The Bedroom Killer (22 page)

CHAPTER 50

The underground parking lot below the Greenwood Police Department was two levels deep. It held sixty-two car stalls and was always active. Someone was either driving in or driving out just about any time, day or night. Even though it was always busy, and therefore safe—Megan never liked being there. Like the building that housed the department, the garage had been built in the late fifties and had a tight, claustrophobic feel to it—and Megan was claustrophobic.

She stepped out of the elevator and was hit by the noxious exhaust fumes that were always present, like a perpetual gas leak
. She had another reason to hate the place, the ventilation system was always breaking down and the city didn't feel it was worth spending too much tax money to keep it in operation. The running joke at the station was that if you ever wanted to kill yourself, just park your car down there and roll down the windows. She swiveled her head around and spotted Andy leaning against his car not far from where she stood. He nodded when he saw her, walked around, and got inside. Megan approached the car, opened the passenger side door, and jumped in. They stared at each other a moment, then she asked the question.

"Where are my papers?"

Andy lifted his casebook off the seat between them, grabbed two sheets of paper, and handed them over. Megan reached for the papers as if she were a death camp survivor reaching for a scrap of fat. She looked at them briefly, making sure to find the words
Transfer Application
Form
, and then slipped them inside her binder before returning her gaze back at Andy. He didn't stare back for long before he started the car, pulled out of the underground garage, and onto the busy downtown Greenwood City street. They drove in silence for a long time, each of them watching the streets and sidewalks, shops, and corner gas stations for anything suspicious, a habit left over from their beat cop days. Finally Andy spoke.

"How long?"

"How long, what?" Megan said, looking away from the window and over at Andy.

"How long you been thinking of transferring?"

Megan felt a tightening in her throat, feeling that caught–in–the-act feeling again, and even though she was ready to talk about it back in the parking garage, enough time had passed that she figured it wouldn't even be brought up.
But she was wrong.
She had been friends with Andy since he first arrived in the department. She liked him. He was a good cop, and a hard worker, and he had always treated her with respect. But she didn't know how close he was to Gerald.
Would he sneak back to Gerald and repeat everything she said? But he had grabbed the papers in the first place—shouldn't that count for something?
Megan took a deep breath and answered.

"Awhile."

Andy tipped his head slightly to acknowledge the answer, but didn't feel the need to follow up. They were getting close to the neighborhood and Megan wondered if that was all there would be to the "transfer" conversation. It wasn't the sort of topic where you ask just one question. She expected to hear him ask why, and where are you going, and how soon do you plan on leaving.

But he didn't.

They turned down Date Avenue, cruised down the street until they arrived at the house across from Karen Sharp's, and parked. They both instinctively looked over at the Sharp house, remembering their lengthy visit there just a couple weeks ago. It seemed so quiet now. Megan and Andy both knew from experience that murder scenes later always seemed vacant, almost abandoned, compared to the first few hours after the crime. The first time you arrive there are scores of police and investigators, CSI teams, detectives, police captains, everyone seems to show up. Before they opened their doors, Megan turned to Andy and asked, "Why did you take my papers?"

Andy stared ahead for a moment, then turned and looked into Megan's eyes before saying, "Because I've
considered doing the same."

They exited the car and walked to the front door at 1735 Date Avenue
. Mr. and Mrs. Yancey. Clark and Betty. They were both in their sixties, retired, three kids grown up and moved out. Andy had lied about the twice divorced part. He knew he needed to get Megan out of there. He needed to follow up on a couple questions that were left hanging from the first round of neighborhood introductions and questioning. Andy said, "I'll ask the first questions…if she seems hesitant, you jump in."

"Sure,"
Megan said.

Andy knocked on the door
. They waited in silence for a moment. Then Andy asked, "Where you plan on going?" His timing took Megan by surprise, and just as she was about to answer, the door opened and Betty Yancey peeked out.

"Yes
," Betty said.

"Mrs. Yancey?
” Andy said. "Do you remember me? I'm Detective David Anderson."

"Oh yes
. Hello, again," Betty said.

"And this is my associate, Detective Megan Ash
," Andy said.

Mrs. Yancey
's eyes darted to Megan through her screen door, giving a slightly disapproving look, which didn't get by Megan.

"Hello, Mrs. Yancey
," Megan said.

"Hello," she said, then turned back to Andy
and said, “I'm afraid Mr. Yancey isn't home right now."

"That's
okay," Andy said. "We only have a couple questions, and we can ask you for now and come back to ask Mr. Yancey—or get him on the phone—if we need to."

Andy pushed on before she could object.

"Mr. Yancey mentioned before that you'd both heard Mrs. Sharp screaming early in the morning on January tenth. It was a little before 2:00 a.m.?"

"Yes,
" Betty said. "We were getting ready for bed. We'd stayed up late to watch one of the news shows that Clark loves to watch…it goes very late. I'm afraid I fell asleep next to him. I usually do. I'm not much for the national news shows, so I just snuggle up in a blanket and lay my head on his lap and I'm asleep in no time. Anyway, when it's over, he just gives me a gentle shake, and we get up and go to bed."

Megan pictured Mrs. Yancey in her robe, lying asleep next to Mr. Yancey, although she couldn't picture his face since she hadn't been a part of the neighborhood canvas
. But it wasn't Mrs. Yancey that she pictured lying asleep. It was her, Megan. And it was John sitting next to her, watching the news show. It was her head in his lap with her legs pulled up under her and a blanket draped over her. John's right arm was laid gently across her body, his hand resting open on her hip, as if they were the old married couple Ms. Yancey was referring to. It was such a warm thought, and Megan found herself pulled in. She imagined the faint whiff of pot roast, one she'd cooked and had shared with John during a candlelit dinner, each of them looking into the others eyes, commenting on how long they'd been together, and how fortunate they were to have found each other so long ago. But as she pictured John on the couch, she saw him pull a gun out from under a pillow, place it to his head, and pull the trigger. She tried to scream, but her mouth was dry and no sound came out. She heard her name, turning to see Gerald standing over her, his eyes boring into hers. He shouted her name again and she felt her arm shaking when her eyes snapped open and she suddenly found herself teetering off the edge of the porch. Andy was clutching her upper arm, squeezing even harder to keep her from falling.

"No!" Megan shouted, yanking her arm away.

"Megan!" Andy shouted, as Megan regained her balance, trying to make sense of what had just happened. She spotted Ms. Yancey at the doorway, her mouth agape, a shocked stare on her face. But Megan didn't answer. Instead, she turned and leapt off the porch, landed on the front grass, and ran for the car. Andy turned back to Mrs. Yancey and apologized without explaining, mostly because he couldn't explain what Megan had just done. He thanked Mrs. Yancey and promised he would call next time to be sure Mr. Yancey was home. He, too, jumped from the porch steps and walked quickly to the car, where Megan was already sitting, all the while hearing the voice of Mrs. Yancey trailing behind him, asking if the young woman was going to be all right.

He pulled open the car door and sat down hard, slamming the car door hard as he shut it.

"What the—" But she cut him off.

"Please!
" Megan implored. She threw her hand up to hide her face and began to cry.

"Megan," Andy said. "You were falling backward. I thought you were going to pass out."

Megan didn't answer. She was shedding just about every tear she had inside her, and it appeared to Andy that she would never stop. All he could do was reach out, put his arm around her, and wait for it all to end.

CHAPTER 51

Her name was Lindsey
: it was 7:00 a.m., and she couldn't leave the house until she'd had her coffee.

"Honeeeey
. Where's the coffee? I don't see it in the cupboard," Lindsey said.

"Check the counter next to the pot,"
Isaac replied from down the hall. Lindsey spun in a tight pirouette, making sure not to topple the terry cloth towel wrapped tight around her wet hair, and spotted the coffee can.

"There you are," she said, stepping over to the pink marble counter
, where she grabbed the can and ripped off the plastic lid, inhaling the dark roast before she went about preparing her morning pot. She was just three months passed her thirtieth birthday, wore her black Goth hair straight with bangs cut across her forehead, and sported multicolored tattoos down each forearm. When she was naked, one could trace a red boa constrictor snake from the left side of her neck, over her shoulder and down her backside, crossing from her left hip over the top of her ass, and ending on her right hip.

Lindsey got the coffee started
, then opened a bag of English Muffins, sliced one open, and tossed it in the toaster. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the butter tray, holding half a stick of butter. Lindsey didn't realize when Isaac told her where the coffee was that she was actually hearing the voice of a serial killer. Just as she didn't know when they cuddled on the couch at night watching Funniest Home Movies that she was sharing laughs with a serial killer. And she had no idea that when they fought over what plants should go in the empty flower bed in the backyard, she was arguing with the man responsible for four dead girls. But worst of all, when Lindsey made love to Isaac, she didn't know that she had a serial killer inside her.

Isaac entered the kitchen, his arms raised tying his long black hair into a ponytail
. Lindsey held up a cup for him but he nodded toward the round birch wood kitchen table, so she turned and set it down, and then sat down on the other side. The muffins popped and she buttered each one, filling them with enough butter to melt and flow over the side and onto the light blue plate. She reached for the morning newspaper, which she'd brought in first thing that morning, and slipped off the plastic bag cover. Of all the women Isaac had known in his life, Lindsey was the only one who loved to read, and the morning paper was her Bible. She religiously read the front page and the Style section before she left the house for the tattoo parlor she co-owned with her best friend Kate. She'd been with Isaac for two years since their mutual friends introduced them at Burning Man, and they'd been together ever since.

Isaac finished with his ponytail and opened the cupboard to grab a package of instant oatmeal
. He threw a bowl of water into the microwave and zapped it for one minute, then set the bowl on the table, poured the oatmeal into the bowl, and mixed it around with a spoon. He sprinkled in some white sugar, pulled back his chair, sat down, and just as he lifted the spoon to his mouth to take his first bite…he froze. Across from him, in bold black letters, was the front-page headline:
Possible Break in Bedroom Killer Case
.

He slipped the oatmeal into his mouth in slow motion, pretending nothing mattered as he ate in silence, glancing from his bowl to the headline, thinking about that night with the bat-swinging lady.

Could that be it?

What did they have
?

Probably a hair
.

Had to be
.

Not a fingerprint
.

He wore gloves.

Had to be a hair.

Lindsey folded the paper and set it on the table next to her muffin plate
.

"So, what are we doing tonight
?" she asked. Isaac finished his oatmeal, stood, washed out the bowl, and then dropped it into the sink. He sat back down and sipped his coffee, stealing quick glances at the folded newspaper, trying to read the article without letting Lindsey catch him.

"
You want to see a movie? Or dinner? Or both?" Lindsey asked with a smile.

"Let me think about it
," Isaac said. "Pete was talking about shooting some pool. We might do that."

Lindsey stood up and put on a sad face
. She leaned into him, caressing his cheek and running her fingers though his ponytail. Isaac swatted her hand away and grabbed the newspaper off the table while he stood up.

"I gotta go
. I'll call you this afternoon," Isaac said.

He grabbed the sack lunch that Lindsey had prepared for him and walked out the door. She watched him go, then turned around, walked into the bedroom to dry her hair, and get ready for work. As she got dressed she thought vaguely about Isaac's change in personality of late. She woke up a couple times to find him gone from bed. She knew he had insomnia and he'd said taking a drive always helped, but he was out so long…it's like he never slept at all some nights. And he was spending a lot more time on his cars in the garage. Well, that's to be expected she thought, in his line of business. He loved his cars. He never liked it when she came into the garage though. He always found excuses to stop his work, and seemed to want her to leave before he'd go back to work. So Lindsey left him alone, but sometimes she would look out the kitchen window at the lighted garage late at night—wondering what he was doing out there.