Pure Hate (26 page)

Natasha was lying on the couch,
watching television, and falling asleep when the window imploded and Detective
Willis went down in a spray of glass shards and blood. She heard the
unmistakable sound of a shotgun chambering a round as Malcolm smashed through
what remained of the window and stepped into the living room. Detective Vargas
drew his gun and fired shots in the vicinity of the window, not aiming, just
trying to buy time and distract Malcolm long enough to get to Natasha.

Malcolm smiled as bullets flew past
him and punched chunks out of the drywall. Detective Vargas dove for the couch,
reaching out for Natasha to shield her from the monster who’d just murdered
Willis. If the detective could reach her and pin Malcolm down with gunfire long
enough to get her to the door, she might have a shot at surviving this. But
Malcolm was moving far too fast. In one leap, he moved from the window to the
couch, firing the shotgun as he landed between the detective and Natasha.
Vargas landed behind the sofa with a steaming hole in his chest. His silver
sharkskin suit turned red as his life drained from severed arteries and
perforated organs.

Natasha curled into a tight ball on
the couch waiting for the shotgun to turn on her. Malcolm put his dark
cavernous eyes on her. She could see terrible things stirring deep within them.

He was breathing hard, like a
prizefighter in the twelfth round. Natasha could not believe the chance he’d
taken to get her. She knew that he’d be even angrier because of the extreme
risk. He’d almost lost his life getting to her. He could have died falling off
the ledge or been gunned down stepping through the window, but he’d risked
death for her. Another time and she might have been flattered, but now, all she
could do was scream, explode from her fetal ball, and scramble to her feet to
run away from him just like she’d run from him when he’d caught her fucking
Reed.

Malcolm reached out and caught her
arm as she tried to make it past him to the door. Natasha screamed again. Her
one chance to escape, to survive, was gone. She continued to struggle but knew
it was hopeless. Malcolm locked one iron-muscled limb around her neck and
lifted her off the ground. She was choking, but she had enough air left in her
lungs to continue screaming.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, but
there was no way she could. She kept hoping that there were other cops around
who would hear her screams and come save her. There had to be someone who could
save her. She couldn’t die. There was so much more she wanted to do with her
life. Murder was what happened to other people, like those cops there on the
floor. People like her didn’t get murdered.

Malcolm opened the door and marched
past the curious and frightened neighbors as they came out of their apartments.
He still had her by the throat and he still had the Mossberg, his finger hovering
over the trigger. Natasha still screamed.

A long time ago she’d loved this man.
She’d told him she’d die for him, that she wanted to die with him. Now, all she
wanted was to live, to go back to her perfect job, her perfect apartment, and
her mediocre boyfriend. But Malcolm was going to take it all away. Malcolm was
going to kill her. She knew that now even if she still could not fully accept
it. She had to keep fighting until the end.

“Help me! Someone help me! My god
he’s going to kill me! Help! Help!” Natasha screamed, but the other residents
had come out to look, not to get involved. None of them wanted to become a
victim. They watched as she was dragged to the fire exit by the tremendous
black man and down the stairs. They watched as she was thrown into the trunk of
Malcolm’s car. They were still watching, dialing 911 on their cell phones,
while Malcolm sped away from the scene in the Mercedes, Natasha still screaming
her horror under the listless stars.

Somehow, Reed had lost Malcolm in the
downtown traffic. It surprised him when the entire procession had suddenly
stalled before the parade of freaks at the gay bookstore and Reed had continued
up Eleventh Street, afraid to stop directly in back of Malcolm’s vehicle and
risk being spotted. Malcolm was apparently not as concerned about the cops
spotting him. Reed didn’t have enough room to turn onto Walnut Street anyway
with the three vehicles stopped on the corner.

Instead, he continued up Eleventh
Street. His intention was to circle the block, but he’d forgotten thatTenth
Street was one-way in the opposite direction and by the time he made his way
all the way to Ninth Street to come back around, they were gone. He turned down
Walnut and drove all the way to Fourth Street, then retraced his path when he
couldn’t find them up again. When he saw squad cars race down Walnut Street
with sirens and lights blazing, he knew he was too late. He followed anyway on
the remote chance that they’d actually managed to capture or kill Malcolm.

Reed had to pull over to the curb to
allow an ambulance to pass, heading toward Front Street where the street was
lit up like a discotheque by what looked like the entire police precinct, and
was most likely more. As he passed Second Street, the somber angry faces of the
police officers barricading the next block told him all he needed to know. He
pulled the taxi as close to the parking lot as possible before the cops told
him to move on. A plainclothes puerto rican officer that Reed recognized from
the night of his family’s murder, came storming from the apartment building
with his face twisted into an angry scowl and tears streaming down his sallow,
hollow cheeks. He punched one black leather-gloved fist into the other and
looked around for something else to hit. Reed spun the taxi into a U-turn and
drove off. Malcolm hadn’t been captured here, and he’d gotten away with
Natasha. Reed was once again left with no clue where to find Malcolm. His only
consolation was that Malcolm wouldn’t know where he was either.

Detective James Bryant drove back to
the station with fatigue, anxiety, frustration, and fear weighing down his
limbs and coating his mind in a thick sludge that mired his thoughts and slowed
the flow of ideas to a trickle. Malcolm had been inches away from him, hiding
in the dark, preparing to ambush, preparing to kill him. He’d come to rescue CC
and, instead, nearly became another victim of the man he was supposed to be
saving her from. This case had turned as bad as any case possibly could. When James
thought about the pain CC had gone through, he felt his own pain, the pain of
his failure, pour down over him like a flash flood. He almost allowed himself
to weep before he caught himself. He bit his lower lip until it bled. The new,
little pain helped him hold back the tears.

James wanted off this case. Fuck
pride. Fuck revenge. He didn’t even want to be the guy who found Malcolm
anymore. He just wanted to wake up, turn on the news, and hear that some zealous
cops had riddled Malcolm with bullets.

His near death experience was causing
a short circuit in his mental computer. Things were no longer adding up. This
case made no sense to him and was making less sense every passing minute. He
wanted no more part in this madness. Catching Malcolm was no longer nearly as
important as not being caught by him and not letting him catch CC again.

Malcovich, conversely, had a hard-on
for Malcolm now. A killer who callously, brazenly hunted cops threatened what
little safety and authority the badge retained. Respect for the badge was often
the best protection a cop had on the street, more than his gun, his vest, or
all the backup available. There were far more criminals than cops. Respect for
the badge kept them from storming the walls and overwhelming the city’s meager
police force. On the ride back to the station, Malcovich told James about
places in Sicily where cops were no safer walking the streets than an average
citizen. He told him about places in Mexico where they were actively targeted.

“Last year, in Juarez, Mexico, on
Christmas Eve, they found a police detective’s head outside the police station
wearing a Santa hat. Just his head. In his mouth, there was a list of ten other
police detectives. It was a hit list. Half those cops are dead now and a bunch
of the rest emigrated to America to escape the drug cartels. At least it isn’t
that bad.”

It was every cop’s nightmare. When
the uniform and the badge no longer held any fear, and all they had to hold
order was the gun and the billy club, their lives wouldn’t be worth a vial of crack. Malcovich was right. It wasn’t that
bad in Philadelphia, not as bad as they had it in Juarez, but it felt like it
was getting closer. There was a psychopath hunting and killing cops. It may not
have been an entire criminal organization, but what was the difference? Dead
was dead. He told Malcovich to shut the fuck up and they drove the rest of the
way without speaking another word. That’s when James decided he wanted off this
case. Catching a madman wasn’t worth his life. The other cops would understand
and if they didn’t, if they thought he was a coward, then they could go fuck
themselves. He was done.

Malcolm’s arrogance in the face of
the full might of the Philadelphia Police Department threatened to undermine
the authority of the entire force. It threatened to reduce the badge to useless
adornment. If for no other reason, Malcolm had to be made into an example.
Malcovich wanted to see him on death row. James wanted to see him in a casket.
Malcolm had long ago ceased to be a suspect. It was a war, he was the enemy,
and it was kill or be killed.

Malcovich was eager to get back to
the station. He wanted to look at the crime scene photos again, try to get a
handle on Malcolm’s psyche. Maybe something in the files would give them a clue
as to where Malcolm might be going, what he might be planning. His bubbly
enthusiasm was annoying James. He just wanted to see CC again. She was being
treated at Washington Hospital and was safe for now.

James parked in front of the station
and he and Malcovich started up the steps. They had just entered the building
when they heard the call go out over the radio. The safe house had been
compromised. Natasha had been kidnapped, and Willis and Vargas were dead along
with an unfortunate security guard who’d been disemboweled. James punched both
fists into the sides of his head and clenched his teeth as if biting down onto
something desperately trying to get away.

“My God! We can’t be as helpless as
this guy thinks we are! This bastard is walking right through us!”

David Malcovich stared at his feet.
When he looked up, James could tell he was searching for some words of
reassurance.

“Save it,” James said.

James shook his head. Agent Malcovich
still believed they would catch this guy, even with the scorecard lopsided in the
Family Man’s favor. He hoped the agent was right, because right now, Malcolm
was kicking their collective ass.

Half the station house poured out
into their vehicles, heading toward the scene. James ran to the Intrepid.
Malcovich followed.

“Whoa, partner you’d better find
another ride.”

“I need to see the scene while it’s
still fresh.”

“I’m not going to the scene. I’m
going to the hospital. I need to see CC.”

If Malcolm had so quickly located and
penetrated the safe house, then CC wasn’t safe either.

“Two detectives were killed and a
witness is missing. We need to get over there!”

“Wrong.” James pointed a finger
directly at Agent Malcovich as if he were aiming a gun, “
You
need to get
over there. I need to see CC.”

James slammed the car door and nearly
took off Malcovich’s toes as he sped away from the curb.

During the brief drive to the murder
scene, Special Agent Malcovich once again ran the case in his head. Malcolm had
a very unique and disturbing signature. It was rare to encounter a serial
killer whose need to control and dominate others led him to take on more than
one victim at a time. It was too difficult, too risky. Controlling one victim
was hard enough, but two or more increased the margin for error. Those serial
killers who assaulted multiple victims at once generally only did so once or
twice at the end of their degenerative cycle when they no longer cared whether
or not they were caught. There were, of course, a few exceptions.

David Berkowitz had gone after
couples, and the Nightstalker, Richard Ramirez, had assaulted couples as they
slept. But in both those cases, the males were killed quickly and were not part
of the ritualistic rape/murder. A killer who hunted entire families again and
again as a part of his signature was almost unprecedented. It indicated a
megalomaniacal psychopath with an overwhelming need to control and dominate
others. Malcolm was some bizarre hybrid of what the FBI termed the
“anger-excitation killer” and the “anger-retaliatory killer.” In other words,
Malcolm was a very pissed off killer who was turned on by death and believed he
had a legitimate reason to murder. A serial killer on a mission.

The use of surrogate victims to
substitute for the true target led Malcovich to label Malcolm as an
anger-retaliatory killer. That and the over-kill stabbing and beating. The
sexual sadism, the prolonged torture, the obvious planning and premeditation,
the ritualistic mutilation and cannibalism were all the signatures of the
“anger-excitation killer” who derives sexual gratification from rape, torture,
homicide, and mutilation.

The way the parents were discarded
face up and posed indicated a definite sexual motive to Malcolm’s crimes.
Conversely, the children were all found facedown or with their faces covered as
if, having sated his anger upon them, the killer was overcome with guilt. There
was no sexual assault on the children, despite what in some cases were a
profusion of stab wounds that would indicate the killer was in a complete
homicidal fury. He was, in his meticulous cleaning of the crime scenes and
removal of physical evidence extremely organized, even to the point of wearing
condoms during rape.

Organized. Pre-meditated. Then,
during his assault on Reed Cozen’s family: no condom, no attempt to destroy
evidence, witness left alive, and, ever since, no attempt to hide his identity
as if Malcolm didn’t care whether he was captured or not. Either that or he
didn’t believe he could be stopped.

Malcovich thought about what
Detective Bryant said about the first killings being signature killings and the
rest being personal revenge killings. It made sense. If anything about this
case could be said to make sense.

Agent Malcovich nervously checked the
clip in his Glock nine millimeter as he pulled up in the parking lot of the
Society Hill Towers where, upstairs on the top floor, the officers’ bodies
still lay where they’d fallen. He watched the faces of the police officers who
were busy handling the crowds of civilians and press. Their expressions ranged
from anger to cool professionalism but, behind each pair of eyes, Malcovich
could see the dark tint of fear. No one was safe anymore.

Malcovich clicked the Glock’s safety off
as he climbed from the rented Plymouth Concorde and flashed his badge at the
uniformed officer who rushed forward to guide him under the yellow police tape.

“This way, Special Agent . . .”

“Malcovich. Thanks.”

The same officer guided him into the
building, past a bellaman who was speaking excitedly to a female detective
hurriedly trying to scribble down his account of the incident. He led him to
the stairwell where the body of the security guard was still crumpled on the
floor of the lobby. Blood had pooled two inches deep around the body. The guard’s
mouth had fallen open and his head was turned at an awkward angle so that his
glazed, vapid eyes were looking backwards over his shoulder. The most gifted
contortionist would not have been able to mimic the pose. The scene on the top
floor was even worse.

As he entered the apartment,
Malcovich examined the shattered window, the body lying amid glass fragments,
the other body lying alongside the couch, and developed a pretty fair picture
of how it had gone down. It was easy to imagine Malcolm coming through the
window blasting away with the shotgun. Malcovich poked his head out the window
and felt the powerful gusts that whipped around the building. He looked at the
narrow ledge that led from the fire escape and thought how easily someone could
be blown off. The man who’d risked a ten-story fall to come through that window
and confront the two armed detectives had been recklessly, fanatically
determined.

Malcovich began to scribble notes on
his pad while trying not to think about how he’d been discussing the case with
these very same detectives just hours before. It was hard to think of them as
mere corpus delecti when he could still remember the sound of their voices.
Once again, he found himself fearing for James’s safety and his own. Malcolm
was like no serial killer he’d ever encountered. There was no telling what he
was capable of.