Authors: Rick Reed

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

The Coldest Fear (21 page)

BOOK: The Coldest Fear

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CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR

Jon Samuels opened the door and a smile spread across his face.

“Come in,” he said, and held Cinderella's collar so she wouldn't turn aggressive like she always did when a straight guy came into the apartment. He didn't know how the dog knew the difference. It was uncanny.

“Behave yourself, Cinderella,” he managed to say before the visitor's foot came up hard in the dog's ribs, driving her across the floor and into the wall next to the sofa where she lay still.

Jon looked up, no longer smiling.

Lenny Bange had given Cubby Crispino a list of possible suspects when he had called Las Vegas. Cubby wasn't interested in Lenny's list. He hated attorneys. But he decided that to save time he would run down some of the names for himself to see if any of them could be the one that was trying to blackmail the scumbag lawyer.

The first name on the list was Jonathan Samuels, who lived just across the Indiana state line in a shithole of a town called Shawneetown. The only reason it got his attention was because, number one, it sounded like some kind of Indian name, and number two, Jon Samuels was a fag and used to live with the little hooker who had started all this trouble in the first place. Maybe he'd pay a visit and rough the little noodle dick up and see what he could find out.

He smiled at the thought. It would at least fill up some of his time, and there sure wasn't anything else to do in Evansville, Indiana. Even their casino was a disappointment. Now, Vegasâthere was where the action was.

He looked the directions up on his laptop. Almost two hours to get there, twenty minutes of kicking ass, then another two hours back to the Drury Inn. There was a HBO movie on that evening that he didn't want to miss. The timing worked perfect.

He pulled his jacket back on to hide his pistol and checked himself out in the mirror. “Hello, Jon,” he said to himself. “I'm Mr. Wackadoodle, and I'm here to whack your noodle.” This might be fun.

CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE

Cubby made his way silently up the stairs and down to the door of Jonathan Samuels's apartment. He turned the handle and found the door was unlocked.
This'll be easier than I thought
. When Lenny Bange had called him and asked him to find out who was blackmailing him, he had almost turned down the job because he didn't like to do what he considered grunt work. He wasn't a private eye. He was muscle.

But he could hear the fear in Lenny Bange's voice on the telephone, and that made him feel good. Besides, he wasn't doing much and could use the five large he had intimidated Bange into paying. Five grand to slap some sense into this little prick was easy money.

He looked around the apartment grounds. No other lights were on and there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot. One of them was probably Jon Samuels's car, and Cubby guessed it would be the bright purple Pontiac Vibe. The other, an SUV, might have belonged to the chick that Jon used to share the apartment with. The newspapers were saying she was whacked by a serial killer, but Cubby knew that the girl was hustling for Lenny, so he figured it was more likely one of her clients was pissed off over something she'd done.

Maybe Bange did her himself,
he thought, but dismissed the idea, remembering how scared the lawyer was when he'd called. And even if it was Bange, it was nothing to him. He was being paid to find the blackmailer and shut him up. The rest was someone else's problem.

He pushed the door open just a crack and listened. It was silent. Almost too silent. A finger of apprehension bore into his spine, but he quickly dismissed the feeling. Cubby Crispino, six foot two with a hundred ninety-five pounds of muscle, against a fag. What could possibly go wrong? He pushed the door open and then stood wide-eyed at the scene in front of him.

Murphy had too much information. And he was tenacious. The killer's plans to eliminate Murphy were thwarted by the untimely arrival of that young dude in the truck, and for a few moments he had considered cutting his losses and leaving town. He already had excuses ready for his boss and anyone else who might question the timing of his departure, but then the memory of the naked Murphy coming busting ass down that gravel drive, gun in hand, ready to kill him, had made him want to stay and finish what he had started.

When he made the decision not to leave town it had been like being freed from chains. Almost as freeing as the feeling he'd had the day they had released him from the mental asylum.
All better now, Mr. Morse,
the shrink had assured him. All better. It had taken him twelve years to learn exactly what to say, how to act, to create the illusion that the doctors wanted to see.

He'd learned the hard way. But he was always a smart kid. The shrinks weren't stupid. They'd caught him a couple of times when he'd tried too hard to convince them he was “all better.” But eventually he'd gotten so good at pretending, that he began to believe his own bullshit.
In a way, it was those doctors who created me. Always pushing, questioning, wanting me to understand why I killed my father.

The doctors believed that if he could confront the part of him that had killed his father, his other selfâthe gentle side of himâwould once again gain control. In fact, what happened was that when the rational side of Cody Morse met the feral personality that dwelled inside himâthe one that newspapers all over the country had come to call The Cleaverâthe reality of what he'd done to his father destroyed the good boy. All that was left was The Cleaver.

But the introspection those doctors had forced him through had made something else very clear to him. He hated bullies. Hated anyone who used his position, size, or perceived authority to make other people humble themselves. Hated anyone who pushed him. And these types of people had become the victims that The Cleaver sought out. Men or women . . . it was all the same to him.

He stood, now, just down at the end of the second-floor porch where only yesterday Jack Murphy and Jon Samuels had been sitting in chairs and having a nice little chat. He watched the big man push open the door to Samuels's apartment and freeze in the doorway. He didn't know who the man was, but he was as big as Cody himself, and looked every bit as strong.

Cody wondered if this man could shed any light on the telephone call he had received. Samuels had known nothing. He'd made sure Samuels had no information for him before he ended the poor little man's existence. He had even been surprised to feel a little hesitation before he had swung the bone axe into Samuels's throat. Maybe it was becauseâonce againâthis wasn't the type of victim he would normally seek out. Samuels was no bully. If anything he was a victim.

But somewhere out there was a blackmailer who had his name in a diary. His name was there because she had discovered he was her brother and not because he was one of her clients. Eventually the truth would come out. And that would tie him to Cordelia, and then to the others, and then he would be locked up again.

The Cleaver would never go back inside again. Young Cody Morse had felt relief being inside the hospital. He felt safe, and cared for, and had even begun to like some of the staff and patients. The Cleaver had felt rage. The Cleaver wanted out. He hated everyone who stood in the way of his freedom. If he could have gotten to his bone axe back then he would have gotten out of the hospital much sooner. But, he was “all better now.”

He felt the weight of the short-handled axe in his hand and it calmed him. He'd used it to cleave most of the meat from his father's face and skull after delivering the killing blow to the man's neck. When he was eight years old the axe had required all of the strength of both of his arms to chop his father's head free from his neck.

During the years that he had been regularly beaten by the bully that he called his father, he had endured verbal and psychological abuse that was nothing near the quick death he had given the man. The old saying about “sticks and stones” was bullshit. He had almost forgotten his real name as a child because the only one he heard come from his father's mouth was “bastard” or “you worthless piece of shit” or his all-time favorite, “faggot son of a bitch.”

These words had damaged his self-worth, according to the doctors at St. Francis Institution where he had been “admitted” and kept prisoner all those years. But the words didn't damage his self-worth. They only changed his soul, piece by piece, from a child, into someone who laughed at the doctors and their ignorance of who they really had before them.

The first thing he'd done upon release from St. Francis was to go back to Shawneetown and find the axe. He wasn't surprised that it was still in its hiding place. If he had believed in God he would have believed that God had kept it safe for him. But he believed in something bigger than God. He believed in vengeance.

The axe empowered him. It was like waking from a long sleep. He felt no fear, no pain, and no guilt at being left behind by his mother. It was as if his sister didn't exist in all of this. The only bond he had to her was that they had both been abandoned. He had no earlier memories of her. Couldn't remember one event, a birthday, a conversation, or a game. One day she'd been a skinny two-year-old and the next time he saw her he killed her.

That one act had led to all of this unplanned bloodshed, and this was not to his liking. He picked his victims for a reason. He stalked them like game, and then he put them down like the animals they were. But killing his sister had set off a storm that didn't seem to have an end.

He knew he could have packed up and walked away from Evansville. Still didn't know exactly why he had taken a job so close to Shawneetown in the first place. But he knew he would not leave until he'd finished his mission.

He clutched the bone axe to his side and moved silently down the porch toward Jon Samuels's doorway. Maybe the visitor there had some information. If he did, he would give it to The Cleaver. There was no alternative.

CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX

Detective Jansen sat in his car in the back parking lot of Duffy's Tavern in a disappointed and angry state. The woman with the casaba-melon breasts had turned down his advances and left the bar, being half carried by a little guy with no front teeth. He was glad now that he hadn't wasted two bucks buying her another damn beer.

He blew his breath into his hand and sniffed it.
Hell, it's almost three in the morning. What am I worrying about?
He decided to go into the detective squad room. It should be deserted this time of night and he could sit for a spell. The only thing he had to go home to was a sick wife, and her bitching and nagging. He hoped that whatever he was trying to pull out of his mind would come to him.

In the back parking lot at police headquarters, Jansen pulled into one of the city-council spots that were almost always deserted and parked his take-home car. He was walking toward the back entrance to the squad room when he noticed a couple of cars that didn't belong in the parking lot.

One was Captain Franklin's personal vehicle. Franklin was never at work this early and especially not in his own personal car.

The other car was a newer royal-blue Buick that just screamed FBI. That meant something big was going on. Whatever it was, Jansen was going to find out. Information was better than currency in his line of work.

He walked up to the back of headquarters and peered through the heavy glass panes. There was no one in the hallway, but the lights were on in the captain's office. He used his key fob and winced at the electric click as the lock disengaged. He hated these locks that were linked to a security system. There would be a record of his entering through that blasted door at an exact time and date. It took all the sneak out of “sneaky bastard,” and he was rather proud of his reputation.

As soon as he was through the door, he entered the detective squad room and looked to be sure he was alone. He logged onto his computer and moved a couple of pending files into the record-room basket icon, and left his computer logged onto the system. It would automatically log him out after an hour and thus it would look like he had worked for an hour and gone home.
What a hardworking man I am,
he thought.

Now that he had created a fake reason for being in the building, he peeked back into the hallway and found it empty and quiet except for the sound of soft voices coming from Captain Franklin's office.

He moved like a shadow down the hall and stood just outside the office, where he could hear the voices much better. He wished he had his digital recorder with him because he could enhance the volume on his computer later. His hearing wasn't as sharp as it was when he was younger.

“Well, I guess this is all supposition until we verify with the coroner,” Captain Franklin was saying.

A voice that Jansen didn't recognize said, “It'll be our guy, Captain. If I didn't believe it, I wouldn't be here.”

“I hope to God you're wrong, Agent Tunney,” Franklin said.

“Call me Frank, Captain,” the voice said, and Jansen felt a shock of recognition at the name.

Special Agent Frank Tunney. Serial killer hunter,
Jansen thought. And Tunney had said something about it being “our guy.” Jansen wondered what he was talking about, and then it came to him. The murders they were working were supposed to be by a serial killer. Obviously this was of interest to the FBI or they wouldn't have sent someone as important as Tunney in the middle of the night. Now he really missed his digital recorder. It would be great to have this on tape.

“So this guyâThe Cleaverâhas been in your gun sights for some time?” Captain Franklin said.

“Twenty-four known kills so far,” Tunney said. “Twenty-five if Brenda Lincoln is another.”

“Then Detective Murphy is correct about these cases all being related,” Franklin said.

“That's the troubling part,” Tunney admitted. “The Cleaver is a very methodical killer. He has always followed a pattern and selected his kill sites inside homes. The killing you have at the motel, and the one in the kitchenâLouise Brigham, I think you saidâdon't fit with that pattern.”

“Brenda Lincoln was killed in her garage,” Franklin reminded him. “And she was very publicly displayed.”

“He took her face off with a hand axe. The rest of the damage was just to confuse you . . . and me. That's why I thought it worth a trip in the middle of the night. There is something very personal about these killings. Not like the other ones. I think he's just made his first mistake, Captain.”

“I hope you're right,” Franklin said. “But we're still no closer to catching him than you have been.”

“Oh. I think you might be surprised. This Jack Murphy of yours is quite a pistol if I remember correctly.”

“It's okay, Agent Tunney. You can call him a smart-ass. Everyone else does.”

Tunney chuckled, and to Jansen that was shocking. FBI agents were not known for their sense of humor. To Jansen's trained bullshit meter, Tunney was holding something back.

“I've called Jack and his team to meet us at the morgue,” Franklin said. “I'll drive.”

Franklin and Tunney were just stepping into the hallway as the back door to headquarters clicked.

BOOK: The Coldest Fear

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