Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

Where would he be, he wondered, if she hadn’t forced him to quit Notre Dame? A lawyer? No, he hated lawyers. A doctor? Probably not. Anal probes and festering sores didn’t appeal to him. An architect or an engineer, perhaps. He excelled at math and was fascinated by puzzles and problem solving. One thing was certain, had he stayed at Notre Dame he would not have ended up a detective with the New Orleans Police Department.

And as for his sister, had Murphy been able to finish school, maybe his mother would not compare him so unfavorably to her.

Your sister is such a good mother. She dotes on that boy of hers. He takes up all of her time. That’s why she doesn’t come home very often. He’s got special needs, you know. He’s autistic.

I know that, Mother. You tell me that every time I see you. His name is Michael, by the way. And that’s not why Theresa doesn’t come home. She doesn’t come home because of you!

Murphy’s father had dropped dead of a heart attack while pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. Growing up, Murphy and Theresa had often joked that it was their mother’s nagging that killed their father. Now, it didn’t seem like such a joke.

I hate my mother.

The banquet has run late. The young woman does not step off the elevator until eleven ten. She is with her table companions, the young woman and a young man. They cross the lobby to the revolving front door. As they disappear between the spinning panes of glass, the killer rushes after them.

Outside on the street, he spots them walking toward the river. The other two are holding hands. The three of them turn right at the next block, but by the time the killer rounds the corner they’re gone. He jogs toward the parking garage on the right. At the entrance, he peeks around the corner. He sees them. They are strolling up the ramp, chatting. The killer’s car is parked at a meter several blocks away. He doesn’t need to follow her. He knows where she is going.

As the three young people disappear around a turn in the ramp, the killer walks away.

Sunday, August 5, 12:15 AM

Murphy steps out of his car. The night is hot and still and very quiet. There is not a breath of breeze. He takes one last drag on his cigarette and drops it into the pile at his feet.

The house he has been watching sits midway down the block on the left. The street is empty. Murphy crosses to the opposite sidewalk and walks toward the house, the screwdriver gripped in his right hand, the shank concealed behind his wrist. He passes a row of crepe myrtles and inhales the scent of summer.

Despite its celebrated reputation for architectural diversity, New Orleans has less than a dozen common residential designs. Among the most frequently seen are Creole cottages, townhouses, single and double shotguns, camelbacks, bungalows, raised villas, double galleries, and the new Katrina cottages. Murphy has conducted interviews, executed warrants, or stood over dead bodies in every type of house in the city.

Marcy Edwards’s house is a bungalow, set on piers three feet off the ground. It has a wide porch with the front door on the right and a picture window on the left. The shallow-pitched roof slopes front and back and has side gables. A fake dormer centered above the porch gives the illusion of a second story. A one-car driveway runs along the right side of the house. Her Toyota Camry is parked there.

Murphy knows that at the back of the house, next to the driveway, there will be a door that opens into the kitchen.

At Carol Sue Spencer’s house there was no sign of forced entry. At Sandra Jackson’s house, the killer jimmied open the door with a screwdriver. He murdered Carol Spencer and her children in their home, and he snatched Sandra Jackson from hers. No one saw him.

How did he do it?

The killer is not a ghost. He is a man. If Murphy can get in and out of Marcy Edwards’s house without being seen, he will be one step closer to getting inside the killer’s head, one step closer to understanding him, one step closer to catching him.

The back door has a screen. Murphy pulls a pair of latex gloves from inside his suit coat and slips them on. He takes a deep breath.

I am the killer. I am the Lamb of God.

The screen door is latched with a hook. Murphy pulls the door away from the frame as far as he can and tries to squeeze the tip of the screwdriver through the gap, but it won’t fit. The shank is too thick.

So much for being a phantom killer. I can’t even get past a screen door.

Then he remembers his knife. Like nearly every cop he knows, Murphy carries a lock-blade folding knife clipped to his right front pants pocket. He clamps the screwdriver between his teeth and reaches for the knife. He snaps open the blade and slips it between the screen door and the jamb. The thin blade fits easily. With a flick of his wrist, he pops the hook loose from its eyebolt holder.

Murphy closes his knife and stuffs it into his pocket. He holds the screen open with his knee and leans closer to the wooden door. He wedges the end of the screwdriver between the edge of the door and the strike plate and works the handle back and forth until he forces the tip deep enough to catch the latch. Then he pries the latch back toward the knob and gives the door a nudge. It swings open.

Murphy takes another deep breath and steps into the house.

A black four-door Nissan pulls to the curb in front of the young woman’s apartment building on Saint Charles Avenue. A moment later, she steps out of the back passenger-side door. She turns to say good night to her friends.

The killer is parked on the street, eight cars back. He glances at the dashboard clock. It’s 12:25 AM.

The young woman lives in an upscale, two-story brick building with a gated front entrance. The building is set back thirty feet from the street. That’s how long he has to get to her-thirty feet.

The killer struggles to get out of his car. His right arm is held in a sling tied around his chest and looped over his shoulder. He can hear the young woman’s high, lilting voice drifting on the air. He sees her female friend step out of the front passenger seat. The women hug briefly. Most of their words are lost, but he hears the friend say the word congratulations. Then the friend climbs back into the car. The young woman leans forward to say good-bye to the young man behind the wheel.

The killer crosses the sidewalk and angles toward the building so he can intercept her before she reaches the gate.

As her friends drive away, the young woman gives them a final wave. Then she turns toward the building. A small black purse is slung over one shoulder. In her right hand she carries her glass globe trophy.

The killer meets her ten feet from the gate. “Excuse me, m-m-ma’am.”

She stops and flashes a brilliant smile at him. He has the sense that for her the world is a safe and happy place, where people are exactly what they appear to be. She is so young… and so very foolish.

The killer adjusts the new pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses he bought at a drugstore. He thinks they make him look more vulnerable. “My sister l-l-lives here. I brought her a box of books. She’s a big r-r-reader.” He looks down, avoiding her eyes. The sudden, unexpected return of his stutter embarrasses him. “We’re all b-b-big readers, I guess.” He laughs but it’s a hollow laugh. She has made him nervous. He feels weak.

The young woman glances at her watch. Her smile remains in place, but a furrow appears between her eyebrows.

He can read the late hour in her face. She is tired and wants to go to bed.

“Anyways, my s-s-sister is a nurse. She doesn’t get off until eleven, and I t-t-told her I’d drop the books off after she got home, but…” He nods toward his slung right arm. “I can’t c-c-carry the box up.”