He squinted through the thick brush as best he could. From what he knew of the Hollywood murders, there was no way the killer would still be around.
“You see anything?” he whispered to his partner, who was twenty-nine, a California cowboy, and a total asshole most of the time.
“Yeah, a bunch of flowers,” Beneke answered. “We were the first ones here. Why'd you let them go ahead of us like that?”
Campbell stifled his first response. “Just keep your eyes open,” he said. “The killer could still be here.”
“That's my hope, podjo.”
They emerged onto a sweeping black-slate patio in the back. It was dominated by an enormous dark-bottomed infinity pool. The water seemed to flow right up to and over the edge of the terrace.
“There she is.” Campbell groaned.
A woman's stark-white body floated facedown, arms perpendicular to the torso. She wore a lime-green one-piece. Her long blond hair was splayed gently over the surface of the water.
One of the paramedics jumped into the pooi and with some difficulty turned her over. He put a finger to her throat, but it was already obvious to Campbell there would be no pulse.
“Holy shit!” Campbell grimaced and looked away, then back again. He held his breath to keep everything down. Who the hell could do something like this? The poor woman was practically erased from the neck up. Her face was a tangle of cut flesh. The pool's water was tinted bright pink all around the body Beneke walked over to get a closer look. “Same killer. I'll bet you anything. Same crazy killer did this.” He leaned over to help pull the woman out.
“Wait,” Campbell barked. He pointed to the paramedic who was still in the water. "You.
Get out of the pool. Get out of the pool right now."
Stone-faced, they all looked at Campbell, but they knew he was right. Even Beneke didn't say a word. There was no sense putting any more of their stamp on the murder scene until an investigative team got there. They would have to leave the victim where she was.
“Hey! Hey, guys!”
Campbell looked up to see another officer, Jerry Tounley, calling down from an open window upstairs. “Office is completely trashed up here. There's broken pictures, stuff everywhere, glass. And get this - the computer's still on and open to a mail program! Looks like someone was sending an e-mail before they left.”
Mary, Mary
Chapter 26
To: agriner@latimes .com From; Mary Smith To: Marti Lowenstein-Belclass="underline" I watched you having dinner last night. You and your fine family of five. Very cozy and nice. “Mother Knows Best.” With those immaculately clean glass walls of yours, it couldn't have been easier to watch. I enjoyed seeing you with your kids at your last supper.
I could actually see the delicious-looking food on your plates, prepared by your cook and nanny, of course. You were having a swell time, and that's fine with me. I wanted you to enjoy yourself on your last night. I especially wanted your kids to have a lasting memory.
Now I have a memory of them, too.
I'll never forget their sweet faces. Never, ever forget your kids, Marti. Trust me on it.
What a beautiful, beautiful house you have, Marti, as befits such an important writer and film director. Is that the right order, by the way? I think so.
I didn't come inside until later, when you were putting the girls to bed. You left the patio doors open again, and this time I used them.
I couldn't resist. I wanted to see things just the way you see them, from the inside looking out.
But I still don't understand why all you rich people feel so safe in your houses. Those big castles can't protect you if you aren't paying close attention. And you weren't. You weren't paying attention at all. Too busy being a mom- or too busy being a star?
I listened to you upstairs, doing bedtime with the girls. It was kind of touching, and I mean that. You probably thought you would be the last one to tuck them in, but you weren't.
Later, when everyone was asleep, I watched each of those girls in her bed, breathing so peacefully. They were like little angels with no cares in the world.
I didn't have to tell them they had nothing to worry about, because they already knew. It was just the opposite for you. I decided to wait until the morning, so that I could be with you alone, Madam Director.
I'm really glad I waited, too. Your husband, Michael, took the girls to school today. His turn, I guess. That was lucky for everyone, but especially for him. He got to live, and you didn't have to watch him die. And I got you the way I wanted, just the way I had imagined it for such a long time.
Here's what happened next, Marti.
Your last morning started like any other. You did your precious Pilates and then went for laps in the pool. Fifty laps, just like always. It must be nice to have such a big swimming pool. Heated, too. I stood and watched you gliding back and forth in the sparkling blue water. Even there, so close, it took you forever to see me.
When you finally looked up, you must have been good and tired. Too tired to scream I suppose. All you did was turn away, but it didn't stop me from shooting you. Or then cutting your pretty face to ribbons and shreds.
Tell you what, Marti, that was the best part of all. I'm starting to really like defacement.
Now, let me ask one final question-do you know why you had to die? Do you know what you did to deserve this? Do you know, Marti, do you know?
Somehow, I doubt it.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 27
BUT THAT WASN'T EXACTLY the way it happened, the Storyteller knew.
Of course, he wasn't going to tell the L.A. Times and the police everything, only what he needed them to know, only what was in the story he wanted them to help authenticate.
It was such a good story, a helluva story if he didn't say so himself. Mary Smith! Jesus. A classic horror tale if ever there was one.
Speaking of stories, he'd heard a good one the other day - the “psychopath's test.” It was supposed to tell you if you had the mind of a psycho. If you got it right, you did. The story went like this. At her mother's funeral, a woman met this guy and fell instantly in love. But she never got his name, number, or anything about him. A few days later, the woman killed her sister. Now . . . the test! Why did she kill the sister? If you answer correctly, then you think like a psychopath.
The Storyteller did, of course. He figured it out immediately This woman killed her sister . . . because she was hoping the guy she liked would appear at the funeral.
Anyway, after he killed Marti Lowenstein-Bell, he was high as a kite, but he knew he had to stay in control, more or less anyway He had to keep up appearances.
So he hustled on back to work.
He roamed the halls of the office building in Pasadena and talked to half a dozen coworkers about things that bored the living shit out of him, especially today He wanted to tell every one of them what had just happened - about his secret life, about how none of them got him at all, about how smart and clever he was, and about what an incredible planner, schemer, and killer he was.
Jesus, how they loved to toss that word around - so and so was a killer this one had a killer smile, a killer act, but it was all such incredible bullshit.
All of these people were wimps. They didn't know what real killing was all about. But he sure did.
And he knew something else - he liked it a lot, even more than he thought he would.
And he was good at it.
He had this sudden urge to pull his gun at the office and start shooting everything that moved, squeaked, or Squealed.
But hell, that was just a fantasy, a little harmless daydreaming. It would never measure up to the real story his Story, Mary's story, which was so much better.
Mary, Mary