Evil Like Me Read online

  He climbed the muculent stairwell skirting gaping holes and cement clumps on crumbling risers. Each step could be his last, sending him plummeting to his death. Keller clung to the plaster walls and tested his footing, and he climbed undeterred in the hollow silence.

  Maybe this time can be different.

  Touching the metal numbers on the doors, he made his way from the stairwell down the dark hall—first 1962, and then 1958, and then 1954. When he reached 1900, he pushed the double doors into the cavernous room. Somehow city lights found their way up to the shattered windows of the nineteenth floor and painted the walls with a pale fog. Keller took in the torn carpets, and piles of debris, and crumbling walls of the desolate room. Like the aftermath of a massive earthquake, shattered memories strewn about melted in a dying world above the city.

  From the soft grays and sharp black edges Keller watched clouds slide over the moon and the room dim. He didn’t need to see. He felt another’s presence.

  “You’re early.” The words were sharp. They cut through the room like a sabre.

  “So are you,” Keller replied with his eyes on a moving shadow.

  “No games this time. Join me at the table by the windows.”

  He saw a silhouette. “It is not you.”

  “You can’t stop, can you?” The hideous cackle snaked through the debris.

  Keller stayed down. You’re blocking. It does not matter. Keller had to learn to trust his instincts even though he did not understand them.

  “You killed each one of them, Hunter Keller. You are responsible. Don’t you think enough have died? You killed your parents. You killed your friends. Now you threaten to kill perfect strangers with your gift.”

  And imperfect ones still live, Keller seethed.

  “I feel the negativity. I feel the loathing, disgust, and anger. But it is okay. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I always have. As I promised you, I have delivered Donald Deckle. He stands at the table by the windows. Do you want to kill him too?”

  “Donald Deckle is dead. He died on Main Street. I was there. I saw you.”

  “Are you certain it was me, Hunter? Are you certain it was Donald Deckle?”

  “You left before the police came. They told me Donald Deckle was dead. I saw them remove his body.”

  “Someone died. Are you sure you did not kill him? Are you sure you control your gift?”

  “I’m here. I’m alive,” Deckle yelled. “He’s telling the truth. I am Donald Deckle. We met at the bookstore—remember?”

  Keller leaned out from the pile of debris. He recognized the voice.

  “We spoke. I gave you my business card,” Deckle said. “We exchanged numbers.”

  Keller got to his feet and scanned the room. “Show yourself, Major Cankor.”

  “I am right here with Mr. Deckle.” The large, dark figure broke from the shadows and walked up behind Deckle.

  “Who died at the bank, Mr. Cankor?”

  “You know the answer to your own question. Use your gift, Mr. Keller.”

  He knew the answer before Cankor stopped talking. You found Randle Johnson, the son of another remote viewer. Keller’s eyes narrowed. It’s too late for Deckle. He made a deal for his life. Cankor won’t let him be. Keller slid his hands in his pockets and backed away.

  “Don’t do it, Mr. Keller,” Cankor ordered. He towered over Deckle. “I’m the only one who can help you. The killing can stop.”

  “I had no choice,” Deckle said. “I am a direct descendent. I have some gifts. I can’t run forever. Randle Johnson was my only way to live.”

  The clouds opened and the moonlight fell across Cankor’s flat face. “Our deal was I let Deckle live and you come with me. I am your only way out of the carnage.”

  “You killed the Johnson family.” Keller said as he took another step back and glanced at the opened doors he had passed through moments before.”

  “No. You killed the Johnson family.” Cankor’s sick smile grew. “You killed Randle on Main Street. None of it had to happen. You could have come to me in Stringtown five years ago. You lost your parents that day. Now you’ve lost your friends. And you could have come to me in Henryetta, but you did not. Middleton and Tantabaum would be alive today if you had—alive and living their decrepit lives,” he spewed.

  “Everyone died on Dewar,” Keller sighed.

  “Their blood’s on your hands. Come with me. All this can stop. I’m the only one who understands you.”

  He felt for his gun, the 357 magnum he took from Broken Bow. Baily was hit, and then Bone. The boat turned into the bank under the trees. I had seconds—I took it and ran. I knew what I had to do.

  “Why’s your head at Broken Bow?” Cankor said. “Focus on me.”

  The bullets were hitting everywhere. I heard you. I agreed to meet you in the Sterick building. Keller wrapped his fingers around the gun in his pocket blocking Cankor.

  “You’re the worst kind of serial killer,” Cankor scoffed. “Donald Deckle is nothing. He can leave here alive if we leave together.”

  “Why were you at Elmwood Cemetery?” Keller asked.

  “You found a way through my block. I am impressed. Try harder. Find the answer to your question.”

  “You killed two,” Keller said.

  “Very good. Try harder,” Cankor pushed.

  “You killed Roger Tinsley and his friend.”

  “Tinsley is a remote viewer. His friend is nothing but an inconvenience.” Cankor smiled. “And, you won’t shoot me with that gun your holding in your pocket.”

  Deckle gasped and fell forward onto the table, his arms outstretched. Keller watched Cankor remove his bloody left hand from the knife. “You are responsible for another death.”

  Throbbing blue lights climbed the Sterick from the streets nineteen floors below.

  “They are coming,” Cankor said. “They are on every floor. This building is surrounded, and you will not escape unless you come with me now.”

  Keller pulled the gun as Major Cankor backed into the shadows. He fired six times and dropped it like a hot iron burning in his hand. More lights bounced in the hallway as Keller rounded the table and leaned over Deckle.

  “I’m sorry. He made me do it. He made me hurt Randle,” Deckle whispered. White light broke into the room, and a single beam found Keller’s face above the dying man.

  “Don’t move. I will shoot you, Hunter Keller,” Wilcox boomed.

  Nineteen

  “Destiny has two ways of crushing us—by refusing wishes and fulfilling them.”

  Henri Frederic Amiel

  *

  Lights bounced through the double doors and moved around the room. Keller fell backwards into the shadows and pushed through a hole in the wall. Wilcox ran to the man draped over the table. “He’s still alive! Get paramedics up here now!” Wilcox found the hole and dove through rolling to his feet. “Hunter Keller—Stop,” he yelled into the dark room. Shots were fired.

  Minutes later he slid out the boarded window onto the dumpster. Guns rose. “Put those down, goddamn it.” The four officers backed away as Wilcox dropped onto the crumbling alley cement. Squad cars in a line hugged the building, and dozens more lined both sides of Madison and Third. Blue lights flashed around the city block as streams of police flowed in the unboarded doors of the Sterick.

  “Anybody come out this window?” Wilcox asked as his eyes darted from shadow to shadow.

  “No. But we just got into position, detective.”

  “Great way to secure a perimeter,” he muttered as he stomped up the alley. He knew it would have been a miracle to seal an entire city block in seven minutes, but it did not make him feel any better.

  Wilcox got to Madison and another herd of cops in combat gear. “You men see a skinny guy in a hoodie run out this alley?” As heads turned to the detective, a late model sedan exploded through hedges a block away. They watched it fishtail eastbound.

  “Let’s go, go, go! Don’t let that bastard g
et away!”

  Running to his cruiser, Wilcox watched the old sedan clip parked cars and squeal into the center lane. He holstered his gun and patted for his keys as squad cars around him came alive. Flashing lights and screaming sirens hopped curbs and skirted pedestrians and traffic caught in the chaos.

  “Where are my damn keys?” Wilcox got to his car and went through each pocket watching the chase and piling possessions on the hood. Did I lose ’em in the Sterick?

  His keys were gone. The parade left him behind. Kicking tires and pounding the hood of his silent cruiser, Wilcox watched the armada roll down Madison Avenue and disappear over the crest. A dozen cop cars should be enough, he fumed. It’s an old car. It can’t go that fast.

  After ten minutes and no word, he went back inside the Sterick and retraced his steps from the second floor window to the nineteenth floor crime scene. The potential routes were many. Escaping the entourage of cops and dogs and moving lights would have been easy even for the mentally challenged.

  “Anybody call the ME?” His flashlight found the dead man’s face. “Hello Mr. Deckle. Why am I not surprised?” Then his beam found Brimley in the shadows holding the stainless steel suitcase—Petty’s medical photographer.

  “I see the vultures are circling,” Wilcox poked. “Hello, Sir Brimley.”

  “Yes. Hello, Detective Wilcox,” he replied in his thick English brogue. “Dr. Petty is out of town.”

  “Right,” he said moving his light from Deckle’s wet head to the bloody knife in his back.

  “After returning from Broken Bow, Dr. Petty handled all pending cases prior to departure.”

  “She said the Elmwood homicides were connected to all this. “Good to hear it, Brimley.” Washington D.C.—what’s that girl thinkin’? Meet with the Attorney General without a damn appointment—fat chance of that happening. And if she does get to the over-stuffed liberal prick, he’s not about to tell her the truth.”

  “Okay Brimley, you’re in charge. The dead guy is Donald Deckle. Don’t ask. Just take all your pictures and transport. You better take him face down. Petty’s gonna want that knife left there.”

  I caught you red-handed this time—Keller. I saw you holding the knife in Deckle’s back. I’ll bet the knife’s in the same exact position as the others. This removes doubt. But I still have some loose ends, like the bullet riddled boat in Broken Bow. Still, the physical evidence points to you. As always, things eventually come together.

  Wilcox walked to the window and looked at the street nineteen floors below. But who’s helping you? Who’s driving that sedan? Or, is it you?

  Twenty minutes passed before the news reached him—the old sedan got away. Brimley had removed Deckle’s body. Now the real Deckle was tucked in bed—face down in the county morgue.

  Two hours later the MPD had abandoned the building search and resealed the Sterick. Police melted back into the city and Wilcox sat in his car waiting for new keys.

  “Are you kidding me?” He fumed. Wilcox’s knee touched something under the steering column. His keys hung from the ignition.

  Shit! You get the call from Keller. He says he’s ready to turn himself in. He says he’s on the nineteenth floor. I get here. Slide to a stop in the alley. Jump out. I was first on the scene. I heard the sirens as I’m scrambling to get to the nineteenth floor …

  Wait a damn minute. I didn’t turn off the car. I left it running. That’s what screwed me up. Someone turned off my damn car. They left my keys in the damn ignition.

  “It’s me. Cancel the backup keys. Don’t ask.”

  Wilcox threw his cell phone on the seat and stared at the dark and empty alley. He turned the key. The car came alive. The familiar rumbling of his engine would be the last thing he remembered.

  Twenty

  “Nothing happens by itself.”

  Ben Stein

  *

  The sounds fit his dream perfectly. With his bazooka, he moved through the electronic maze shooting everything that moved, avoiding traps, and racking up points. The flashing lights and pings and buzzes and bleeps marked his progress. But the musty smell of the bar was missing. And the smoke was not burning his eyes. And his mouth felt like he sucked a tube of toothpaste and drank a gallon of mouthwash. But Wilcox never entered battle lying down.

  When he opened his eyes, tape snapped off his lids. He saw the blur of movement in a sea of white. He blinked and focused and knew he was not in his favorite bar playing his favorite video game. Wilcox felt the straps holding him down. He was in a hospital bed surrounded by monitors. Why was he tied to the bed? Why was he in intensive care at The Med?

  “Welcome back, detective.” The tall, black man stood at the end of the bed. Wearing a blue uniform with starched creases and shiny gold bars and stars and a badge, Director Cottam smiled at his now struggling soldier. His men and women were his family. Tony Wilcox was returning from another street war—alive. “You’ve been out a while, Detective Wilcox.”

  “What’s going on?” He tugged at his restraints and tried to reach the tubes in his body.

  Cottam stood at the end of the bed with the confidence of a five-star general on the front lines of a war they would win. With his arms folded and legs spread, he advised his injured man. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Should you pull out a tube, you will set off an alarm. They will come in here and tie you down even more. They will stick the tube right back in you.”

  Wilcox’s eyes darted around the room, and then back to Cottam. “What happened? Why am I here?”

  “You don’t remember?” Cottam asked.

  “No. I don’t know. Have I been shot?” Wilcox asked.

  “No. You have not been shot.”

  Wilcox didn’t believe Cottam. He had to raise his sheets to search for himself, but he couldn’t move his arms or legs.

  “You’re not telling me.” He threw his head left and right. “I feel like shit. Tell me everything. Don’t hold shit back. You know me.”

  Cottam held up his hand. Wilcox closed his mouth and sunk back into his pillow. “Let’s try to relax or they will ask me to leave.” He reached back and swung the door closed. “You’re at The Med, private room in ICU. It is for precautionary purposes. We can watch you better here while the doctors run their tests.”

  “So you can watch me better and what tests?” Wilcox pushed.

  “They don’t know much about your medical condition. Tests are necessary.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “Your cruiser was on fire in a field off West Person Avenue down by the river.”

  “I was in a wreck? I don’t remember.”

  “Your car was not damaged. It was on fire,” Cottam said.

  “That makes no sense. I’m not burned, am I?”

  “No. We found you lying in the field unconscious. The fire trucks almost ran over you getting to your car. You were very lucky, Detective Wilcox.”

  Cottam untied a hand. “Don’t do anything that gets me in trouble.” He poured a cup of ice water and passed it to Wilcox. “They said you needed liquids.”

  Wilcox eyed the flashing monitors. “Thanks for checking on me. But I still don’t know what to think about all this. I don’t remember a damn thing.”

  The door opened. A white coat entered with two nurses. “Good. You’re awake. I am Dr. Whiteside. I’ve been taking care of you.” He studied the bank of monitors.

  Wilcox did not like doctors. He never had a good experience. Their God-complex often got in the way of his God-complex and investigations. White coats blocked him questioning injured and dying scumbags. But Wilcox did like nurses.

  “Do you remember anything about last night, Mr. Wilcox?” the doctor asked.

  “I remember chasing a serial killer in the Sterick Building. He stabbed a man in the back and dove through a wall. How’s that doc?”

  Wilcox could see the nurses were impressed—some women are drawn to the thrill of danger and his Dirty Harry persona. At six four with sandy brown hair, a chi
seled jaw and badge, he attracted a lot of women. It was his intense demeanor and shallow view of the opposite sex that drove them off.

  “Can you put a timeline to events, Mr. Wilcox?”

  “We got done at the Sterick around three in the morning. I was the last to leave.”

  “What else?”

  “I remember sitting in my car. Had a headache. Was tired and frustrated. It’s possible I dozed off in the ally. I wanted to watch the building for a while. Been a long day and a monster got away.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as the doctor wrote in his chart. “I remember starting the car. Then I’m blank.” The nurses stared at Wilcox with glassy eyes.

  “What’s going on?” Wilcox huffed. “What’s wrong? When can I get out of here? I’ve lost a lot of time. I’ve got a serial killer to catch.”

  “Detective!” Cottam stopped him. “Please continue, Dr. Whiteside.”

  “Your memory of lost hours could come back or not. We just don’t know. The brain is a complex organ, not fully understood.”

  “Damn wonderful to hear that, doc. Let’s call it a day. I’ll just leave now since nobody knows what in the hell is going on with me.”

  “You came to me unconscious, Mr. Wilcox. I was told your police car was burning in a field. You were found a distance away. There were no witnesses to the event.”

  “Tell me something new.”

  “We do not know if you were thrown from the vehicle or got out on your own. I doubt you were thrown. There are no signs of external trauma. When you arrived here, we thought you had suffered an acute cardiac arrest or cerebral vascular episode, had a stroke.”

  “I’m too young for either.”