Jeff Strand - Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

“I’m really serious,” I said. “At least give him a good blast of pepper spray first!”

“I have something even more effective.” Thomas took out a revolver and aimed it at the Headhunter.

“Sir, I have a.44 Magnum pointed at your head,” he announced. “This is the exact same weapon that Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry uses, and while it can’t blow your head clean off as discussed in the first movie, it can unquestionably be fatal. If you are not really unconscious, I very highly recommend you admit to it and spare yourself some unpleasantness.”

The Headhunter didn’t move.

Thomas took another step forward. “It’s a trick,” he said. “I’m putting a bullet in his leg.”

“Okay, okay!” shouted the Headhunter. “Take a pill, for crying out loud! Damn, you people are uptight!” He raised his arms behind his back, allowing Thomas to handcuff him without incident.

I ASSUMED we were heading over to the police station for yet more fun-filled questioning, but after loading the Headhunter into the back of his car, Thomas asked Helen and I to follow him to his motel.

“Shouldn’t we go to the police station?” asked Helen, a woman after my own heart.

“Please, this is very important,” said the heavyset man, almost whimpering. “I really need your help.”

“Why?” I asked. “We already caught him.”

“We’ll explain everything when we get there,” Thomas assured us. “And we need to get going.”

I shrugged at Helen, and we returned to our car.

WE FOLLOWED them for about six miles to the motel, during which my conversation with Helen focused entirely on how much we both really, really, really needed a vacation.

I SAT NEXT to Helen on one of the twin beds. We both had our feet up on the mattress to keep the possibility of them being overrun by bloodthirsty cockroaches to a minimum. No matter whose standards you used, this was one incredibly lame motel.

Thomas had taken the unmasked Headhunter (blonde fellow, kinda dopey-looking) into the bathroom and shut the door, but not before I glimpsed a coil of metal wire and what looked like jumper cables resting on the sink. The heavyset man started to pace around the room, sweating profusely, constantly wiping his hands on his pants.

“So…what’s the story?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just a little frantic, that’s all.” He took a deep breath. “My name is Craig Burgin, and I desperately need your help.”

“You’ve said that.”

From inside the bathroom, there was a cry of pain that was quickly muffled.

“What’s he doing in there?” Helen demanded.

“He’s getting information.”

“Does his FBI training manual include torture techniques?” I asked.

Craig smiled nervously. “He’s not FBI. He’s this private investigator who’s helping me find my wife.”

“Private investigator from where? What exactly is going on here?” I got off the bed and stood up, hoping my legs wouldn’t be devoured.

“Just let me explain, okay? Please?”

There were some more muffled cries of pain from the bathroom, and then a dull thump .

“Forget this,” I said. “We’re outta here.”

“No, no, I’m going to tell you everything.” He took another deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. “About ten months ago, my wife Charlotte was kidnapped. No ransom note, no demands, no nothing. Some drops of blood on my kitchen floor were the only evidence anything had happened. The police got involved, the FBI, the IRS, we offered this huge reward for any information, and we found nothing.”

“The IRS?” I asked.

“Sorry, no, not the IRS. Another one. Just let me talk, okay?”

He wiped his nose off on his sleeve. “One month to the day after she vanished, I got this videotape in the mail. It was a two-minute video of my wife, taken against this white backdrop. She was tied up and gagged…covered with cuts and bruises. There was this message on the backdrop that said ‘She’s still alive, but you can’t have her.’“

Craig’s voice cracked, and it took him a few moments to regain his composure. “Obviously we studied every second of the tape, but there wasn’t anything to go on besides the postmark, which was from Los Angeles. The next month, I got another tape, this one with a Pittsburgh postmark. There she was, tied and gagged, her bruises and cuts healed. She had this copy of USA Today on her lap to prove it had been taken the week before. Same message on the backdrop.”

I sat back down on the bed. Helen scooted close to me.

“It’s gone on like this for almost a year now. Every month I get this video, every month Charlotte ’s got this newspaper, but every couple months they add to the message on the backdrop.”

I waited expectantly, but he just went on pacing and didn’t continue. “What did they add?” I asked.

“It was meant to be funny, I guess,” said Craig, shaking his head. “After the first two months the message said ‘She’s still alive, but you can’t have her. Nyahh, nyahh!’ Two months after that they added ‘Neener, neener!’ Then ‘Nanny nanny boo boo!’”

I stared at him. What kind of kidnappers were these?

“Money, I could understand,” said Craig. “But turning it into this joke…that’s just, it’s just evil.”

There were some more muffled shrieks from the bathroom, these much louder than the ones before. They faded out quickly, and I swore I could hear faint sobbing.

“Sounds like evil is being punished,” I noted.

Craig shook his head. “It wasn’t the Headhunter. He was strictly after you.”

“Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

“It’s the truth. Let me back up. Three months ago, I got this call from Thomas, who I didn’t know at the time. He said he had information that might help me find my wife. I didn’t hesitate to meet him, of course, and he explained how he’d been helping this other client search for her missing sister. Her sister was heavily into drugs, and she was scared she might even be dealing, so she never called the police. Sadly, Thomas only managed to find her head.”

The bathroom door opened. Thomas stepped out and closed the door behind him. “Have you explained everything yet?” he asked.

“Not yet, I’m getting there.”

“No, wait,” I said. “Before you get back into the story, I want to know what’s going on in there.”

“Actually, I don’t suspect you do,” Thomas informed me. “And even if I’m wrong, I’m certain your wife doesn’t. I can’t imagine that either of you have any great love for the man in the bathtub.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I approve of him being tortured!”

“Tell me something, Andrew. When that maniac abducted your children last year, would you have approved of a little torture if that helped you find them?”

“This is different.”

“Certainly, it’s not your family.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…forget it, I’m not getting into a discussion of sadism ethics here. Craig, continue.”

Craig closed his eyes, clearly trying to get back into his train of thought, and then began speaking again. “Anyway, the story gets fairly involved, Thomas can fill you in on a lot of the details, but he ended up breaking into the Headhunter’s car.”

“This was in Manhattan,” Thomas said.

“Yes, Manhattan. He only had a minute or so to search, but he found this letter. It was typewritten-”

“Not typewritten, printed out on a computer,” Thomas corrected. “There was no name on it, but the letter was addressed to the Headhunter. It discussed how the person writing the letter looked forward to meeting him for the big party. Everything was purposely vague, but the closing of the letter was, and I quote, ‘Until next time, nyahh nyahh and nanny nanny boo boo!’ Now, that information as it related to Mr. Burgin’s case had been withheld from the press, as things always are to filter out those unhappy individuals who confess to crimes they didn’t commit, but I knew all about it. So I contacted Mr. Burgin and he graciously agreed to fund my investigation.”