The Bedroom Killer (14 page)

Dear Journal,

So…I didn’t kill myself.  Obviously.  Here I am writing to you.  Dr. Larson says I need to keep doing this.  I tried to kill myself and it didn’t work out.  I won’t go into details.  I got arrested.  Can you believe that?  For murder.  I didn’t kill anyone.  Why would I do that?  I was interrogated.   Detectives Bell and Ash.  What a pair.  He’s practically psychotic and she’s…I don’t know.  She’s pretty.  Real pretty.  Girl next door pretty.  I don’t know. 

I drove to my old house.  I tried to talk with the lady who lives there.  Her daughter was murdered.  I didn’t do that.  But I think I saw the guy who did.  I feel guilty about being there.  I was sitting outside in my car and all that time this guy is killing some girl inside my old house.  I want to kill him.  Who could do such a thing?  I think I might try to find this guy.  What else am I going to do?

John.

CHAPTER
30

The killer's dark green 68 Chevelle GTO cruised down the neighborhood street, behind a group of four young girls on their way home from school. Isaac, the dark-haired Bedroom Killer, glanced over at them as he passed, then raised his eyes to watch them in the rearview mirror.

Fun, fun, fun.

The hunt was on again, and more than anything else, this is what got his heart pumping. The moments leading up to the kill were almost as fun to Isaac as the killing itself. He felt so alive, so in control, and still no one knew who he was. He got to choose who lived and who died.

That's power.

He turned the corner and sped up to put some distance between him and the girls. He made another right and drove down the adjacent street so he could come up behind them again. He made the next two rights and saw them farther down the street. Two of them peeled off from the others.

Which ones to follow
?

It's a toss of a coin and he held the coin in his hands
. He got to choose. They didn't even know. He pulled up to the corner, looked to his right and watched the two girls, looked to his left and watched the other two. He glanced right again, and then left again.

Left it is.

He rolled the steering wheel counterclockwise and watched the two girls behind him in his rearview mirror…the lucky ones.
Not today, girls. You get to live. And I gave that life to you. You have no idea how close you came. You never will. But I do. I will always know.

Isaac turned his attention back to the girls in front of him
. One blonde and one brunette. He preferred the brunettes. He pulled over to the curb and cut the engine, pretending to read through some paperwork just in case some nosey neighbor was watching. He stayed there until the girls split again. The blonde turned left three streets down, and the brunette kept going straight. He waited until the brunette turned left on the very next street before he started his car and pulled away. He sped up the next four streets and turned left…

            
And saw nothing.

Where is she
?

He'd lost her
. She must live in one of the houses at this end of the street—but it could be on the left or on the right. She had enough time to go to either side. Isaac drove down to the end of the street, hung a U-turn, and came back. He looked closely at both sides of the street for any sort of clue.

Nothing.

No matter.

Now he knew where she lived
. He might kill her next. Or maybe he'll push her down the list. He already had two others chosen. Like a candidate list of senior prom choices, he knew who he wanted most. She was also brunette, lived across town with her mom. Her name was Hillary. Yes, she would be next. And it would be soon. Very soon.

And she didn't even know.

CHAPTER
31

John stood and stared at the rack of True Crime paperbacks, each one detailing a singular story of homicide. Lovers' killings, love triangles, rejected love, business partnerships gone awry, insurance scams, and parents murdered by a son or daughter who then inevitably ran away with their teenage lover only to be caught at gunpoint in the next county. Tried, convicted, and sent off to prison to live out the remainder of their lives in general population, or on death row. Their stories told through the media and local papers, repeated by the locals at the diners, coffee shops, and garden shops with murmurs of,
that's so sad
tossed about.

So many wasted lives.

John tried to imagine who these people were. Were they all from broken families? Was there no hope in their lives? Or were they just dumb, unfeeling people who made a snap decision that changed their lives forever? He pulled a book down from the shelf, written by a guy named Dalessandro, and read the back cover summary. It told the story of how a lady tracked down her aunt’s killer, a man she herself dated and thought she loved only to find out later it was all a con. It took her years, but she finally found him. Based on that experience, and dealing with law enforcement, she started her own one-woman campaign to help other victims who were getting nowhere with the police.

So many wasted lives.

It was just after noon and the bookstore was fairly packed for a Sunday. For some reason John felt an energy inside him—he was finally working on something. There was a reason, albeit not a happy reason, to get up in the morning and do something constructive. He noted the stares of some of the patrons as he walked past. His bandage was still very evident on his face, and it was a face that had been plastered all over the newspapers and TV news. They all knew who he was.

So this is what
being a celebrity is like?

He pulled
a book on criminology from the shelf and set it down at a table in the coffee shop section of the store. He ordered a small black coffee and sat down to take notes. He knew that if people saw what he was reading they might freak out even more, so he made sure he was tucked away in a corner, his back to the wall.

The first book he opened was
Mindhunter
by John Douglas. He'd once watched an interview on television with the storied FBI agent, and when he found the book, he immediately knew that was the one to start with. He sipped his coffee as he underlined sections on profiling technique, types of victims, police procedures; just about anything he thought might help him figure out who the guy with the dark hair was. John didn't think of him as a serial killer, or the "Bedroom Killer." He only thought of him as the guy who kept him from killing himself and he was somewhat ambivalent about how he felt about it. He just knew he was a part of this now and he had to make a contribution, whether it was asked for or not.

John looked up and found a young couple staring at him from a few tables away
. They quickly turned away. He was the freak show and he knew it. Okay, he'd have to get used to it. But not now. He gathered up the books and his coffee and walked them over to the checkout counter, keeping them hidden as best as he could. The clerk, a young brunette with a nose ring, smiled briefly at John as she scanned each book. She tried not to flinch once she saw the titles, but it was more than noticeable to John. She bagged the books, placed the receipt in the bag, and handed it to John without a word. He took the bag and very deliberately looked her hard in her eyes and said
Thank You
in his best Vincent Price voice. He turned and walked out the door, a tinge of guilt building inside him for being a smart-ass dick when he didn't have to be.

Once home
, John laid the books out on a small card table in his living room. He stared at the table wondering if he needed anything else. Two hours later he had his paper fold-out map of Greenwood City tacked to his wall, the card table shoved up beneath the map, and printed photos of the four murdered girls he pulled from the Internet and the Bedroom Killer articles tacked to the wall next to the map. His very own Public Enemy Number 1 wall display. He set five colored thumbtacks to the side of the map. He would find out the exact address of the other killings. He felt bad about calling them killings, but he would have to keep this as impersonal as he could, if that was even possible. And then he would place the tacks at those locations.

It was all coming together.

CHAPTER
32

"So he tried to kill himself. No shit!" Morry said.

Charles Morrison took a drag from his unfiltered Camel and blew the smoke up into the rafters of the old newspaper building they called The Fortress
. It was an old brick and wood antique built in the thirties and it badly needed a face lift. But to Morry, it was home.

"And you talked with him
? This doctor guy?" Morry said.

"I did,"
Marcus said, choking down his shot of bourbon. You didn't say no to Morry's bourbon if you wanted to sit and pick his brain. Every reporter at the paper had at one time slurped or sipped, or depending on the occasion, gulped down his double malt bourbon. Fortunately it was smooth, at least to the initiated drinkers. All except the ladies. Morry didn't take to lady reporters. He was ancient and he longed for the good ol' days when you could cuss without conviction and slap a big-titted secretary on the ass and all she would do is giggle and scurry away…and then maybe come back at the end of the shift to spend some quality time with old Morry.

But those days were gone, and Morry's quality time no longer included droppin
g his trousers.

"
The only time I drop my trousers anymore is when the doctor needs to put his finger up my ass or when the porcelain chamber calls for a deposit."

"What did he tell ya?"
Morry said.

Marcus set his mug down on the corner of Morry's old
oak rolltop desk, its surface scarred with cigarette burns and round coffee mug stains. He pulled his notepad out and flipped to the page of notes on John Randall.

"He parked in front of his former home and tried to shoot himself through the bottom of his neck
," Marcus said.

"How the fuck do you miss a shot like that?"

"That's just it. He missed because the Bedroom Killer slammed into his car and fell across the hood. Right when he pulled the trigger." Marcus tossed his notepad onto Morry's desk and said, "And he missed."

Morry leaned forward, pulled on his Camel, blew
out the smoke, and said, "That's unfuckingbelievable."

"I know,"
Marcus said.

"So he misses
. Then what?"

"He watches the guy roll off his car and hobble down the street, get in his car, and drive away."

"He just sat there?" Morry said.

"I guess
," Marcus said, "but that's when Mrs. Sharp came out. The mother of the dead girl. She beat him with a baseball bat. But he eventually got the car started and got the hell out of there. Drove himself to the hospital where he used to work. They stitched him up and that's where the cops found him."

"And they thought he was the
Bedroom Killer?"

"Yeah."

"Unfuckingbelievable."

"But he cleared himself," Marcus
said.

"How'd he do that?"

"The lady said he wasn't the one inside his house. Too short."

"So now the cops know
the killer is tall. How tall?"

"I don't know."

Morry grabbed a pencil from his desk and chucked it at Marcus, stabbing his left nipple through his shirt.

"Ow
!" Marcus cried.

"What the hell do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know."

"Well how tall is this doctor guy?"

"I don't know, about an inch taller than me I guess."

"How tall are you?"

"About five nine."

"So the doctor guy is five ten, and
the killer is taller than that. Must be a lot taller or the lady wouldn't have noticed. The killer is at least six two or six four. Guaranteed."

Morry poured another shot for himself and another shot for Marcus.

"Drink. We know how tall the killer is. That's progress," Morry said.

Marcus eyed the mug with disdain
. He really didn't like the taste of bourbon, especially a ten o’clock in the morning.

"Drink
, Godammit!" Morry shouted.

Marcus drank
. His throat felt warmed and his larynx lost more hair.

"
You're going to keep following this doctor guy. There's a story there. I mean, the guy tried to kill himself and ran smack dab in the middle of a serial killer case. What are the odds? Unfuckingbelievable," Morry said.

"
You think I should?"

"
What are you, dense? He tried to fucking kill himself! Why does a doctor try to kill himself?"

"
He was depressed," Marcus said.   

"
And why was he depressed?"

"
Because his wife and kid died."

"
So fucking what? You grieve and then you move on. You don’t off yourself just because they died." Morry leaned forward and pointed his wrinkled boney index finger at Marcus and said, "There's more to it, my boy. I feel it deep inside this old carcass. There's more to it."