The Killing Game (21 page)

“Friends?”

“Exactly. Great friends.”

A two-beat pause. “Who is this calling again? I can’t remember a thing these days.”

She hung up.

Gregory had put in an hour-long workout, showered, changed into gray cords, cream dress shirt, a maroon linen jacket. The sky was dark outside his office window, the moon hiding under clouds. Streetlamps lined the avenue, the trees nearest the lamps glowing white, the shadows long and stark. Gregory saw a white cat vault from a parked car’s roof to its hood, then to the ground, disappearing into black.
I have to check the trap tonight
, he thought.
It’s been two days.

They had been a very busy two days, the most exciting days of his life,
electric
days, as if lightning was powering Gregory’s mind, the thunder reverberating through his body with orgasmic intensity. He was exercising ultimate power. What was it Oppenheimer had said after the first successful atom-bomb test?
I am become Death, destroyer of worlds
.

What is Ryder’s world like now?

Gregory sat and navigated to YouTube. No new videos had been loaded. A pity. Knowing what he now knew, would Ryder still pitch the pennies?

Gregory’s eyes scanned the room and fell on the brown manila envelope on the cabinet top, his upcoming contact with Ryder. Beside the envelope folded black fabric rested atop a pair of dark Converse sneakers. An Event Suit, ready to go.

The body stocking kept his hair and skin cells on his body. He’d shaved his head as well, but wore goggles so he didn’t have to shave his eyebrows. He could easily explain a shaved head to Ema, eyebrows another story. He’d bought cheap tennis shoes far too tight for his feet and opened the fronts to fit; if he left footprints they’d be three sizes too small.

When he’d left the tragic little fairy dying on the floor he’d simply stepped into the coveralls that had been folded inside his messenger bag and traded his event shoes for boots. In the old truck he was one more anonymous painter or carpenter on his way to a jobsite.

A smart man prepared for every eventuality. The cops weren’t smart, but they were dogged, and a single misstep could be costly. Only after learning that from Ema had he conceived and developed his Event Suit. Use it, burn it, wear another. He’d bought a dozen body stockings and sneakers. And could always buy more.

But now to check his traps. He could use a little furry company before the cats moved to the next stage of their existence.

When I returned to the department at eight a.m. the files were still on my desk, though I could now re-file the Scaggs material. Both Harry and I had felt it: Scaggs wasn’t the perp.

There was something new on my desk: a letter-sized manila envelope. Across the front was a taped square of paper, printing on its face.

OFFICIAL POLICE MATERIALS

If found please return to Detective Carson Ryder,

Police Department, Mobile Alabama

“What the hell’s this?” I said aloud.

Al Perkins, the detective at the next cubicle, stood and looked over the divider. “You don’t know?”

“Never saw it before.”

“Some woman brought it in a few minutes ago, said she found it on the sidewalk a hundred feet from the parking garage. I figured it must have fallen out of your briefcase or something. Seemed odd. Didn’t you just get here?”

I undid the metal clip and opened the envelope, shook it over my desk. Three bright pennies dropped out. Followed by a strip of paper much like those found in fortune cookies, bearing one brief line:

Selected by a chance in time, pennies pay for all your crimes

“Where’s the woman?” I said, my heart in my throat as I jumped to my feet, chair rocketing into the wall.

Perkins shrugged.

“WHAT DID SHE LOOK LIKE?” I yelled.

Perkins gawped at me like I’d blown a circuit. “For chrissakes, Carson, she didn’t walk up here. She left it at the desk.”

I took the steps three at a time, bolted across the lobby seconds later. Big Jim Lott, the desk man, pointed out the door. “Sixty maybe. Polite black lady, grandmotherly type. Gray hair, stout build. Blue dress. Big purse. She walked out of here two minutes ago.”

I hit the street at a run, looking both ways, nothing. I sprinted to the end of the block.
There!
Getting into a silver compact. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, puffing in behind her. “You just left an envelope at the station?”

She studied me: jeans, black T-shirt, blue running shoes. I produced my ID, held it up. “I’m a police officer.”

“I was walking down the street, there it was in the middle of the sidewalk. I took it to the police station straightaway.”

“Where was the envelope lying, ma’am? Can you show me?”

She backtracked two dozen feet, stopped. Pointed to the pavement. “Right about there, I guess.”

Nothing but sidewalk. No pennies. No notes. Sparse traffic blew past.

“You didn’t see anyone leave the envelope?” I asked.

“I turned the corner and there it was.” She thought a moment and got wide-eyed. “It didn’t have a bomb or nothing like that inside, did it?”

“No ma’am, nothing like that.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, looked at me over tortoiseshell glasses. “You’re the one who dropped it?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was a mistake. Thank you for bringing it to the department.”

I nodded and moved away. “Sir?” the woman called to my back. “Officer?”

I turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You should be more careful with things in the future, sir. It said ‘Official’.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I promise to do better.”

Harriet Ralway was sitting in the sun on the long side lawn. There were planes in the sky, the soldiers returning from the war. Daddy wasn’t coming. Harry James was playing a trumpet somewhere nearby. A little girl ran to the edge of the Gulf waves and picked up a shell. When she returned she was an old woman.

“Odelia?” Harriet said. But when she reached out Odelia was gone. The planes flew by and the air was quiet. Harriet closed her eyes and listened to Harry James. He was playing “Muskrat Ramble”, a fun tune.

A little boy ran past, that boy from next door, Jerry Ralway, a scamp. She would fall in love with him in high school. They’d get married young and have a pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage. She would not get pregnant again for many years, a daughter named Patricia. The marriage would last twenty-four years until Jerry died in a car crash outside of Dawson, drunk on Southern Comfort and Coke, drag-racing that old Dodge Charger even though it was 1988 and he was forty-six years old. Racing, hunting, fishing all the time … he never really grew up, that Jerry Ralway.

Harriet sighed, heard a crackly sound and opened her eyes, dreaming again. She was in her usual place when she’d go outside, the bench at the far corner of the lawn, the brick building at her back. Many of the residents couldn’t come here because it was distant and old legs couldn’t walk so far. Plus you had to cross grass and walkers and wheelchairs didn’t work well.

The sound again: feet over dried leaves. Harry James played softly in the distance, the notes punctuated by crunching leaves.

Harriet opened her eyes and turned to the woods bordering the property, a tall fence separating them. A shadow stared back at her, a black shadow in the shape of a man. The shadow was leaning against a tree.

The Shadow’s name was Lamont Cranston and he fought crime on radio when Harriet was a little girl. The Shadow knew the evil that lurked in the hearts of men. Harriet was thrilled to be visited by a man who’d kept her company on many a youthful afternoon.

No, wait … there was a diving mask over the man’s eyes. It wasn’t the Shadow. It must be Lloyd Bridges, that actor she used to love to watch on TV in the sixties,
Sea Hunt
. Such a handsome man, unruly hair and sparkly-crinkle eyes.

Harry James began playing the
Sea Hunt
theme, so thoughtful. Mr Bridges was getting ready to take a dive. He had one of those things in his hand, metal and rubber. Jerry had one of those things too, used it to bring home supper sometimes, red snapper or mackerel. Spear-fishing, Jerry called it.

“Hi, Lloyd,” Harriet whispered, waving hello with her fingertips.

Lloyd Bridges smiled and waved back.

Ten minutes later we were in the meeting room adjoining Lieutenant Mason’s office. The far wall held a TV monitor and video player. A whiteboard stood in the corner. One wall was all windows and I saw gulls darting through a cumulus sky.

“It was sitting on the sidewalk?” Tom Mason said, spinning the envelope his way with the eraser of a pencil.

“I called Forensics. They’re looking for trace on the pavement.”

“Anyone witness anything?”

“Probably nothing to witness. Hell, you could have the envelope in your pants. Shake your leg as you walk and out it falls.”

“
Selected by a chance in time,
” Tom said, studying the message. “You figure that means the victims? Random, like you said in class?”

“Seems to fit.”

“
Pennies pay for all your crimes.
Dead people pay for your misdeeds, I guess. Where the hell is this coming from?”

I upended my hands,
no idea.

“A random killer,” Tom said, closing his eyes. “Jesus. What you gonna do from here, Carson?”

I was considering that thought when Tom’s desk phone rang. He picked up, looked at me. “Gotcha, Darlene,” he said. “Tell the Chief we’ll be up in a minute.”

Evidently the Mayor wasn’t in need of the Chief this time, since Baggs was standing at his open door. We filed past. Tom sat, I leaned against the wall, waiting.

“What have you done, Ryder?” Baggs said, glaring at me.

“I don’t understand.”

“Seems simple enough. Somehow you’ve inspired a lunatic to start killing citizens at random.”

I heard a cleared throat from Tom and looked his way. He bent his fingers downward and mouthed the word
Calm.

“We don’t know if that’s the case, Chief,” I said evenly. “It’s true he’s grabbed the coin analogy from the website and—”

“Why the hell was it there? Did you start the Carson Ryder TV network?”

“A few of the recruits put the video up. Without my knowledge.”

He scowled. “Why?”

“They, uh, thought it was interesting.”

“What’s next, a film showing how to poison someone?”

I started to explain how the video had been created from class notes, but stopped. If I hadn’t grasped the newest tech wave, there was no way Baggs would’ve.

“If word of a random killer gets out, we’ve got a PR nightmare on our hands,” Baggs said. “Especially if it’s thought a member of the force influenced it. I want that goddamn film pulled off FaceTube or whatever.”

I nodded, not the time to argue. “You got it, sir.”

“How nice of you,” Baggs said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Now, what are you doing to nail this bastard?”

I detailed what we had in progress: canvassing, working the snitches, the forensics people going over every inch of the scenes, processing the evidence we had. Baggs shook his head.

“Running in circles. What are you planning that will work?”

I jammed my hands in my pockets and pretended to think for several seconds. “Maybe we could take a tip from the Wizard of Oz and hire a skywriter to scrawl
SURRENDER
above the city.”

Tom Mason maneuvered between Baggs and me. “I’ll call in part-timers and some retired dicks, Chief. Move cold-case cops to the present cases. Everyone not engaged in a pressing case is getting involved.”

“FBI?”

“No indication of anything crossing state lines. Half the FBI is on homeland security, stretched to the limit. They’ll stay away as long as they can, so for now it’s ours.”

“OK…” Baggs said, clapping his big pink hands together. “You think it’s random, right?” he said. “Like the fucker said in his note? Chance?”

“Seems to be, Chief,” Tom said.

Baggs looked my way, same question. The question had been nagging at me day and night.

I said, “I don’t know if they’re random or not.”

“Then what the hell’s the motive? How are they connected?”

I had nothing. Baggs shook his head. Tom cleared his throat.

“What is it, Mason?” Baggs said. “Speak up.”

“I’d like to activate the PSIT, Chief. Give the guys more authority.”

The PSIT was the Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, known internally as
Piss-it
. The entire team was Harry and me plus any specialists we might call in. The major advantage was having a single hand on the investigative wheel. That and, as Tom mentioned, we had experience with these people.

Unfortunately, Baggs looked as if the Lieutenant had suggested putting circus clowns in charge of the investigation.

“You actually want Ryder to run an investigation of the crimes he kick-started? A man who doesn’t know if they’re random? Doesn’t have a motive? Who wants to use the Wizard of Oz to catch the perp?”

Tom ignored the barb, his face serious. “Carson and Harry know psychos better than anyone this side of Quantico. If they coordinate the investigation, it’ll produce. You’ve got to trust me on this, Chief.”

But Baggs wasn’t in a trusting mood.

“It makes no sense to me, Lieutenant. The idea is ridiculous and I don’t want to hear it again.”

Tom thought quietly for a moment. Shot me a glance I couldn’t decipher.

Said, “Can I talk to you in private, Chief?”

Gregory approached Ema from behind, weaving through the tables of diners. Even though he’d already had a busy and exciting morning, his guts were gloriously quiet. He looked at his watch, 10.06 a.m. Despite the morning’s full agenda, he was only six minutes late to meet Ema.

It was amazing how much a superior man could accomplish with a bit of planning.

Gregory paused to flick lint from the lapel of his black silk suit, feeling the approval in the other diners’ eyes.
What a strikingly handsome man!
When he finally arrived across from Ema, her eyes popped wide.