The Bedroom Killer (25 page)

CHAPTER 57

John kept driving as Megan struggled to relay the story of how she had received a call from the nursing home while she was still inside the house. That Anna
was
her mother-in-law…and the
Russell
that Anna had mentioned when they visited
was Anna's son
and
Megan's late husband. She described how after his death, Megan had stayed in Anna's life, and she in Megan's, and how they became surrogate mother and daughter—each of them taking care of the other. When Anna became ill, Megan was there. Anna was her last connection to Russell, and now that connection was gone. She finished by stating that all she had now were dead girls…and John.

John knew how she felt
…or thought he did. But he didn't know how to make it better. He couldn't bring back Anna or Russell. All he could do was be there for her. He could hear her cell phone ringing somewhere in her blazer pocket, but she wasn't answering. She kept her head leaning on the window, staring straight ahead. She needed rest. Sleep—as many days of it as she could take. No work. No reports. No murders. No Detective Bell. Just rest. John turned off 190th Street and headed toward Megan's place, passing by Sky Park, but when he stopped at a stop sign, Megan's door suddenly popped open, and then she was gone.

"Megan!
"

John called, but she was not stopping, in fact she was moving faster, in an all
-out sprint, deep into the park.

Where is she going
?

John whipped the car over to the curb, cut the engine, jumped out
, and ran after her.

"Megan
. Wait!"

John hadn't been to Sky Park in a long time
. As he chased her, his mind traveled back to a quiet place near the back of the park, with a view of a canyon, where sometimes in the early morning he'd seen deer moving slowly down a long beaten path. He took Trevor there one morning, hoping the deer would show up, but they never did. He was getting closer, either she was slowing down or he was just running faster. He saw her suddenly stop in the middle of a soccer field. Nearby, a family was gathered; aunt and uncles, brothers and sisters, celebrating someone's birthday under a canopy with presents and food piled high on picnic tables. Little kids ran all around, chasing after a black Labrador puppy.

He
finally caught up to her, stopping at her side, where he leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked up at her, waiting to see if she would say anything. Finally, without looking at him, she said, "I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do."

John stood, taking a few steps around to face her but keeping a few feet away, giving her space.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

She stared back at him for a very long time, as if she were seeing him for the very first time, seeing exactly what he was, who he was, for the first time
. Everything she needed in her life was standing three feet away and she knew it. But he might as well have been miles away. What she wanted felt completely unattainable, so far away from reality, that she couldn't accept that there might be a possibility of it coming true. So why mention it. Why say it and then see it disappear.

"Megan
…what do you want?" he asked again.

She opened her mouth, but it was so dry, she could hardly form the words.

"I just want to be with you."

Her tears fell yet again
.

John stepped forward, but just as he did, something caught his eye and he quickly jumped back
. A string of blue and red balloons floated down from the sky right between him and Megan, as if taking up position to guard her against him. Megan, too, jumped back; the appearance of the balloons was so out of place. She caught her breath, almost choking at the unexpected intrusion from the skies. Together they stared at the balloons, four of them, two blue and two red, laying on the grass, swaying in the breeze. And then, from somewhere off to their right, two young kids, a boy and a girl, each of them no more than five years old, stepped up cautiously, their eyes moving from John to Megan, then down to the balloons. They didn't know if they could grab the balloons; the adults were being weird—and the lady seemed to be crying.

Megan stifled her tears and smiled at them, then stepped back even more, giving them access
. This was all the boy needed as he quickly ran in and grabbed the string, turned and ran back out, followed shortly by the young girl. They both screamed with delight, having captured the falling balloons. Megan was able to smile as she watched them go. It gave her hope to see young kids having fun. When she turned back, she found John looking at her. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, until he was right in front of her. He reached out and took her by the shoulders, and said, "I want the very same thing."

CHAPTER 58

After an hour of sitting quietly on a park bench, John took Megan home. He asked to come in, but she said she wanted time alone to think about what's next. She had to make some phone calls to Anna's relatives. Help plan the funeral, if help was needed. She thanked him, kissed him good-bye, and said she would call him the next day.

Now, driving back to his place, John heard a siren whoop
. He checked his mirror, but couldn't see the police car. It was coming from somewhere behind him, but it couldn't be meant for him since he was driving the speed limit; and he hadn't made any illegal maneuvers. He looked into his right side mirror and spied the blue and red flashing lights a few cars back, then looked into his rearview mirror and tracked the car as it swerved through traffic, the other cars trying to move out of the way. Once it was clear of the last car, it gunned up behind John and stayed right on his ass.

"What the hell
…" John said, pulling over to the curb. Traffic rushed past. John popped his seat belt and leaned to his right to grab his registration from the glove compartment. He sat up and looked in his rearview again, and that's when he saw the hulking frame of Detective Bell step out of the car.

"Christ!"
John said.

When Bell disappeared from his rearview mirror
, John turned his key and punched the button to roll down his driver's-side window, but before it completely disappeared into the door, that same door opened suddenly and John felt Bell's hand grab him by the collar and yank him from his seat.

"Whoa, hey, what the
…"John said as he struggled to steady himself, but he was pretty much at Bell's mercy and Bell didn't stop until he'd walked John behind his car then slammed John's face onto the trunk. Luckily for John, he was quick enough to turn his head so his left cheek hit instead of his right, saving himself another trip to Dr. Samuelson for re-stitching.

"
What?" shouted John.

Bell, his left hand still clutching John's collar, bent down and shook him as he spoke into his ear.

"Your listening skills need work, Doc!"

John let out a half-hearted chuckle, as if this were just his buddy playing a game instead of an angry homicide detective who'd slammed him onto his own car trunk.

"Am I funny?" said Bell, who then reached inside his coat with his right hand and pulled out his 9mm Glock and pushed it into John's temple.

"Suppose I finish what you started the other night?"

"Are you crazy?"

"No more crazy than you, Doc
. Whaddaya say, one to the temple? That should do the trick."

John went very still
, wondering for a brief moment if Bell would actually do it. Was he that crazy?

"People are watching," John
said, almost whispering.

"Shut up and listen
. No more crime scene visitations. No more happy talk between you and Megan."

"Don't you mean Detective Ash?"
John asked. Bell lifted and slammed John's head onto the truck again.

"Shut up
. You just disappear, you understand me Randall?"

"You remembered my name, how sweet."

Bell slammed John's head again, but suddenly became aware of the traffic slowing around him. He holstered his gun, swung John around, and then pushed him back so he was leaning against the trunk and facing him.

"I can do anything
—" John started to say.

"You can't do shit
," said Bell. "I told you she's not well and—"

"Then why is she still working?"

"I don't have to answer to you."

"Tell her how you feel if you're so in love with her."

Bell stopped. He just stood there staring at John, wondering where the hell that last comment had come from.

What did
Randall know?

"You dumb son-of-a-bitch."

Without warning Bell leaned in, threw a right punch into John's left kidney, dropping him to the ground. John stayed there, staring across at a crumpled cigarette butt laying on the gravelly asphalt street, as he gasped for air.

"That's your second warning, Doc
. Three strikes and you're out."

John could hear Bell's footsteps fade as he turned and walked back to his car
. Then he heard the car start and speed off into traffic.

CHAPTER 59

"Fucking smartass prick!"

Bell stared at John's car in his rearview mirror, knowing that John was still somewhere on the ground behind it
.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Doc
? Huh? You think you can just walk in and take Megan away? Fuck you!"

He
drove through downtown Greenwood, ignoring stop signs, and weaving through traffic. He was one notch short of going postal and he knew it.

This shit has got to end.

"It's you or me, Doc. I need her. I need her with me, working the case."

Bell thought again about the
mayor's plan to bring in the FBI and slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he stopped for a red light. He closed his eyes and his thoughts jumped back thirteen years when a young Officer Gerald Bell sat in a squad car next to his partner, Officer Russell Ash. He'd been able to suppress the memory over the years, only allowing it to return on the anniversary of the incident. Allowing himself to think about it on that day only, then he forgot about it the next day. That's how he dealt with it.

They were driving, Russell twenty
-five, Gerald twenty-eight. Each of them enjoying their new lives as cops. No stress. No tension.

Except for one thing.

"You shouldn't have done that, Gerry," said Russell, turning to face his partner.

"C'mon, it's no big deal
. We should watch it together," said Gerry, with a grin spreading a mile wide.

"I'm not watching anything
. Neither are you. I want you to destroy it."

"No can do
. Besides, too late. I've already watched it a few times. It's fucking awesome." Russell stared at Gerry, wondering why he ever agreed to such a stupid stunt.

"I'm watching it every night, Russ
. Hell, I'm getting wood just thinking about it now."

"
You're not keeping that tape. When we're off shift, I'm coming over and you're going to give it to me!" Russell demanded.

"No can do, brother
. It's mine."

"How can you say that?"

"It's mine. There, I said it again." He chuckled.

"But you didn't tell us you were going to tape it."

"My house. My camera. My tape," Bell sneered.

Russell couldn't believe what he was hearing
. The initial shock of learning there was a tape had been replaced by the shock of Gerry's insistence that he was going to keep it—like their friendship didn't matter. He'd known of his partner's sexual appetite and figured it was just your typical,
guys like to screw girls
, talk. But this revelation was like a punch in the gut from a best friend, while he's smiling and looking you straight in the eye. He might have felt worse if it had been his idea. But it wasn't. It was Megan's. He'd mentioned the idea a long time ago. Not with Bell, just in general. A threesome. Someday. Somewhere. With someone. When she'd mentioned Gerry, he was hesitant. But she wanted to please him so much; she insisted it would be fine. Someone they both knew. Someone they trusted. How could they both be so wrong?

Because she didn't really know
Gerald Bell.

Not like he did
. He should have said no. He should have insisted they wait. There was no rush. But he didn't. And now there was a tape. A goddamned tape. The heated argument was cut short when a call came through.

"A
dam Twenty-eight," came the call from dispatch. Gerry looked at Russell and smiled.

"Duty calls," he said, as he lifted the radio handset from the dash
. "Adam Twenty-eight, go ahead."

The Dispatcher said, "We have a
Ten-thirty-five at the Carson Apartments, apartment five seven."

"Ten
-four, Adam Twenty-eight responding," said Gerry, turning to Russell and smiled. "Old man Farmer is at it again."

"Maybe you and Farmer are related," said Russell.

Charlie Farmer was an alcoholic husband who beat his wife and forced her into sex. They knew that because she'd told them both, more than once. Gerry had once joked that they ought to petition the complex for their own parking space out front. But Russell knew they could only do so much, especially since Mrs. Farmer would never press charges. She used the cops as her personal referees and bodyguards until the old man passed out. Then she would put a blanket over him and sleep in bed with their six-year-old daughter. That's what she told them. Russell hated men like Farmer, which is why it felt so good to take that jab at Gerry now that they were arguing about the tape. He knew it would cut Gerry.

Russell gunned the squad car and turned right onto Carson Street
. Six blocks down, he turned left across traffic and pulled into the Carson apartment complex, parked, and cut the engine. Then Russell swiveled in his seat to face Gerald.

"I want that tape."

"No can do, partner," said Bell. Then he grabbed his officer's cap, opened his door, and got out. Russell followed and once again wondered how he'd so misjudged his partner. Gerald turned back to face Russell and said, "We should think about doing it again…only this time bring in another girl for Megan. You and I can sit back and watch."

Russell snapped
. He charged Gerald, shoving him against a wrought-iron fence.

"
Don't ever say her name again. You hear me," Russell said, his teeth clenched. Gerald  sneered and said, "It was just a suggestion."

Then they heard the scream
. A woman. Mrs. Farmer. Russell let go of Gerald and ran toward the sound, which he already knew was coming from number fifty-seven. Russell would find Mrs. Farmer, hear her side of the story, then find Mr. Farmer and hear his side; the only difference would be that all his words would be slurred.

"Mr. Farmer
!" Russell called out from in front of the second-story apartment door while he knocked at the same time. Gerald was standing to one side of the door smirking at Russell as he thought of other ways to goad his partner, when the 20-gage shot blew a six-inch-diameter hole through the center of the cheap wooden door. It knocked Russell backward against the railing, where his momentum rolled him over the top and his one hundred, ninety-five pound body dropped. It took less than a second for his legs and lower back to strike the concrete. But Russell was dead before he hit, the buckshot penetrating his chest and puncturing several arteries, not to mention his heart. Like a basketball player who makes nothing but net after throwing the ball backward over his head, Charlie Farmer had scored a direct hit while shooting blind from behind the door. Three seconds later, Charlie Farmer was dead—his body became a resting place for each and every bullet from Officer Gerald Bell's gun.

Honking car horns startled Detective Bell from his daydream and he looked up to catch the green light turning yellow.

"Fuck you, asshole," he said,
as he punched the gas and spun the tires, leaving black streaks across the white painted crosswalk.