A Killer Like Me (24 page)

The house he has been watching sits midway down the block on the left. The street is empty. Murphy crosses to the opposite sidewalk and walks toward the house, the screwdriver gripped in his right hand, the shank concealed behind his wrist. He passes a row of crepe myrtles and inhales the scent of summer.

Despite its celebrated reputation for architectural diversity, New Orleans has less than a dozen common residential designs. Among the most frequently seen are Creole cottages, townhouses, single and double shotguns, camelbacks, bungalows, raised villas, double galleries, and the new Katrina cottages. Murphy has conducted interviews, executed warrants, or stood over dead bodies in every type of house in the city.

Marcy Edwards’s house is a bungalow, set on piers three feet off the ground. It has a wide porch with the front door on the right and a picture window on the left. The shallow-pitched roof slopes front and back and has side gables. A fake dormer centered above the porch gives the illusion of a second story. A one-car driveway runs along the right side of the house. Her Toyota Camry is parked there.

Murphy knows that at the back of the house, next to the driveway, there will be a door that opens into the kitchen.

At Carol Sue Spencer’s house there was no sign of forced entry. At Sandra Jackson’s house, the killer jimmied open the door with a screwdriver. He murdered Carol Spencer and her children in their home, and he snatched Sandra Jackson from hers. No one saw him.

How did he do it?

The killer is not a ghost. He is a man. If Murphy can get in and out of Marcy Edwards’s house without being seen, he will be one step closer to getting inside the killer’s head, one step closer to understanding him, one step closer to catching him.

The back door has a screen. Murphy pulls a pair of latex gloves from inside his suit coat and slips them on. He takes a deep breath.

I am the killer. I am the Lamb of God.

The screen door is latched with a hook. Murphy pulls the door away from the frame as far as he can and tries to squeeze the tip of the screwdriver through the gap, but it won’t fit. The shank is too thick.

So much for being a phantom killer. I can’t even get past a screen door.

Then he remembers his knife. Like nearly every cop he knows, Murphy carries a lock-blade folding knife clipped to his right front pants pocket. He clamps the screwdriver between his teeth and reaches for the knife. He snaps open the blade and slips it between the screen door and the jamb. The thin blade fits easily. With a flick of his wrist, he pops the hook loose from its eyebolt holder.

Murphy closes his knife and stuffs it into his pocket. He holds the screen open with his knee and leans closer to the wooden door. He wedges the end of the screwdriver between the edge of the door and the strike plate and works the handle back and forth until he forces the tip deep enough to catch the latch. Then he pries the latch back toward the knob and gives the door a nudge. It swings open.

Murphy takes another deep breath and steps into the house.

A black four-door Nissan pulls to the curb in front of the young woman’s apartment building on Saint Charles Avenue. A moment later, she steps out of the back passenger-side door. She turns to say good night to her friends.

The killer is parked on the street, eight cars back. He glances at the dashboard clock. It’s 12:25
AM
.

The young woman lives in an upscale, two-story brick building with a gated front entrance. The building is set back thirty feet from the street. That’s how long he has to get to her—thirty feet.

The killer struggles to get out of his car. His right arm is held in a sling tied around his chest and looped over his shoulder. He can hear the young woman’s high, lilting voice drifting on the air. He sees her female friend step out of the front passenger seat. The women hug briefly. Most of their words are lost, but he hears the friend say the word
congratulations
. Then the friend climbs back into the car. The young woman leans forward to say good-bye to the young man behind the wheel.

The killer crosses the sidewalk and angles toward the building so he can intercept her before she reaches the gate.

As her friends drive away, the young woman gives them a final wave. Then she turns toward the building. A small black purse is slung over one shoulder. In her right hand she carries her glass globe trophy.

The killer meets her ten feet from the gate. “Excuse me, m-m-ma’am.”

She stops and flashes a brilliant smile at him. He has the sense that for her the world is a safe and happy place, where people are exactly what they appear to be. She is so young . . . and so very foolish.

The killer adjusts the new pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses he bought at a drugstore. He thinks they make him look more vulnerable. “My sister l-l-lives here. I brought her a box of books. She’s a big r-r-reader.” He looks down, avoiding her eyes. The sudden, unexpected return of his stutter embarrasses him. “We’re all b-b-big readers, I guess.” He laughs but it’s a hollow laugh. She has made him nervous. He feels weak.

The young woman glances at her watch. Her smile remains in place, but a furrow appears between her eyebrows.

He can read the late hour in her face. She is tired and wants to go to bed.

“Anyways, my s-s-sister is a nurse. She doesn’t get off until eleven, and I t-t-told her I’d drop the books off after she got home, but . . .” He nods toward his slung right arm. “I can’t c-c-carry the box up.”

The young woman nods. “Where’s your car?”

The killer smiles. Half turning, he points with his left hand toward the street. “Right there at the c-c-curb, that gray Honda.”

They stroll side by side across the concrete apron toward the sidewalk. He can hear her high heels click-clacking on the hard surface. The closer they get to his car, the stronger he feels.

“What’s your sister’s name?” she asks.

“Lisa . . . Shatner,” he says. Then he hurries to add, “That’s her m-m-married name. She’s divorced now.”

“Shatner, like the actor?”

The killer is a trekkie, a fanatical fan of the original
Star Trek
series. Pressed for a name, Shatner was the first one that popped into his head. Now, he kicks himself for his stupidity.

“Yeah,” he says, “the s-s-same as the actor.”

The young woman laughs. “Your sister wasn’t married to Captain Kirk, was she?”

The killer laughs with her. “I wish.”

They have reached his car. He walks around to the trunk. He has already removed the license plate. “The box is in here.”

She holds out her hand. “I’m Kiesha, by the way.”

He notices she didn’t offer her last name, probably on purpose, considering who her father is.

He takes her hand. “I’m R-R-Richard.” It can’t hurt to give her his real first name. It’s not like she’s going to have the chance to tell anyone.

“Hi, Richard.” Her grip is strong and confident.

The killer glances around. A couple stands on the near side of the median, waiting for a car to pass so they can cross Saint Charles Avenue. He has to stall for time. He points his left hand at the glass globe in her hand. “What’s that for?”

She smiles again. “Just a silly award.”

“An award for what?” he asks as he keeps an eye on the couple trying to cross the avenue.

“Donating some time to a good cause.”

“That’s very nice. Can I see it?” He notices his stuttering has stopped.

She lets out a crystal laugh and raises the award with both hands, holding it beneath her chin with her head cocked slightly to the side, mimicking an advertising model. The wooden base has an inscribed metal plate attached to the front, but the glare from a streetlight prevents the killer from reading it.

From the corner of his eye, the killer sees the couple in the median clasp hands and trot across the street. As they step over the curb, they slow to a walk and cut single file between two cars parked a few spaces ahead of the killer’s Honda. They turn onto the sidewalk heading away from him.

The killer reaches into his left front pocket for his keys. He fumbles them as he pulls them out and they fall to the ground.

The young woman bends down and picks them up. “Do you want me to open it for you?”

“Please.”

From the four keys on the ring, she selects the Honda key.

While she is still looking down, he reaches his left hand into the sling and pulls out his stun gun.

She slides the key into the lock and turns it. The lid springs open. The trunk is empty. “Where are the books?” she says.

“Farther in, toward the back.”

She leans into the trunk. “I don’t see them.”

The killer presses the end of the stun gun against the lower part of her spine and thumbs the trigger button. The gun emits a powerful electric crackle that lasts for a full second.

The young woman convulses, then collapses, landing half in and half out of the trunk. The killer jerks his right arm out of the sling as he crouches behind her. He grabs her legs with both hands and heaves her into the trunk. She lands on her right side, facing him. Her eyes are open but unfocused. She is shaking from the electric charge.

Tucked over the right wheel well is a white cotton rag and the plastic bottle of ether. Working quickly, the killer unscrews the cap and pours an ounce of ether onto the rag. With the charge from the stun gun still causing her muscles to twitch, the woman can’t resist as the killer presses the rag against her face. Within ten seconds her eyes close.

As the killer slams the trunk closed he glances around one last time.

No one seems to have noticed a thing. If anyone has, the best description the police will get is of a white man in an old gray Honda with no license plate. He opens the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. Then he cranks the motor, flicks on his left blinker, and pulls into the street.

The inside of the house is cool and quiet. Murphy hears the faint hum of the air conditioner. The house is also dark. The only illumination comes from a faint light somewhere off to his right. For a moment he waits by the door, holding his breath, ready to bolt if a dog charges at him from the darkness.

Nothing moves inside the house.

Murphy tiptoes across the kitchen. In two places the floor groans under his weight. Both times he tenses, waiting for someone to stir. No one does.

Beyond the kitchen, he steps into the den. A blanket and pillow lie on the sofa. Magazines and a newspaper are strewn across the coffee table. On the end table beside the sofa sits a Diet Coke can and a glass half filled with caramel-colored liquid.

To the right of the den, a central hallway runs through the rest of the house. A night-light is plugged into a wall outlet midway down the hall. Murphy stands at the entrance to the hallway. The realization of what he is doing forces its way into the forefront of his consciousness.

This is crazy. I could get fired—even prosecuted—for this.

Murphy hears the words of his drama teacher reaching out to him from across the years.

Don’t act like the character. Be the character.

He remembers the handwritten sign taped to the inside wall above the door of the drama classroom. It was a shortened version of his teacher’s axiom.

DON’T ACT. BE.

Murphy is no longer theorizing about how the killer might get into someone’s home. He is actually breaking into a woman’s house. He isn’t a cop anymore. He is the killer.

Looking down the hallway, he sees four doors. The two nearest him are across from each other, a third of the way down the hall. Both are closed. The other two, also opposite each other, are at the far end. The door on the right is closed, but the one on the left is open. Through the open door he sees the flickering glow of a television. Murphy strains his ears but can’t hear any sound coming from the room. Maybe she sleeps with the TV muted.

He has done what he set out to do. He has gotten inside the house without being discovered. He should leave now. Right now.

How close can I get to her?

Just a little closer.

He creeps down the hall. The floor is dark wood with a tan rug runner stretching down its length. The rug absorbs the sound of his footfalls. When he draws even with the first set of doors, he pauses to listen at one, then the other. He hears nothing except the soft drone of the air conditioner.

The woman came home alone and there is only one car in the driveway.

I can get closer.

Murphy continues to edge down the hall. Two feet. Four feet. Six feet. He is halfway to the open door when he hears a toilet flush behind him.

Behind him.

He spins around. One of the doors he just passed, the one now on his left, pulls open. The dull glow of a night-light shines behind it.

A woman wearing a flannel nightgown steps into the hall. Her long black hair is pressed flat to one side of her head as if she has slept on it. She is looking down at her feet. Then she looks up. She locks eyes with Murphy.

And screams.

Sunday, August 5, 1:10
AM

The killer unlocks the iron gates at the house on Burgundy Street and backs his car into the driveway. When he opens the trunk, the young woman, Kiesha, is lying on her back, her eyes wide with fear. Tear streaks of mascara run down her face.

He holds the stun gun in front of her eyes and triggers the charge. The arching flash and crackle of electricity make her jump. He presses the twin contacts against her forehead. Speaking in a low voice, he says, “I have set the charge high enough to kill you. Do exactly what I tell you and do not make a sound. Do you understand?”

She nods.

He points to the door at the back of the house. “Get out of the car and walk through that door.”

The killer backs away. The stun gun doesn’t have variable settings. But she doesn’t know that. “Get out slowly,” he says. “Do not test me.”

In her black dress, her face drawn tight in terror, and her jerky, ether-induced clumsiness, she reminds him of a corpse in an old horror flick, clawing its way out of a coffin. Before closing the trunk, he grabs the rag and the bottle of ether. Then he shoves her toward the house. She walks, zombielike, through the door as he follows close behind, his stun gun jammed against her spine.