Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

“In case you want to get together later,” the chicken hawk says.

The killer shoves the matchbook into his pants pocket and stares straight ahead. A few minutes later, the man calling himself Paul walks away.

While he sips his beer, the killer watches the bar patrons enjoying themselves. His eyes keep wandering back to the two men kissing on the sofa. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face.

By 11:30 he has seen enough. He squeezes the messenger bag against his right hip, then steps toward the dark hallway. On his way, he bumps into two men standing side by side with their arms around each other. One man is kissing the other’s neck. The killer pushes past them. He does not excuse himself. They are nothing but filthy sodomites.

At the end of the hallway, he pulls open the door and steps out onto the landing. For a moment he examines the door in the dim light from the stairwell. It’s solid wood but old, the exterior covered with a thick coating of bright red paint and fitted with a brass knob tarnished by years and thousands of hands. He pulls the door closed and starts down the stairs.

To the killer’s right, the interior wall is unfinished, just bare two-by-fours and unpainted drywall. Brushing past his left arm is the brick firewall. The dim stairway is lit by a pair of naked low-watt bulbs jutting from the interior wall, one midway between the third and second floors, the other between the second floor and the first.

The killer hurries down the stairs, his feet scraping on the worn wooden steps. At the second-floor landing he pauses to press his ear to the door. He hears nothing. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked. He moves on.

On the ground floor, three feet of concrete separate the last step from the steel door that opens onto the street. The killer pushes the crash bar and steps outside.

Standing on the sidewalk, he watches a thin line of cars thread its way along Iberville Street, a narrow, one-way avenue on the Canal Street end of the French Quarter. The walkways on either side of the street bear the usual combination of tourists, drunks, and locals.

The killer walks to his right a dozen steps and rounds the corner onto Chartres Street. He strolls half a block and turns into the alley behind the building. The alley smells of urine and beer.

After pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he creeps forward. At the end of the narrow alley, he comes to the fire-escape ladder bolted to the wall. The bottom of the ladder is five feet above the ground. The killer grabs the highest rung he can reach and hauls himself up. His rubber-soled shoes scrape the rough brick surface of the wall as he struggles to crawl high enough up the ladder to step on the bottom rung. When he does fully mount the ladder, he pauses for breath. Above him the third-floor fire-escape landing is half hidden in shadow.

At the second floor, the killer steps off the ladder and onto the metal landing. By the time he hoists himself up the steep stairwell to the third floor, he is panting. He sits down to rest for a minute.

As he waits for his breathing to return to normal, the killer scans the alley below. He sees no indication that anyone has noticed him. And if he was noticed, no one stopped to investigate. Not without reason is New Orleans called the City That Care Forgot.

He grabs the metal rail and pulls himself to his feet. From inside his messenger bag, the killer pulls out a bicycle lock made from a four-foot length of rubberized steel cable. On one end of the cable is a three-number combination lock. On the other end is a ridged shackle.

The fire door has a vertical metal handle on the right side. The killer gives it a tug. It’s locked. Only the crash bar on the other side will open it. He threads the steel cable through the handle, then loops it around the landing’s metal rail. He pushes the ends of the cable together and hears the shackle snap into place inside the lock. He spins the combination wheels, then tries to yank the two ends apart. They are locked into place.

The landing rail has a vertical support bar a foot from the wall. The cable can slide along the rail from the wall to that support, but no farther. With the cable locked, the fire door can’t open more than a foot. People trying to get out will have to squeeze through the door one at a time, and then only a few skinny ones will make it.

The killer digs a black Sharpie from his bag. Using his left hand, his nonwriting hand, he draws three block letters on the outside of the metal door- LOG.

He descends the stairs, crawls down the ladder, then drops into the alley. He strolls down Chartres Street, then rounds the corner onto Iberville. Standing in front of the steel door at the foot of the stairs that lead to the Red Door Lounge, the killer waits until there is a long gap in foot traffic on the sidewalk. Then he pulls open the heavy door and slips inside.

As he bolts up the stairs, he again reaches into the messenger bag hanging at his side. In the bag are three plastic quart-sized bottles of lighter fluid. He pulls out one bottle and pops open the plastic lid.

At the top of the stairs, he moves fast, squirting the amber liquid on the outside of the red door, on the wall, and on the landing. The thick petroleum smell of the lighter fluid fills the narrow space.

He drops the empty plastic bottle and reaches for another.

The killer backs down the stairway, squeezing the contents of the second bottle in an S pattern on the wooden steps and both walls. The brick wall to his right won’t ignite, but the burning liquid will radiate additional heat. He coats the wooden second-floor landing and door.

At the bottom of the stairs, he empties the third bottle, making sure to soak the wood and plaster inner wall, the concrete floor, and the inside of the metal door. Like the brick firewall, neither the concrete landing nor the steel door will burn, but the blazing fluid will create a temporary firestorm, stopping anyone from going in or out. He drops the last bottle on the floor, turns around, and pushes open the steel door just enough to squeeze out.

A quick glance up and down the street.

He reaches into his bag for the igniter he prepared, the plans for which he found on the Internet. A simple but clever device with a built-in delay mechanism, made from a Zippo lighter, a plastic sandwich bag, and a wad of tissues soaked in lighter fluid. Then the killer remembers Paul, the chicken hawk upstairs, and his Red Door matchbook. How perfect, the killer thinks, to use this den of iniquity’s own advertising to destroy it.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black matchbook with Paul’s cell phone number scribbled inside. He pulls one match from the book and strikes it. The match head pops and flares. He holds the matchbook over the flame until the cardboard cover catches fire. Paul’s name and phone number disappear in the fire.

The killer pulls the steel door open a crack and tosses the matchbook inside. Then he shoves the door closed and walks away.

Thirty seconds later, the killer can already hear the start of the commotion echoed in the surprised, uncertain voices of passersby. He strolls a block up Iberville to Royal Street and turns left. Just around the corner, he stops and peeks back the way he has come. No one has followed him. No one is staring or pointing in his direction. No one has noticed him.

Down the street, some Good Samaritan has pulled open the steel door. Flames leap from the doorway and attack the wall above it. The Samaritan who pulled open the door is on the ground, writhing in pain. A small crowd has gathered. Several in the crowd point to the third-floor windows of the Red Door Lounge.

The killer watches.

Minutes pass and the third floor becomes a raging inferno. A fire truck bellows its approach, but for many of the sodomites it is already too late. Some who have caught fire try to escape the conflagration by crashing through the windows. Their flaming bodies arch through the air like Roman candles.