Beyond the Mask Page 3

  “What about our deal? Don’t you want my confession?”

  “Confess to a priest. I don’t have time for you right now. I’m releasing your of an obligation that I’m sure you weren’t going to honor anyway.”

  Bentley shot his hand out and braced himself against the door. Frank felt resistance and tried to push past it, but the kid was still strong.

  “I can help you here. Think about it, who better to help you than a reformed serial killer?”

  “Help someone else,” Frank said and pushed harder.

  Bentley released his grip from the door and stumbled out onto the porch. His arms made crazy pinwheels trying to right himself. After a second he regained his balance and turned toward Frank.

  “If you want to catch this guy, and I know you do, you should use me. I can help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “He’s going to do it again,” Bentley said. “He’s going to do it again because he didn’t get it right the first time.”

  “Wait in the car.”

  Bentley shrugged his shoulders and walked back to the car. When Frank saw that he was in the backseat again. He walked back in the house.

  II.

  Most of the house seemed to be a bust. Of course, that wouldn’t be confirmed until Roman ran all his tests. Prints, DNA, blood samples. There was slim hope that some of the blood wasn’t Sheila’s, but despite what people saw on television, most police work was still old fashioned police work. Following witnesses and chasing leads.

  Frank exited the house with a familiar sinking feeling and looked around. It only took a second to find the man he wanted-Sergeant Michaels. The one who had been talking to the old man with the wild arm gestures.

  “Hello sir,” Michaels said.

  “Sergeant. What did the neighbor have to say?”

  “Got it down here,” Michaels said and indicated the black electronic device in his hand.

  Frank still remembered when they used note pads to write their notes, but so many of the younger officers had begun to use the computer tablets. No messy hand writing, a lot of them even had recording features. They could be more easily transcribed to the central computer and used to create the report.

  When you were dealing with dozens of witnesses and several pieces of forensic evidence, Frank couldn’t argue with the efficiency that it provided-even if he didn’t exactly care for the practice himself.

  “Why don’t you summarize it for me?”

  “Sure,” Michaels said.

  He didn’t look down at his little gadget; he looked Frank in the eyes as he spoke. Frank loved him for that. Part of the reason why he made him a Sergeant. The man just got it.

  “The old guy’s name is David Parsons. He’s lived in that house for the last fifteen years or so. Says he remembered when Mrs. Braddock moved in because she was-” Michaels ticked off each reason with his fingers as he spoke.

  “Good-looking,” index finger. “Friendly,” middle finger. “And alone,” ring finger.

  Michaels smiled. “Guy’s been a widower for the same fifteen years he’s lived in the new place. Some places have too many memories, I guess.”

  Frank thought about the house that Sheila had moved from. There had been more than bad memories there. There were ghosts there-ghosts and demons.

  “What else did he say?” Frank asked.

  “He said that he saw someone walking from the window. Said it was a short guy, medium build.”

  “And he didn’t do anything about it?”

  “I don’t think he actually saw anything,” Michaels said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he said that he called the local police. Said he called them and they told him they’d send a car over.”

  “But they didn’t?”

  Michaels looked around. “I don’t see anyone fighting us for this investigation, do you? I mean there was no one on the scene until Daniels and Renauld. Undersheriff Pappas sent them over.”

  “Did you check out his story?”

  “Would I be of any use to you if I didn’t?”

  Frank smiled. “You wouldn’t be a Sergeant if you didn’t.”

  “Exactly, sir. I called. They said they never received any such call. No one over there even knew exactly what was going on. They know that the investigation is ours, because you want it to be ours.”

  “And it will stay with us,” Frank said.

  “That’s what’s so great about being sheriff isn’t it?” Michaels said. “No one to compete with, unless it’s the fucking Staties, and they have so much shit to worry about in this state that they don’t want our cases.”

  “So this guy, this Parsons, he saw a few of our boys poking over by the window and he knew that we’d found something over there?” Frank asked. He knew the answer to the question, but asking it was part of covering all the bases.

  “I’m sure,” Michaels said. “Half the neighborhood was out on their porches, even though we told them to get back inside. Told them a dangerous criminal might still be on the loose in the area. They don’t give a shit.”

  “Just another guy trying to be a hero,” Frank said. It made sense and his voice stayed level, but he was disappointed. The guy had seemed so animated, so lively. He didn’t look like a crackpot. He looked like the kind of solid citizen that might have given them something to go on.

  “Yep,” Michaels said. “So we can basically throw out his description. Other than that, no one seems to have seen anything.”

  “Well that’s great,” Frank said.

  “Sorry sir. We live in a go along and get along world now. People keep to themselves even more than they used to. You know what my kids see when they go outside to play?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. No other kids. Hell, when I was young the neighborhood was full of kids. Especially in the summer. We were out until the street lights came on.”

  “World always changes and we change with it,” Frank said. He clapped Michaels on the shoulder. “Good work, Sergeant. I see a good performance review in your future.”

  “Do you see lieutenant in my future?”

  “Time will tell.”

  III.

  Frank walked back to the car. Bentley was still sitting in the backseat. He was drumming his hands on his knees. He brightened when he saw Frank.

  “Anything useful?” Bentley asked as Frank slid into the car.

  “You think I’m going to discuss this case with you? You’re fucking crazy.”

  “Maybe a little, but I’m getting better.”

  Frank doubted it, but…A glimmer had entered his head and it was hard to fight off. The kid had been with him the entire time. He couldn’t have committed this crime. What did it mean?

  “I can help you,” Bentley said. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that this guy picked Sheila? Just some random occurrence?”

  “I think it points to you being involved,” Frank said.

  “Except you know I wasn’t.”

  A thought occurred to Frank, bright and lively. “You could have had a partner. You’ve worked with one before.”

  “Who?” Bentley cried. “I got out of the hospital and came right to you. Who the hell could I have gotten to know that intimately in the time it took me to get to that bar?”

  “Someone you talked to while you were in the hospital,” Frank said.

  “Check with them. They didn’t let me talk to anyone.”

  “I’ll do that,” Frank said and started the car. “Until then I’ll drop you at the bus station and you can get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Bentley said. “You can drop me anywhere you want, but I’m staying here.”

  Frank said nothing.

  “Besides, I’ve got no money for a bus ticket. I haven’t got any money at all. Nowhere to go, no family left.”

  “Do you expect me to start crying?” Frank pulled off of the main drag and began winding his way around the side streets. He was taking
the long route, thinking.

  “Maybe I could stay with you?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Where better to keep your eye on me?” Bentley asked. “This isn’t the end of it you know. This guy is going to kill again. Probably try to come after me. He’s obviously some kind of sick fan.”

  “I can’t believe you’re even asking me this.”

  “I can tell you things. Things that other people wouldn’t see, because they don’t think like murderers. They might try and convince themselves they do, and some of them even do a pretty good job, but no one can think like a killer better than another killer. I can give you insight. I know you want to catch this guy. I know you have personal reasons and so do I.”

  “You? Personal reasons?”

  “I’m as shocked as you, but this guy has taken my chance to apologize to Sheila. He’s also trying to be like me and I don’t like that.”

  “Not good enough to be you?”

  “Not even close,” Bentley said.

  Frank flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror and saw Bentley’s eyes, they were cold and calculating. They looked like the eyes of the kid (ten years younger then) that he’d first seen in the shack where the druggies lived. The one who had shot him and cut out his tongue.

  “It pisses you off that he did this?”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  Frank slammed his hand on his steering wheel. “Okay, you can stay at my place. I suppose it is one way to keep an eye on you.”

  “Friends close, enemies closer,” Bentley said.

  “I’m the one that’s fucking nuts.”

  Five

  I.

  Frank had upgraded to a nice house. One on Vista Lanes. A respectable street for a respectable public servant. There was no Mrs. Miles (probably never would be at this point in his life) and sometimes the three-bedroom house felt like a fourteen-thousand square foot mansion instead of a simple ranch, but he had learned to live with it.

  He had also learned to live with loneliness. He’d had a few houseguests over the years. All of the female variety. Bentley was the first male sleepover, and the only serial killer.

  “This is a nice house,” Bentley said as they walked through the door.

  “Glad you like it,” Frank said. He took off his sport coat and hung it on the hat tree near the door. His service revolver-he’d put it on after they got into the car-he kept on his shoulder. Being unarmed would be a bad mistake.

  Bentley walked to the center of the living room and looked around. Big screen television on the wall, leather sofa, matching recliners. The carpet wasn’t ankle-deep but it was damn close.

  Frank watched as Bentley’s eyes slipped over his possessions and his brain shouted at him that this was a mistake. This was wrong. Of course it was, Bentley was a killer and Frank hated him. Why the hell was he inviting him into his home?

  There was no good answer to that one. Not one in evidence anyway. But turning Bentley loose? Would that have been any better? Frank thought that the answer to that question was a decided no.

  “Do you get cable or satellite?” Bentley asked.

  “Satellite,” Frank replied.

  “Sweet. Do you mind if I watch something?”

  “As long as it isn’t Family Guy,” Frank said.

  He walked a few feet to the kitchen and then stopped and turned. Bentley was already on one of the recliners with his feet up and the remote control in his hand.

  “Please, make yourself at home,” Frank said.

  “Sure,” Bentley replied without looking back.

  He had turned on the television and was looking over the guide. Paging down; looking for something to watch.

  “I’m going to make myself something to eat. I suppose I should probably feed you too.”

  “That would be great, Frank, thanks.”

  Laughter burst from Frank’s mouth. Small little bursts. He couldn’t help it; it was like a fucking farce. Something you might be able to find on the BBC. Serial killer becomes roommate with the cop that put him away.

  Frank turned back to the kitchen and started to cook.

  II.

  Dinner was pork chops. Frank didn’t know much in the way of cooking, but he could put a couple chops in a pan with butter and onions. The sides were mashed potatoes (courtesy of Bob Evans) and microwave biscuits that came out of a bag.

  Frank and Bentley sat across from each other at Frank’s small dinning room table. It was just off the kitchen and right before the sunken living room.

  Frank had never really cared for the open design of the house. No door between the kitchen and the dining room; no door between the dining room and the living room. But on that first night that Bentley stayed with him, it served him well. It allowed him to watch Bentley from the kitchen while he cooked.

  The kid had found some sitcom on one of the retro channels. The ones that showed all the hits from yesteryear. He had sat watching it, not speaking. Frank had stood in front of the stove and watched the kid. Trying to calculate him. Sizing people up was something that he was usually good at, but he had a history with the kid, didn’t he? That made it harder to be objective.

  Could a psychopath really become a regular guy? It was bullshit. Had to be bullshit, but could he become…what? Something close to normal. Or at least not be a danger to those around him.

  Frank didn’t know. He didn’t know enough about the shrink game to have the answers to those questions and he made a mental note to visit Jenkins and get the man’s take on it. Except he knew the man’s take didn’t he? He’d gotten the full litany early that day when he’d argued that Bentley should remain locked up. Still, visiting wouldn’t hurt.

  Now, sitting across from Bentley, it wasn’t like having a guest at all. It was like eating dinner in front of a pit viper. One that might strike at any minute.

  Frank once again questioned his own sanity.

  “This is good,” Bentley said.

  “Thank you,” Frank responded. There was real gratitude in his voice; he had forgotten who he was talking to for a second. Shame filled him, immediately. Shame and guilt. Here he was, eating dinner with the person who had killed George and Karen Braddock.

  “You’re a pretty good cook.”

  This time, Frank calculated his answer more carefully. “You have to be when you’re a bachelor, and I’ve been a bachelor for a long time.”

  “Is that sad?” Bentley asked. He scooped some mashed potatoes into his mouth and regarded Frank with wide eyes.

  “I’m not sure I want to talk about this,” Frank said. “I don’t know that I want to talk about anything with you.”

  “But you’re softening Frank. Or maybe you’re just distracted. Thinking about Sheila?”

  Frank flinched as if Bentley had actually landed a blow. In truth, he had. He had landed a verbal blow. What the kid had said was accurate. Frank had been thinking about Sheila, had been thinking about the case. Visions of her body, blood pooled all around it, lying on that carpet, assailed him. Already he was thinking about reading the report and going over it after dinner. The murder had shifted his focus away from Bentley. He was mentally checked out.

  “We’re not buddies,” Frank said. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, but we are never going to be friends. You’re the scum of the fucking Earth.”

  “Maybe,” Bentley said, and he really seemed to mean it. “But I’m still curious. Is it sad to be alone? I like to know about what other people feel about things. It helps me to understand myself better.”

  Psychoanalyzed by a psychopath, Frank thought. It would be funny if it weren’t so frightening. Have to remember to tread lightly, Frank told himself. He’s up to something and keeping him around will allow you to keep an eye on him, maybe stop something before he can start it.

  The little voice in his head was chattering. The little voice that he often heard when working a case. It told him to look somewhere or talk to some witness one more time. The old-timers (of whi
ch he was quickly becoming) called it instinct, but it was more than that. It was a kind of second vision. Not psychic ability, nothing that metaphysical. It was more about what you saw when you weren’t really looking. The things that you noticed that you didn’t even realized you’d notice. It wasn’t until later, when that voice started speaking up, that you could go back over things in your mind and figure it out.

  Frank’s voice was trying to speak up now, but it was muted. Not enough time had passed. It was still clearing its voice and preparing for its performance. Until then, Frank would watch and wait, but he would be careful too.

  “I don’t mind it,” Frank said.

  “Well that’s a lie,” Bentley replied. He was smirking again and Frank’s fist clenched underneath the table.

  “Okay, it’s not the greatest thing in the world. I suppose that everyone wants someone to come home to.”

  “There was a time when I wouldn’t understand that,” Bentley said. “But I think I’m beginning to now. I don’t exactly want to date anyone or anything like that, but I think I’m starting to realize what it means to need people.”

  “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world,” Frank said.

  “Who said that?” Bentley asked.

  Frank sighed. “Some broad with a big nose. Doesn’t matter.”

  He stood up and walked to the kitchen with his plate in his hand. But he kept an eye on Bentley.

  “You going to wear that gun all night?”

  Frank’s hand stole to the butt of his gun. His fingers whispered against the ridged grip before moving away.

  “Safer, don’t you think?”

  “I think if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t have even let me stay here. You’re probably a lot better person than I am.”

  Frank laughed as he rinsed the dish off and put it in the dishwasher. “Well that’s saying a whole bunch.”

  “Yeah, I guess I set the bar pretty low. I’m trying though, Frank, I really am.”

  His eyes, devoid of that haughty look now. All the old arrogance stripped away. It was hard not to believe him, but he was a charmer, wasn’t he? He’d fooled George, Katie; he’d fooled all of them.