Chapter Six

It was late in the afternoon, and Morris stood in front of one of the food tables, ostensibly trying to decide between a custard-filled and chocolate-glazed donut, but really deep in thought over plans he had with Natalie that night. He’d had enough of The Carver and was looking forward to calling it quits for the day and meeting up with his wife at their favorite restaurant, The Banyan Tree Grill, where he planned on ordering the pan roasted Statler chicken with garlic and Cipollini onions.

A familiar-sounding voice interrupted his thoughts, saying, “Man, you’ve been studying those donuts like you’re expecting to pick them out of a police lineup later.” This person laughed, and added, “If memory serves, those are the same ones they had out first thing this morning, so I’m betting the custard ones have to be rancid by now, maybe even deadly. Much safer to go with chocolate-glazed.”

The reason the voice had sounded familiar was because it came from the actor who was playing the killer. The actor grinned as he held out his hand to Morris. “Philip Stonehedge,” he said.

Morris accepted his hand. “Well, of course, I already know who you are. Morris Brick, but please call me Morris,” he said. “Thanks for potentially saving my life here. Or at least my stomach.”

“Happy to have done so. And Morris, I likewise know all about you. I can’t tell you how excited I was when I heard you were going to be consulting on this film. Like everyone else in Los Angeles, I was held captivated during the Hillside Cannibal murder trials last year. Really remarkable how you caught that sicko.” Stonehedge turned apologetic as he added, “I know we’re on break here, but I’d be eternally grateful if you gave me a chance to pick your brain. I need to better understand the Carver.”

Morris checked his watch. They had twenty minutes before they were supposed to return to the set. He nodded, and somewhat reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth grabbing a donut and risking ruining his appetite for his dinner out. Besides, as he’d been telling Natalie, he could stand to lose a few pounds, so he ignored the rumbling noises his stomach made and settled on a cup of coffee, bypassing the cream and using skim milk instead. Stonehedge, who was leaner than an anorexic marathon runner, did Morris one better by only grabbing a bottle of water before leading the way to his trailer just outside the set. A minute later they were settled inside it, with Stonehedge offering Morris the sofa while he took the leather armchair.

“So what do you think so far?” the actor asked.

Morris sipped his coffee before commenting, “It’s interesting how they’re jumping around with the scenes they’re shooting. Six months ago I consulted on American Killer, and the days I was on set they shot the scenes sequentially.”

Stonehedge smiled thinly at how skillfully Morris had sidestepped the question. “That’s Jerry’s doing,” he said. “He wants us to shoot all my killings first to help me get in touch with my serial killer side, so to speak, but it’s not helping.” A hint of desperation gleamed in Stonehedge’s eyes as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I’m lost here, Morris. I feel like I’m flailing around in the dark, and I need to find my motivation so I don’t come across as a cartoon character and completely embarrass myself. I’m desperately hoping you can give me some insight as to why Dodd killed. I mean, is it as simple as that he’s a twisted maniac? Is that all there is to it? Am I complicating things trying to find a deeper reason for him doing what he did?”

“Dodd’s certainly a twisted maniac.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious.”

“But he also has a compulsion driving him to kill. You can think of him as an addict who can only get the high that he craves by killing in a way where he thinks he’s outsmarting everyone and getting away with it. And once the high wears off, all he can think about is getting his next high. I have no doubt that right now as he sits on death row, he’s suffering from withdrawal.”

“That’s what he told you? I read that you met with him in prison.”

“He wasn’t about to admit something like that to me.” Morris took another sip of coffee, his eyes glazing as he thought back to the unsettling hour he had spent with Heath Dodd. “I’m sure he told himself that he wanted to see me only so he could convince me that he was framed by the police, even though he was caught red-handed during his last murder. But that had nothing to do with what drove him to see me, and that was to convince me that the real killer had to be more clever and brilliant than any of the serial killers I had encountered. There’s no question Dodd’s a piece of work, and at times I could see in his eyes his craving to kill. Although he tried hard to hide it, he was as jittery as any other addict badly needing a fix.”

Stonehedge’s head slowly moved up and down as he mulled that over. “What caused him to start killing in the first place?” he asked after a long moment.

Morris shrugged. “A more interesting question to me as a former homicide detective would be when did he start killing, because I’m sure he had victims long before the world ever heard of the Carver. Maybe he experimented first with stray dogs and cats, but I would think the odds are good he killed his first person while he was a teenager, probably picking as early victims prostitutes, drug addicts, and transients—people whose deaths would mostly go unnoticed. As to what drove him to kill in the first place, who knows? There’s some thought that serial killers have a chromosome abnormality that causes their homicidal tendencies. Others think it’s due to brain injuries. Whether it’s either of those, or something else entirely that drove Dodd, I couldn’t say.”

Morris’s cellphone buzzed. Caller ID showed Los Angeles’s Mayor’s Office. He frowned at the phone for a moment, then told Stonehedge that he had to step outside and take the call. The actor nodded, deep in thought over what Morris had told him.

Once Morris was outside, he answered the call.

“This is Doug Gilman from the mayor’s office,” the caller said. “We met at your retirement party.”

Morris remembered him. When Gilman had approached him at his police retirement dinner, Morris thought he had to be an actor who for some reason crashed his party. Gilman was young, only in his late twenties, and had that hungry Hollywood look about him. Outgoing, assertive personality, a perfect head of hair, teeth that were far too white and straight, and the type of bronze tan that you only get from frequent sessions in a tanning booth. But he wasn’t an actor, and after only a few minutes of talking with him, Morris recognized him as someone highly ambitious who would probably be mayor someday. And no doubt governor also.

“What can I do for you?” Morris asked.

“We’ve got something for you. How quickly can you get to Venice?”

“It depends on what you have.”

“What we have is something you and MBI are going to want, but I can’t tell you any more until you sign an NDA. Are you near a fax machine?”

Morris told him he was on a job, and that he’d call him back once he figured out how Gilman could get him the nondisclosure agreement. It didn’t take Morris long to track down a fax machine in one of the studio offices, and after he had the agreement signed and faxed back to the mayor’s office, he called Gilman back.

“It looks like the Skull Cracker Killer has resurfaced,” Gilman said. “And our luck, the psycho decided to move to Los Angeles.”