Authors: C. E. Lawrence
Silent Stalker (4 page)
C
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IX
Next up was Fred Wilson, the slightly shorter of the Wilson twins. He seemed amiable enough, even eager to help, as he settled his long form on the metal folding chair opposite Sergeant McKinney. Though Wilson was well over six feet, Lee figured McKinney was a good four inches taller.
“Now then, Mr. Wilson, is there anything you want to tell me?” asked the sergeant.
“Uh, noâonly that we all liked Mindy. At least, I think everyone did.”
“Maybe one of you liked her enough to kill her.”
Wilson looked confused by the remark. “I don't get it.”
McKinney leaned in closer. “Maybe you had a thing for Mindy?”
Fred looked horrified. “No! I have a girlfriend. I would neverâ”
“Anyone who can confirm that?”
“My brotherâanyone who knows me.” As he spoke, he twisted a signet ring embossed with the theatrical comedy mask.
“Nice ring,” McKinney remarked. “Where'd you get it?”
“It was a gift from our mother. My brother has one of the tragic mask.”
“Ever trade rings?” McKinney asked.
“Not really. Why?”
“It would be pretty easy for you to pose as one another, confuse people about which one is which.”
Fred cocked his head to one side. “Why would we want to do that?”
Obviously, the sergeant knew about the mask found on Mindy's body. That was the kind of detail that might not be released to the public, so Lee said nothing.
“Don't twins do thatâswitch places just for fun sometimes?” McKinney asked.
“I think that happens more often in the movies,” Fred replied. “Though once Danny and Ryan switched places to see if anyone would notice.”
“Did they? Notice, I mean?”
“Not at first. Ryan wore Danny's glasses to rehearsal, and everyone thought he was his brother. It's especially hard when the other twin isn't around. Even I was fooled for a while.”
“What gave it away?”
“I'm not sure. . . different mannerisms, and their voices aren't quite the same, I guess.”
Sergeant McKinney made a note in his notebook, which appeared to make Fred nervousâLee noticed he wiped his palms on his pants a couple of times.
The interviews went on the rest of the afternoon. They didn't seem to produce much useful information, but you could never tell. Butts and McKinney went back to the precinct together, while Lee headed home.
Back at his apartment, he locked the door behind him and tossed his mail on the kitchen counter. He reached for the bottle of Glenkinchie and was about to pour a glass when an envelope caught his eye. It was thin and square, with blue and red stripes on the edgesâinternational airmail. The return address was 37 rue Leopold Robert, Paris.
Intrigued, he tore it open. It was handwritten in light blue ink, the script firm, simple yet graceful. He read it standing at the kitchen counter.
Cher Monsieur Campbell,
I am very hoping that you may forgive me for writing to you and that you will respond. I don't know how much of me you know, but my name is Chloe Soigné. I imagine if you do know of me you have nothing but bad thoughts, and for that I do not blame you. I would feel no different in your place. I do love Duncan Campbell, but that is no excuse for my actions so many years ago. Perhaps I am an evil woman, but if so, I am being punished for my sins, for I am now dying.
I tell you this not because I hope for sympathy but because I wish before I die to know that Duncan has made contact with his children. He does not expect you to forgive him or want to see him again, but I am hoping you may perhaps forgive him in time. I have seen over the years how the decision to leave has gnawed away at him, and left him no peace. But he is too proud to admit it, and so I have watched him suffer these many years, knowing how desperately he wanted to see his children. He would never speak of this with me, but I knew it all the same.
I managed to find your address but not your sister's, so I am writing to you, and very much hope that you will show this letter to her. Perhaps she will find in her heart the compassion for your father, if you do not. Sometimes women have a more tender regard for the sins of others.
Very truly yours,
Chloe Soigné
Chloe Soigné
Lee stood with the letter in his hand, anger flooding his stomach like hot acid. So this was the woman his father had left his mother for, that day he walked out on the entire family, when Lee was only nine years old.
The letter came as a complete shock. He had an impulse to crush it, to tear it into bits, but he took a deep breath and slid it back in the envelope. He reached for the scotch and poured himself a double, neat, draining it in one swallow.
What nerve this woman had, writing to him on his father's behalf! Didn't she realize how much Lee loathed Duncan Campbell, how many times he had wished him dead? What made her think he would give a damn about the man who had come close to ruining the lives of everyone Lee cared about most?
He refilled the glass and went into the living room, heading straight for the piano.
The Well-Tempered Clavier
was open on the rack, but he needed something loud and fast and angry, so he took out a book of Chopin preludes and banged away at the G minor
Prelude,
with its pounding descending bass line. Then he played a couple of blues tunes gospel-style, lingering on the dissonance created by the simultaneous major and minor thirds. Finally he turned to Bach, who always put him in a calmer mood. After an hour at the keyboard, he felt better. He rose from the piano bench and stood at the front window, gazing out at the Ukrainian church across the street. The building was dark, its round stained-glass window illuminated only by reflected light from streetlamps. A light snow had begun to fall, muting the sound of passing cars, creating a halo around the streetlights, softening their glare to a hazy yellow glow.
was open on the rack, but he needed something loud and fast and angry, so he took out a book of Chopin preludes and banged away at the G minor
Prelude,
with its pounding descending bass line. Then he played a couple of blues tunes gospel-style, lingering on the dissonance created by the simultaneous major and minor thirds. Finally he turned to Bach, who always put him in a calmer mood. After an hour at the keyboard, he felt better. He rose from the piano bench and stood at the front window, gazing out at the Ukrainian church across the street. The building was dark, its round stained-glass window illuminated only by reflected light from streetlamps. A light snow had begun to fall, muting the sound of passing cars, creating a halo around the streetlights, softening their glare to a hazy yellow glow.
He thought about the power of words to disturb and frighten. Of course they could also comfort and reassure, but the last two letters he had seen were disturbing. He knew Chloe hadn't meant to upset him with her letter, but she must have realized that it would. As for the killer who was presumably stalking Sara Wittier now, the very brevity of his message was part of its chilling effect.
You're next.
You're next.
He fed on her fearâclearly that was part of the fun for him. Lee turned from the window and sank into the red leather armchair, with its faded armrests and cracked leather footstool. He would have thrown it out long ago if it weren't for the fact that Laura had loved this chair. When she'd visited him it had been her favorite place to sit, and she had searched the downtown thrift stores for one just like it. When she moved into the city to attend NYU, he'd planned on giving it to her for her apartment, but she'd disappeared before he had a chance.
Lee slipped off his shoes and propped his feet on the footstool before reaching for a yellow legal pad to jot down some notes. He wanted to be prepared for the meeting tomorrow in Butts's office. He jotted down a few notes about the offender.
â¢
Stabbingâphallic symbolâmeaning of sword in particular?
Stabbingâphallic symbolâmeaning of sword in particular?
â¢
Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
Fear important to his emotional satisfaction
â¢
Threatening noteâbold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
Threatening noteâbold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
â¢
Knows Mindy & Sara, at least by sight
Knows Mindy & Sara, at least by sight
â¢
Careful planning, low-risk victim
Careful planning, low-risk victim
â¢
Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
â¢
Blends in with social milieu of victims
Blends in with social milieu of victims
â¢
Upper middle class, educated?
Upper middle class, educated?
â¢
Probably white, young (25-35)
Probably white, young (25-35)
â¢
Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
He put down the legal pad and took a swallow of scotch.
Had
the offender used a sword, as the crime scene tech, Okorie, had surmised? He hoped the autopsy would produce further evidence about the murder weapon. The only bright side was that a sword was much more difficult to conceal than a knife or a gun.
Had
the offender used a sword, as the crime scene tech, Okorie, had surmised? He hoped the autopsy would produce further evidence about the murder weapon. The only bright side was that a sword was much more difficult to conceal than a knife or a gun.
He yawned and looked at the Seth Thomas clock on the bookshelf, a gift from his estate-sale-addicted mother. It was after eleven. Lee had been awake for nearly twenty hours. His stomach reminded him that his last meal had been a long time ago, and he padded out to the kitchen in his socks to rummage through the fridge. There wasn't much, so he ate a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich standing at the counter. Laura had loved that combination on Sunday nights when their mother let them have whatever they wanted for dinner.
Whatever Fiona Campbell's faults, Lee thought, she had provided a sense of security in ritualsâfamily dinner every night, bedtime stories, birthday parties. And his father had been an equally enthusiastic participantâuntil the day he walked out. After that, something drained away from everyone he left behind. It was more than just loss; it was a filing away of life's
possibilities,
as if some of the magic in their world had evaporated. Duncan Campbell was so charismatic, energetic, and enchanting that the three people who should have mattered most to him were left wondering what they lacked, that he could desert them so easily and finally.
possibilities,
as if some of the magic in their world had evaporated. Duncan Campbell was so charismatic, energetic, and enchanting that the three people who should have mattered most to him were left wondering what they lacked, that he could desert them so easily and finally.
Lee looked at the letter on the kitchen counter, neatly tucked into its envelope. The knowledge that his father had suffered as a result of his actions moved him not a bit. His heart was so steeled against the man that the only emotion he felt was a vengeful satisfaction. He hoped Chloe's death left his father as sad and lonely as he had left his family when he deserted them. He didn't hate herâhe thought she was as much a victim of his father's whims as the rest of them, in a way.
He slid the letter into one of the cubbies in his roll-top desk on his way to the bedroom. He needed sleep, and had far more important problems to attend to than the welfare of Duncan Campbell. He lay down on the bed and was asleep before he had time to pull the covers up.
C
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S
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HAPTER
S
EVEN
Carver looked in the mirror and smiled.
Carver.
Of course it wasn't his real name; it was the one he gave himself when he did . . . what he did. It was his little way of playing a
role,
just as he played roles as an actor. He studied the crow's feet under his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the crosshatching on his cheeks from too much sun, and sighed. He didn't much like his face, and being an actor, he had to look at it more than he cared to. Before shows there was makeup to apply, costumes to wriggle into, wigs and putty and greasepaint. Mirrors were stock in trade for an actor. Because he didn't care for the sight of his own face, Carver enjoyed roles in which he was able to hide it. He specialized in character partsâdisfigured, deformed cripples and clowns, the more bizarre the better. He was never happier than when playing a tortured, reviled loner, feeling more comfortable in costume than in his own identity.
Carver.
Of course it wasn't his real name; it was the one he gave himself when he did . . . what he did. It was his little way of playing a
role,
just as he played roles as an actor. He studied the crow's feet under his eyes, the lines in his forehead, the crosshatching on his cheeks from too much sun, and sighed. He didn't much like his face, and being an actor, he had to look at it more than he cared to. Before shows there was makeup to apply, costumes to wriggle into, wigs and putty and greasepaint. Mirrors were stock in trade for an actor. Because he didn't care for the sight of his own face, Carver enjoyed roles in which he was able to hide it. He specialized in character partsâdisfigured, deformed cripples and clowns, the more bizarre the better. He was never happier than when playing a tortured, reviled loner, feeling more comfortable in costume than in his own identity.
That's why being Carver was so much fun. It was a part he had invented for himselfâa kind of ongoing improvisation where life was the stage and the other actors were his victims. He hadn't known how much fun it would beâthat came as a surprise. Originally he'd been motivated by rage, by desire for revenge, but the satisfaction he got from the deed itself was a revelation. He
liked
killing.
liked
killing.
Of course he was meticulousâthe planning, the careful preparationâall of that was important. But the moment of the attack itself brought a thrill, a rush of pleasure unlike any he had ever experienced. Oh, he had killed people onstage plenty of times, but this was differentâthis was
real.
He had
actual control
over his victimsâthe ultimate power of life and death. It was intoxicating, and he would have more of it, he vowed, no matter what.
real.
He had
actual control
over his victimsâthe ultimate power of life and death. It was intoxicating, and he would have more of it, he vowed, no matter what.
He lifted the long blue cloak from the coatrack and wrapped it around his shoulders, admiring the figure he cut in the mirror. The seeds for his bloodlust had been sewn in his childhoodâhe knew this, just as he knew that he had successfully hidden his darker urges from those closest to him. Even as a child, the injustice of his father's treatment was clear to himâhe alone was singled out for tongue lashing, belittlement, humiliation. Physical beatings were rare, but the emotional violence had done its work.
Faggot! Pansy! Girlie boy!
His father's words still rang in his ears whenever he put on a costume or smeared greasepaint on his cheeksâbut with it came a grim satisfaction that he was doing what he wanted, his father be damned.
Faggot! Pansy! Girlie boy!
His father's words still rang in his ears whenever he put on a costume or smeared greasepaint on his cheeksâbut with it came a grim satisfaction that he was doing what he wanted, his father be damned.
He had been only twelve when he spied on his cousin for the first time, peering through the window of her bedroom while she undressed, and the thought of that moment satisfied him for weeks. Then came the underwear theftâat first from his female relatives, but later on he became bolder, creeping into the girls' locker room at school, and even breaking into neighboring houses on weekends when they were away.
And now he was playing Carver, the role of a lifetime. He reached down for the sword on the table beside him. He held it up to the light and admired the polished steel of its blade. An appropriate weapon, and one he was skilled in using. His fencing lessons were paying off in more ways than one. He smiled as he slid the sword into the scabbard at his side.
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