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“Daddy?”
The killer stood there and stared back up at the child. His gloved hand slipped to his pocket, fingered a knife. It would be over in an instant. A deuce instead of only one dead, what did it matter? Mother and son, what the hell does it matter? He tensed to do this very thing. Yet he made not a move. He simply stared at the small frame outlined in the weak light; the potential eyewitness.
“Daddy?” he said again, now his voice rising with fear when no answer came.
He snapped back just in time. “It’s Daddy, son, go back to sleep.”
“I thought you had to go, Daddy.”
“I forgot something, Tommy, that’s all. Go back to sleep before you wake up your brothers. You know once your little brother starts to cry, it’s all over. And give Bucky a kiss for me,” he added, referring to the stuffed bear. While he couldn’t exactly imitate the father’s voice, knowing the son’s name, that he had brothers and other intimate details would certainly put the little boy at ease.
He’d researched the Robinsons thoroughly. He knew everything from their nicknames to their Social Security numbers to their favorite restaurant to the various sports the two older boys, Tommy and Jeff, played: Tommy baseball and Jeff soccer. He knew that Harold Robinson had left the house at a little before midnight on his way to Washington, D.C…. that their mother loved them very much… that tonight he’d taken that person away from them forever. He’d done so solely because she’d had the great misfortune to pass by his radar while shopping for milk and eggs. It could have been anyone’s mother. Anyone’s. But it just happened to be Tommy’s. And twelve-year-old Jeff’s. And little one-year-old Andy’s, who’d had the colic his first six months of life. It was amazing the intimate details people shared if one just listened. Yet no one did listen anymore, except perhaps priests. And killers like him.
He let go of the knife in his pocket. Tommy would have the chance to grow up. One Robinson was enough for tonight.
“Go back to bed, son,” he said again more firmly.
“Okay, Daddy. I love you.” The little boy turned and headed back down the hall.
Black hood stood there for far too long, staring up at the empty space where sleepy Tommy had been, where he’d said, I love you, Daddy. He should be making his escape; finishing up his last task. I love you, Daddy.
He suddenly felt ashamed to even be in the same house with the child who’d said that to him, however mistakenly. He cursed himself. Go, go now. The husband is probably right now phoning the police. Go, you idiot!
Down in the unfinished basement he shone his light on the capped piping that marked a future toilet area. He unscrewed the cap, took out the large Baggie of items, stuffed it in the pipe and screwed the cap back on just so. In planting evidence one could neither be too obvious nor too obtuse. His fence-straddling would have to be perfect.
He slipped outside, crossed the backyard and made his way to his blue VW parked several blocks off. He took off his hood as he drove away. Then he did something he’d never done before. He drove directly to the home where he’d just committed perhaps his most heinous crime of all. The murdered mother was in her bedroom. Tommy was in his—the third dormer window from his left. The kids got up at seven to be ready for school. If their mother wasn’t up by then, they’d go and get her. He checked his watch; it was one o’clock now. Tommy perhaps had six more hours of normalcy. “Enjoy them, Tommy,” he mumbled to the dark window. “Enjoy them… And I’m sorry.”
He drove off, licking at the salt of the tears sliding down his cheeks.
CHAPTER
82
KING HAD ALREADY LEFT
in a rental car by the time Todd Williams called Michelle with the news of Jean Robinson’s death. When she arrived at the stricken home, it was surrounded with police and emergency vehicles. Neighbors stared terrified from windows and porches. There was not a child to be seen anywhere. The three Robinson children had gone to a nearby relative’s home with their father.
Michelle found Williams, Sylvia and Bailey in the master bedroom; all three were staring down at the former lady of the house.
Michelle recoiled slightly as she saw what had been done to the woman.
Sylvia looked over at her, and nodded in understanding. “Stigmata.”
Jean Robinson’s palms and feet had been mutilated as though to resemble the markings of Jesus on the cross. And her body had been laid out too, like the son of God on that piece of chiseled wood.
Bailey said wearily, “Bobby Joe Lucas. He did the exact same thing to fourteen women in Kansas and Missouri in the early 1970s, after raping them.”
“I’m pretty certain no rape occurred here,” said Sylvia.
“I wasn’t suggesting that. Lucas died of a heart attack in prison in 1987. And her nightgown is missing according to the husband. That would fit our killer’s M.O.”
“Where’s Sean?” asked Williams.
“Out getting some questions answered.”
Bailey looked at her suspiciously. “Where?”
“Don’t really know.”
