A Killer Like Me (39 page)

Above him, the wind screams through the attic. It has gotten louder in the last hour. He is afraid the wind will tear the old house apart. He needs to get back home. Had it not been for the two cops knocking on his door he would have finished this already. After their visit, he was paralyzed with fear. Several times he tried to leave his apartment, but the devil played tricks on him: “Don’t go outside,” Satan said. “They’re watching you.”

So he waited. For more than an hour. Now the storm is here.

The girl’s head lolls on her shoulders. He slaps her. “Wake up, princess. It’s time to talk to Daddy.”

“Daddy,” she mumbles. “Daddy . . . help me.”

He has removed her gag. He wants her to make a statement before she dies, to give a message to her father.

She smells of urine, but he doesn’t mind. Nothing can dull the glory of this moment. This will be his crowning achievement, the moment when he surpasses all messengers who have come before him. Has not God himself sent a hurricane to purge the filth from this city at the exact moment his servant is purging the blood from this Jezebel?

The killer stands, savoring his handiwork for a moment. In the dim glow from the overhead bulb, he can see the young woman’s eyes starting to focus. He wants her to know what is happening to her. He wants her to feel the pain. He pushes the steamer trunk out of the way, then crosses the room and stands behind the tripod. He presses the power button on his video camera.

As the camera comes to life, the killer lowers himself to one knee. Beneath the tripod lies his messenger bag. He stuffs the KA-BAR inside the bag. Then he pulls out the tool he will need for tonight’s work: his two-foot Khyber knife, bought over the Internet but originally imported from the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. He can see streaks of Sandra Jackson’s blood darkening the blade. He also takes out his black ski mask.

The killer stands and peers through the viewfinder. He adjusts the zoom to a wider angle. He can edit the footage on his computer later and zoom in if he needs to.

In his head he rehearses the ritual one last time. He will start the recording. Then he will walk to the back of the chair and order the young woman to read aloud the statement he has written for her. He will praise God, and he will cut off her head. Then he will throw her body on the other side of the levee for the storm-flooded river to wash away. He will keep her head and hang it next to Sandra Jackson’s, from a rafter in the attic, where the summer heat will dry them both into mummified skulls.

He presses the record button on the video camera and prepares to begin the ritual. But he hears a strange noise. Even over the howling wind, he can tell it came from downstairs. It was a sharp bang. Then he hears a change in the wind, as if it is now blowing through the rooms downstairs. The back door has blown open. Or been forced open.

The killer drops again to one knee. He sets the knife and mask down and digs into his bag. He pulls out his million-volt stun gun and a cable tie, the ends of which are already connected to form a loop large enough to fit over a human head. He turns and steps into the hall, flicking off the light as he passes the switch beside the door.

The back door was locked. It looked like a standard lock, something Murphy probably could have picked his way through, but his lock kit was in the car and the rain was coming down so hard he could barely see. With his bum shoulder and the weather, there was no way he could summon the fine motor skills necessary to pick the lock.

Fuck it.

Murphy stepped back and kicked open the door.

He rushed in, the five-shot .38 and his flashlight thrust out in front of him.

The doorway opened into a small foyer, beneath the high end of a wooden stairwell. To the left was a wall. To the right stretched a large room. Murphy shone his flashlight across the darkness. On the other side of the room stood a wide arched doorway. Straight ahead was a small enclosed space, probably a bathroom. Past that was a kitchen.

There was no furniture.

He switched off the flashlight and crept across the empty room, careful not to drag his feet on the hardwood floor. As he advanced, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was above him on the stairs. The banistered stairway disappeared into a nearly pitch-black opening in the ceiling.

After crossing the room, Murphy braced himself beside the arched doorway, beyond which lay another room. Using the edge of the wall as cover, he switched on his light and swept the beam and the muzzle of the revolver around the room. It was empty.

Across this second room stood the front door, solid wood with an opaque glass transom above it. Murphy could see the silhouette of burglar bars through the glass.

He shuffled to his left and searched the kitchen and the small enclosed space, which was, as he had guessed, a bathroom. Both were empty of furnishings and empty of people. Jeffries had to be upstairs. And by now, he knew that someone was inside the house.

Murphy turned and looked at the stairwell. He hated stairs. Tactically, they were a nightmare. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Even with a team of officers, there was no way to climb them safely. He had been trained to creep up the steps with his back against the wall, while covering the upper landing with his gun. But against a dedicated opponent, the first guy up the stairs was always going to get shot. SWAT teams trained to have only two officers on the stairs at a time. That way, if someone above them started shooting, the team would only lose two members.

Murphy decided to do something unexpected.

The killer peers down the stairs. He can hear the wind rushing through the open back door, and he can see the glow from the street lamps outside. The stairwell opening limits his view of the ground floor. It’s also dark.

A floorboard creeks. The killer tenses. Someone is down there. He backs away from the stairs.

“Richard Lee Jeffries!” a man’s voice shouts from downstairs.

The killer’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels a stab of fear pierce his heart. This can’t be happening. He is doing God’s work. Surely, God would not allow some interloper to ruin his plan.

“This is the New Orleans Police Department. You are under arrest. The house is surrounded. Come down now with your hands over your head.”

The killer shrinks back into the darkened hallway.

Monday, August 6, 8:09
PM

Murphy crouched in the darkness at the foot of the stairs, using a banister post for cover. Upstairs, he could hear the wind whipping through the rafters. He aimed the .38 and his flashlight at the top of the stairs. The flashlight was switched off.

If Jeffries appeared on the upper landing, Murphy would shine the light in his eyes and order him to walk down the stairs with his hands over his head. The stairwell had a level section midway up, a small landing. When Jeffries reached that, Murphy would empty the revolver’s five bullets into his chest.

But Jeffries didn’t appear at the top of the stairs.

Murphy called out again. “Jeffries, this is your last warning. Come down now . . . or the SWAT team is going to fire tear gas at you and send up the dogs.”

Murphy waited. His threats sounded weak, even to him. If there were a SWAT team and K-9s standing by, Jeffries would know it because of the racket. Police cars with flashing lights would have blocked off both ends of the street. A BearCat armored truck would be parked at the front door. Cops in tactical gear would be scurrying everywhere.

Another minute passed. It seemed like an hour. There was no movement upstairs. The jig was up. Jeffries was calling his bluff. Murphy had to show his hand or fold.

The stairs were still a problem, actually worse now than before, Murphy realized, because of his lame attempt to draw Jeffries out. Just because the killer had not used a gun to commit any of his crimes did not mean he didn’t have one. And now he was up there, alert and ready.

Standard tactical procedure is to take stairs slowly, but that assumes you have backup. If Jeffries had a gun and he caught Murphy on the open stairwell, he would kill Murphy where he stood. Just as Murphy had planned to do to him. But Murphy wasn’t going to get caught in that trap. He knew that even after being shot in the heart, a determined man can fight on for up to a minute before he died. Long enough to kill his enemy.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Dylan Thomas had said. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

All Murphy needed was speed and momentum. He took a deep breath as he readied himself to charge up the steps.

Upstairs, a woman screamed.

It was barely loud enough to be heard over the wind crashing through the attic. The scream had carried words, but he couldn’t understand them. He could only understand the terror behind them.

Murphy took another deep breath and launched himself up the stairs. He held the .38 high. His flashlight was off, but ready. He pounded up the wooden steps. It was too late for stealth. His only hope was to take Jeffries by surprise.

Lord, just let me kill him before I die.

The top landing was cloaked in darkness. Three-quarters of the way up the stairs, Murphy’s finger tightened on the trigger. He switched on his flashlight, ready to fire the instant he saw Jeffries.

But Jeffries wasn’t there.

As soon as Murphy reached the top of the stairs, he spun around and swept the second floor with his flashlight. Straight ahead, twenty feet on the other side of the stairwell, was a galley-style kitchenette. He could see it was empty. Ten feet closer was the entrance to a dark hallway that disappeared to his left, down the center of the house. That was the only immediate danger point. He needed to see what was around the corner of that hallway.

After stairs, corners present the most dangerous tactical obstacle. The best way to approach them was from several feet away and at a wide angle. Because of the layout of the upstairs landing area and the stairwell opening in the floor, Murphy couldn’t do that. He had to approach the corner from a ninety-degree angle. The worst possible situation.

The stairwell was flanked on one side by the house’s back wall and on the other side by a wooden railing. Murphy pressed his back against the railing and slid toward the hallway entrance, keeping the .38 and his flashlight trained on the dark opening. When he reached the corner, he shone his flashlight down the hall. It was empty. Then he realized he wasn’t breathing. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.

“Help me!” the woman screamed.

This time there was no mistaking her words. The voice had come from down the hall. Along the right side of the hallway were two doors. The first one stood open. The second was closed. Because of the angle, Murphy couldn’t see the left side of the hallway.

He shone his flashlight into the open door. “Can you hear me?” he called out. The sound of the wind had gotten louder.

“Help me!” the woman cried again.

“I’m a police officer,” Murphy shouted, trying to be heard over the raging storm.

“Hurry.”

The killer peeks through a tiny crack in the door directly across from the open bedroom in which Kiesha Guidry sits bound and helpless. He sees the policeman’s flashlight shining down the hallway. He is sure the policeman is alone.

Claudius, the king of Denmark, was wrong. When sorrows come, they do not always come in battalions. Sometimes they do come as single spies.

If there were more than one policeman, he would hear them. And he is quite certain the policeman is Detective Murphy. Who else could it be? It is Murphy whom Satan would send to try to stop him. But Satan will not succeed. Not today. Neither will Murphy.

As he hears the Jezebel pleading for help, the killer wishes he had replaced her gag. The hallway goes dark. Then the killer hears footsteps approaching. He tightens his grip on the stun gun and takes a deep breath.

Murphy switched off his flashlight and eased around the corner into the hallway. He could see three doors spaced out along the left wall. All were closed. He judged the open door eight feet away to be the greatest threat. His eyes focused on it as he crept forward, one quiet, deliberate step at a time.

When he reached the edge of the doorway, he peered into the room. His right hand, holding the revolver, was braced against the wall. In his left hand he held his flashlight, his thumb on the switch. The room was pitch-dark. There should have been a window in the far wall, allowing some ambient light to seep in. If his bearings were right, that wall overlooked Mazant Street. There were still streetlights burning outside.

Murphy pressed the button on his flashlight and shone the beam into the room. To his right, a young black woman was bound to a chair. She looked straight into the light, her eyes wide, reflecting her terror. He had found the mayor’s daughter.

Directly across the room was a pair of French doors. The glass panes had been painted black. Soiled mattresses covered the walls. To Murphy’s left, a video camera stood atop a tripod. There was no one else in the room.

Kiesha Guidry started crying.

Murphy stepped into the doorway. Behind him he heard a floorboard creak. Before he could turn around, something touched the base of his skull. His head exploded in pain. Every muscle in his body convulsed. Then his legs turned to jelly and he collapsed facedown on the floor. For several seconds he sensed nothing except blinding light erupting behind his eyes and bombs detonating in his ears.

Then he felt his tongue. It was too thick. It sagged from his mouth. He could taste the wooden floor. It was rough and gritty with dirt. The air smelled like burned hair.

Kiesha Guidry was screaming.

Murphy turned his head to the side. He raised his arms and pressed his palms against the floor, but he didn’t have the strength to lift himself.

An overhead light flicked on.

He saw the revolver on the floor, three feet away. He groped for it. A scuffed leather shoe kicked the gun away.

“I would love to drag this out, Detective Murphy, but I have work to do,” a voice said.