Chasing the Boogeyman Read online

  During the United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War, many controversial stories began to surface in the media detailing incidents of American troops mutilating deceased North Vietnamese soldiers and civilians, including the severing of ears. This practice originally began in the early years of the war when U.S. advisers working with indigenous troops such as the Montagnards offered a small cash bounty for Vietcong troops killed. In order to collect, they had to present proof of the kill, and it was decided that an ear would suffice. Combat photographs and film footage of American troops committing these atrocities and wearing necklaces comprised of dozens of severed ears sparked cries of outrage back home in the States.

  More recently, in 1986, nine murder victims in Miami, Florida, were found with their ears severed. While local law enforcement originally believed the grisly acts to be the work of a serial killer, an arrest in connection with an unrelated homicide led police to suspect the killings were tied to a religious sect called the Nation of Yahweh.

  The original founder, Hulon Mitchell Jr., Yahweh, “wanted White devils to be killed in retribution or revenge for any Black person that was murdered out in the community,” said Daniel Borrego, a former Miami-Dade homicide detective.

  Cult members revealed that in order to become “Death Angels”—highly respected enforcers responsible for keeping other followers in line—they were required by Yahweh to “bring me the ears of the White devil.”

  Finally, there was Robert Berdella, a Missouri serial killer known as “The Kansas City Butcher” and “The Collector.” Between 1984 and 1987, Berdella kidnapped, raped, tortured, and killed at least six men. He often imprisoned his victims for periods of up to six weeks. In addition to severing their ears, he committed numerous other atrocities, including pouring drain cleaner in eyes, inserting needles under fingernails, and binding wrists with piano wire.

  Jesus.

  As I finished reading the article, several crystal-clear thoughts settled in my mind: (1) While interesting, none of this information offered even a hint as to why someone had sliced off Natasha Gallagher’s and Kacey Robinson’s ears; (2) The words I’d just read had left a nasty taste in my mouth, and I really needed to brush my teeth and take a shower; and finally (3) There was no way in hell I was going to let my mom read this article.

  Before I went back inside, I walked to the driveway and tossed the newspaper into the garbage can.

  6

  Later that afternoon, Carly Albright called, and she had news.

  Kacey Robinson’s ex-boyfriend had been located in Ocean City, Maryland, where he’d spent the last several weeks working at a beach stand on Fourth Street, renting umbrellas, chairs, and bodyboards. He had a rock-solid alibi for the night of June 20 and was no longer considered a person of interest. He’d reportedly told the detectives, “All those assholes back in Edgewood should mind their own business. I wasn’t anywhere near that fucking dump and don’t plan on going back any time soon, either.” He sounded like a real charmer.

  Before we hung up, she passed on two more items of interest: one of her most-trusted sources had revealed that a small baggie of marijuana had been found hidden in Natasha Gallagher’s bedroom. Police didn’t think it had anything to do with her murder but were talking with local dealers, just in case. The same source reported that someone had called the tip-line recently, claiming that Kacey Robinson wasn’t quite as sunshine perfect as everyone believed she was. Evidently, Kacey had a very bad habit that only her closest friends were aware of: she was a kleptomaniac.

  7

  After dinner, I spent some time in the garage organizing my fishing gear in preparation for the next morning’s boat trip with Kara’s family. I’d just finished spooling new monofilament on my favorite reel when my father swung open the breezeway door and told me I had a call. He handed me the cordless phone.

  “Thanks,” I whispered. “Who is it?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Hello?” I said, louder this time. Sometimes the cordless got poor reception out in the garage.

  Again, only the soft hiss of an open line.

  “Hello?” Irritated now.

  And then I heard a soft click—and the drone of a dial tone.

  I pressed the off button on the phone and looked at my father. “Think we had a bad connection.”

  He looked at me with doubt in his eyes. “You sure about that?”

  “Not exactly. You didn’t recognize the voice?”

  He shook his head. “It was a man. Normal-sounding. Specifically asked for Richard.”

  “Huh.”

  “Maybe he’ll call back.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You being careful like I asked?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I’ve been with Kara for the last couple days. Getting a lot of work done before that.”

  He glanced at my tackle box and fishing rod. “You finished in here?”

  “I am.” I turned off the overhead light and followed him into the house.

  Just before we reached the living room, he turned and lowered his voice. “Let’s not mention this to your mother, okay?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  8

  That night, although exhausted, I still had trouble falling asleep. I tossed and turned for a while, thinking about the mystery man who’d phoned the house. The previous prank calls could’ve been chalked up to simple acts of mischief. My friends and I had done it dozens of times growing up. Call a random number, remain silent or say something stupid, and hang up. But this time was different. I had been asked for by name. Then, he’d waited until I’d gotten on the line, listened to my voice, and only then ended the call. Who the hell was it? Was the call some kind of message? A warning? If so, a warning for what purpose?

  I knew my father was worried, and I didn’t blame him. The whole situation was odd… and disturbing.

  I thought about Detective Harper’s business card tucked away in the top drawer of my desk. Should I call and tell him? Tell him what? That someone was making stupid prank calls and messing with my head? He’d probably crack up laughing and hang up on me as well.

  But then an incident from earlier in the week dawned on me. I’d been out running errands, my first stop being the post office to mail a stack of new short story submissions. Afterward, backing my car out of a tight parking space, I almost bumped into a silver sedan with dark windows parked on the opposite side of the lot. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But then I stopped at Plaza Drugs for a ream of paper and a birthday card my mom had asked me to pick up for Norma Gentile. On the way out, I had to wait for two vehicles to pass before walking across the parking lot to my car. One of them was a silver sedan with tinted windows. My final stop was the First National Bank so I could withdraw forty dollars in cash. While standing in line at the ATM, I noticed an older man with his back to me holding the door open at the Chinese restaurant next door. When a thin woman with short black hair walked out behind him, I realized it was Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, Kacey’s parents. I immediately dropped my gaze to the sidewalk in front of me, holding my breath and hoping Mrs. Robinson wouldn’t recognize me. All I could think in that moment was: I didn’t even go to their daughter’s funeral. To my relief, they walked directly to their car in the parking lot without so much as a backward glance.

  Driving home, I caught the traffic light on Edgewood Road. Still distracted with thoughts of the Robinsons, I waited for the light to turn green and then hung a right, following a UPS truck onto Hanson. Halfway home, I glanced at the rearview mirror and noticed a silver sedan two cars behind me. I slowed down for a better look, but with the sun’s glare on the windshield, I couldn’t tell who was behind the wheel. By the time I turned into my driveway a couple minutes later, the car had disappeared from sight. A half hour later, absorbed in the writing of a new short story, it was all but forgotten.

  Until now.

  It was a
long time before sleep finally came.

  Police questioning residents of Bayberry Drive (Photo courtesy of Logan Reynolds)

  Detective Lyle Harper (Photo courtesy of The Aegis)

  five July

  “There’s a storm coming…”

  1

  Fortunately, this time, the shark-hating mayor of Amity Island was right.

  Edgewood residents turned out in overwhelming numbers for the town’s annual Fourth of July celebration, and according to police, not a single arrest was made for a violent crime.

  Monday morning dawned with holiday-perfect skies overhead, and it almost felt as if the townspeople arose from their beds in especially boisterous spirits, grateful to have an extra day off from work, and eager and determined to put the recent bad news behind them. The Cub Scouts–sponsored pancake breakfast at the fire hall and the Little League doubleheader afterward were well attended and loudly cheered. Backyard cookouts filled the air with the delicious aroma of hamburgers and hot dogs and barbecued chicken, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter. At the end of Willoughby Beach Road, Flying Point Park was a circus. An armada of boats lined the sandy beach, radios blaring, as grown-ups guzzled cold beer out of plastic cups and worked on their sunburns, and children did butt-busters and played tag and Marco Polo in the shallow waters. A short distance downriver, fishermen and crabbers lined an L-shaped pier, casting their baits into the heart of the deep channel in search of big catfish and perch. Dozens of families and packs of teenagers spread out across the park’s grassy fields, eating and drinking too much, tossing Frisbees and horseshoes and flying red-white-and-blue kites. The playground swarmed with hordes of wide-eyed, sugar-spiked kids who, despite the scorching sun overhead, showed no signs of slowing down. The summer air was redolent with the fragrant perfume of charcoal grills, suntan lotion, steamed crabs, and freshly cut grass.

  Once evening came, people headed downtown and large crowds gathered along both shoulders of Edgewood Road. The high school marching band led off the parade with a rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” everyone rising from their lawn chairs and blankets and standing at attention as a line of proud flag bearers passed by. The Little League and softball teams came next, the players dressed in their uniforms, waving their caps at parents and friends and posing for photos. Then, the fire trucks and ambulances and police cars, lights flashing, sirens bleating; a staggered line of tractors advertising local businesses and parade sponsors; squadrons of soldiers from Edgewood Arsenal marching in perfect cadence, the gold buttons on their uniforms sparkling in the setting sun, spinning spit-shined rifles like batons and tossing them high into the air; Miss Maryland and Miss Harford County riding in the back of red-and-white convertible Corvettes, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd, hurling handfuls of candy to the children; and finally, last in line as was tradition, a caravan of open-air Jeeps—American flags attached to the antennas—carrying surviving members of the Edgewood Veterans of Foreign Wars, their dress uniforms and medals and ribbons taken out of storage for all to admire.

  As soon as the parade was over, people packed up their belongings and scattered around town to enjoy the rest of the night. Many headed just down the street to the shopping center parking lot, which afforded an unobstructed view of the upcoming fireworks show. Ice cream and snowball vendors waded throughout the crowd, ringing their bells, as packs of giggling children chased after them. Others folded up their blankets and went home to watch the show from front porches and backyard patios. A handful of mostly older folks, exhausted from the day’s activities, went straight to their beds and a good night’s sleep.

  As promised, there were indeed many extra patrols cruising the streets of Edgewood—including members of both the Maryland State Police and Harford County Sheriff’s Department. Plainclothes officers infiltrated the crowds throughout the day and night. Others posed as joggers or romantic couples out for a stroll, keeping a close watch over the suburban streets. A handful of arrests were made for driving under the influence, drunken and disorderly conduct, illegal fireworks, and petty vandalism. The day’s most serious bust came when two out-of-towners were arrested during the fireworks display for marijuana possession, and an illegal handgun was subsequently discovered in their vehicle’s glove compartment.

  The night’s biggest scare came long after most of the crowds had dispersed and gone home. Rodney Talbot, age forty-three, notorious malcontent and raging alcoholic, skipped out on his bar tab and locked his keys in his car outside of Winters Run Inn. Ironically, the mishap most likely saved Talbot from getting pulled over and spending the night in jail, as a state trooper was parked just down the road on Route 7 in prime position to nail him.

  But that’s where Rodney Talbot’s luck ran out.

  Unable to hitch a ride with anyone else at the bar, Talbot staggered his way home through a nearby stretch of swampy woodland, tripping and falling face-first into a creek and stopping twice to vomit.

  Once he finally reached his double-wide trailer on Singer Road, he found the front door locked. After banging on the door and calling his wife every horrible name he could think of, and several others he made up on the spot, Talbot went to the rear of the trailer, climbed atop an old picnic table, and attempted to crawl through a narrow bedroom window.

  Inside the cramped trailer, Talbot’s equally piss-drunk wife, Amanda, awakened from a deep stupor. Not recognizing her husband’s mud-streaked face at the window, she immediately believed that here was the Boogeyman, trying to break in and kill her. She’d be damned if she let that happen. Amanda grabbed an unloaded twelve-gauge shotgun from inside the closet, and when she couldn’t locate a box of shells, she spun the weapon around and repeatedly slammed the heavy wooden stock against the back of the intruder’s head. Once she was certain the Boogeyman was unconscious and no longer a threat, she called 911.

  Within minutes, sirens blaring, three police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck pulled up in front of the trailer. One of the officers, who was all too well acquainted with Rodney Talbot’s shenanigans, immediately recognized the would-be killer and calmly informed Amanda that she’d nearly murdered her own husband.

  Later on, back at the station, the officer couldn’t help but shake his head as he shared the story: “I couldn’t believe it. I expected her to get upset and start bawling or cussing. Instead, she took a good look at Rodney all sprawled out on the ground and started belly laughing. Five minutes later, she was still laughing. Gave me a damn headache. And the thing is, we couldn’t even arrest her for being shit-faced and stupid. She was minding her business in her own home, and the gun was legally registered.”

  2

  The Thursday after July Fourth, Carly Albright made an unexpected appearance at my house. My mother answered the door and announced in her sweetest voice, “Richard, there’s a girl here to see you.” When I walked into the foyer, Mom raised her cute little eyebrows at me and smirked. I pretended not to notice. Closing the door behind me, I joined Carly on the porch. Once again, we settled on the top stoop.

  “Richie… are you not allowed to invite girls inside your house?” Carly asked, smiling.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to go in. My mom’ll force you to eat a three-course lunch and talk your ear off while she does it. How was your Fourth?”

  “Spectacular,” she said in a deadpan tone of voice. “I started my day by covering the turtle races at the pancake breakfast. Then I interviewed drunks all afternoon and recorded the results of the horseshoe contest. All for five crappy inches of copy in yesterday’s paper.”

  I grimaced. “That is rough.”

  “Fortunately, I had the new Nora Roberts to keep me company the rest of the evening.”

  “You didn’t go to the fireworks? No big date?”

  She looked at me. “Rich, I’m ten pounds overweight, a workaholic, and a terrible listener. I haven’t had a date in over a year.”

  I averted my gaze, pretending to watch a dump truck drive by. “Sorry I
asked.”

  “How ’bout you? How was your Fourth?”

  I shrugged. “It was good. Finally got to spend some quality time with Kara. Caught some fish. Drank some beer. Got a sunburn.”

  She glanced at my forehead. “I can see that.”

  “So… what’s up?”

  She was quiet for a beat, and then said, “I have a favor to ask.”

  “No problem, what do you need?”

  “I pitched a story idea to my editor this morning, and she was actually excited, for a change.”

  “Okay,” I said, waiting for her to finish.

  “Well… the idea is you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You. I’d like to interview you about your writing and the magazine. Just think, if you make it big one day, I’ll have been the first.”

  I blew out a deep breath. I really didn’t know if I was ready for my entire hometown to know what I was up to. Looking for an easy out, I asked, “Don’t you think the timing might be a little bad for something like this?”

  “My editor and I already discussed that. She said as long as we stay away from anything too dark or graphic and don’t mention the words ‘serial killer,’ it should be fine. She thinks the town needs a little good news, and you’re it. Local boy makes good, that sort of thing.”

  “Me, good news. That’s a first.”

  “So what do you say?” she asked, leaning over so I couldn’t look away from her.

  I thought about it a moment longer. “You’re sneaky, you know that? You didn’t call and ask because you knew it would be easier for me to say no over the phone.”

  She flashed me an innocent look. “Why, Mr. Chizmar, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”