Chet Williamson - Reign

At least there was no motive that any sane mind could come up with. And that was what had given Dan Munro his theory.

Dennis Hamilton remained awake through most of the night as well, trying to deal with a reality that could not be, but was. The Emperor had proven himself. Proven himself with Whitney's death.

Dennis gave a shuddering sob and wondered if he had accepted the Emperor, had told him that he believed in him, had begged him to turn back from whatever horrible path he was taking, if the girl would still be alive. But she was not. She was dead, just like Robin and Tommy and Harry Ruhl and Donna, whom the Emperor had paraded before him like waxworks in some chamber of horrors.

And wasn't that just what the Venetian Theatre had become?

For an instant the old Dennis Hamilton flared, and he thought, How dare he? How dare that monster take my dream and turn it into a nightmare? How dare he tread on the bodies of the people I love?

And then the feeling was gone, but the memory of it buoyed him. There was still anger, emotion there, wasn't there? The Emperor had not taken it all. And he would not. He would not use Dennis's strength to harm the very people he loved. No. No more. No more theft. No more deaths.

No more.

The next morning Dennis Hamilton arrived at the police station at nine o'clock. John Steinberg was with him, and Dan Munro guided them into the little room that served him as an office. There were only two chairs, so Bill Davis brought in a folding chair for Steinberg, then coffee for the three of them.

"Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Steinberg," Munro said, "I'm convinced you have a real problem, and one that's not going to stop." He noticed that Hamilton's eyes seemed to light with surprise, but made no comment on it. "I don't think that any of the deaths that have occurred in the theatre building have been accidental. I believe every one was a premeditated homicide – and that includes Harry Ruhl's so-called suicide." He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee, watching for a reaction from either man, but there was none. "You've heard of celebrity stalkers?"

Steinberg murmured, "Yes," and Hamilton nodded.

"I think that may be what we've got here," Munro went on. "I came in early today, and read as much as I could find about it in our law enforcement journals. The situation doesn't fit the pattern perfectly, but it's damn close."

"You mean… a stranger?" Steinberg asked. "Someone we don't know?"

"It's possible. Maybe someone you do know, if only slightly. A big fan who may be jealous of the people around you, Mr. Hamilton, who'd like to be part of your entourage, and decides to whittle down the competition, or a performer jealous of your success, trying to hurt you through your friends… your wife. There are a lot of sick people out there. And a lot of people who don't need much of a reason to kill. Look at that kid who killed Lennon, or the one who shot Reagan – to impress Jodie Foster, for crissake. Celebrities can make weird people do weird things."

"I don't quite see," Steinberg said carefully, "how you suspect murder in all these cases."

"All right. I think that somebody dropped that curtain on Tommy Werton. I think Harry Ruhl was just plain murdered with that knife. Somebody knew when your wife and Mrs. Deems were going to be in the ceiling, and turned on the light to purposely startle them into falling. We know that Donna Franklin was strangled, and the little girl was smothered. It was no accident."

"How do you know that?" Steinberg asked.

"They did an autopsy early this morning, called me with the results. There were bruises and contusions on the girl's inner lips, and her nose was broken. Someone held those clothes over her face."

"Poor thing. Poor little thing." Steinberg grimly shook his head. "But how could this person… this stalker, as you put it… have access to all these places?" Steinberg asked.

"That's not difficult. He – or she – may have possession of all the keys he needs to get in and out of the theatre. One thing I'd do is have the locks changed – all the locks. To your apartments and everywhere else. But the first thing I'd do is to search that building from top to bottom. Every tunnel, every forgotten staircase, every room, any nook or cranny where somebody could be hiding."

"You mean you think this person might actually be living in the theatre," Steinberg said, "in hiding?"

"It's not likely, but it's possible."

Steinberg gave a dry chuckle without a trace of humor. "I think you may have seen The Phantom of the Opera once too often, Chief."

"And I think your situation warrants every precaution at this point, Mr. Steinberg. No offense, but there aren't that many of you left. Your chance of being the next victim is growing by leaps and bounds."

"All right." Steinberg sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "All right with you, Dennis?"

"Of course," Hamilton said. "If there's something there… something that can be found, let's find it." He sighed. "It won't do any harm. But does this clear Sid?"

Munro shook his head. "No. There's still the possibility that Miss Franklin's murder was an isolated incident. All the evidence points to Mr. Harper. Even someone with keys can't bolt a door when they're on the other side."

"What about with string?" Steinberg suggested. "I've heard of -"

"Now you're reading too many locked room mysteries, Mr. Steinberg. The investigators know all the tricks, and there was no trace of any gimmicks like that. It couldn't have been done, believe me."

"Do you think we should leave the premises?" Steinberg asked.

"Well, I’d sleep a lot better, knowing you folks were out of Kirkland, but it might not do any good. This… person would just follow you. No. Let me and my men come in and sweep the place, then change all your locks. That's a start. And if you see anyone suspicious hanging around outside the building, give us a call right away. I'd expect this to be someone from out-of-town, someone who followed you here, and we could find that out by questioning them." Munro sat back. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone you can think of who might have a reason, no matter how twisted, for doing these things? Any strange fan mail? Threatening notes? Calls?"

"No, nothing," Steinberg said. "My office handles all that, and there's been nothing out of the ordinary – the usual requests for autographs, pictures, things like that. Maybe two or three a day. But nothing in the least bit unusual."

"Do you save those items?"

"No. We just respond to them, then throw them away."

"Would you hang on to them from now on? I'd like to look at them.”

“Of course, if you like."

"Thanks. And thanks to both of you for coming in. Like I said, anything strange happens – anything – call me. We'll be over this afternoon."

It was only three blocks to the Venetian Theatre, and a sunny day. Steinberg and Dennis had walked over, and now they walked back, their eyes downcast, Steinberg deep in thought.

"Do you think he's right?"

Dennis's answer was a long time in coming. "Yes. In a way I do." There was something in his tone that made Steinberg stop.

"Dennis, do you know more about this than you let on?" Dennis said nothing, kept his eyes on the sidewalk. "Has anyone been in touch with you that I haven't been aware of?"

"No, John." The words were soft. Dennis still did not look at Steinberg.

"I've known you a long time, my friend, and I don't think you're telling me the truth."

"The truth is… that there's been no one in that theatre other than the people we know."

"My God, what are you saying? That it was one of us? Curt? Evan? Abe Kipp?”

“No, not at all, it's just… oh, forget it, John. Just forget it. I don't know what the hell I mean."