Chuck Hustmyre: A Killer Like Me

Protruding from an interior pocket was a leather datebook. Murphy opened it. A paper clip at the top of a page marked the current week. He flipped back through the weeks and saw marks indicating work days, notes on court dates, and in some places, initials with numbers beside them. Each number had the letter k behind it, as in thousands.

AD 25k. BH 50k. One entry from three months back read, “DWC 100k.”

Gaudet had kept records of his cash pickups for the mayor. Murphy had worked with Juan for years and knew he wasn’t stupid. He would have known that keeping such records was dangerous, but they were also evidence if things went bad and he ended up having to testify against the mayor. Gaudet had been planning on riding the mayor’s cash cow into the sunset, but if he got jammed up, he was going to flip.

Murphy dropped the datebook on top of the cash and closed the briefcase. He rewrapped the bungee cord and tossed the case onto the backseat. There was something more immediate he needed to worry about. He reached into his raincoat pocket and took out Richard Jeffries’s utility bill. He looked at the service location printed in the top left corner.

4101 Burgundy Street.

He felt the pressure from the. 38 revolver wedged into the front waistband of his pants.

Be there, Jeffries. Be there.

Monday, August 6, 7:45 PM

Murphy drove northeast on Rampart Street, past Louis Armstrong Park, which in better weather was a haven for dope fiends and thugs. Driving had become dangerous. The Taurus’s windshield wipers were on high, but they weren’t keeping up with the wind-whipped rain that blew sideways during the strongest gusts.

Catherine’s outer bands were here.

The streets were deserted. Anyone with the ability to get out of town had already done so. Those who couldn’t get out were hunkered down.

Where Rampart made a hard right at Saint Bernard, Murphy stayed straight and angled onto Saint Claude Avenue. He followed it twenty blocks to France Street and turned right. Two blocks up was Burgundy, a one-way street running back uptown. Murphy turned right. The darkness and heavy rain made it hard to see addresses. He idled past empty homes.

At the corner of Mazant Street was 4101 Burgundy. It was a big two-story house covered in peeling white paint. A wraparound awning, supported by a row of thin wooden columns, covered both sidewalks. The front door faced the apex formed by the intersection of the two streets.

Murphy turned right onto Mazant and drove past the gated driveway behind the house. A padlocked chain held the gates together. Parked in the driveway on the other side of the gates was a gray Honda.

Jeffries was inside the house.

A half block down Mazant Street, Murphy pulled to the curb. He killed the engine and the lights and made sure his foot was off the brake. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror and watched the house through the driving rain.

For ten minutes, all he saw was wind and more rain. Richard Jeffries didn’t choose any time during those ten minutes to pop out of the house and present himself as an easy target for Murphy.

I’m going to have to go into that house and kill him.

Murphy reached into the backseat for his gear bag and hauled it up front beside him. He dug through it until he found the two spare magazines for his. 40-caliber Glock. He shoved them into one of the pockets of his raincoat. He had fired three shots at Gaudet, which left twelve rounds in his gun.

The. 38 was pressed uncomfortably against his stomach. He pushed himself higher in the seat and pulled the snub-nosed revolver from his waistband. Out of habit he checked the cylinder again. Then he shoved his keys into his left front pants pocket and pulled his flashlight out of his raincoat.

He thought about putting his ballistic vest on but decided getting killed just might be the best thing that could happen to him. For a moment he wondered what the rest of his squad was doing. After finding the severed hand and the typewriter in Richard Jeffries’s apartment, they would know that Jeffries was the Lamb of God Killer. But had they found anything else that could lead them to Burgundy?

Murphy zipped his raincoat all the way up and pulled the hood over his head. He cinched the drawstrings tight and tied them under his chin. A gust of wind rocked his car and sent a plastic bucket tumbling down the street.

Holding the revolver in one hand and his flashlight in the other, Murphy pushed open the driver’s door with his elbow and stepped out into the teeth of the approaching storm.

The killer wraps duct tape around Kiesha Guidry’s ankles, securing them to the front of the chair. Her wrists are already taped to the chair’s wooden arms. The mayor’s daughter is much more docile than the last time he saw her. There is nothing like two days locked inside a trunk to take the fight right out of a person. He smiles as he uses his KA-BAR to cut away the extra tape.

The last time he opened the box, Kiesha Guidry bit a chunk out of his face. This time she is barely conscious as he drags her out and drops her into the chair.

Above him, the wind screams through the attic. It has gotten louder in the last hour. He is afraid the wind will tear the old house apart. He needs to get back home. Had it not been for the two cops knocking on his door he would have finished this already. After their visit, he was paralyzed with fear. Several times he tried to leave his apartment, but the devil played tricks on him: “Don’t go outside,” Satan said. “They’re watching you.”

So he waited. For more than an hour. Now the storm is here.

The girl’s head lolls on her shoulders. He slaps her. “Wake up, princess. It’s time to talk to Daddy.”

“Daddy,” she mumbles. “Daddy… help me.”

He has removed her gag. He wants her to make a statement before she dies, to give a message to her father.

She smells of urine, but he doesn’t mind. Nothing can dull the glory of this moment. This will be his crowning achievement, the moment when he surpasses all messengers who have come before him. Has not God himself sent a hurricane to purge the filth from this city at the exact moment his servant is purging the blood from this Jezebel?

The killer stands, savoring his handiwork for a moment. In the dim glow from the overhead bulb, he can see the young woman’s eyes starting to focus. He wants her to know what is happening to her. He wants her to feel the pain. He pushes the steamer trunk out of the way, then crosses the room and stands behind the tripod. He presses the power button on his video camera.

As the camera comes to life, the killer lowers himself to one knee. Beneath the tripod lies his messenger bag. He stuffs the KA-BAR inside the bag. Then he pulls out the tool he will need for tonight’s work: his two-foot Khyber knife, bought over the Internet but originally imported from the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. He can see streaks of Sandra Jackson’s blood darkening the blade. He also takes out his black ski mask.

The killer stands and peers through the viewfinder. He adjusts the zoom to a wider angle. He can edit the footage on his computer later and zoom in if he needs to.

In his head he rehearses the ritual one last time. He will start the recording. Then he will walk to the back of the chair and order the young woman to read aloud the statement he has written for her. He will praise God, and he will cut off her head. Then he will throw her body on the other side of the levee for the storm-flooded river to wash away. He will keep her head and hang it next to Sandra Jackson’s, from a rafter in the attic, where the summer heat will dry them both into mummified skulls.

He presses the record button on the video camera and prepares to begin the ritual. But he hears a strange noise. Even over the howling wind, he can tell it came from downstairs. It was a sharp bang. Then he hears a change in the wind, as if it is now blowing through the rooms downstairs. The back door has blown open. Or been forced open.