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Drake cut his eyes toward the picture. “Waycross, he’s the fella you guys found dead in the lake.”
“Yes, he is,” Derrick said. “And the reason I’m asking about his friends at the time. They were interested in true crime.”
“Well, we do draw some true crime nuts. Inspired me to add décor about serial killers and murders downstairs, where the chess players meet.”
“Were Pockley or Waycross among those?”
“Maybe. There’s been hundreds of guys in here over the years. I can’t remember them all.”
“How about this man?” Derrick showed him the ten-year-old picture of Wahlburg. “His name was Frank.”
A waitress pushed an order slip in front of Drake and he grabbed a bottle of vodka, a jar of olives and a shaker and shook his head. “Like I said, I can’t remember everyone who came in here.”
“What’s downstairs?” Derrick asked.
“Pool table, medieval furniture, cigar bar. Set up for poker games and chess matches.”
Derrick thanked him, threw a five-dollar bill on the counter then headed toward the rear where he’d seen the drunk guy staggering. A narrow, spiral stone stairway led down into a smoky space that had a speakeasy type feel. He counted seven young men smoking cigars and playing poker. Tables of two were seriously intent on their chess games.
Photographs of most wanted criminals in history hung on another wall with articles describing their deeds, creating a morose feel. A sword was attached to the wall along with a glass case housing various kinds of hunting knives. A framed sketch of a torture chamber along with illustrations of people being tortured and mutilated dominated the far wall. Posters of horror movies, includingThe Silence of the Lambs, occupied another.
Derrick’s skin prickled.
Had the men met here to plan murder ten years ago?
ONE HUNDRED EIGHTEEN
THE HOSPITAL
The brothers gathered, humming as they had ten years ago in this very spot. Viewing screens were set up in one central station, so they could watch their victims.
The morgue was ready. The other bodies, they’d kept embalmed and preserved, tucked in their drawers. Shortly after they started the game, they’d realized that dumping the victims might lead the police back to them, so they’d created their own private graveyard here.
Police had questioned the others. But he’d managed to stay off their radar.
On one screen, he watched Radcliff lead Odessa toward the wall and string her up.
“You wanted to play,” Radcliff said. “You like to live on the edge, don’t you, my love?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Anything for you, Dom.”
That look of fear excited him the most. Radcliff raised his knife and slashed Odessa’s clothes, shredding them as he would her skin. But first he’d toy with her as he always did.
Her clothes hung in pieces off her pale body, which quivered with his touch.
While Radcliff played with her, pricking her back with the tip of the knife, she began to shake and whimper.
He turned to the next screen where the woman named Sarah Turner lay limp, helpless and terrified.
In another room, Beverly Hooper, and another, Janie Huggins.
Then there was the young girl. Frank called her Lorna Bea. He watched her huddle in the dark cold room, knees pulled to her chest, big eyes wide with fear as she trembled.
His heart pounded.
Her innocence would turn to horror when she realized why he’d taken her.
ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN
