Hilary Norman and The Murder Room

››› This title is part of The Murder Room, our series dedicated to making available out-of-print or hard-to-find titles by classic crime writers.

Crime fiction has always held up a mirror to society. The Victorians were fascinated by sensational murder and the emerging science of detection; now we are obsessed with the forensic detail of violent death. And no other genre has so captivated and enthralled readers.

Vast troves of classic crime writing have for a long time been unavailable to all but the most dedicated frequenters of second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing means that we are now able to bring you the backlists of a huge range of titles by classic and contemporary crime writers, some of which have been out of print for decades.

From the genteel amateur private eyes of the Golden Age and the femmes fatales of pulp fiction, to the morally ambiguous hard-boiled detectives of mid twentieth-century America and their descendants who walk our twenty-first century streets, The Murder Room has it all. ›››

The Murder Room

Where Criminal Minds Meet

themurderroom.com

Deadly Games

Hilary Norman

Contents

Cover

The Murder Room Introduction

Title page

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

PART TWO

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

PART THREE

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

PART FOUR

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Chapter Eighty-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

PART FIVE

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Chapter Eighty-seven

Chapter Eighty-eight

Chapter Eighty-nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-one

Chapter Ninety-two

Chapter Ninety-three

Chapter Ninety-four

Chapter Ninety-five

Chapter Ninety-six

Chapter Ninety-seven

Chapter Ninety-eight

Chapter Ninety-nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-one

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-two

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-three

PART SIX

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-four

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-five

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-six

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-seven

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-eight

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-nine

Outro

By Hilary Norman

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the author

Copyright page

PART ONE

Chapter One

He had heard it said that killing got easier the more one did it.

Not true.

Killing was hard. It was ugly and painful.

He had, to date, ended the lives of five people, and each time, while he was doing it, while he was actually snuffing out their last breath, he had screamed out in pain. And then, when it was done with, he had got sick to his stomach.

He had been so afraid of the act before the first time, that only his absolute conviction that it had to be done had helped him endure it. He knew he wasn’t a born killer, could never be a real murderer. He did it – had done it each time – because he had no choice. Because he could not allow those people to go on living. Because it was either them or him, and he was not ready to die, not by a long chalk.

Fact was, he liked life most of the time these days, liked it more than he’d ever thought possible when he was younger.

Except for the killing.

Chapter Two

My name is Jake Woods and I’m a teacher.

Sounds like one of those first stand-up confessions at an AA meeting. Maybe that’s because, to some, my decision to go back to school seemed like such a cop-out – literally, since that’s what I used to be: a cop. Actually, I was only a cop en route to becoming what I thought I wanted to be at the time: a general investigator in the State Attorney’s office. Before I changed my mind.

I’d gone the whole nine yards, slaved my way through five years at John Jay College, got myself a law enforcement internship with the NYPD and finally found the job I’d been striving for up in Albany. And then one morning I looked at myself in the mirror and faced up to what I’d known for a while. I did not, after all, want to spend my life investigating public corruption or narcotics or organized crime or white collar criminals. Fact is, I may be big on justice, but I don’t enjoy prying. I am, by nature, a private man, who likes, where possible, to respect the privacy of others. Of course I still accepted that the investigating needed to be done, but I didn’t want to be the one doing it. What I did want to do, I suddenly realized, was help train those more suited to do the job as well as possible.

No one gave me a harder time about the decision than I gave myself. I felt I was a flake, felt I was letting people down, had wasted their time and energy.

Simone told me I was wrong to feel that way.

My wife.

She helped me to understand what I guess I already knew, deep down. That the time of my life I had loved most had been my school and college days. That while I had the utmost respect for most of my law enforcement colleagues, the men and women I had felt most at home with, had most in common with, had been my teachers. As a student, I’d thrived on what the best of my professors had given me, and so that, Simone said, was what I now had to aim for, even if others saw it as failure.

‘You’ll only fail if you don’t have the guts to turn around.’

She also told me that she’d always had a thing for professors.

I told her that’s what finally clinched it for me.

We both knew it was only half a lie.

So I resigned from the Attorney General’s office, went back to school, back to hunched shoulders and sore eyes and a neck that yelled out for Simone’s soothing fingers, and about five hundred back-rubs later I became a criminal justice professor at the University of New Haven in Connecticut. The ‘other place’, some call it, because Yale also happens to be located in Greater New Haven. And sure, it’s no more possible for me than anyone else to overlook the beauty of that great campus, or to fail to relish the minds that enter and emerge from it, and frankly it’s a pleasure to live so close to the Gothic façades and the buzz, but so far as I’m concerned there’s a greater – albeit humbler – reality about ‘our place’, and I’m proud to be a faculty member.

I hope I make a reasonably good professor.

I know that I became a completely happy man when I began teaching.

And Simone was proud of me.

That was the icing on the cake.

At least, it used to be.

Chapter Three

He had to go.

Had to.

The very thought of taking care of that made him shudder, but there was no avoiding it.

He’d thought he was so right when he took him, thought that finally he’d found the one. Young, gorgeous, healthy, athletic, pulsing with vitality and hormones, ready for just about anything.

It was his own fault, he knew that. He ought to have known better than to pick a runner. Runners needed space, went nuts without it. Kept here any longer, this young man would lose it altogether, get sick in mind and body.

At least this way he’d be spared that.

He’d thought and rethought his method, agonized long and hard about the kindest, swiftest way. The bullet won every time. On death rows they seemed to feel lethal injections were the most humane way to go, but compared to what? Getting strapped down and fried?

He could, of course, use Dim Mak – death touch – lethal and swift if he got it right; and he was gifted enough, sufficiently highly trained, but the young man might fight back, might struggle, and then it would all get so ugly, and he didn’t want that. That was the last thing he wanted.

He’d drugged the kid’s food before now, put him out when he needed to, but with his appetite so erratic there was no certainty he’d get enough sedative into his system to finish him, and anyway, he wasn’t a damned pharmacist, so he might make all kinds of mistakes . . .

So when all was said and done, it had to be the gunshot.

In the dark, so he wouldn’t see it coming, and ideally – for both of them – while he was sleeping. He’d use a silencer, just in case, though of course that was unnecessary.

No one would hear.

Chapter Four

On Saturday, May 13, a week before graduation and the end of the spring semester, I was feeling good, thinking about fixing lunch for when my daughters came home from their busy mornings, when the phone rang.

‘Jake, it’s Stu Cooper.’

The tension in his voice hit me right away. I’ve known Stu since Fran Gottlieb, an old school pal from way back in New Jersey, married him sixteen or so years ago. Stu’s a happy-go-lucky kind of a guy, crazy about Fran and their son, Michael.

This was a bad news call.

Believe me, I know about bad news calls.

‘Mikey’s missing, Jake,’ Stu said.

‘How long?’ I asked, hoping to hear just a handful of hours.

‘A month.’

A month? How the hell long had it been since we’d spoken, for Christ’s sake?

‘What happened, Stu?’ I shook the guilt out of my head.

‘He disappeared April fourteenth,’ Stu told me, and his voice started shaking. ‘And no one’s doing anything about it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I was bewildered.

‘I mean exactly that.’ The guy was close to tears.

‘Is Fran there?’

‘You think I’m bad, you can’t imagine the shape she’s in.’ Stu took a second, cleared his throat, dragged himself together. ‘That’s why we’re calling you, Jake. We need help. We need someone to help us.’

I shut my eyes, trying to figure the rest of the weekend, knew that today was a hopeless case, but the next . . .

‘Tomorrow soon enough?’ I asked.

I left early Sunday morning, headed north-east out of the city towards Hartford and picked up the Mass Turnpike to Boston. There are prettier routes, but I was in no mood for them. The fifteen-year-old son of friends was missing. My older daughter, Rianna, is fifteen, her sister, Ella, just nine. I worry about them all the time. What parent doesn’t?

At least when Simone was still here, we could share the load – not that sharing actually diminished the fears. I remember nights early in both girls’ lives when I’d wake with a jolt of panic and go flying into the nursery to check that the baby was breathing, only to find that Simone had beaten me to it. I remember we’d stand vigil over the crib, watching, listening, giving silent thanks, holding each other.

I remember it all so vividly.

We lived in a lovely old clapboard house near the seashore back then, at Madison. We’d found it together one weekend soon after I learned I had the New Haven job. Simone was as easy-going about the move from Albany to Connecticut as she had been about the earlier upheaval when my work had dragged us upstate to the State Attorney’s office from New York City. Proximity to the ocean would be wonderful, she said, for Rianna, then six, and for the new baby when it came. And she was right, it was wonderful, for them and for us, and it was there that Simone – whose big thing was cooking – started up the local party catering business that brought her success and many new friends.

It also brought about her death in a car smash three years later while she was rushing a part pre-cooked dinner for six to its destination in a rainstorm.

That was when I learned about bad news phone calls.

The Coopers lived out of town, in Brookline. Busy with work and kids the way we all seem to be these swift-flowing days, I’d only seen them five-or-so times in the years since Simone’s death, usually for catch-up lunches or dinners in either New Haven or Boston, but I’d met Michael twice since he hit his teens and found him a warm-hearted, delightful, good-looking boy. Only a matter of time, Fran and I agreed, till he started breaking some hearts and having his own torn up a little.

This wasn’t the kind of heartbreak we’d had in mind.

The house was good, solid, comfortable, a family home. I remembered one time when we’d all visited and barbecued in the back yard, the kids having a ball, grown-ups ensuring they stayed away from the burning charcoal but otherwise completely content with our food and a few beers and good company. Fran was a redhead with laughing hazel eyes, and Stu made her laugh a lot.

No one was laughing now.

‘Tell me,’ I said, after Stu and I had clasped in a brief man-hug and I’d held Fran in my arms, feeling how thin she’d become, feeling her shake with sobs.

We were in the den, family pictures and mementos everywhere, along with Stu’s golfing cups and Michael’s own trophies – the kid was running almost as soon as he was walking, Fran used to say.

Stu did the telling. On Friday, April 14, Mikey had packed a bag for the weekend because he was going to stay with his best friend, Steve Chaplin. He’d never made it there.

‘And because he packed a bag,’ Stu said, ‘the cops figured he was leaving home – running away.’

‘Juveniles do run away all the time.’ I knew as I said the words, they weren’t what they needed to hear. Which didn’t make it any less true; Michael Cooper was a juvenile, and though he had seemed an easy, happy kid when I’d last seen him, that didn’t mean he mightn’t have changed. Those damned early testosterone surges do it to a lot of us, after all; turn sweet-natured boys into tearaways with short fuses, making parents lose patience . . .

‘Not Michael,’ Stu said. ‘The police kept asking if we’d had problems, and we made the big mistake of telling them the truth, that sure, we argued about things – what family doesn’t?’

‘Did you argue about something that day?’ I had to ask.

‘No,’ Stu answered frustratedly. ‘Nothing major, not even the kind of thing that might get blown out of proportion by a teenage mind.’

‘That’s what the police wanted to believe,’ Fran told me. ‘What they still seem to think, even after four weeks.’ Her eyes were moist, reddened. ‘Mikey was going to stay with the Chaplins – that’s why he packed his bag, not because he was running away. He would never do something so cruel to us.’

I agreed it seemed unlikely.

‘No one’s listening to us properly,’ Fran said. ‘They say there’s no evidence of anything bad happening to Mikey, but that’s not true.’

Stu leaned forward, brown eyes intense, couched in pain. ‘Something weird happened a couple of weeks before he went missing. Someone sent him a gift, anonymously.’

‘What kind of a gift?’

‘One of those horrible computer games the kids love.’ Fran screwed up her nose. ‘This was one Mikey already had.’

‘Though it was some kind of special edition,’ Stu added.

‘Which game was it?’ I asked, since with my own fifteen-year-old, I knew a little – as little as possible, I have to say – about the genre.

‘Limbo,’ Fran answered, with more distaste.

‘I’ve heard of it,’ I said, ‘though I don’t think it’s one I’ve seen Rianna play.’ She seemed to favour the sport-related games, at least at home, though I had an idea she sometimes played other kinds with friends.

‘There was a note with it.’ Stu brought me back to the point. ‘Unsigned. It said that the sender knew Michael was already logged as a Limbo master, but thought he might enjoy owning the special deluxe edition.’

‘Master?’ I queried.

‘Some kind of ranking of expertise,’ Stu explained. ‘The note also said the sender had been watching Mikey on the track—’

‘You remember what a good runner he is,’ Fran interrupted.

‘Sure.’ I nodded towards the trophies.

‘He’d been watching,’ Stu continued, ‘and said he felt Michael had great promise, that one of these days he might reap rewards more amazing than he could imagine.’

‘Does Limbo have anything to do with athletics?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ Stu answered, ‘except the two heroes are these plastic-type moronically all-round gifted physical specimens, able to fight, scale tall buildings – you know the kind of thing, Jake.’

‘And kill,’ Fran added softly.

I looked at her, saw the dark terror behind the eyes. ‘Still just a game,’ I said gently, then looked back at Stu. ‘It’s the note that’s more troubling, of course, in the circumstances. Could I see it?’

‘We don’t have it,’ Stu said, his frustration terribly clear. ‘If we’d had it, we could have given it to the cops, and then they might be taking us more seriously.’

‘We think maybe Mikey kept it on him,’ Fran told me, ‘because it seemed so important to him.’

That was what had caused the arguments Stu had mentioned, she went on to explain. Michael had been galvanized by the message in the note, wanted to believe it might have been sent by some track talent scout, had refused to see the creepiness in it – and in a way, Stu and Fran had been glad about that, glad their child hadn’t been too scared.

‘Though of course,’ Stu said, ‘a little scared might have . . .’ He trailed off.

‘His school work went on the back burner.’ For a few moments, Fran was the stronger. ‘Suddenly all Mikey wanted to do was train.’

‘So we argued with him,’ Stu said, ‘and after he disappeared, we told the police about that and the gift and the note, but they said since we didn’t have the note for them to check out, there was nothing they could do about it.’

‘And since then,’ Fran added, ‘all they’ve done is focus on the fact that we argued with Mikey.’

‘For a while,’ Stu said, quietly, ‘they even acted as if I might have done something to him.’ He paused, swallowed hard, went on. They asked me if I ever hit him. I told them I didn’t. “Not ever?” they asked, like that was impossible.’

‘We never even had to contemplate smacking Mikey.’ Fran’s eyes were filling again. ‘We really never had to – he was always such an easy boy.’

‘You know how he is,’ Stu said.

‘Sure,’ I said, and paused. ‘How was the gift sent?’

‘By regular mail,’ Fran said.

‘And no’ – Stu’s jaw was set hard – ‘we didn’t keep the packaging because we didn’t know our son was going to disappear off the face of the earth.’

We all quit talking for several seconds after that. In my case, I was still taking it in, absorbing the horror and the possible ramifications. For Fran and Stu, I knew full well, the dreads had to be rolling around and around for the thousandth time. Unstoppable thoughts of the worst kind.

‘What can I do?’ I asked them, finally.

‘Talk to the police,’ Fran said. ‘Make them believe Mikey’s no runaway, make them realize that something very bad must have happened to him, that . . .’

‘That someone’s taken him,’ Stu stepped in, eyes burning.

‘Problem is,’ I said, slowly, thinking, ‘I don’t know anyone on the Brookline force – nor in Boston.’

‘But you must have contacts who do,’ Stu said.

‘Not really.’ I felt bad. ‘You remember how quickly I resigned from my job in Albany, Fran.’ I winced a little. ‘So far as my personal law enforcement record goes, they probably stamped a big F for flake beside my name – which means I’m not in a prime position to call in favours, especially with people who don’t know me.’

Stu stood up, walked across to the open glass doors that led out onto the back yard. A tabby cat I didn’t remember seeing before sat on its haunches, washing. Stu’s back was to me. I was glad I couldn’t see his face.

‘But you teach criminal justice.’ Fran wasn’t giving up so easily. ‘That has to give you credibility with the police.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not so sure, Fran.’ I tried to explain. ‘It’s true that in my line of work we have to keep up-to-date with methods and new developments, but to the police that often means we’re getting in their way. And they tend to favour those who served their time, ideally till retirement.’

Stu’s back was still turned.

I took a breath. ‘But I’d be glad to ask some questions, confirm they’re treating Michael’s disappearance seriously.’

Stu turned around. ‘That’s all we’re asking, Jake.’

Fran stood up. ‘Can we go now?’

‘Sure.’ I hesitated. ‘Though I think maybe I should go in alone.’

They both got the point.

‘I’ll drive him over,’ Stu said to Fran, who nodded. ‘We like one of us to be here to answer the phone, in case.’

Fran came across, put her arms around me. ‘Thank you, Jake.’

I felt that awful fragility again, felt her quivering, wondered if it ever let up these days, wondered how much she managed to sleep at night, if at all.

‘I wish there were something I could really do for you guys.’

I could hear Stu already out at the front door, keys rattling in his hand.

Fran drew back. ‘You’re going to try. That’s something.’

With all my heart, I hoped so.

Chapter Five

The teenager was sleeping when he entered the darkened room.

A blessing for them both.

He trained the infrared beam from his night glasses, took a long, last, regretful look, then focused hard on the head. Right temple, glowing green in his light.

He raised the gun, safety already off because he truly did not want the boy to know, didn’t want it to be any tougher than it already was.

The boy stirred. Woke. The light was invisible to him but he knew someone was there, knew something was wrong, worse than wrong, and terror flew into his eyes.

Oh shit, oh Christ, oh God, how I hate this.

He squeezed the trigger.

Two screams rose into the dark along with the thud of the muffled bullet. Followed by moaning, writhing.

Not dead. Go again.

He moved in tighter. His hands were shaking, gripping the gun. The wriggling and sounds of pain had ceased, but the kid was unconscious, not dead.

Don’t be such a fucking coward.

He trained the beam and the gun’s barrel right between the eyes. Easier now there was no more movement.

Another bullet.

Only one scream this time.