Night Mask (17 page)

“I don't think that will be a problem.”

Al had left the murky confines of the old barn and joined them on the outside.

“We're on a statewide net right now,” the Indianapolis cop told them. “By this time tomorrow, we'll be nationwide. The FCC is handing us everybody they can spare. I figure in seventy-two hours, we'll be rolling nationwide to get the subliminal suggestions off the air.”

“And maybe have some sort of a handle on the cults, the clubs, whatever the hell they're called,” Leo said.

“We code-named this the Killing Clubs.”

“The press will love that.”

“Fuck the press,” Al said bluntly.

Lani smiled. “Another thing we share in common.”

A uniform walked up. “Dispatch says homicide pulled in two more suspects. They're talkin' about a fourth site.”

“Jesus Christ!” Al said, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “And this is just one small city. What's it going to be like nationwide?”

“Chaos,” Lani said softly.

Lani could not have chosen a better word to describe the mood of the country after the news spread. FCC investigators began finding taped subliminal suggestions in every major market and many smaller ones. Police began finding death pits all over the nation, border to border, coast to coast. The vice president's wife—who had been complaining about certain song lyrics for years—was quickly appointed chairperson of a commission to study song contents, programming, musical groups, whether a minimum age limit should be set to attend heavy metal and rap concerts, and so forth. Musicians and singers began screaming about the constitutional right of free speech.

“We're getting off the track here,” Leo said, sitting at his desk. He tossed the morning paper into the wastebasket. “It's subliminal suggestions we're looking for, not song lyrics.”

“There are those who think the lyrics of certain songs drive some listeners to commit crimes,” Ted said.

“It certainly does me,” Sheriff Brownwood said, pausing at the open door. “Makes me want to kill the son of a bitch singing it.” He walked on.

Since the death of deputy sheriff Tony Moreno, the Ripper had ceased killing in Hancock County . . . that is, as far as the cops knew. Dick Hale was still on the loose, but laying low. Carla Upton had not been found. The number of bodies found nationwide had far exceeded Lani and Leo's original estimate. Over two thousand tortured and mutilated bodies had been dug up, and the body count was climbing every day. Citizens were arming themselves in record numbers, some gun stores selling out their entire stock in one day. Over fifty radio stations and four TV stations had been shut down by FCC inspectors. Going dark, in broadcasting language. Arrest warrants had been issued for more than three hundred people nationwide; but the suspects appeared to be as slippery as quicksilver. Only a handful had been arrested and charged. They freely talked, boasting about their part in torturing and killing, leading the police to new and larger death pits.

Leo was studying Lani, who sat deep in thought at her desk. “What's on your mind, Blondie?” he asked.

“We were the ones who uncovered this snake pit,” she said. “So we'll be the ones right on the top of the killing list of these geeks and freaks and weirdos. You and me, Leo. And probably Ted and Brenda, too.”

“Yeah. You're right. So?”

Sheriff Brownwood had stepped into the office and was listening.

“Over three hundred arrest warrants have been issued nationwide, but only a few suspects have been picked up. Those on the loose have apparently gone hard underground. We've all agreed that a contingency plan had been worked out in advance, knowing a day of discovery would come.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So we're all convinced that the Longwood boys are in charge, so to speak, of this killing club, right?”

“Right,” Brenda said. “Where are you going with this, Lani?”

“It's not where I'm going,” she said. “It's where those still on the loose are going.”

Brownie had poured a cup of coffee. He dropped the cup on the floor and whirled around, facing Lani. “You think they're coming
here?”

“That seems the logical conclusion to me, yes.”

“Why?” Ted asked.

“For their grand finale. One final day, or night, or week, or month of killing frenzy. Look, cops nationwide have connected every suspect; albeit loosely, but they are all connected. These goddamn freaks even had a newsletter. You've all seen it. Or copies of it. Jim and Jack Longwood have spent years setting all this up. Everywhere they traveled, they set up a cell. Those cells grew from the cities and spread out into the countryside. We've now proven that that broadcasting school the government just last week put out of business was the brainchild of the Longwoods. They financed it and taught selected people the craft of subliminal suggestion. Those people went out all over the country, and put that to work. Those freaks in Indiana confirmed it. Jim and Jack Longwood are here. Right here in Hancock County, laughing at us. All those on the suspect list are disciples of Jim and Jack Longwood. They worship those two weirdos. Where else would they go?”

“Yeah,” Brenda said softly. “It began on the East Coast, and it will end on the West Coast. It fits. I buy it.”

“Lani,” Brownie said. “Two six or seven-year-old boys couldn't have set this up—it's too elaborate!”

“No. They didn't. Not then. This plan came later on. Probably right before they killed their parents. Everything they've done has been a plan to throw off the cops. The classic movies, the classic music. That was laid down as a false trail, and we bought it. KSIN is the only classic radio station in the nation that has been directly tied in. All the rest were hard rock and heavy metal and rap. All youth-oriented. A few hidden messages were found in other stations, but damn few. We've been had, people. We got screwed, and didn't even get kissed in the process.”

“And you think these two hundred and seventy-five or so freaks are coming here to go into a blood-lust frenzy?” Ted asked.

“I think that's what Jack and Jim Longwood want us to think.”

“Why?” Brownie asked.

“I haven't figured that one out yet,” Lani admitted.

“Mary had a little lamb?” Leo asked.

Lani shook her head. “Another false trail. Means nothing.”

“The half brother and sister?”

“I don't think they exist. I think that story is bogus. It was planted around town, school, and in Karl and Anna's minds by the boys. They spread it around. They told Father Daniel. You know how people like to talk to those who work for the very rich. Human nature.”

“Those two who attacked us back at that old school?” Leo asked.

“We start doing some digging—when we have the time—and I think we'll find those two were in some mental institution with Jack and Jim. Recruits, that's all.”

“This is a lot of fishing and guessing, Lani,” Brownie said. “But I tend to lean in your direction. This whole case has been goofy from the start. Leo?”

“Yeah. I'm with you. This case, right from the beginning, has had all of us acting like a one-armed paperhanger. At least Lani's theory makes some sense. Nothing else about this screwy mess does.”

All four of the investigators were losing patience. Brenda Yee threw a stack of file folders on the table. “Goddamnit!” she yelled, causing Brownie to almost spill his newly poured coffee down the front of his shirt. He gave the state investigator a very pained look. “What does Carla Upton have to do with this case?” Brenda asked, looking around. “Did she stage her own death? If so, why? She was, is, whatever, a rich woman, and from all we can find, a very happy one. If she was kidnapped, why the elaborate setup? Who was the dead woman? Was her death unrelated to this case? If not, how does it tie in with the freaks?”

“It all ties in,” Lani said softly. “We just haven't found the right sequence of ribbons and bows, that's all. The Ripper is playing with us, taunting us, mocking us.” She cleared her throat. “Okay. Let's lay it out on the table. One: we stopped the Ripper's game of subliminal suggestion. Two: every DJ, copywriter, engineer, secretary, salesperson over at the broadcasting complex checks out nine ways to sundown. They're clear. Three: we know how the Ripper used to lure his victims to their death. We stopped that. Four: is the Ripper now picking the victims at random? Or has the Ripper come up with a new scheme in choosing victims? Five: where the hell is Dick Hale? The man is not any sort of out doorsman. Dick's idea of roughing it was a weekend at the Sheraton.”

“Forget Dick Hale,” Brownie said. “Let Homicide handle that one.”

Lani shook her head. “He's part of it, Brownie. In a strange and tragic way.”

“Well, pardon me. I thought we cleared Dick of any involvement with the Ripper?”

“Yeah,” Leo said. “Me, too.”

“We did. But not his daughter.”

“What are you talking about?” Ted asked.

“I've got Cal going over that tape that Dick played for us that day at his house. You know, the one where the woman called about information that would clear Dick?”

“Yeah. So? You think that was Sue Hale on that tape?”

“Cal's doing voice comparison analysis right now. He had old tapes over at the station of Sue, fooling around in the commercial room. He should be through at any moment.”

“Jesus God!” Brownie said. “Dick's own daughter set him up. What a charming family that was.” He looked at Lani. “I see what you mean about it being strange and tragic.”

“What got you leaning in Sue's direction, Lani?” Brenda asked.

“That's a cold little bitch, people. I've been doing some snooping around; asking some people about her. And if Cal finds out that's really Sue's voice on the tape, this case is going to go right through the ceiling.” Lani rose and refilled her coffee cup with fresh coffee.

“Well, don't stop now!” Leo said. “Come on, give.”

“For the past year, it seems that Sue has been offering sex, including oral and anal, to certain high school boys, and girls, if they would agree to join a secret club—”

“Oh,
fuck!”
Brownie said. “Now we have juveniles involved in this mess.”

“Yeah.” Lani stared down into her coffee cup for a moment. She looked up. “I got to thinking about how cold Sue was when her father was arrested. I checked the visitor book. She never came to see him. And they were supposed to be such a happy, close-knit family. Boy, was that a facade!”

“How many boys and girls?” Brownie said in a very tired voice.

“Fifty or so.”

“God!” the sheriff whispered.

“Her brother was part of that club,” Lani added.

“You mean . . .” Ted cleared his throat. “Sue and her brother were . . . ?”

“Apparently so. The one kid I spoke with—who is clear, by the way—who even came close to leveling with me, said that Sue felt she could cure her brother's homosexuality by having sex with him.”

“Next you're going to be telling me that the mother also had sex with her son,” Brownie said, the words sounding like he had a very bad taste in his mouth.

“Yeah, that's right,” Lani told him. “And with her daughter, too.”

“I think I'll retire after this term,” Brownie said, very wistfully. “Me and the wife move up into the mountains. Talk to squirrels and birds and deer and other critters. To hell with humans.”

The phone rang and Lani picked up. Cal Denning calling from KSIN. “I called in a friend from L.A. to verify my findings. It's a match, Lani. No doubt about it.”

Brownie put his face in his hands. “Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful!”

* * *

Moments after the first teenager was picked up, Sue and the other kids involved in the killing club took off for parts unknown. When the cops came knocking on the front door, the parents were angry, disbelieving, and dismayed.

“Not my Paul. Not my Pat. Not my Lisa. Not my Johnny. Not my Frank,” was the usual response.

Parents should be required to ride with cops at least one night a week. That experience just might open their eyes to some truths they would ordinarily deny to the grave.

But that won't happen, and many incredibly naive parents will continue to be shocked and saddened and angry when the local cops show up at their door with some distressing news concerning their perfect children.

La Barca was no different from any other small to medium-sized city. It had its normal share of runaways, drifters, social dropouts, dopers, hookers, gangs, and unexplained disappearances. Nationally, thousands of people disappear every year, never to be heard from again. There are all sorts of theories as to what happens to them, ranging from alien kidnapping to white slavery in some Moroccan bordello. The sad truth is, in reality, no one really knows.

Lani and Leo, Ted and Brenda started looking through the La Barca PD and Hancock County Sheriff Department's missing persons files.

“It's been running unusually high the last couple of years,” the clerk in missing persons noted.

“I wonder why?” Lani said, only slightly sarcastically.

The clerk did not pick up on that, but the rest of the team sure did. Leo especially, for he, too, was thinking about those pits back in Indiana, filled with tortured, mutilated, and rotting bodies. They knew it was just a matter of time before something very similar was discovered in Hancock County.

Outside the building, leaning against their cars, Leo said, “Fifty kids just don't vanish in a town the size of La Barca. L.A., Chicago, New York City, yeah. But not in La Barca.”

“So what are we doing wrong?” Brenda asked.

“We're not thinking like a kid,” Ted said, and that got everybody's attention.

“Go on,” Leo said.

“The kids have got to eat. But they're not going to be fixing lamb chops and brussels sprouts and so forth. They won't be going to the supermarkets.”

“Junk food,” Lani said. “Cokes and Pepsis and chips and candy bars and peanut butter.”

“Right.”

“Small convenience stores on the edges of town,” Leo said. “And alert all units to look out for kids who were not on our list, buying sacks of junk food and heading out of town with it.”

“Maybe not just out of town.” Brenda snapped her fingers. “All those warehouses down by the docks. Especially the ones no longer in use.”

“Yeah,” Lani said. “There's about a mile of them. Some of them scheduled to be torn down. We've been concentrating looking outside of town.”