Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

As soon as he turned around his phone rang. It was Gaudet again. Murphy let the call go to voice mail.

He dropped onto his sofa and peeled off the front section. He tossed the rest of the newspaper onto the coffee table. SERIAL KILLER STALKS CITY, the headline screamed. The subhead read, “Police officials mum on details about killer who detective claims has murdered 8 women.”

The byline was Kirsten Sparks.

Holy shit. I’m screwed.

Murphy’s eyes scanned the four columns of the story. Then he flipped to the jump page and kept reading.

When he finished, he crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. Then he squeezed his eyes closed and massaged his throbbing temples with his fingertips. This was bad, really bad.

The article was even worse than the headline. Every other sentence had his name in it.

“Detective Murphy said…”

“… according to Murphy”

“… said Murphy”

He picked up the story again and reread the lead paragraphs, hoping they weren’t as bad as they had seemed the first time. It was formatted like a wire story, meaning it would probably be picked up all over the country. NEW ORLEANS (Times-Picayune)-A serial killer is stalking the streets of the Crescent City, mutilating and murdering women. So far the killer’s body count stands at eight, according to the lead investigator. Homicide Detective Sean Murphy said the same person is responsible for all eight killings, including a particularly grisly one just days ago in which an unidentified woman’s body was found dumped blocks from criminal district court. Her hands had been cut off and taken from the scene. So far, all of the victims have had links to prostitution, but that could change, according to Murphy. “Serial killers sometimes evolve,” said Murphy, who worked on the state attorney general’s task force that captured the Houma-area serial killer a few years ago. “They often grow or mature, and sometimes with that growth comes a change in their victim profile.” Murphy said he came forward with the information, despite strict department regulations prohibiting officers from having direct contact with the media, because he says the public needs to know about the danger the killer poses. “Just because he’s killing prostitutes downtown doesn’t mean that’s all he’s going to kill,” Murphy said during a lengthy interview with the Times-Picayune. “Next time might be uptown, Lakeshore, or Algiers. No area is off-limits.” Murphy provided the Times-Picayune with details about the eight homicides, though he declined to give specifics about the evidence he says proves they are linked. What makes Murphy’s allegations so unusual is that no one else within the police department will confirm the existence of a suspected serial killer. Police Chief Ralph Warren emphatically denied there is a serial killer operating in New Orleans. After being read Murphy’s list of suspected serial murders, the chief said, “Those cases are not connected. Those women were killed by different perpetrators.” Asked if he knew anything about an active serial killer in the city, Mayor Ray Guidry said…

Murphy’s phone rang again. It was Gaudet. This time he answered.

“Don’t hang up!” Gaudet said.

“I’m here,” Murphy said.

“You said she wasn’t going to put your name in the story.”

“She promised.”

“And you believed her?”

“I had no reason not to,” Murphy said.

“Hell hath no fury…”

“You’re crazy if you think that’s what this is about.”

“You’re crazy if you don’t think that’s what this is about. This is payback for you screwing around on her.”

Murphy sagged against the cushions and let the newspaper fall to the floor. “What am I going to do?”

“Welcome to the Seventh District night watch.”

“I think it’s going to be worse than that,” Murphy said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “I can’t believe she did this to me.”

“I imagine that’s what she said when she found out you stuck your dick inside her best friend.”

A beep sounded in Murphy’s ear. He pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. The word Restricted flashed at him. The call was from a police-department number.

“That’s them,” he told Gaudet. “I have to go.”

“Good luck, brother.

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“No problem,” Gaudet said.

Murphy looked at the phone’s display screen again, at the word Restricted flashing across it. Another beep sounded in the earpiece. He took a deep breath and pushed the green send button, then pressed the phone to his ear. “Murphy,” he said.

“Get your ass into the office right now,” Captain Donovan said. “And I mean right now. Don’t stop for anything. The assistant chief is on his way.”

Murphy didn’t answer.

“Did you hear me, Murphy?”

“I’m on the way.”

“And Murphy…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring all your gear in.”

“What gear?”

“Everything you’ve been issued out of the Homicide Division-vest, radio, evidence kit, any files you have at home, case notes, everything. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

Murphy closed the phone. There was nothing else to say.

Homicide was the best job in the police department for a detective who liked to work. “We speak for the dead” is how one old murder cop had put it to Murphy on his first day in the unit.

After Murphy’s firing and subsequent reinstatement, it had taken him a year to finagle a transfer back to Homicide. He was pretty sure PIB wasn’t going to be satisfied with a disciplinary transfer. They would try to take his badge again. This time the cheese eaters wouldn’t make any mistakes that the Police Civil Service Board could use to overturn their decision.

This time his termination would be permanent.

Saturday, July 28, 7:30 AM

The killer grins as he stares at the morning newspaper lying on the breakfast table in his kitchen. He has read the front-page article three times. He can’t stop grinning. Someone has finally discovered him.

It is unfortunate that his discoverer is nothing more than a plain detective, some unimaginative flatfoot who, given enough pieces, finally put together the puzzle.

But in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

It took the flatfoot long enough. Eight bodies, according to the paper. They got that wrong. They missed the first two. Partially, though, he has to blame himself for that. It was, after all, his fault the local constabulary failed to put those two together with the others. He overestimated their intelligence, or perhaps he underestimated his own cunning.

The killer stirs his coffee and gazes absently into the cup. In the new Sodom, as in the old, the harlots and sodomites see themselves as quite distinct and separate. It’s only in God’s eyes that their sameness is revealed. They are dizygotic twins, wallowing in their own apostasy. In order to be saved, both must die.

As the warm liquid from the first sip of coffee slides down his throat, he gazes again at the headline.

SERIAL KILLER STALKS CITY

How sensational. He wonders if the reporter who wrote the story also wrote the headline. Probably so, he thinks, because he detects the same alliterative prose in her lead sentence: “A serial killer is stalking the streets of the Crescent City, mutilating and murdering women.”

The story is good, if not completely accurate. He can hardly wait to hear more official reaction from the police department and city hall. Reading the article, it’s obvious the police chief is in denial about the presence of a wolf among his flock of sheep, a wolf masquerading as a lamb.

But what of this detective, this Sean Murphy, who defied his superiors and told the newspaper about the killer and his work? The flatfoot was at least clever enough to finally link the harlots’ deaths, though their connection could not have been more obvious, but he apparently was not clever enough to link those killings to the deaths of the two sodomites.