B-Movie Attack (10 page)

The detective had phoned a friend from Iowa who researched Dennis Brauman and his affiliation with the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals. “No, Ted’s a schlock horror movie director. Low budget shit. The stuff you’d see at the drive-in back in the day.”

“But that guy mentioned some of the reels were porno.”

“Yes, some of it. Not all of it, though. Dennis Brauman was a genius in some ways. He was a lawyer back in the late seventies and early eighties. He was also a self-righteous Christian. He had a son who committed suicide when he was in his early teens. Dennis believed the poor kid was influenced by a horror movie to slit his wrists. The film was about a man who could make himself bleed to the point it could fill up rooms, and the man still wouldn’t die. It was really depression that drove the kid to cut himself, a chemical imbalance, but Dennis denied the truth.
 

“But the twist happens after Dennis’s daughter marries Ted Fuller. Her overbearing father somehow convinces his daughter to divorce Fuller once he finds out about the kinds of questionable movies the guy makes.
 
So after the marriage is finished, Fuller goes on to make a string of cheap horror films. I know Dennis later shuts down Fuller's movie distributor, VendCo, by accusing them of tax evasion. Then Dennis hires some thugs to steal VendCo’s films, and they’re lost for decades, until now, that is. Nobody cared to take legal action because the person who owned the rights was in jail, and the guy who owned the company was flat-out broke. And now, Ted’s discovered Dennis’s movie stash. He has his movies back. One of them is
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
.”

“These titles.” Baker laughed under his breath. “Where do they come up with this shit?”

“People like sex and death,” Vickers speculated. “It’s a horror movie’s bread and butter. Professor Maxwell from Iowa University was the man who unearthed Ted Fuller’s film. They played it at Denton Hall, and you know the rest. Real-life flying vampires slaughter a group of people. And it happened here too.”

Baker asked, "Did you hear about the suicide bomber?”

“Suicide bomber?”

“It was two blocks from Heart of Chicago Medical Center. A man just up and blew himself up. They still haven’t identified the person. Seven people died. I have a friend in forensics. He said the wounds weren’t from an explosive device.”

“Then what killed them?”

“The guy said they were from bones, like the man’s body turned into a weapon or something.”

“Surely it’s happened before. A person blows themselves up and a few bones might land in a nearby bystander, right?"

“He said it wasn’t like that. There was no evidence of an actual bomb being used.”

“You’re saying the man just blew up on his own.”

“That’s what Wesley said.”

“They hire anybody to work crime scenes nowadays in Chicago, don't they?”

They arrived at Judge Bullard’s two-story colonial house. The front porch light was on, and the man stood on his porch wrapped in a black overcoat. He smoked a pipe. Judge Bullard wasn’t pleased. Vickers hurried out of the car and told Baker to stay behind. Baker didn’t argue.
 

Bullard greeted Vickers. He was near three hundred pounds, a face taken over by a full black beard—clearly dyed since his eyebrows were gray and so was his receding hair. The bags around the man’s eyes and the stamped-in frown urged Vickers to get to the point.
 

“I’m so sorry for waking you up. I had to break through a lot of red tape to get a hold of you. Yes, I’m out of my jurisdiction, but crimes have been happening in Chicago that are out of the norm. Ted Fuller is responsible for dozens of deaths in Iowa, and there’s more on the way. He lives only twelve miles from your home, in fact. I have to have a search warrant. He’s planning something big.”

“I heard about what happened in Iowa,” Judge Bullard said gruffly. “It’s quite the fantastic tale. You seem quite taken with it. Do you believe movies can come to life?” Bullard coughed on the next toke of his pipe. “Well, do you, Detective?”

“No, no I don’t. It’s the exact opposite. You see, Ted Fuller was a prolific film maker in the late seventies. He had ten movies under his belt. They were all seized by Dennis Brauman over three decades ago. You see, Dennis Brauman’s security locker was broken into last night. There were claw marks on the lockers and two severely injured security guards—one murdered, in fact—in the same fashion as those that died in Iowa.”

“So what are you saying, Vickers? That monsters did this?”

“No." He was losing patience with the judge, who obviously wasn’t concerned about his findings. “We have a copycat killer. Fuller, or a cult affiliated with Fuller, has taken it upon themselves to mimic the killings from the movies. Real people are perpetrating these crimes, and they’re inspired by the man’s movies. Now that the rest of the man’s reels are stolen, what will they copy next? Fuller’s hiding something, and it would be of assistance to my investigation if I could receive a search warrant.”

“I need further corroboration with a detective in my jurisdiction to confirm what you told me first." Bullard rubbed at his tired eyes. “I don’t like being woken up so late. You’re in a hurry, Detective, to catch your culprit. I’ve been put on notice recently for signing too many search warrants under duress. Tomorrow, I’ll have the chief assign you a detective—not an officer—to confirm your concerns, and then you’ll get that warrant. You have to play ball like everybody else, Vickers.”

“By then it might be too late! These are desperate circumstances.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. I make the calls in this city. Now goodnight. Get some rest, Detective. You need it. Please be reasonable. These roadblocks are set in place for a reason.”

Vickers reserved the urge to shout in the man’s face. The sick feeling rose up his throat. He knew that people would die in the name of police procedure.
 

Fuck it. I have probable cause. What will Fuller do if I simply knock on his door and ask to come in?
 

He apologized to Judge Bullard and returned to the police cruiser. Baker awaited the verdict. Vickers huffed. “No warrant. He wants corroboration from another detective before I pursue this further. Do me a favor and drop me off at 121
^st
and Front Street. My hotel is a block from there. I need to clear my head.”

Baker obliged. “Yes sir.”

Baker dropped him off at the street corner close to his hotel. Vickers said goodnight to the officer and began walking. The moment of silence on the sidewalk was instantly shattered. Fleets of police cruisers sped towards the local hospital. Fire engines wailed as well as cop cars.
 

“What in the hell’s going on?”

Up the street, three police cruisers surrounded a business on the corner. Peggy Sue’s Bakery Creations. He was curious, but he decided to let the cops do their job. He was too worked up for sleep, so he planned to check out his hunch.
 

He walked the four blocks to Ted Fuller’s apartment building.
 

At apartment 4E, he knocked on the door. Vickers felt confident that if he didn’t provoke the man, he’d at least receive some insight into Fuller’s character. Was he hiding something in the apartment, or was he really a victim of circumstance? There was the possibility a group of fans took it upon themselves to copycat his films. The man hadn’t worked in the film industry for almost three decades. He was a film critic for the
Chicago Sun-Times
. Ted Fuller was also over fifty years old.
 

Maybe I am jumping to conclusions.

He waited for a response to his knocks.
 

Vickers knocked again.
 

You have to be home, Ted. It’s one o’clock. Rude awakening.

“Are you in there, Mr. Fuller?”

The voice was roused from a deep sleep, or the man was injured. The words were soft, muted, and dazed. “
Help me…help…me…
”

Vickers turned the doorknob. The door swung open. He entered the living room carefully. Two projectors stood in the center of the room. Furniture and picture frames had been removed to create a blank wall. The projectors hummed, spitting out a blank yellowish white circle. He continued searching through the empty kitchen, the bathroom, and finally the bedroom, where Ted Fuller lay on his bed in a useless pile. Bite wounds had crusted over his naked torso and neck. He was paler than his sheets, a pitiful, helpless expression etched on his face.
 

“What the hell is going on here?”

Ted blathered nonsense. “I didn’t know they would come back. I thought it was my imagination. I armed myself with a shotgun. But they overtook me. The movies…they’re coming to life. They're going to kill us all. I, I didn't mean for this to happen.”

Vickers kneeled beside him. “Take it easy. Who’s doing this?”

“Destroy the projectors,” he begged. “You know about Andy Ryerson, don’t you? The only survivor from the Anderson Mills Massacre. Andy played those horror reels in town, and they came to life and murdered everyone.
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
, that reel itself was possessed a year ago. The ghosts stayed in the reels waiting to be played again. They plan a takeover on a massive level. It’s already begun. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please believe me, I didn’t kill anybody. I never wanted this to happen.”

Ted pointed at the shotgun on the floor. “Use it against them. Shoot the projectors. Do it before they come back!”

Vickers retrieved the weapon and cradled it, confused and staring at the entrance and the windows. “Who’s coming back?”

“The vampires!”

The bedroom windows rattled.
 

“Hide before it’s too late!”

Vickers backed into the sliding-door closet, caught by surprise and scared. He froze in his hiding place, praying he wasn’t seen by whatever had cracked open the window and entered.
 

The detective gained his breath. He dared to press his eye up against the crack of the closet. His suspicions were wrong. The truth was far more unbelievable than he predicted.
 

He clasped the shotgun and waited for a plan to formulate in his mind.

It would be a long night.

Chapter Eleven

Officer Kit Bentley led the three other cops into Peggy Sue’s Bakery Creations. The pungent scent of corpses was so strong the cops almost gagged. They were called to the scene after half a dozen bakery deliveries containing human organs were reported. The front display bragged of the crimes committed on the premises. Donuts were splayed with gristle-heavy eyeballs stuck in the centers. Jelly rolls gushed with human blood from both ends. Flesh replaced the bread crust of pies. Intestines were used as garnish between each display. Severed hands were posed to hold cupcakes, cookies and Danishes. Meat pies dominated the display case, open-faced, filled with breasts, rolls of yellow fat, male and female genitals, and diced innards that continued to steam against the glass. The potent stench stirred Bentley’s belly.
 

Bentley was determined to complete the once-over of the premises despite his greening face and the fact he could lose his cookies any second. Somebody could be alive and in need, he thought, so he swallowed back the urge to retch and continued deeper into the bakery. He aimed his service revolver as he crossed the barrier between the display cases. Blood was spattered on the tiles and the walls. Powdered sugar, cinnamon, blueberries, strawberries, cherries and apple filling were mixed in with the gory mess.
 

He was appalled and the nervous energy came out in his words. “This is the police, come out with your hands up!”

He didn’t expect an answer. The silence proved his suspicions true. The bakery oven in back was empty, though the front plate was crusted with blackened flesh. Mixers were dirty with frosting and blood. The floor was a butcher’s block of appendages and innards. He noted the wide circle between the refrigerator and steel shelves. Somebody had stolen one of the devices. Black and red lines trailed out the dock door.
 

Whoever was here had moved their operation elsewhere.

Dr. Gregory Hilbert watched as dozens of crime scene analysts studied the carnage in the recovery unit. It was three in the morning. Chief Burnes remained at his side. He slurped his coffee, an incensed expression etched onto his face. Dr. Hilbert had been close friends with the chief of police for years, and the chief felt comfortable speaking his mind to the doctor. “First, we have a man blow himself up on the street not even two blocks from here, and then we have some psycho delivering pies with human parts in them. Christ, somebody even said there was a breast in their blueberry pie, for Pete’s sake! And now this scene, all in one long fucking day. What's going on in my city?”

They walked together down the hallways and into the patient rooms. Dr. Hilbert stepped over Nurse Sherry Miller. Her eyes had been sucked clean from the sockets along with her brains. For an unknown reason, Nurse Miller was naked, her smock wadded up in the corner. A devilish smile of pleasure was plastered on her skeletal face. The mortician would have trouble removing the maniacal expression for the funeral, he thought. The patient behind her body, a Wayne Carton, was disemboweled and drained of every ounce of blood.