Kill the Next One Read online

  “Innocent?” Ted asked, confused.

  “The bastard was careful not to hit her with his fists. Naturally, no murder weapon was ever found. His prints were all over the house, but there were none on the body.”

  “But he practically confessed when he admitted they’d fought.”

  “His lawyers argued that he had made his confession under duress, which was more or less true, and they could prove it. The technicality that got him off was the forensic analysis of the time of death. The prosecutor’s expert placed the time of death between seven and ten p.m. Multiple witnesses testified to seeing Blaine at a cheap dive, the Black Sombrero Bar, during that time frame. Seems he’d been especially concerned with having as many people as possible see him there; he had more than thirty reliable witnesses. There was even security camera footage from the parking lot.”

  Ted leafed through the pages. There were a few more photos of Herdman’s body and copies of files with passages highlighted.

  “You get it now, don’t you, Ted?”

  Ted was starting to understand.

  “How do your people know Blaine killed her?”

  “The organization I represent has informants inside the prison system. I’m not talking about criminals; we prefer not to deal with them. Our informants are lawyers, judges, and aides who know when a murder case smells funny. Our business is…eradicating any doubt. As for Blaine, the explanation is extremely simple, though for him it was almost certainly a case of dumb luck, nothing more. We hired an expert and asked how they could have made such a huge mistake in calculating the time of death. He told us that the tests they ran depend on the body temperature of the deceased, which they take the moment the corpse is discovered. Core body temperature decreases according to an established—”

  Ted stopped him. “I know the method. I’ve watched CSI, too.”

  Lynch laughed.

  “I’ll get to the point, then. We figured it out when we visited the scene of the crime—Amanda Herdman’s first-floor apartment, which is vacant now. There’s an industrial laundry in the basement, directly under her floor. The main ventilation duct from the dryers passes directly beneath the spot where her body was found. It kept the corpse warm so that the heat loss proceeded more slowly than is typical.”

  “In other words, the guy killed her earlier in the day.”

  “Exactly. Some six to eight hours earlier. The murder didn’t take place at night, but in the middle of the day, before Blaine went to the bar.”

  “And there was no way to reopen the case?”

  “He’d already been tried and found innocent. We don’t put the blame on the justice system; we prefer to think that sometimes a bastard slips through the cracks. It happens the other way around, too, sadly. But this isn’t about weighing both sides, is it?”

  Ted didn’t need to hear more.

  “And what you want from me is to kill Blaine, isn’t it?”

  Lynch flashed his perfect teeth.

  “Like I said, you’re a smart man.”

  3

  He stood looking at the refrigerator. There, held in place on the door by a magnet shaped like an apple, was a photo of Holly that he’d forgotten to remove. The girls had decorated the border with concentric rectangles of glitter. Holly was running from the ocean to the beach, wearing the red bikini that had long been Ted’s favorite. She was laughing, her head tilted to one side, her long blond hair aflame with sunlight. The picture had been snapped at the exact moment when one of her legs had disappeared behind her knee, so that her only point of support seemed to violate all the basic laws of balance.

  The picture had been on that refrigerator door a long time. Ted stared at it, forgetting why he’d come into the kitchen in the first place. He held the photo by one corner and pulled it down. He could almost hear Holly laughing, and then weeping, interrupted by her heartrending screams at the door to his study…How could he do something like that to her?

  He opened a drawer, any drawer, and deposited the photo there among the unfamiliar kitchen tools.

  There were two beers left in the fridge. He picked them both up by the neck with one hand and closed the door with a foot. He stood there, resting against the countertop. Lynch was still in the living room; the idea of offering him something to drink had spontaneously popped into Ted’s head, but now he regretted it. He needed to think things over on his own for a minute, because the truth was that as soon as the stranger insinuated his plan to him, an inexplicable tingling had run through his body. He was no fan of vigilante justice—not in the strict sense of the term—though he did think the world would be better off without parasites like Blaine. The idea of killing a man didn’t motivate him; he wasn’t even in favor of the death penalty. Or so he said whenever he was asked. Sometimes, at the shooting range, when the cardboard silhouette was moving toward him and he hit it right between the eyes, he fantasized about taking down one of the “bad guys,” one who had committed some despicable crime. He nodded. Lynch might not be a salesman of the sort he had expected, but the guy had managed to push just the right buttons to get Ted to take his proposal seriously.

  He kept staring at the apple-shaped refrigerator magnet. Now that Holly’s photo was out of sight, he could think clearly. Lynch’s ideas were seductive. There was something deep, something decisive about them: the conviction that if Ted killed one of the bad guys, Holly and the girls would see him as a hero, not a coward.

  On his way back to the living room, he had the crazy notion that he’d find nobody there. That Lynch had left or, worse still, that Ted had only imagined their meeting.

  But Lynch was still there, the two folders on the table in front of him. He stood up to grab the bottle Ted offered him and thanked him with a tilt of the head. He took a long gulp.

  Ted sat down again. “How did your people find out?”

  “About the suicide?”

  Ted nodded.

  “The Organization has its methods, Ted. I’m not sure it would be prudent to share them with you.”

  “I think it’s the least I deserve, if you’re asking me to kill a man.”

  Lynch thought it over.

  “Does this mean I can count on your acceptance of our offer?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. For now, I want you to tell me how your people knew.”

  “Sounds fair.” Lynch took another swig and set the bottle on the table. “We have two ways to pick our candidates. The first gives us the most potential candidates, but it’s also proven to be the least effective. A pity, to be sure. There are psychologists committed to our cause who alert us to potential suicides; we—the doctors and the rest of us—allow ourselves a little leeway on the ethics here, since we’re aware that what we do violates patient confidentiality. We never force anyone, however. We show up, as I’ve done at your house, and make our offer. If the candidate doesn’t accept, we disappear without a trace. In your case, I have to admit, my entrance was a little more dramatic than usual. I thought that…well, I thought I’d come too late.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?”

  “Not exactly. When I get to a candidate’s house, I usually start by taking a look around the property. In your case, we knew your wife and daughters were traveling, but even so, there might be an unexpected friend or relative. Or a dog that doesn’t like visitors. While I was walking the perimeter to make sure everything was in order, I looked through the window of your study and saw what you were about to do.”

  “I see. So you were spying on me.”

  “My apologies. We try to meddle as little as possible.”

  “What’s your other way of picking people?”

  “Oh, right. You see, Ted, a lot of people are so thankful to the Organization that they somehow feel indebted. Many of the professionals I’ve mentioned form part of this group. But in general, they are…”

  “People with ties to the victims.” Ted pointed at the folders.

  Lynch seemed more comfortable dropping hints than stating th
ings baldly. A frown of displeasure flitted across his face.

  “Indeed,” Lynch admitted, ready to move on. “Now allow me to explain what’s in the other folder.”

  Lynch pushed Blaine’s folder aside. He opened the second folder, which was much slimmer. The first page was a color photograph of a man standing on the deck of a boat. He was about forty, wearing a life jacket, holding a fishing rod and an enormous fish.

  Ted picked up the photo. “And who is this?”

  “Wendell. You may be familiar with his name. He’s a well-known businessman.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s better that way.”

  Ted passed the photograph back. There were a couple of typewritten pages in the folder and a few maps with directions. Very little information compared to the first folder.

  “Who’d the businessman bump off? His wife?”

  Lynch smiled.

  “Wendell isn’t married. And he hasn’t bumped anybody off. He isn’t like Blaine. He’s like you.”

  Ted raised his eyebrows.

  “He was also going to kill himself,” Lynch said. “And like you, he knew how painful and incomprehensible his family would find his suicide. Here’s the deal, Ted: You kill Blaine, and in so doing you’ll be giving Amanda Herdman’s family some peace of mind and a sense of justice. In return, we’ll let you join a chain. Wendell is one link; you’ll be the next.”

  Ted pondered for a second. He soon understood.

  “After killing Blaine, I’m supposed to kill Wendell?”

  “Exactly. He knows all about it; he’ll be waiting for you. Likewise, you’ll wait here afterwards in your home for the next link in the chain to show up. Think it over, Ted. Think about the difference it will make for your family when they find out a stranger has come into your house and shot you, compared with a suicide—”

  “Please stop.”

  “I know you’ve thought it through,” Lynch said, ignoring Ted’s plea. “You figure taking your own life is better than disappearing without a trace. But now we’re offering you an even better way out: you get shot by someone else, and you’ll be remembered as the victim of a tragedy. Think how much easier it will be for your daughters to get over something like that. I don’t know if you’re aware of the statistics, but many children, especially if they’re young, never recover—”

  “That’s enough! I get it.”

  “So, what do you say?”

  “I have to think it over some. Wendell is an innocent man.”

  “Come on, Ted. I’ve done this dozens of times. You already know the answer. The deal doesn’t benefit you alone; you’ll be helping Wendell, too. He’s waiting at his lakeside home right now for you to carry out his last wish.”

  “Why don’t you guys do it yourselves?”

  Lynch didn’t bat an eyelash. His smile proved that, as he said, this was hardly the first time he’d gone through the first stage of talking someone into doing the deed. He knew the answers to every question. He was like a telemarketer, just following the script in the playbook.

  “We’re the good guys in this story, Ted. We believe that whoever kills must be killed. All we do is find people who’ve outsmarted the system and turn them over to people who are ready to give their lives for a just cause. And we’ve chosen you. This is your chance. And I’m afraid it’s the only way you have left.”

  Ted looked down at his lap. The note he’d found on the desk was sticking out of his pants pocket. He didn’t even remember putting it there. He pulled it out and unfolded it, out of Lynch’s reach, as the young man watched him, waiting for a final answer.

  It’s your only way out, he read.

  Lynch had just uttered virtually the same words.

  4

  Edward Blaine lived alone on a quiet cul-de-sac. His neighbors hated him. His unsociability and his penchant for secrecy had slowly damaged his relations with everyone in the neighborhood, who by now just gritted their teeth and tried to put up with him. Blaine was trash. Even worse, the bastard seemed proud of it, challenging anybody who got in his way, staring them down with his mirrored sunglasses and the smug smile on his face. They’d tried reasoning with him, tried mending fences with him, even tried threatening him. Nothing worked. Like a rebellious child—though already well into his thirties—Blaine seemed set on harassing anybody who came near, anyone who tried to come to any sort of agreement with him. He violated every norm of peaceful social living, from keeping his scraggly lawn unmowed to the way he treated Magnus, the fearsome rottweiler he kept cruelly chained to a post in the yard, where the dog spent long days barking at everyone who passed by. Loud parties with his drinking buddies, the thunderous rumble of his Harley, music cranked up to eleven—all par for the course. Nobody was surprised when he showed up with prostitutes, drunk or high, only to turn the poor women out onto the sidewalk in the middle of the night and let them stumble around half dressed, waiting for a taxi.

  When the murder charge against Blaine became public, many of his neighbors popped champagne corks and even volunteered to testify about his unseemly behavior. More than a few even said they were sorry he’d killed the girlfriend at her house, because if he’d done her in at his own place they would have swamped his defense with enough eyewitness accounts to put him behind bars for the rest of his life. Nobody doubted that Blaine was the killer. His neighbors celebrated in advance what they felt was a foregone conclusion: Blaine would face justice and be found guilty of poor Amanda Herdman’s murder. A dream come true.

  Except that the DA was forced to let him go. A rock solid alibi made it possible. Several witnesses swore to seeing the bum in a bar at the time of the murder, and a number of security cameras proved that Blaine could not possibly have committed the murder. His neighbors didn’t agree, of course. They didn’t know how the son of a bitch had pulled a fast one on the justice system—maybe he had a twin brother or something—but he had fooled the jury somehow. Now they’d have to cope not just with a creep but with a killer. Many of them seriously considered moving.

  Ted thoroughly studied the report Lynch had given him while he sat at a far table in a fast-food joint and ate a burger. Nobody would miss Edward Blaine, he thought. He could walk right into the guy’s house through the front door and nobody would notice; his neighbors didn’t talk to him. He memorized all the facts he’d need to know, like that the guy kept a duplicate key tucked under a welcome mat. The dog wouldn’t be a problem.

  As he nibbled at the hamburger, Ted worked out a simple plan. He managed to forget his own problems for a moment, between sips of Coke and handfuls of French fries, and this amazed him. The photos of Amanda Herdman and a few lurid details about Blaine’s past and present helped Ted to truly want to kill him. He finally understood what Lynch had been saying about the cracks in the system. There was something invigorating about being able to fix this mistake—Ted could feel it.

  He hid in the closet of the guest room on the first floor of Blaine’s house, making himself comfortable on a pile of boxes that he had taken it upon himself to rearrange. On the underside of the shelf above his head, a Buzz Lightyear sticker glowed in the dark. He imagined the boy who had stuck it there, hiding in the closet and enjoying its glow much as Ted was doing now. He felt a kind of melancholy, now that Buzz had been forgotten by his owner and left there to glow away in solitude.

  Blaine got home four hours later. Ted had cased the house before hiding and could picture where Blaine was at every moment. He came in from the garage, talking on his cell phone, yukking it up with some pal. Then he took a shower. There was a very real possibility that Blaine was planning to go out on the town tonight, but that didn’t worry Ted: he’d wait. He’d been sitting in the closet for hours, and he could keep sitting there as long as it took. He nodded off a couple of times.

  Once more he went over his plan, which would have disillusioned any Hollywood producer. There’d be no confrontation, no vengeful speeches, no warnings of any kind. Ted would wait until Blain
e was asleep in bed, and then he’d creep out of the closet and knock him off before the guy even woke up. There was even something merciful about it.

  At half past nine—Ted kept track of the time on his cell—Blaine was in the living room watching TV, probably grabbing a quick bite for dinner, occasionally insulting the contestant in some stupid game show. The outlook was unclear. Blaine might go out drinking, in which case the wait could become endless, or he might even have people over. Or maybe he would behave himself and go to bed early. One nontrivial detail could complicate things, though. Ted noticed it even before Blaine did, and he immediately pricked up his ears, listening with all his attention in the darkness that surrounded him, trying to hear past the canned laughter and applause and the game show host’s squawking. Magnus was starting to whimper and whine piteously from where he was chained in the front yard. Ted frowned with frustration and shook his head. The sedatives he’d tricked the dog into swallowing hadn’t been enough to do the job.

  The TV was suddenly put on mute. After a long silence, the front door opened and a moment later closed again. Blaine was talking to someone over the phone, but in such a quiet voice it was impossible to make out what he was saying. He walked around the living room until finally his voice grew clearer and the unexpected happened: he entered the guest room, where Ted was hiding. He turned on the light and shut the door. Ted had left the closet door cracked open. It was too late now to close it without attracting attention. He had Blaine just feet away from him, walking impatiently to the far side of the bed, listening to what the guy on the other end of the line was saying to him.

  “I’m telling you, Tony, Magnus is all doped up—he’s hardly moving. They did something to him. If it was one of my sumbitch neighbors did it, I’m gonna deal with ’em, you know…What’s that? No, no, I haven’t done it yet.” Blaine stopped talking, sat on the bed with his back to the closet, and then lowered his voice. “You’re right, Tony. I’ll check on it right now, make sure everything’s where it’s supposed to be. Sure, yeah. Talk to you in a sec.”