The Bedroom Killer (3 page)

CHAPTER
7

Megan Ash
had barely met the young man before she decided to have sex with him. It wasn't planned—her intimate encounters almost never were—but the compulsion pulled at her, and he was there. Convenient, and more importantly, willing. She told herself it was the stress of work, but she knew better. And now, right in the middle of it all, she thought about her latest investigation. She should be in front of her case files.

The case file.
The
only
file.

But she wasn't. She was here. Doing this. She considered faking an orgasm, but realized his oral abilities would soon provide a real one. After that, she would leave.

His name was Greg, a twenty-nine-year-old checker at the local grocery store. Five days earlier, at 11:45 p.m., needing milk and Tylenol, she had stopped at check stand six. He flirted with her and had the balls to make a move. She made it clear in her responses to his innocent questions that she'd have no problem getting naked with him, if that was what he wanted. Without being asked, Megan slid her business card over to him. He glanced at it and took a step back. She smiled, parting her lips just enough to let her tongue show, grabbed her groceries, and walked out.

When he called the next day
, he gave her his apartment address, and they picked Thursday night—midnight—to meet. That fit just fine with her schedule. She was already spending most nights at her desk, sifting through notes, photos of dead girls, statements from mothers about their daughters, their work and shopping habits, etc. She'd entered his cell number into her phone, before Jim (the painter) and after Carlo (from the DMV). There were forty-seven names altogether, fifteen of them complete strangers, sixteen she knew socially, eight associated with her work, two were family from out of state, and six she couldn't remember who they were or where she'd met them. She had fucked fourteen of them at least once and had semiregular schedules with three others.

It was a miracle anything ever got done in her life, which
was why she was happy to hear her cell ring. The need to be touched had long since passed. When she moved to grab her phone, Greg stupidly
but how could he know
—told her to let it ring. She ignored him and kept going. He pulled her back. The phone rang again. She went for it, but Greg pulled her hand away.

That was one time too many
. In an instant, Megan shoved Greg off her. His body flipped off the side of the bed and his head hit the wall. The lights went on and Greg found Megan pointing her gun at him.

"I'm going to answer my phone and you are not going to say a goddamned word while I talk. Understood?"

"Okay," Greg said.

She
scooped up the phone and pressed the button. "Ash."

A moment later Megan put the phone to her chest and with her gun waved at the nightstand and said, "Take a message."

Greg grabbed a pencil and the notepad and looked up at Megan.

"Go ahead…1736 Date Avenue."

Greg scribbled the address on the pad.

"Be right there,"
she said and hung up. She dropped the phone on the bed and noticed the wet spot on the sheet. She stared at it for a long time.
My life is so fucked up
. Her trance was broken when Greg appeared next to her, offering the sheet of paper with the address.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "Did you have fun?" She set her gun on the nightstand, scooped her panties off the floor, and began dressing.

"Is that it?" Greg
asked.

"For now it is."

She pulled on her pants, her bra, and then a white button-up blouse.

"Thanks
," she said, and grabbed her cell phone and keys, walked out of the room, out the front door, and back into a very ugly world.

CHAPTER
8

Detective Gerald
Bell pulled up to the crime scene in his department-issued, white, Chrysler LeBaron Town Car and cut the engine. He unbuckled his seatbelt and peered through the windshield. He saw a mass of black-and-whites and an ambulance parked outside a strip of crime scene tape. The tape stretched from one maple tree in the south corner of the front yard to the picket fence at the north corner by the tall hedge. He counted at least six cop cars, three other unmarked cars, and the second news crew van just arrived. From the description of the 9-1-1 call, this was the Bedroom Killer's fourth victim, which explained the commotion.

Bell
jogged his way to the crime scene tape and ducked under just as a beat-cop raised the tape for him. The front door was partially open, allowing for foot traffic in and out, but closed enough to help keep out the chilly morning air. A guy named Collier handed him the log-in sheet. He signed in and was greeted by Detective David "Andy" Anderson.

"Whaddayagot?"
Bell asked.

"White rope."

"I figured that."

"But get
this…Mom walked in on him."

"No shit."

"Yeah, says she beat the crap out of him with her softball bat and chased him outside
. She said she got a few more swings on him while he tried to get away in his car. He was able to get the bat away from her before he drove off."

Bell nodded, digesting this new information.
"She get a good look at his face?"

"Not much
. She said he was turned around when she took her first swing. Caught him in the back of the head. He pushed his way past her and ran outside."

Andy's eyes danced left and right,
Bell knew there was more.

"
And?"

Andy sighed
. "Her other daughter is missing."

"
Christ," Bell said. He turned away and threw his hands in the air. "Now we're dealing with a kidnapper?"

Andy
gripped Bell's shoulder and turned him around, shaking his head.

"But it doesn't fit."

He was right. There had never been a kidnapping in any of the other killings. But, there were no other siblings in any of the other killings. This was a change in the killer's MO. Bell stepped inside and scanned the tiny front room, which overflowed with cops, CSI techs, and special investigators.

"Ash?"

Andy hesitated, "She's been notified."

Bell
looked past Anderson. Bell already knew the answer. He'd only asked because that question would be expected from the top homicide investigator. His partner should be here. She should be asking the questions, laying the groundwork for him to step in and take over, but once again, it was left to Bell. And he was getting tired of it.

"Where's the mother?"

Andy leaned to his right and nodded toward the kitchen doorway.

"In
there. We have men walking down both sides of the street, searching for a body or other evidence."

Bell stepped
by Andy, tapping a tech on the shoulder to squeeze past, and came to a stop at the kitchen doorway. Detective William Kennedy was squatting, pad and pen at the ready, staring at the distraught woman sitting at the table. Bell surveyed the room. The counters were clear of dishes and clean. Bell moved into the kitchen as Kennedy stood.

"She say anything yet
?" Bell asked.

Kennedy shook his head
. "She's been crying and moaning about her daughter, Katie. She's the one who's missing."

Bell
peered down at the water on the floor near the back door.

"The water?"

Kennedy turned and looked at the wet floor. "It appears that's where he got in. That water shouldn't be there according to the mother. I got that much out of her. The door should have been locked, but it wasn't. She doesn't know why. No signs of entry anywhere else in the home."

They
stood over Karen Sharp as she cried into her robe. Bell had been a detective long enough that he could pretty much plan out the timing of everything that would come next. The victim's mother would soon stop sobbing—giving Bell his cue to throw out the first question—and the chase would begin.

This prick they called the Bedroom
Killer was getting closer to his own end. He'd fuck up sooner or later, leave a clue, something to add to what they already had, which wasn't much, and this clusterfuck would end. And if Gerald Bell had his way, it would be at the end of his gun.
Who gives a shit about due process? Let's all get together and empty our guns into the fucker and get it over with.

Bell
glanced into the living room. Homicide Detective Megan Ash slipped in and headed for the hallway as if she were just popping in to use the bathroom.
It's about friggin' time
. More and more she was turning up late, digging for information after the fact. She should've been here. She should've been the one filling him in.
He
was the lead detective. He was the master at solving these crimes and he would solve this one, if his partner could get her shit together and do her job. Sure there were long hours, but they were all doing long hours. Why should it be any different for her?

***

Megan
tucked her hair behind her ear as she approached the bedroom door. She wore the same black slacks and white blouse she’d thrown on at Greg's house when she got the call. No time to go home to change. She hoped no one would notice they were the same clothes she'd worn the day before. Despite this fashion faux pas
,
she carried herself with authority.

Being one of the youngest women to achieve detective in her division ha
d been both a blessing and a curse for Megan. All the prejudices applied. She was known for her ability to pick up on clues that others didn't see, or she'd follow up on a small hunch that turned out to be the missing piece of the puzzle. She'd grown into one of the best detectives in the county. But she'd been getting sloppy lately and she knew it. Her mind was wandering too much. It was time to focus.

The first thing
she noticed was bloody fingerprints smeared on the wall next to the door jam, as if someone grabbed the doorframe as they entered the room. There had never been blood found at any of the other killings.

Maybe this wasn't him
.

Megan stepped in the bedroom to find a tech working inside
. There wasn't much room for anyone else. She looked at the bed and saw the young girl, her arms at her side, mouth and eyes opened. Megan steeled herself and locked up her emotions. She had to be purely analytical, but all she wanted to do was scream. A brown teddy bear was on the floor and a few feet away, the ligature. It was common cotton rope, 12-strand, costing $7.95 for a 20-foot length at any hardware store. Yes, this was the Bedroom Killer…but why was the rope on the floor and red with what appeared to be blood?

The
tech brushed black powder onto the wooden bedpost. Megan approached the bed and examined Rachel's feet and legs, then moved up to her stomach, then farther up to her neck, where she could see the blackish-purple bruising.

J
ust like the others.

Rachel Sharp had the dubious distinction of being the fourth in a series of murders that had taken place over the past
four months. Each victim was between fourteen and nineteen years old. Each one lived with their mom, but from there, the similarities got murky. Megan stepped over the teddy bear and rope. She looked at the carpet in the corner of the room, hoping to find any sort of clue, when she heard a scream.

"
Mom!"

Megan sprinted from the bedroom
, into the short hallway, then into the living room to find a crowd of people standing around what appeared to be the mother and a young woman, embracing. The mother stroked the girl's hair.

"Katie!"

The mother sobbed, gripping the young woman tightly. Megan spotted Bell in the crowd. He stared right at her. Andy was, too, but his eyes showed a different emotion than the one in Bell's eyes. They showed compassion.

Bell
broke free of the crowd and marched over to Megan with his right index finger pointing toward her. Megan had seen that index finger so many times in her career.

Fuck him
.

Bell stooped down to within five inches of Megan's face
. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Shopping."

"Shopping? What the hell do you mean shopping?" Bell's voice pitched in a raised whisper.

"I needed groceries
…so I went shopping."

"At fucking three a
.m.?"

"No, at midnight, after I left the office
. I could go in the middle of the day if that suits you better, but I seem to be really busy these days, so the only time I have to actually buy groceries is midnight."

Andy shouted at Bell
and ran up to both of them, his cell phone stuck to his ear. He spoke into the phone, "Yes…okay. Thank you. Thank you very much."

Andy pulled the phone from his ear, punched off, and with a smile
. "That was Greenwood Emergency. They have a patient. Gunshot wound. He was found in a late model BMW, with a baseball bat and gun inside his car. The driver's-side window is gone."

Bell's eyes lit up
, and he turned to Megan with a big, shit-eating grin on his face—one that put shivers down her spine. She hated it when he smiled like a hyena.

"We got him," Bell
said.

Andy nodded
. "We got him."

"Let's go."
Bell stormed out the front door, followed by Andy. Megan took a deep breath. She should be happy, but she had a feeling of foreboding, as if the case were still a long way from being over.