Chuck Hustmyre: A Killer Like Me

“Help me!” the woman screamed.

This time there was no mistaking her words. The voice had come from down the hall. Along the right side of the hallway were two doors. The first one stood open. The second was closed. Because of the angle, Murphy couldn’t see the left side of the hallway.

He shone his flashlight into the open door. “Can you hear me?” he called out. The sound of the wind had gotten louder.

“Help me!” the woman cried again.

“I’m a police officer,” Murphy shouted, trying to be heard over the raging storm.

“Hurry.”

The killer peeks through a tiny crack in the door directly across from the open bedroom in which Kiesha Guidry sits bound and helpless. He sees the policeman’s flashlight shining down the hallway. He is sure the policeman is alone.

Claudius, the king of Denmark, was wrong. When sorrows come, they do not always come in battalions. Sometimes they do come as single spies.

If there were more than one policeman, he would hear them. And he is quite certain the policeman is Detective Murphy. Who else could it be? It is Murphy whom Satan would send to try to stop him. But Satan will not succeed. Not today. Neither will Murphy.

As he hears the Jezebel pleading for help, the killer wishes he had replaced her gag. The hallway goes dark. Then the killer hears footsteps approaching. He tightens his grip on the stun gun and takes a deep breath.

Murphy switched off his flashlight and eased around the corner into the hallway. He could see three doors spaced out along the left wall. All were closed. He judged the open door eight feet away to be the greatest threat. His eyes focused on it as he crept forward, one quiet, deliberate step at a time.

When he reached the edge of the doorway, he peered into the room. His right hand, holding the revolver, was braced against the wall. In his left hand he held his flashlight, his thumb on the switch. The room was pitch-dark. There should have been a window in the far wall, allowing some ambient light to seep in. If his bearings were right, that wall overlooked Mazant Street. There were still streetlights burning outside.

Murphy pressed the button on his flashlight and shone the beam into the room. To his right, a young black woman was bound to a chair. She looked straight into the light, her eyes wide, reflecting her terror. He had found the mayor’s daughter.

Directly across the room was a pair of French doors. The glass panes had been painted black. Soiled mattresses covered the walls. To Murphy’s left, a video camera stood atop a tripod. There was no one else in the room.

Kiesha Guidry started crying.

Murphy stepped into the doorway. Behind him he heard a floorboard creak. Before he could turn around, something touched the base of his skull. His head exploded in pain. Every muscle in his body convulsed. Then his legs turned to jelly and he collapsed facedown on the floor. For several seconds he sensed nothing except blinding light erupting behind his eyes and bombs detonating in his ears.

Then he felt his tongue. It was too thick. It sagged from his mouth. He could taste the wooden floor. It was rough and gritty with dirt. The air smelled like burned hair.

Kiesha Guidry was screaming.

Murphy turned his head to the side. He raised his arms and pressed his palms against the floor, but he didn’t have the strength to lift himself.

An overhead light flicked on.

He saw the revolver on the floor, three feet away. He groped for it. A scuffed leather shoe kicked the gun away.

“I would love to drag this out, Detective Murphy, but I have work to do,” a voice said.

A hand grabbed Murphy’s hair and jerked his head a few inches off the floor. His senses were coming back. He tried to push himself up to his knees. Then he felt something rigid graze his forehead and scrape past his nose, lips, and chin. It tugged at his neck. There was a zipping sound. Then his throat cinched shut. He gasped for air but none reached his lungs. He knew he was being strangled with a cable tie.

Panic.

Murphy’s body responded with a surge of adrenaline. He lurched to his feet and turned toward his attacker. Standing five feet away was Richard Lee Jeffries, the Lamb of God Killer. Murphy recognized the scar above his right eye. The same scar the Lucky Dog man had described. There were fresh scratches on Jeffries’s face and a bandage covering his left cheek.

He held a stun gun in his right hand.

Murphy’s eyes darted around the room. The. 38 lay on the floor several feet away.

Jeffries triggered the stun gun, sending sparks arching between the two prongs.

My Glock!

Murphy clawed at his raincoat with both hands.

Jeffries lunged at him. He jammed the stun gun into Murphy’s chest and pushed the trigger. The electric blast knocked Murphy onto his back. Jeffries dove on top of him and snatched Murphy’s Glock from its holster. He flung the pistol into the hallway. Then he rolled away and scrambled to his feet. From a safe distance, Jeffries stared down at Murphy as he choked to death.

The killer’s expression was like that of a porno actor having an orgasm.

Somewhere in the background, above the roaring wind, Murphy heard Kiesha Guidry’s voice. This time there were no words. Just shrieks of terror.

Murphy’s heels thrashed at the floor. His right hand pulled at his empty holster. Then his fingers brushed against the top of his folding knife, clipped to the inside of his pants pocket. His vision was fading.

Murphy yanked the knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He jammed the three-inch titanium blade under the cable tie. The tip sliced through his skin as it dug under the hard plastic strap. Blood spilled down the handle.

Jeffries ran at him, but Murphy drove the killer back with a hard stomp to his shin. Twisting the knife outward, Murphy tried to saw through the strap, but his grip slipped on the bloody handle. Jeffries triggered the stun gun and jabbed at one of Murphy’s flailing legs, but Murphy managed to kick the killer’s hand away. Then Murphy hooked his other foot around Jeffries’s ankle and swept his leg out from under him, spilling the killer to the floor.

For Murphy, the dim light from the overhead bulb was fading fast.

I’m going to die.

He gripped the blood-slick handle with both hands and twisted it out and down. The blade sliced the cable tie in two. Murphy sucked in a deep lungful of air.

Kiesha Guidry was still screaming.

On his knees, with one hand braced on the floor, Jeffries stabbed at Murphy with the stun gun. When Murphy kicked at the killer’s hand, the twin prongs brushed his right leg. The brief contact sent a convulsive shock wave through his body.

Jeffries dove for the. 38, but Murphy, still on his back like an overturned turtle, managed to boot the gun toward the door.

As the killer crawled after the revolver, Murphy stood up. Only eight feet of space separated him from Jeffries. But Jeffries was only two feet from the gun. Like all revolvers, the. 38 had no safety. It was a point-and-shoot weapon. Inside the small room, Jeffries didn’t have to be much of a shot to bury the five hollow-point bullets inside Murphy. He would be dead as soon as he hit the floor.

Murphy turned toward the French doors. He wrapped his arms around his head and dove through the painted glass.

He landed on the awning that overhung the sidewalk. The surface was covered with tar shingles, but the downward slope and the rain had made it too slick to stop his headlong sliding roll toward the street.

Behind him he heard two gunshots.

As Murphy’s momentum carried him headfirst over the edge, he clawed at the fascia board. For an instant, his fingers snagged a piece of molding and held it just long enough so that his legs passed him. He somersaulted in midair and landed on his feet, with a slightly rearward angle that dropped him on his back a half second later.