Chapter Two
The killer chastised the two bodyguards for letting him inside the house.
“Just ’cause I’m dressed like a cop, you shouldn’t let me walk in here without first checking my identification,” the killer said. “Come on, fellas. We’ve got the Carver saying Lawrence Tungsten’s going to be his next victim, and that maniac’s already killed all eight other people he’s promised to kill. You guys have got to be more on the ball here.”
One of the bodyguards—a chunky man in his fifties with a shaved head—stood frowning with his arms crossed over his chest. The bodyguard closest to the killer—a kid in his twenties with a mullet—rolled his eyes and muttered, “Okay, okay.”
“Well?”
The mulleted bodyguard took a deep breath, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Let’s see your identification,” he said.
The killer smiled. He removed his fake police ID from his wallet and handed it over. Mullet gave it a cursory look before offering it back.
“That’s it?” the killer asked incredulously. “You’re not even going to call my precinct to make sure I’ve got a legitimate reason for being here? Or even to verify that I’m actually a cop? Damn it, fellas, this Carver is a depraved and relentless killer. You think it’s beyond him to get a fake police ID? Or a fake patrolman’s uniform? If you two jokers are planning to keep Tungsten alive, you better do better.”
Shaved Head gritted his teeth. Mullet’s cheeks turned bright red. He asked, “Okay, what’s your precinct’s phone number? I’ll call them.”
The killer made a face. “Forget it,” he said. “If I was the Carver, you two would already be dead now, or at least as good as dead. Just hand me back my ID.”
The bodyguard cursed softly under his breath and proceeded to hand the killer back the ID when the killer surprised him by grabbing his wrist and jerking his body forward. Mullet yelped out in surprise, and his partner tensed, but didn’t reach for his gun.
The killer said, “If I was the Carver I could’ve planted a knife in your heart before you realized what was happening.” He nodded to the other one, “And you, great reflexes standing there like a dummy.” Then to both of them, “Come on fellas, are you two begging to get yourselves and Tungsten killed?”
“Try that again!”
The killer made a face. “Forget it. You two are hopeless. Where’s Tungsten now?”
Mullet muttered sullenly, “Upstairs in his study.”
“And you two just left him alone up there? Really? Did you at least check that all the windows were locked and the curtains drawn?”
“Will you get off my back already!”
The killer shook his head, not bothering to hide his disgust, which appeared genuine and not manufactured. “Unbelievable. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go upstairs and check on him myself.”
The killer took a step toward the staircase before stopping to stare with amazement at both bodyguards. “Really? You’re going to let me go up there by myself? Are you two that incompetent? If you had any training, one of you would stand guard down here, the other would accompany me and make sure I’m not planning any funny business.”
Mullet was seething while Shaved Head had tuned the killer out. Too chastened and angry to speak, Mullet started to lead the way upstairs, and the killer snorted out derisively, “They didn’t teach you at your clown school not to turn your back on a possible suspect? Even if I were really a cop, I could still be the Carver.”
Mullet froze for a second as he made sense of what the killer had just said, but before he could otherwise react, the killer had taken out a very sharp-looking hunting knife and ran the blade across the bodyguard’s exposed throat. Blood spurted out as if the jugular had been sliced open. Before anything else could happen, Morris Brick, who’d been sitting off to the side with the director, let out a groan. He couldn’t help himself. The director yelled, “Cut!”
The actors who played the killer and the second bodyguard stopped then to look at the director. The actor who played the bodyguard with the mullet and sliced throat had moments earlier crumpled to the floor. He got to his feet and gave the director a questioning look.
“Jerry,” the actor with the mullet said, “I thought it went well?”
“You guys nailed it. Seriously, great stuff from all of you. And Aiden, wow, the way you made your cheeks blush red like that on cue, amazing. But I need to consult with Morris, so everyone, let’s take a half hour.”
The actors and crew dispersed, leaving Morris and the director named Jerry alone. Jerry said, “So talk to me, Morris. You groaned. What was that about?”
Morris showed a placid smile, and spread his hands out in front of him in an apologetic gesture. He said diplomatically, “This scene wasn’t in the script you sent. Some of the exchanges between the Carver and those bodyguards caught me by surprise.”
The truth was Morris found the scene, as well as much of the movie, utterly ridiculous. Before starting his fledging Morris Brick Investigations (MBI) ten months earlier, Morris had been a Los Angeles homicide detective for fourteen years, and was the lead investigator for three high-profile serial-killer cases, all of which he solved, and which earned him a celebrity status both in town and nationally. This was his second Hollywood consulting job, and both were good money, and his hope was that they’d provide exposure for the firm. The first movie wasn’t that bad, at least if you squinted enough, but this one so far was showing almost no resemblance to reality, even though the producers who hired Morris claimed they wanted authenticity. What they really wanted was Morris Brick’s name attached to the property.
This movie, The Carver, was based on the Heath Dodd killings that took place in Miami. Even though the consulting contract only required Morris to provide feedback on the script, spend two days on the set, and allow his name to be used in promoting the film, the first thing he’d done when he took the assignment was to spend a week researching the killings. After that, Morris flew to Miami so he could meet with the lead investigator and prosecutor, and later was able to arrange an interview with Dodd in prison—the only interview that Dodd had so far been willing to give. While Dodd was clever and superficially charismatic, he certainly wasn’t glib. And while it was true that Dodd would announce to a Miami Herald reporter the names of his next victims, he would pick common names shared by dozens of people in the greater Miami area. Sometimes Dodd would only use a first initial. None of his victims were wealthy enough to hire private bodyguards, and the police were spread too thin to provide protection to all of the potential victims.
Jerry said, “I know, I know, that scene’s new, and none of that actually happened, but I felt the film needed some jazzing up there, and given Dodd’s hubris, the scene feels truthful to me, at least to the spirit of things.”
“Now that I’ve had a chance to think it over, you’ve got my blessing,” Morris said.
Jerry seemed satisfied by that, but still, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re not just trying to humor me, are you? After all, I distinctly heard you groan.”
“It was more me thinking out loud. But maybe if you cut that last piece of dialogue, the one where the Carver all but tells them he’s the Carver, and instead leave it simply with him cutting the bodyguard’s throat the moment the bodyguard turns his back to him—”
“Morris, babe, I don’t know. I really like those lines. I don’t want to lose them.”
Morris kept his placid smile intact. “Keep them. You’ve got my blessing, Jerry.”