Mr. 8 Read online

  MR. 8

  by DAVID J. THIRTEEN

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2014

  Copyright 2014 David Thivierge

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Donald Cronkhite

  Edited by Gerald Braude

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Print ISBN 978-1-62015-619-3

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-630-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921161

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgments

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  To Jennifer, the love of my life and the woman who I would risk everything to keep safe.

  Chapter 1

  The Third Victim

  PROFESSOR DENTON REED was pleased there wasn’t a corpse on the floor. When Bill had told him there had been a murder, he had put on a brave face and braced himself for the worst.

  There wasn’t even any blood. Perhaps the scene had already been cleaned up. Or maybe the method of death hadn’t left any behind. In fact, the only crime that seemed to have taken place here was one of neglect and possibly the minor offense of graffiti. Even in the dim light of the room, it was impossible not to notice the large figure eight scrawled on the wall above the sofa.

  “The vic was a white male, early forties, lived alone. High school education. Drove a delivery truck for Baye Feed and Supply. No priors. Neighbors said he was quiet and kept to himself.”

  Denton found it strange, listening to Bill talk like a cop. They had known each other for almost five years and except for once before, they had pretty much only discussed lawn maintenance, football, and scotch. Being next-door neighbors had never led to anything beyond a casual friendship.

  Crime wasn’t Denton’s specialty. He was an academic. He had made his entire career off of his doctorate titled: Object Transference and Diagnostic Observations. When it was first published by a psychology journal, it got him noticed in his field. When it was picked up by a mainstream publishing house a couple of years later, and reworked by a ghost writer, it made him famous. It was sold under the name: What Your Stuff Says about You, and was put in the self-help section of bookstores.

  When Denton found out the journal had resold the publication rights, due to an obscure clause in his contract, he was furious and started legal action. He dropped the suit after his first royalty check came in. Apparently, lots of people were curious about what their stuff had to say about them.

  He hadn’t bothered to conduct a single study or research experiment since then. He had used the success to leverage his tenure and was now happily just a teacher. He was no longer forced to scrabble around publishing new articles, like so many of his colleagues in the faculty.

  “Motive?” Denton tried to sound as if he belonged at a crime scene.

  “That’s why I brought you in.”

  Denton’s eyes went back to that black number eight on the nicotine yellow wall. He remembered what he’d overheard on the second floor landing. One patrol officer was telling another, “Looks like Mr. 8 struck again.”

  Bill had glared at the officer and he had stopped talking. Walking up the final flight of stairs, Denton had wondered what the cryptic statement meant, and why Bill didn’t want them gossiping about it.

  Seeing the number on the wall, things started falling into place. On the phone, Bill had said there had been three murders in town with similarities. The killer must leave behind the eight as a calling card, Denton thought.

  He tried to keep all hints of a tremor out of his voice. “Is this a serial killer, Bill?”

  “Just have a look around and tell me what you think.”

  “If it is, you should be getting the FBI in here, or something. I’m not qualified for this. This is way beyond cows.” The last time he had been brought in on a police investigation, it had only involved cattle. Despite the grisly nature of the crime, it had only been considered destruction of property.

  Denton looked hard into Detective Bill Stahl’s eyes, trying to match the man’s air of authority and determination. He combated the steely gaze for a few seconds, but soon he was staring as the grimy window over Bill’s shoulder.

  “Just take a look,” Bill told him.

  With a shrug of reluctance, he got to work. He hid from his face, the glow of excitement that was building in him. Could his methods really catch a serial killer?

  Denton started with what he had been telling his students for years: analyze the environment.

  The place was a dump. Whoever had lived here was not interested in keeping up appearances. He still had an old tube TV set. It rested on a battered dresser. The only place to sit was the sofa—foam spilled out of one of the arms. There was a lamp on a small metal table next to it. The table looked like it belonged on a backyard patio. The lampshade was dried out and cracked. There was also a cheap coffee table. Marks in the worn carpet showed where someone had moved it to the side, so the police could walk through the room more freely. The table was scarred from years of abuse. There were ring marks scattered across the top, stained into the wood. One corner in particular had dozens of these—one over the other.

  He would have sat here and put his drink there. Night after night.

  It would have been tempting to assume the apartment belonged to a student, who had furnished it with garage sale finds. But even if Bill hadn’t told him he was a delivery man, it would be very unlikely for anyone from the college to be living out here on Grimshaw Street. This was townie territory.

  Denton walked over and examined the eight. The loops were elongated and it looked a bit like a sideways infinity symbol. He couldn’t figure out what it had been drawn with. The substance was black, uneven, and appeared to be flaking. He went to feel the surface of the num
eral, but stopped short when Bill spoke.

  “That’s evidence. Forensics took a sample. It will be a while before we get a lab report, but they believe it to be some sort of carbon.”

  Denton slipped his hands into his overcoat pockets and moved on to the tiny galley kitchen.

  What greeted him seemed to drop his blood temperature by at least five degrees. His hands turned cold. A queasiness sank into the depths of his stomach.

  Every cabinet door had two circles neatly marked on it in what looked like dried blood. Hesitantly, he held out his glasses, about an inch from his face, and used them as a magnifying glass. On closer examination, he realized it was only tomato sauce, or possibly ketchup, on the melamine. The uniformity of the rings suggested they must have been made with a glass or a can.

  “When was he killed?” Denton asked.

  “Last night. Around 2:00 a.m.” Bill Stahl stepped into the doorway. “We believe.”

  Could the sauce have dried out that much in—he glanced at his watch—fourteen hours?

  “Did the other victims have eights marked on their walls too?”

  “Not exactly. But we found the number eight repeatedly in both of the other residences.” Bill sounded evasive. There was something he wasn’t telling him.

  “And they were all killed in their homes?”

  Bill hesitated, his eyes dropping to some spot on the floor. Denton could almost feel him weighing his words. “They were all killed outdoors. In isolated areas.”

  “So, the murderer captures them in their house, draws eights everywhere, and then takes them somewhere else to kill them?” Denton was trying to figure what was going on, but Bill’s vague statements weren’t helping.

  “You don’t understand. I didn’t ask you for your opinion because the killer drew these.” He pointed at a double ring of magnets that formed a wavering eight on the fridge door. “I asked you here, because the victims did.”

  Chapter 2

  7th and Market

  “SORRY I’M LATE.”

  Denton Reed gave Linda a kiss and slipped into the seat across from her. He casually took what was meant to be a sip of his martini but was more of a gulp. All sense of cold was gone from the drink, which didn’t bother him, since he was trying to work off the chill from the damp November night and the earlier events on Grimshaw Street.

  He noticed Linda’s glass was empty and the toothpick was bare of its olives.

  “Sorry.” He was keenly aware of how long she’d been waiting. “Do you want another?”

  “No, but I’m ready for the wine.” She turned her head to search out the waiter. Strands of her shoulder length brown hair lifted in the air with the movement. Denton was possessed with the urge to bury his fingers in it and press his wife’s head against his chest. But instead he beckoned to Jeremy, their usual waiter. All he had to do was point at the table, a vague gesture at the flickering tea candle, for him to know what they wanted.

  For as long as they had lived in Bexhill, this had been their Friday night ritual: dinner at 7th and Market. They would have dirty martinis to start, followed by a bottle of wine to go with the meal. They almost always ordered the Bin 16 Shiraz, except sometimes in the summer, when they might go with a white. They would often share an order of the fried calamari and then order the mains from the list of daily specials. Denton could count on one hand the number of times either of them had been late.

  “So, what was so important?”

  “Foley called an emergency meeting. The usual bullshit.” It was easy to blame the chair. Simon Foley had been put in charge of the psychology department a little over a year ago and had taken on a demeanor similar to a South American dictator. Also, Denton knew there would be no follow up questions. No matter how much work might intrude on the rest of their weekend, it was not allowed to be discussed on Friday nights. Their dinner at the bistro across from Market Square signaled the start of a mini-vacation each and every week.

  Denton had originally planned to tell her about the case Bill had pulled him into and that apartment with the number eight drawn everywhere. It was by far the most interesting thing that had happened to him in a long time and would make much better conversation than the rest of the small talk at his disposal. But at the last minute, he had decided it was better not to say anything.

  In that moment, he understood why Bill had been annoyed by the patrolman talking about Mr. 8 and why there had been so few details about the killings in the papers. Crime wasn’t unheard of in Bexhill, but news of a serial killer would scare the hell out of people. And he knew the odds were good that Linda would have several sleepless nights, if she believed there was one prowling around the town.

  And it might not even be a serial killer. It was typical for one to follow a pattern when picking victims, but except for drawing eights, the dead had nothing in common. The first had been a single mother and the second had been what Bill had called a drifter. Which Denton took as Bexhill cop speak for homeless.

  “Are you sure they were murders?” he had asked. Denton had started to wonder whether the eights might be something ritualistic. Perhaps these people belonged to some cult, and the leader was compelling them to commit suicide? It was no less awful, but it might be more plausible.

  “Positive. There were weapon marks and attempts to destroy the evidence.”

  “How were they killed?”

  Bill looked down at his shoes. “You’d probably be happier not knowing.”

  Of course, Denton thought. He thinks I’m squeamish.

  Bill had been there two summers ago when Denton had spilt his breakfast out onto the dirt road. He remembered hanging onto the bumper of the police 4X4 for support, out there in Mt. Nazareth State Forest, with the images of the bizarre shrine fresh in his brain and the stench of the rotting flesh still in his nose.

  “They have the prime rib for two tonight, should we get that?” Linda gestured to his unopened menu.

  The prime rib was a rare specialty, but Denton said, “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood. Is that okay?” He picked up his menu to see what else there was and to hide his face, just in case it was betraying him by turning pale.

  The thought of beef had brought back the full memory of that little shack in the woods—that terrible, hot little shack, with its altar, the strange bull carving, and the cow organs crawling with flies and maggots.

  To calm down, he forced himself to think of that same spot, after the county had demolished the shack and carted off all traces of its existence. If only he could accomplish the same feat within his own mind and remove all memory of it. At least, the visualization trick worked, and he was able to regain his appetite.

  “I think I’ll have the gnocchi.” He placed the menu back down on the table. “What are you going to have?

  “I guess I’ll go with the flat iron,” Linda said.

  “Sorry,” he said again. In the subtle language of their Friday ritual, her order of the steak told him many things. Mainly, not only was he late tonight, but he was out of sync, like a dance partner whose timing was off.

  “For what?” She genuinely seemed at a loss.

  Denton gave a dismissive shrug as Jeremy finished pouring the wine. Linda raised her glass and toasted. “Happy weekend.” Their glasses clinked against each other.

  “Happy weekend,” Denton said, trying hard to sound as if he meant it.

  When dinner was over and the check was paid, they stepped out of the restaurant into the cold, night air. Denton started to head down 7th Avenue to the parked car, but Linda stopped him.

  “Let’s walk around the square.” She tugged on his arm more as a gesture than an attempt to move him. Her smile was playful and in the dim glow of the restaurant sign, she looked like the young college girl he first met so many years ago. “I want to have a look.”

  The city put up the Christmas decorations earlier in
the week. As soon as Thanksgiving was over, up they went. There was almost no variation from year to year: a big tree in front of the church, garland wrapped around the lampposts, and fairy lights everywhere. Denton would much rather just get home and have a glass of scotch by the fire, before going to bed. But he made an effort to smile and linked arms with Linda as they walked down the sidewalk, around the park.

  It was just after nine, and most of the storefronts were already dark—closed up for the night and everyone either home or on their way. A fierce wind howled down 6th, sending dried leaves rustling along the pavement, as a faint reminder of the autumn that had slipped away one night before dawn, leaving a harsh December and the promise of winter. Denton shielded Linda from the gust with his body.

  When he straightened out, three men were approaching them. They appeared as if from nowhere. Although, considering the noise they were making, Denton wondered how he hadn’t noticed them earlier.

  “I’m telling you, she’s one of them.” The tallest of the three was practically shouting. He had on a ratty lumberjack shirt instead of a jacket, and even in the dark, his face was clearly flushed.

  The one wearing a dark green parka that was far too heavy for the evening’s weather, just kept muttering with slurred words, “Shuh up. Just shuh up.”

  As they passed, Denton took an unconscious step to the side to ensure none of them came in contact with him. His move would have pushed Linda towards the curb, but she had instinctively pressed closer to him at the same time.

  Denton examined their faces, and the sandy haired boy with a spray of freckles across his nose said, “No one can hide from us. We’re the Bexhill Gorillas.” His voice was low, almost solemn, and Denton wasn’t sure who was being addressed, or whether he was just thinking out loud.

  Just another bunch of wasted college kids. This was why Milton had a bad name around town.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw them turning off of the square, heading home or maybe to another bar. They were probably more of a threat to themselves than to anyone else. Still, he was happy to see them gone and to be alone with Linda again, with the night back to its peaceful state.