The Dead Student (40 page)

He made a plane reservation. He made a reservation with a rental car company—the company that advertised,
“We’ll pick you up!”
—and got their smallest vehicle, promising to drop it off at the airport.

Two thoughts plagued him:

How long before they arrive?

A different me must greet them at the door, and that different me will have to remain with them forever.

He knew the answer to the first was:
soon.
He was confident he had left enough disparate clues in Miami to get them to Western Massachusetts.
They will put dropped license and baseball cap and area codes all together.
The idea, he knew, had been to create fear—but the sort of fear one is inexorably drawn toward, not the sort that causes one to run away screaming.

You show someone a door and invite them inside.
This was basic psychology.
Compulsion.

He was counting on Timothy Warner’s inability to stop when he got near.
Think you are closing in. Think all the answers you need are right behind that door. Think that no matter what the danger might be, you must enter. Think that you are steps away from success.

You will be.

Just not how you expect it.

He was troubled by only one element of his plan. The
different me
was
a definite challenge. But he knew where to go to find what he hoped would serve as a reasonable facsimile of his self.

None of the three packed much: a change of underwear, a couple of pairs of socks, a gun.

At Miami International, Moth had the odd thought that he was retracing the killer’s steps. He wondered whether the same ticket counter attendant had helped his quarry. He wondered whether he was standing in the same position, having the same conversation:
Any bags to check? No, nothing except reason and intelligence.
Andy Candy, on the other hand, was preoccupied with the sensation that she was leaving much more than a city behind, that each stride she took was sending her deeper into some jungle of uncertainty.

Susan Terry—having cleaned up as best she could—was being practical. She used her state attorney’s office badge to explain why she had two weapons—Moth’s .357 Magnum and her own .25-caliber semiautomatic—in her small overnight suitcase. She had been surprised when Moth had told her about bringing his weapon back from New Jersey, underscoring how much of the safety the flying public assumes is actually nonexistent. Susan did not inform the flight personnel that her badge was suspended, and she was relieved that this detail hadn’t shown up on a perfunctory computer search.

They boarded their flight and sat quietly together. Moth found it interesting that they didn’t speak or read or watch the tiny television sets implanted in the seat-backs in front of them. None of them needed any distraction other than their thoughts.

Andy spent the entire trip looking out the small window at the expanse of night beyond. The darkness seemed mysterious to her, filled with shades of uncertainty and unusual, unrecognizable shapes. Occasionally, she would reach over and touch Moth’s hand, as if to make certain that he was still at her side. Midway through the flight she realized that it wasn’t the night that was threatening, it was all the doubt concealed by the black sky.

More or less at the same time that the trio was boarding their flight from Miami, Student #5 was perched on a small rise near the parking lot of a Friendly’s restaurant. On the other side of the lot was an access road that led to a large grocery store. At the intersection with a main road, there was a stoplight and a small traffic island.

The island was a favorite place for the out-of-work, alcoholic, or drug-addicted and homeless to stand. They would fashion handwritten signs out of cardboard: “Will do odd jobs.” “Anything will help.” “Homeless and Alone.” “God Bless You.”

This evening, there was one man holding a sign and begging from passersby in grocery-laden cars whom Student #5 watched carefully. Most people ignored the man. A few rolled down their windows, offered some spare change or a stray dollar bill.

There are places like this in every town and city in every country around the world,
he thought.

Student #5 waited until the traffic coming from the grocery diminished. Light was fading around him at the end of the day—but not so much that what he intended to say wouldn’t make some sense. He went back to his truck. On the floor by the passenger seat were two cheap bottles of booze—Scotch and gin. There was also a six-pack of the most inexpensive beer he could find. He drove over to the sign-holding man, who seemed resigned to failure and was probably starting to wonder where he’d find a warm spot to sleep.

Rolling down his window, Student #5 said to the man, “Hey, you want to make fifty bucks?”

“You bet,” the homeless man said eagerly. “What do you need?”

Student #5 knew this opened the door to anything, from lawn mowing to a blow job. He had expected this up-for-anything reply. The homeless man was already a victim—of society, his own needs, mental illness, or perhaps just bad luck—and this made him vulnerable.

“Got some cut wood I need loaded in the back of my truck. I’ve been at it all day and my shoulders are killing me. Just got one or two more loads to do. You do the lifting for me and I’ll give you the fifty. Okay?”

“You got it, boss,” the man said. He tossed his sign aside and hurried to the passenger seat, pulling open the door and jumping inside. Student #5 saw the man spot the alcohol on the floorboards, eyes quickly widening.

He took a quick look around and saw that they were alone.
No security cameras on that street intersection,
he thought.
And no one anywhere, paying any attention at all.
“Hey, you want a beer or two, help yourself,” Student #5 said pleasantly.

37

They spent the night at a cheap motel not far from the airport because Susan Terry insisted that showing up long after dark at the home of a killer suspected in multiple deaths clearly wasn’t the wisest of ideas. She also pointed out that this killer seemed capable of just about anything, and was obviously skilled with weapons and would likely react like a cornered wild animal when they confronted him. None of them had ever actually faced a cornered wild animal, so this admonition had an Animal Planet documentary feel to it.

Susan had been put through a rudimentary police combat course several years earlier when she first joined the prosecutor’s office, but neither Andy Candy nor Moth had any weapons training—anything that actually equipped them for what they believed they were facing. The only equipment the three of them shared was the two handguns and a shaky sense of determination. They knew that at the end of their trip lay a very dangerous man who had woven himself deeply into their lives. But none thought that removing him would be anywhere near as simple as plucking a loose thread from a sweater.

Moth clung to his fantasy of revenge, though it was fading. He just wasn’t sure what he could replace it with yet.

Andy Candy wanted to lash out, conflating fear and anger. She wanted safety above all else, although she didn’t know what she would do with it if she found it.

Susan Terry imagined some sort of
Ask hard questions/extract a confession/make an arrest
scenario that would manage to restore her sense of self-control and simultaneously return her to the good graces of her boss in the Miami-Dade State Attorney’s Office.
“Hello, sir. Not only am I put together and sober and happily going back to meetings, but see here, I’ve also apprehended a really unique serial killer. Perhaps a raise is in order?”

There were two beds in the small, run-down room they checked into. At first, all of them exhausted by tension, Susan Terry and Andy Candy shared one bed and Moth plopped down in the other. But midway through the night, unable to sleep, Andy Candy slid from her side and crawled in beside Moth. In their high school romance days, they had sex, but never actually spent the night together in a bed. Their couplings had been furtive—in cars, at homes vacated by parents out on a movie date, on the beach. For a few moments she appreciated his even breathing and the touch of his cool skin—wondering how he could be so calm—but then she, too, dropped off, hoping that she wouldn’t be awakened by nightmares.

Student #5 surveyed his trailer and thought it all looked very complicated for something that should be so simple. After all, it could be reduced to
Bang! Boom! Death.
So he asked in a satisfied worker’s drawl:

“What d’you think, Homeless Guy. Will it work?”

The homeless man made some sound that wasn’t a scream, but went way beyond a grunt, squarely somewhere in the panic spectrum and devolving into a helpless gurgle.

“I think it will. Not that many moving parts. Did you know that I based this setup on a system that has been made famous, like in movies and books? Mafia hit men and characters from the
Saw
franchise. Not all that
hard to put together for someone who knows knots and lines. And a little ingenious, too, if I must give myself some credit.”

He kept his voice light, as if he were a handyman talking about something no more important than fixing a plumbing problem. He looked over at the homeless man.

“Don’t squirm. Don’t move at all. Otherwise—well, isn’t it obvious?”

The homeless man whimpered.

Student #5 believed that was an appropriate sound, given the circumstances.

The homeless man was secured on a cheap wooden chair, bound hand and foot with long thin strips torn from a cotton towel and smeared with a paraffin-like gel, pulled so tight they dug into his flesh. A single piece of duct tape covered his lips. His back was to the only door to the room. A solitary window let in some weak dawn light. It was early, the night had been long, and Student #5 knew he still had preparations to make.

Be quick but don’t rush. There will be time for rest later. Stay alert.

The homeless man was staring forward and slightly down into the barrel of the shotgun. It was on a small angle, pointed up about a foot below his chin, propped on some two-by-fours and wedged into position by books and pillows. A single strand of fishing line was tied to the trigger, then run through a small pulley—the type used to raise and lower curtains—taped to an adjacent table.

Student #5 wanted to apologize in advance:
“I’m sorry, fella. Clearly life has been pretty cruel for you. That sucks and this is a tough way to go out. I do appreciate your help in this, and I’m truly disappointed that it will cost you your life, but you’re not alone. A few people are dying today.”

But he didn’t say this. Instead he removed the piece of duct tape that was covering the homeless man’s mouth. The homeless man gasped, and choked out a raspy “Please, buddy, I didn’t do nothing …” but Student #5 ignored this. It was to be expected.
No one ever thinks they did anything to deserve dying for, when the exact opposite is generally true.

He did reply, “Look, Homeless Guy, I understand you are innocent in
all this. I could explain what’s going on, but it’s really a long story and I wouldn’t want to use up our remaining time.”

The man’s eyes followed every movement Student #5 made.

“I mean we do have some time left. Not exactly sure how much; remains to be seen. But using these minutes to swap sad stories seems like a waste. It would be interesting, I’m sure. But what would we actually gain?”

Student #5 was doing a psychological equation in his head. He knew,
Keep this man impersonal. Objectify him. He doesn’t know it, but someday, he will be famous.
Student #5 smiled.
When I’m ninety and finally write my memoir.

He double-checked his knots. He knew enough to maintain constant levels of uncertainty, confusion, and doubt. Those three elements needed to be like background music. His plan very much relied on the homeless man’s comprehending only what little he could see in front of him:

Shotgun. Death.

He adjusted a small microphone clipped on the man’s shirt and said, “Okay, I would like you to say the following. I want you to repeat the words over and over. I want you to change your inflection—plead, cry, shout, scream; use a whole lot of different tones. You have to really cut loose. Don’t hold back. Make it completely believable—actually, Homeless Guy, I imagine that’s the easiest bit of the performance.”

The man’s eyes went wide with terror.

“You are onstage, Homeless Guy. Can you do that?”

The homeless man nodded, very carefully.

“Okay. I want you to call for help. I want you to call out,
‘In here!
Say
Please help me!’
And
‘Help! Help! Help!’
I want you to make sure that someone on the other side of the door hears your cries and will immediately respond to them. Nothing more. Just call for help. Got it?”

The homeless man looked confused.

“You need to be persuasive for whoever is on the other side of that door.”

The man still seemed blank.

“Look,” Student #5 added, “do you want to get rescued? In a short time,
people will be here who can cut you free. Doing what I say is your only hope of getting out of this alive. This is your best and only chance, so make it work. You’ve got to try to help yourself. You can do that; I know you can. I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”

Actually, there is no hope.
He knew that the
no hope
realization had to arrive at the final instant, because without some psychological edge to cling to, people behaved erratically and wouldn’t do what they were asked. They shut down. Abandoned effort, curled into a fetal position, gave up, and accepted death. He didn’t want that to occur prematurely.
Let’s keep up appearances.