhood, chaining themselves to an interest-heavy, mounting mortgage, so large that they would have to work longer, leaving little time for respite together before the big sleep.
And now at the top, he found himself alone in a mid-range hotel. Beholden to even richer men and women, demanding more of his time. There was little left to give. He regretted wasting his life, and contemplated the folly of the masses who thought wealth and status to be of any real importance. Marshall chuckled at the irony, realising his mistake too late.
Marshall thought how he should cash in now, and open a little coffee shop with his wife or go back to doing an easier job, with a request for flexible time, so he could rediscover past pursuits and old loves.
Of course, deep down he knew that pride and pragmatism wouldn’t permit either option. It takes a bold person to throw away a gilt-framed life for the possibility of a fickle dream. Marshall liked to think about it, even though he would never do it; it made him feel better, his adventurous soul survived. Escape was possible, even if illusory.
Marshall sat in his boxer shorts and loose, white T-shirt. He never had time for exercise but was naturally slim, and so naively thought that he could eat whatever he liked. Unbeknown to him, fat lurked in his arteries, building up, waiting for an assault; the stealthy killer was well-positioned to take its shot.
There was a gentle tap on the door. It must be the pretty, young server come to take away my tray, Marshall thought. He called out for her to wait, as he rushed to grab his overlarge, fluffy, cotton bathrobe. His big toe pressed for release from his sock, which he pulled off to give him a resemblance of respectability. He donned a large smile in preparation for his imminent charm offensive; not that he had any intention of acting on any advance but it was always nice to fantasise, and it was normal to try to impress beautiful people.
Marshall opened the door quickly, and the do not disturb sign flew off. Immediately he felt something scratch across his throat. Confused, Marshall grasped at his neck with both hands. He saw blood spurting between his fingers, cascading to the floor. Looking into crimson eyes, he was pushed hard back into his room, and fell to the ground. The door shut quietly.
As he lay on the floor, he could smell the remains of his meal coming together into an unpleasant odour of stale onion and fried flesh. His ha
nds were soaked with his own blood. Marshall clung on, almost strangling himself to stop the flow.
The reality of the situation hit him. This was it. Marshall thought of how he wouldn’t see his wife again. Worried for her grief. Wished he had held her longer, and used all those lost moments. Told her more often how much he loved her. No more opportunity for anything. No happy retirement. His hands loosened, as his strength and soul left him. The carpet reddened all around him.
The hotel corridor was long and narrow, to maximise the space. The brown carpet looked relatively new, and its dark geometrical patterns disguised the many stains trodden in to it. It softened under the dim lighting and looked almost like some sort of optical illusion. Snaking straight up to the entrances of its 30 rooms.
Pulcinella needed to move quickly and quietly. Starting from the far end, it would follow the shapes down the landing, until it reached the emergency exit stairwell at the other side. It moved silently to the adjacent room.
Pulcinella could see the heat signatures in the room, seemingly lying next to one another, unmoving. It listened and heard the gentle purrs of someone snoring lightly. A small spherical camera slid down Pulcinella’s side, and slipped under the door. Pulcinella observed.
The couple were asleep on the bed, spooning each another. Both with their mouths wide-open, gasping in oxygen from the hot, suffocating air-conditioning. The woman kicked out, from a fall in a dream, stirred briefly, and then went back to sleep.
Pulcinella retrieved the sight, and raised its palm to the door’s card reader. It clicked open. Pulcinella entered, standing on the wine stained shirt and shiny blue bra on the floor, passing the bin with oily tissues, ripped packets and foils, moving towards the sleeping middle-aged couple. It touched the side of the man’s temple, who jolted violently, and then fell still. It immediately did the same to the woman, who jerked in some inelegant electric dance before stopping dead. The fatal shocks left the lovers in one final embrace.