Oliver Stark - American Devil

‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll get off. Sorry I called. I gotta-’

She interrupted. A second later and he’d have ended the call.

‘I’m seeing someone, Tom. I’m seeing a guy I met. He’s a nice guy.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Lisa. You’re not seeing anyone.’

‘It’s goodbye, Tom.’

She hung up. He threw his phone hard across the room.

Fullerton Lounge

November 20, 6.23 P.M.

The man in the black suit and white shirt was drinking a martini in the Fullerton Lounge. He was dog-tired. Like someone had drugged him or something. He needed a pick-me-up. Killing wasn’t as easy as some people contended. It had its costs as well as its benefits.

The Fullerton Lounge on Lexington was an over-expensive and self-important bar that aimed to extract as many dollars as possible from people too self-consciously rich to dare to ask the price of things.

The man in the black suit liked it because it was quiet and dark. He had three newspapers from the last few days spread out in front of him. He picked up the Daily Echo and started to read the account of Jessica’s murder.

It was front-page news in all of the papers. It was page one to five in the Post. The headline in the Daily Echo read: ‘Devil Kills Fourth Angel’. He liked that. He opened the other papers. They’d all caught on now. They understood. This was serious. He was the main attraction. The killer smiled. It was in the detail that the horror lay. None of them had the level of detail that the Daily Echo reporter had got. He read Erin Nash’s exclusive with particular glee. She even had the nice touch of his with the cherry blossom. The public would be terrified and secretly excited by it all.

It was good to be the only man in the world worthy of the media attention. At 6.25 p.m., he asked the bartender to put on the news. He watched as they trawled through the political nonsense and finally, towards the end, they got round to the latest on his story.

A cop from the old school was speaking at a press conference about Jessica’s murder, telling the city that it was all under control. He was lying. They had nothing under control. They just didn’t know it yet. The cop said little more than had already been in the majority of the papers: a student had been murdered by her date. He said that it was a vicious attack and that the police were doing everything they could.

The killer sneered. He didn’t like the cop’s attitude. It was disrespectful. He’d murdered an entirely innocent, moral young woman in an apartment block full of residents and they didn’t have a single lead. Give the American Devil his due. He looked at the cop’s name: Detective Williamson. He made a mental note. He had a head full of mental notes. Then the cop’s face came right up close and personal. He wanted to make a statement to the public. The killer watched and listened.

Williamson cleared his throat. The statement he was about to read out was designed to prick the killer’s pride. ‘We are seeking help in finding this killer. The following information will help us to identify major suspects. We are looking for a man too weak to control his own temper, a man who routinely sees himself as inadequate. He always preys on weakness and is a confused and random opportunist. We are looking for a frightened individual who has difficulty holding down relationships or speaking to women. He only picks on defenceless victims because he is weak himself, weak and afraid. Further to that, he attacks these bright young women from behind with lethal force so that they are absolutely no threat to him. These are all symptoms of a deranged and fearful psyche. He will be unable to have normal sexual relations and will rely on fantasy to fuel his own self-hatred. He is not careful. He leaves a great deal of evidence, both physical and behavioural, at the scene. However, he does work and drive. At the last crime scene the killer left behind a very telling clue to his identity. We also know he drives a blue car. A premium brand classic car. We have a number of sightings of his car and his face. We need the public to help identify this killer. But we’d prefer to speak to the American Devil himself. This is a direct appeal. We know you did not intend to kill these girls. We know what happened at the first murder scene and that it was a mistake. You need help. We need you to get in touch with the NYPD on the number below to discuss the case. If you don’t, we are close to homing in on you, and you will be brought to justice by force. Please call the number below if you want to talk to us.’

The killer’s jaw was wide open. He looked left and right to see if anyone else was shocked and confused. He wasn’t anything like the portrait they’d painted. They were fucking idiots. They were the fucking incompetents. He had not left evidence and his victims had all been wide awake. The killer downed his shot and ordered another. The indignant anger was rising in his chest. He had to put this right. He had to make sure people knew what he was really like. He felt a pulse throb in his temples. He looked into the mirror behind the bottles on the bar. He was handsome, wasn’t he? Not a snivelling incompetent. He was the American Devil. And he was strong and capable. He tried to calm himself but for some reason it wouldn’t stop circling in his mind. He was offended. He was also curious about the evidence left in Jessica’s apartment and how they knew what’d happened with Mary-Jane. He licked his lips. Maybe Williamson knew too much. He wanted to know. He wanted to know right now. He drank another shot and started to think.

At seven his next girl, Elizabeth, entered the bar. He knew she would: he had access to her electronic diary. She was meeting Kyra, a colleague and fellow intern. He stared at her. She was more beautiful in the flesh than in the photographs he kept of her. He’d come across her by chance at a city function three years earlier. She’d been standing by her old man, smiling and playing the pure, dutiful, all-American daughter. He’d liked her then. He liked her more now. But she’d not stayed pure, that was the problem, and now he had to act. She needed to be snuffed out. They all did.

He went up to the bar and stood next to Elizabeth. He ordered a Black Russian and turned to her. ‘Can I get you something?’

She smiled and shook her head. Polite but firm. He tried again.

‘You had a tough day?’

‘I’m just waiting for my friend. Thanks.’

He nodded as the barman put his drink in front of him, not taking his eyes from Elizabeth. She didn’t dare look up, but she knew he was staring.

‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous. I have to admit, I’ve seen you before. Your father’s the TV preacher, right? A real puritan. Just what this country needs.’

At the realization that he might be genuine, her lifelong training in good manners kicked in.

‘Hey, sorry, I just… I hope you didn’t think I was being rude.’

‘No, it must be hard — you walk into a bar and want a bit of peace and some asshole hits on you.’

‘It can be,’ she said and smiled sweetly.

His eye was watching her little silver crucifix oscillate in the beautiful dip of her neckline.

‘You wouldn’t mind… I mean, I know it’s odd, but you wouldn’t mind sharing a beer with an admirer?’

‘Of me or my dad?’ she said.

‘A little bit of both, maybe,’ he said and smiled broadly.

She was flattered. She couldn’t help it. ‘Maybe one beer until my friend arrives,’ she said.

He called the barman. ‘Can you get this woman a cool one?’ He smiled at her. It was a great smile, and she felt a little frisson of something in her stomach.

‘What do you do?’ she asked.