Killer Instinct, page 3
But even though I’m not entirely sure I want to kill my next victim, I am entirely sure I want a next victim. Because the power it gives me, righting a wrong, the fright in the Weasel’s eyes, the scared relief in the woman’s . . . I think I’ve found my reason in this life.
Chapter Six
THE NEXT DAY IS SUNDAY, and Mom gets called in on an emergency I’m sure involves a serial killer.
“If I’m not going to be back by dinner, I’ll call,” she says, and rushes out.
I eye her soft leather carryall that she never locks. I’ve looked through it many times. I’ve read reports, studied pictures, copied notes on some of the more interesting cases. Mom has no clue I do it. I can’t help it. Daisy likes to watch reality TV in her spare time, and I like to dig through Mom’s briefcase. It’s who I am.
“Will you put some of that horseradish mustard on it?” Justin asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Sure.” I go back to his turkey-and-sprouts sandwich. I know, what eight-year-old likes turkey and sprouts, right?
He and I both have aikido class today—something our parents made all three of us take, but only he and I continue.
I like aikido because even though I’m skinny, I’ve learned to blend and redirect the motions of an attacker.
I can easily control and take down a two-hundred-pound opponent and have done so (in class) on many occasions. The Weasel was my first practice in the real world. Although he’d been short and pudgy, I’d say he was at least one hundred eighty pounds—a challenger for sure.
Daisy flings open the front door. “Zach, this is Lane and Justin.”
In walks a guy I assume goes to our high school.
“Zach’s new,” Daisy announces. “He’s a junior.”
Zach nods. “Hi.”
Daisy tugs him along. “We’re going to my room.”
Zach looks unsure about this as she pulls him up the stairs.
“That’s not allowed,” Justin reminds her.
“Whatever,” she yells back.
“You going to tell Mom and Dad?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“Mind if I do?”
“Knock yourself out, kid.”
My sister’s a slut. It’s common knowledge she’s already had sex several times, and according to gossip she gives okay hand jobs but is excellent at fellatio.
I walked in on her having sex last year. She didn’t miss a beat as she kept riding the guy and glanced over to me in the doorway.
She’ll end up pregnant. Watch. Or with an STD. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the little sister I carried two blocks home after she wrecked on her new bike. Of course I found out Terrence, the kid three streets over, made her wreck, and I went back and took care of him later, but I digress. Let’s just say Terrence never messed with my sister again.
Zach comes back down the stairs and straight into the kitchen, surprising both me and my brother. “Saw the sandwiches. Mind if I make one?”
My brother and I exchange a glance.
I slide the fixings over and Zach helps himself.
“So,” he begins, spreading mayo on one slice of wheat bread. “I’ve seen you around school. You’re in the GT program?”
I nod.
He puts cheese on top of the mayo and then two slices of tomato. “You work at Patch and Paw, right?”
I take a bite of my sandwich. “Yes.”
“Mike’s my older brother.”
“Dr. Issa?” Just saying his name flutters my insides a little.
Zach puts cucumber on top of the tomato, avoids the turkey and sprouts, and takes a huge bite. “Mm.”
“He said your name is Daniel.”
Zach shoots me a slightly surprised look. “He told you about me?”
“He wanted me to be your friend.”
Zach laughs. “That sounds like Mike. Daniel’s my first name. Mostly just my family calls me that.”
My brother plucks a stray scrap of turkey from his plate and pops it into his mouth. “You a vegetarian?”
Zach nods.
Out of the corner of my eye I give him a solid look. Yes, I can now see the resemblance to Dr. Issa. Dark hair, dark, intelligent eyes, same boyish face.
Zach smiles, and I really see it then.
Daisy stomps down the stairs. “I thought you said you’d only be a second.”
Zach lifts his sandwich. “Got hungry.”
Justin laughs.
Daisy heaves a pouty sigh and heads back to her room.
I think I might like this Zach guy.
He turns to me. “My brother says you’re really smart.”
I’ve been in GT as long as I can remember. School comes easy for me. “I do okay.”
Zach shoves another bite in. “Where you going to college?”
“UVA, hopefully.”
“Medicine?” Zach whistles.
“Biology.”
“Mike went to Hopkins.”
“I know.”
He finishes off his sandwich and tosses his napkin into the garbage. “Later. Nice to meet you both.”
He lets himself out the front door, and Justin looks at me. “That was weird.”
Yes it was. Most guys Daisy brings home disappear into her room and don’t socialize with me and Justin. It’s almost like Zach came over to socialize with me and Justin.
Daisy stomps back down. She’s changed clothes to a skimpy tank and too-short mini. “Where’s Zach?”
“He left!” Justin brightly informs her.
“He what?!” She turns on me. “What’d you say to him?”
“Nothing.” Why does she always assume I’ve done something?
Daisy races out the front door. “Zach!”
“I like Zach,” Justin tells me.
“Me too.” His leaving will probably make Daisy want him even more.
I glance at the kitchen clock. “Let’s get our hakamas on. I don’t want to be late for aikido.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re heading out to the Wrangler, and Mom pulls in. “Heading to class?”
“You’re back earlier than you thought,” I observe.
She holds up her soft briefcase. “Brought the work home.”
My brother rats out our sister. “Daisy had a boy in her room.”
Mom sighs. “I’ll handle it.” She trudges toward the house, and I glance down at the briefcase, looking very puffy compared to when she left. Its lock is uncharacteristically pressed in. Luckily, I know where she keeps the key.
I’d rather skip aikido and rifle through her briefcase. And that’s saying something because aikido has got to be about the best thing ever.
But I’ll have to open the case tonight after everyone’s gone to bed.
Chapter Seven
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” My sister busts me that night.
Nonchalantly, I shuffle the pictures I’d taken from Mom’s case under my notepad. “Last-minute homework.”
“In Mom’s office?”
I nod to her desktop. “She’s got Excel.”
Daisy narrows her eyes like she suspects I’m lying.
I ignore her and go back to the Excel file I had launched in case this exact thing happened.
The thing about snooping around is that you have to do it in the open to be most effective. If I had closed and locked Mom’s office, if I had scrambled to cover things up, or if I had gotten real chatty, Daisy would be suspicious. Keeping things out in the open allows me to fake honesty, fake normalcy.
My sister’s the absolute last person I want having something on me.
“I got grounded,” she tells me.
I nod. I know.
She sighs, and I hear more than see her scoot off. What the hell is she doing up at one in the morning anyway?
She gets something from the refrigerator, and then one of the stairs squeaks as she heads back up to her bedroom
I bring the pictures back out from under my notepad.
A female severed head stares back at me—brown eyes wide and blond hair matted to her head. Found in a swimming pool in Falls Church and identified as one Cynthia Hughes. Twenty-five years of age and a preschool teacher from a place just down the road.
The rest of the body is yet to be found.
According to the one and only report I’ve already read, the head was severed with a sharp knife. This case closely matches a decapitation that occurred this same time one year ago in Oregon, two years ago in Arizona, and three years ago in Tennessee.
“Closely matches” is the key phrase. There are some differences, but the report doesn’t detail those.
I browse the document again—all the cases are unsolved and occurred exactly one year apart in the month of September. If it’s the same killer, the FBI will find an arm next, then a leg, followed by the other arm and leg. The hands and feet get delivered at the very end in a cooler to the local police station.
I recognize this. Last year the Oregon decapitation made national news, and I added it to my journal. Looks like Mr. Decapitator Serial Killer has made his way to Northern Virginia and Washington, DC. My life can’t get any better. A serial killer right in my own area. How great is that? Like I have a front-row seat to the latest feature.
I scan the picture of the head and the report and then send it to my e-mail. I put everything back exactly how I found it.
I glance around Mom’s office. Her briefcase had been very full. So where’s the rest of it? My gaze lands on her triple-locked file cabinet. Probably in there. I could pick it, but with three locks, it’d take a while.
The stair squeaks again, and my temper flares at my idiot sister. Why is she still up? I grab my stuff, head from the office, and run right into Mom.
She blinks. “What are you doing?”
It’s not like my family to prowl the house this late. “I was using your computer to finish some homework.”
“Oh.” She yawns. “Well, get to bed. You’ve got school tomorrow.” She heads into her office. “And I’ve got a case that’s keeping me up.” With that, she closes the door.
I just bet she’s got a case that’s keeping her up.
Mr. Decapitator, welcome to Washington, DC.
Chapter Eight
DAYS LATER THE DECAPITATED HEAD has made the news, and Mom is more than irritated at the press leak.
Although there has not been an official statement yet, reporters are already linking it to the other cases and stating that if it’s the same killer, a handless arm will be next.
After school today I’ll dive in and research the other killings. There have to be four parallel points for murders to be linked. Some killers know this and purposefully don’t leave four to throw investigators off. Other killers definitely leave those four so everyone knows it’s a serial case.
I’ll be curious to see what’s applicable in this situation.
At school, though, everyone is buzzing about something entirely different.
Lindsay, our senior class president, was killed over the weekend by a drunk driver. I’d always liked Lindsay. She’d been a popular one that was truly, sincerely nice. I’d always thought she’d be one of those people who would go on to do great things in the world. Her death puts things in perspective. Our lives really are fragile and can be forever extinguished with one single event.
It’s a powerful thought to know I could have been that one single event in the Weasel’s life and yet I chose to save him, when someone as nice as Lindsay has died. Did I off-balance the greater good? Did saving the Weasel in some cosmic way write Lindsay’s death sentence? Logically I know the two events can’t be related, but my mind still goes there.
“There are grief counselors on campus today if anyone wants to see one.” My homeroom teacher interrupts my thoughts.
Several sniffling girls and a couple guys raise their hands to go.
While our homeroom teacher usually makes us remain quiet, today she’s given us permission to talk about what happened. Around me voices buzz.
“Poor Lindsay . . .”
“And her family . . .”
“God, she was always so sweet to me. . . .”
“Yeah, she always smiled in the hall even though she didn’t know me. . . .”
“I hope the man who did it gets life. . . .”
“No, didn’t you hear? It was a woman. . . .”
“They say she got off. Something about an alibi . . .”
My ears perk up at this last part. The bell rings, and I head straight to the library for my TA job. Putting in for this gig was a calculated move. I knew it would give me a block of “me” time with the high-tech computer stations.
But being the good TA that I am, I go straight to the librarian first. “Mr. Bealles, anything you need me to do?”
He waves his hand as I know he will. “Nope. Do your homework.”
I park it in front of a computer, log in, and immediately begin researching. This is something else Reggie taught me. To the common user, school computers are firewalled. But going in a back door permits unencumbered access to the Web. The kids that know this use it for Facebook or porn. I use it to research.
Yes, Lindsay got hit by a red Mini Cooper registered to a Heather Anderson. She claims her car was stolen and that she hadn’t been driving. Her work associate corroborated her alibi, and she was released from police custody.
According to the report the driver of the stolen Mini ran from the crime scene and is still at large.
“Hi, Lane.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Zach standing right behind me. He smiles. “Or should I say Slim?”
“Lane’s fine.”
He nods to my computer screen. “My gut tells me that woman’s guilty.”
My gut tells me the same thing.
“Someone needs to make her pay for what she’s done.”
Yes, someone does. But what an odd thing for Zach to say. I’m usually the only one to think those things. Or perhaps others have the thoughts but never put voice to them.
He comes around to stand beside me, and I get a hint of his boy-scented bodywash. “You going to the memorial service?”
I shake my head. Funerals are not for me. “You?”
“No.” Zach leans his hip on the side of my computer desk. “I didn’t even know her.”
“True.” I log out of the computer and stand, more to put space between us than anything. I don’t care for people in my personal area. “See you later, then.”
“Lane?”
I turn to see him still casually propped on the desk. “Yes?”
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
My freshman year I got asked out by a boy in the science club. My sophomore year it had been this guy that lives across the street. My junior year, science club again. I said no to all three of them. Dating just isn’t something that interests me. Zach makes the fourth guy to ask me out, and I tell him what I told the other three. “No, thank you.”
“Why not? Is it because I’m a junior?”
“No,” I honestly tell him. “Aren’t you dating Daisy or something?”
“No.”
“Well, you should probably clarify that with her.”
He nods. “Okay. Then will you go out with me?”
Persistent. I’ll give him that much. “No.”
“Hm.” Zach pushes away from the desk. “Do you think I’m cute?”
I give him a good solid look. “Yes. You’re not like most guys.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re blunt and well-spoken.”
“And most guys aren’t?”
I think through all the boys I hear talking around school. “No, I don’t consider a lot of them well-spoken.”
Zach silently studies me. “I’ll guess that you intimidate people.”
“What about me is intimidating?”
“You’re intelligent. Independent. And, clearly, you’re not here to impress anyone.”
I don’t have a response. He’s correct on all three accounts.
He takes a step toward me. “I’ll see you around, Lane.”
And with that he’s gone.
If he asks me out again, I might say yes. Dating is, after all, what normal teenagers are supposed to do at night, right? I don’t exactly do normal things in the evenings. Plus, I’m a senior and I’ve never been on a date. Quite frankly, Dr. Issa is the only male to have elicited any type of female response in me. Dr. Issa’s twenty-five, though. Eight years between us may not be a big deal when you’re older, but it’s a big deal now.
Yes, if Zach asks me out again, I’ll probably say yes. He’s cute, friendly, not an idiot, and it’s the normal thing to do.
Chapter Nine
OVER THE NEXT WEEK I do as much research as I can on the recently found severed head and suspected link to past killings. All I find are news articles, but I want the meat of the story. I want all the details reporters either don’t have or brush over. It’s in those details where I’ll really get to know the serial killer, the Decapitator, as several reporters labeled him last year.
During this same week I do a little more research on the Heather Anderson drunk-driving case. In Northern Virginia, there are areas with red light cameras and areas without. Unfortunately, where Lindsay got hit and killed was in an area not covered by cameras. So Heather’s stolen-car story cannot be corroborated one way or the other, hence the strength of the alibi.
Also during this same week I purposefully do not follow Heather. Not only does it heighten my own anticipation, it gives her time to get comfortable in her unindicted status. Because comfort leads to resuming normalcy, resuming normalcy leads to mistakes, and mistakes lead to her getting what she justly deserves.
On Tuesday night I follow her for the first time. She gets off work at six from a medical center where she’s employed as a lab tech. Her Mini Cooper is still impounded, so in a rental car she stops by the grocery store and then heads home, where she stays for the rest of the night.
