Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

The second article, this one by Kirsten Sparks, someone whose work the killer admires, tells the story of the two sodomites he sacrificed in the French Quarter. In a remarkably short time-he delivered the letter to the newspaper less than twenty-four hours ago-the reporter was able to correctly identify both men.

The third front-page article about him, also by Kirsten Sparks, is a recap of the kidnapping of the mayor’s daughter and the police department’s inability to find her. The article also mentions the video.

The killer throws the newspaper onto his small desk and collapses into bed. The damn storm and his nagging mother are forcing him to move more quickly than he planned. He has to do something with the mayor’s daughter. She will not survive much longer in the box. He wanted her death to be dramatic, eclipsing that of Sandra Jackson. Now he does not have the time. A simple beheading will have to do. She is, after all, the mayor’s daughter. That fact alone will guarantee worldwide news coverage.

The killer raises his left hand and touches the gauze bandage on his cheek. Pills have dulled the pain somewhat, but the wound still hurts. So do the scratches. Had the little bitch been a half second faster, or he any slower, she would have scratched out his eyes. But God would not have let that happen.

I have much work yet to do.

After knocking out the trollop, he stuffed a rag in her mouth and taped it shut, half hoping she would suffocate. He retaped her wrists and bound her legs together from knees to ankles. Then he crammed her back inside the box.

Her body will never be found. For what she did to him, for what her father said about him, he will deny her family that closure. Perhaps he will bury her alive and videotape her internment. Put that on the Internet. No, a beheading will be much more shocking, with all the useless struggling and copious amounts of blood. More shocking and simpler.

Monday, August 6, 5:40 AM

“What the hell is that?” Murphy said as he stared down at his partner’s briefcase and the bundled stacks of cash that had spilled from it.

Gaudet dropped to one knee and began stuffing the money back into the busted case.

When Murphy stooped to pick up one of the bundles, Gaudet tried to knock his hand away, but he wasn’t quick enough. Murphy stood up holding an inch-thick stack of bills wrapped in a rubber band. “Where did you get this?”

Gaudet climbed to his feet. His thick arms clutched the briefcase to his chest. “It’s personal. Nothing to do with you or the job.”

“Bullshit,” Murphy said.

“I’m serious. I needed cash for an investment, so I sold some things.”

Murphy nodded toward the briefcase. “How much?”

Gaudet looked panicked, like a trapped rat. He hesitated.

“How much!” Murphy said.

“About eight… maybe ten thousand.”

“You don’t know? You’re walking around with a briefcase full of cash, and you don’t know how much is in it? Don’t try to play me.”

“I’m not playing you, but it’s like I said, it doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s personal.”

It crossed Murphy’s mind that maybe he was misreading the situation. Maybe it was Gaudet’s money. Maybe he was being pressured into something. Maybe somebody kidnapped his wife. “Are you in trouble? Is Dannisha okay?”

“I’m not in trouble,” Gaudet said. “Of course Dannisha is okay.” He slid the briefcase under one arm and reached out for the stack of cash Murphy was holding.

Murphy pushed his partner’s hand away.

“Come on, man, I need that money,” Gaudet said.

Murphy took a step backward. He raised the bundle of cash and fanned it with his thumb. All twenties. None fresh. “This is at least a thousand dollars.” He pointed at the briefcase. “You must have fifteen just like it in there.”

“I told you, it’s for an investment.”

“What kind of investment?” Murphy said. When it came to women, cars, clothes, or money, Gaudet couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was a born braggart. “What the hell are you into… partner?” Murphy spit out the last word.

Gaudet stepped forward. His face had lost its trapped look. Now it just looked hard. “I need that money.”

Murphy drove his left hand into Gaudet’s chest and shoved him away. At the same time he swept his sport coat back with his right hand and grabbed the butt of his pistol. “You take another step toward me, I’ll put a bullet in your knee.”

“I’m not threatening you, partner. I just need that money back.”

“Don’t ‘partner’ me,” Murphy said. “Real partners don’t screw each other over like this. Because when you get caught doing whatever it is you’re doing, PIB is going to think I was doing it with you. I’ve got enough trouble with those cocksuckers without you adding to it.”

Gaudet shook his head. “I wouldn’t do you like that, brother.”

“Bullshit, you’ve already done it.” Murphy glanced around the parking lot and dropped his hand from his pistol. “They could be watching you right now. And if they are, they just got both of us on video arguing over a briefcase full of cash.”

“It’s not like that, Murphy. Everything is cool. Nobody is ever going to find out about this. If you want, I can bring you in on it.”

“I don’t want in on anything,” Murphy said. “All that time in narcotics, all that money we seized, did you ever see me take a dime of it?”

Gaudet raised his eyebrows. “Free food, free drinks, dead men buying our lunch. What the hell do you call that? Don’t get so self-righteous with me, motherfucker. I’ve seen you do plenty of shit.”

Murphy stared at Gaudet. “A lot of things about this job are gray, but there is a line. You know it and I know it.” He jabbed a finger at the briefcase clutched under his partner’s arm. “And you crossed it. Worse than that, though, is you dragged me across with you.”

Gaudet glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go somewhere, and I need that money you’re holding. As soon as I get back, we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Where do you have to go at six o’clock in the morning with a hurricane coming and the whole city shut down?”

“That’s not your concern,” Gaudet said.

“Tell me what you’re into, Juan, and I’ll help you get out of it. We’ll come up with something. We always do.” Murphy held up the stack of cash. “Otherwise, I’ve got to take this to the captain. You can explain it to him. If it’s just an investment, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

For a moment they stared at each other without speaking, the silence broken only by the sound of the wind whipping through the trees. Then Gaudet turned away. He slammed the trunk closed and walked toward the driver’s door. “Keep it then.”

“You’re forcing me to go to the captain with this,” Murphy said. “That’s the only way I can protect myself.”

Gaudet looked over the roof of the Caprice. “And if I tell you, then what? You’re going to forget about it? You’re going to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I’ll help you get out of it.”

“It’s bigger than you can imagine, and it involves people you can’t touch.”

Murphy stared at Gaudet for several seconds. “Tell me who bought you.”

“Nobody bought me. I had an opportunity and I took it.”

“How much is in the briefcase?”

“Twenty g’s,” Gaudet said. He pointed to the stack of bills in Murphy’s hand. “Nineteen now, but you can keep that as a taste of what you’re missing.”

Twenty thousand dollars. The drug trade was the only business Murphy knew of that dealt in that kind of cash. But he and Gaudet didn’t work drug cases anymore. They were homicide cops. Murderers didn’t have money. “Where did you get it?”