Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

Murphy knew there was more than enough evidence in his apartment to put him in Angola for the rest of his life, maybe even land him on death row. He wouldn’t be the first New Orleans cop to get the death penalty.

He laid out a clean suit and shirt on the bed, then added a tie, a pair of boxers, a T-shirt, and a pair of socks. At the back of his closet he found an old pair of black wing tips. He wiped off the dust and set them next to his bed.

Standing at the bathroom sink, he downed three generic painkillers. Then he stared at himself in the mirror and realized he looked even worse then he felt. So he swallowed three more pills.

He stood under the showerhead for ten minutes with the water as hot as he could stand it, trying to scald himself clean. Then he picked up a washcloth and a bar of soap and scrubbed his skin raw. He washed his hair and shaved.

After getting dressed, Murphy slipped his gun onto his right hip and clipped his gold detective’s badge to the front of his pants. He was sure it would be the last time he would ever wear either.

They know what I’ve done and they’re giving me a chance to turn myself in.

Murphy stepped out of his apartment door and locked it behind him.

He had given up the idea of killing himself. Some cultures, particularly the Japanese warrior class and the ancient Romans, had considered suicide an honorable way to atone for dishonorable behavior. German soldiers during World War II, and even a lot of American cops, thought of it the same way.

Murphy disagreed.

Maybe it was due to his Catholic upbringing-brainwashing was how he liked to think of it-but he viewed suicide as a gutless way to die, the last refuge of a coward. Early this morning he had been close to taking the coward’s way out. Now he was going to face up to what he had done.

Outside, everything was quiet.

He half-expected a SWAT team to be waiting for him, but there was nothing but a beautiful Sunday morning. He lifted his face toward the sun and took a deep breath. The smell of night-blooming jasmine still hung in the air.

Murphy’s cell phone and radio were right where he had left them, on the passenger seat of his Taurus, both switched off. He left them that way. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Driving to the Homicide office, Murphy wondered why the rank was letting him self-surrender. Why had they not sent someone to arrest him at his apartment? Why send just two cops to tell him to call the office? Did they want him to kill himself? Did they want him to save them from the expense and embarrassment of a public trial? With a prolific serial murderer on the loose and a monstrous storm bearing down on the city, did they really need another killer cop on the front page of every newspaper in the country?

Murphy dropped his right hand from the steering wheel and slipped it under his suit coat. He brushed his fingertips across the top of his pistol. It would be so easy. Just pull over to the side of the road. Write a note about what had happened at Marcy Edwards’s house. Apologize to her family. Then unholster his Glock one last time. And POP!

No more troubles, no more need for explanations.

But he couldn’t do it.

Take your punishment like a man is what his father would have told him.

To suffer the torment of an ex-cop in prison and to eventually be executed by the state were the only things he could do to try to atone for his crime.

Murphy pulled into the police-academy parking lot at 9:10. Several TV-news satellite trucks were parked around the building. Had the media gotten the story already? Even though it was Sunday morning, he had trouble finding a place to park. He ended up double-parked behind another detective’s car.

As he climbed out of his Taurus, he glanced at his briefcase on the backseat. He decided to leave it. There was no need for a briefcase where he was going. He walked across the parking lot. The air outside the academy building didn’t smell like jasmine, but the breeze still smelled fresh. To Murphy it smelled like freedom.

He had been to Central Lockup hundreds of times. More than enough to know what it smelled like, to know that it stank of disinfectant, and sweat, and piss, and shit, and sometimes of blood. There was no scent of night-blooming jasmine there, and certainly not at Angola. No fresh breeze of freedom.

He pulled open the door to the Homicide office and stepped inside. The first person he saw was Captain Donovan.

Sunday, August 5, 9:15 AM

The killer swings his feet out of bed and sets them on the rough wooden floor of his apartment. He is glad he has the day off to rest and recharge, and to observe the media firestorm that his latest video is sure to ignite.

Around the edges of the heavy drape that covers the sliding glass door, the killer sees the glow of a bright morning. The foot of his bed is less than three feet from the door. He stands up and pushes back a piece of the curtain. Outside, the sun is shining through the thick summertime foliage of the trees lining the church parking lot across the street.

Today is going to be a good day.

He steps to his desk and powers up his laptop. As the monitor comes to life, the killer’s greeting flashes across the screen.

I ALWAYS HAD A FETISH FOR MURDER AND DEATH.

– DAVID BERKOWITZ, THE SON OF SAM

After a few seconds, the greeting from Berkowitz fades away, replaced by the killer’s home screen. With his finger on the touchpad, he slides the pointer to the icon for his Internet browser and taps his finger.

He opens his Yahoo e-mail account. The in-box contains a new e-mail with no return address. The subject line reads, FRESH MEAT “KILLER” VIDEO. He clicks the hyperlinked subject line and opens the e-mail. The message is short. The following link has been sent to you by a friend. The linked video is quite shocking and should not be viewed by anyone under 18. If you are not at least 18 years old you are legally required to delete this e-mail immediately without watching the shocking video. Failure to do so constitutes a violation of international law. If you ignore this warning and view the linked video clip, you must accept full responsibility for your actions and any resulting consequences. For your convenience at least three links appear below. If one is broken or running slowly, try another one. Enjoy, a friend

The message is the same for every e-mail sent out as part of the two-hundred-fifty-dollar extra service offered by the Devil’s Den. Aimed mainly at journalists and bloggers, the obvious, over-the-top wording of the message is designed to do the exact opposite of its stated intent.

The killer has seen how well it works. Within hours of the mass e-mails, his video of Sandra Jackson’s beheading was a worldwide Internet phenomenon. He is sure his second video will far surpass his first, once Kiesha’s full identity is revealed.

The killer feels his excitement building as he moves the pointer over the first of the three links that appear below the message text. As soon as he clicks the link a new browser window opens, revealing a nearly full-frame still image captured from last night’s video. The image shows the young woman bound to the chair, a pillowcase over her head. In the center of the image is a triangle pointing right and surrounded by a square, the symbol for play.

The killer directs the pointer over the symbol and clicks it.

A horizontal scroll bar appears at the bottom of the video as it starts to play. The killer holds down one of the function keys along the top of his computer keyboard until the volume is all the way up. He watches the two-minute video several times. The slightly blurred, green-tinted recording creates just the right atmosphere, certainly as good as he hoped, maybe even better. The climactic ending shoots a chill up his spine.