Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

The killer drops again to one knee. He sets the knife and mask down and digs into his bag. He pulls out his million-volt stun gun and a cable tie, the ends of which are already connected to form a loop large enough to fit over a human head. He turns and steps into the hall, flicking off the light as he passes the switch beside the door.

The back door was locked. It looked like a standard lock, something Murphy probably could have picked his way through, but his lock kit was in the car and the rain was coming down so hard he could barely see. With his bum shoulder and the weather, there was no way he could summon the fine motor skills necessary to pick the lock.

Fuck it.

Murphy stepped back and kicked open the door.

He rushed in, the five-shot. 38 and his flashlight thrust out in front of him.

The doorway opened into a small foyer, beneath the high end of a wooden stairwell. To the left was a wall. To the right stretched a large room. Murphy shone his flashlight across the darkness. On the other side of the room stood a wide arched doorway. Straight ahead was a small enclosed space, probably a bathroom. Past that was a kitchen.

There was no furniture.

He switched off the flashlight and crept across the empty room, careful not to drag his feet on the hardwood floor. As he advanced, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was above him on the stairs. The banistered stairway disappeared into a nearly pitch-black opening in the ceiling.

After crossing the room, Murphy braced himself beside the arched doorway, beyond which lay another room. Using the edge of the wall as cover, he switched on his light and swept the beam and the muzzle of the revolver around the room. It was empty.

Across this second room stood the front door, solid wood with an opaque glass transom above it. Murphy could see the silhouette of burglar bars through the glass.

He shuffled to his left and searched the kitchen and the small enclosed space, which was, as he had guessed, a bathroom. Both were empty of furnishings and empty of people. Jeffries had to be upstairs. And by now, he knew that someone was inside the house.

Murphy turned and looked at the stairwell. He hated stairs. Tactically, they were a nightmare. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Even with a team of officers, there was no way to climb them safely. He had been trained to creep up the steps with his back against the wall, while covering the upper landing with his gun. But against a dedicated opponent, the first guy up the stairs was always going to get shot. SWAT teams trained to have only two officers on the stairs at a time. That way, if someone above them started shooting, the team would only lose two members.

Murphy decided to do something unexpected.

The killer peers down the stairs. He can hear the wind rushing through the open back door, and he can see the glow from the street lamps outside. The stairwell opening limits his view of the ground floor. It’s also dark.

A floorboard creeks. The killer tenses. Someone is down there. He backs away from the stairs.

“Richard Lee Jeffries!” a man’s voice shouts from downstairs.

The killer’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels a stab of fear pierce his heart. This can’t be happening. He is doing God’s work. Surely, God would not allow some interloper to ruin his plan.

“This is the New Orleans Police Department. You are under arrest. The house is surrounded. Come down now with your hands over your head.”

The killer shrinks back into the darkened hallway.

Monday, August 6, 8:09 PM

Murphy crouched in the darkness at the foot of the stairs, using a banister post for cover. Upstairs, he could hear the wind whipping through the rafters. He aimed the. 38 and his flashlight at the top of the stairs. The flashlight was switched off.

If Jeffries appeared on the upper landing, Murphy would shine the light in his eyes and order him to walk down the stairs with his hands over his head. The stairwell had a level section midway up, a small landing. When Jeffries reached that, Murphy would empty the revolver’s five bullets into his chest.

But Jeffries didn’t appear at the top of the stairs.

Murphy called out again. “Jeffries, this is your last warning. Come down now… or the SWAT team is going to fire tear gas at you and send up the dogs.”

Murphy waited. His threats sounded weak, even to him. If there were a SWAT team and K-9s standing by, Jeffries would know it because of the racket. Police cars with flashing lights would have blocked off both ends of the street. A BearCat armored truck would be parked at the front door. Cops in tactical gear would be scurrying everywhere.

Another minute passed. It seemed like an hour. There was no movement upstairs. The jig was up. Jeffries was calling his bluff. Murphy had to show his hand or fold.

The stairs were still a problem, actually worse now than before, Murphy realized, because of his lame attempt to draw Jeffries out. Just because the killer had not used a gun to commit any of his crimes did not mean he didn’t have one. And now he was up there, alert and ready.

Standard tactical procedure is to take stairs slowly, but that assumes you have backup. If Jeffries had a gun and he caught Murphy on the open stairwell, he would kill Murphy where he stood. Just as Murphy had planned to do to him. But Murphy wasn’t going to get caught in that trap. He knew that even after being shot in the heart, a determined man can fight on for up to a minute before he died. Long enough to kill his enemy.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Dylan Thomas had said. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

All Murphy needed was speed and momentum. He took a deep breath as he readied himself to charge up the steps.

Upstairs, a woman screamed.

It was barely loud enough to be heard over the wind crashing through the attic. The scream had carried words, but he couldn’t understand them. He could only understand the terror behind them.

Murphy took another deep breath and launched himself up the stairs. He held the. 38 high. His flashlight was off, but ready. He pounded up the wooden steps. It was too late for stealth. His only hope was to take Jeffries by surprise.

Lord, just let me kill him before I die.

The top landing was cloaked in darkness. Three-quarters of the way up the stairs, Murphy’s finger tightened on the trigger. He switched on his flashlight, ready to fire the instant he saw Jeffries.

But Jeffries wasn’t there.

As soon as Murphy reached the top of the stairs, he spun around and swept the second floor with his flashlight. Straight ahead, twenty feet on the other side of the stairwell, was a galley-style kitchenette. He could see it was empty. Ten feet closer was the entrance to a dark hallway that disappeared to his left, down the center of the house. That was the only immediate danger point. He needed to see what was around the corner of that hallway.

After stairs, corners present the most dangerous tactical obstacle. The best way to approach them was from several feet away and at a wide angle. Because of the layout of the upstairs landing area and the stairwell opening in the floor, Murphy couldn’t do that. He had to approach the corner from a ninety-degree angle. The worst possible situation.

The stairwell was flanked on one side by the house’s back wall and on the other side by a wooden railing. Murphy pressed his back against the railing and slid toward the hallway entrance, keeping the. 38 and his flashlight trained on the dark opening. When he reached the corner, he shone his flashlight down the hall. It was empty. Then he realized he wasn’t breathing. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.