Behind the Fire: A Dark Thriller (21 page)

Stef

Kendall replied with a, “Yes, I’m on it” message. As she hit send, her mood lifted. Rush jobs rarely meant rush payments, but a thousand words with this mag would cover a chunk of the month’s rent if it scored syndication.

What didn’t thrill her, though, was possibly hearing the terrible details of the murders first hand from witnesses. Violence made her squeamish. Even those slasher-horror films made her feel sick. Usually, she would close her eyes while sticking her fingers in her ears; the sound of the viciousness and the screams almost too much. The only reason she even watched them was her brother; Marcus was a big Quentin Tarantino over-the-top-violent film fan. He kept telling her if she watched enough of them, she would “toughen up.” She still awaited that occurrence.

If Marcus actually took the time to read some of her articles, he’d see she was tough enough to write real horror—terrible heartbreaking articles. She’d covered everything from teen suicide to a baby boy killed by a drunk driver plowing through his bedroom wall. True life terror.

When it came to deliberate violence against others, she drew the line. Accidents she could handle, but it seemed too much like a slippery slope, flooding her mind with memories of ten years ago and her mom. Every time she thought about that night, her heart hardened against allowing herself to feel for anyone the love she felt for her mom. She felt empathy for people, but she didn’t desire closeness. She didn’t want to love someone and suffer having them torn away. She began to think about that night; she could smell the night air, hear the sounds in the darkness, feel the fear, the despair; her heart quickened.

No, she wouldn’t think about it now.
 Maybe one day, if the right person came along, she might trust herself to feel something again. 
Allow
 herself to feel something again. Right now she had bills to pay and a job to do.

Most of her work 
was
 puff pieces. Marcus was right about that. She wondered if his occasional nagging about them was his way of testing her, see if she had grown stronger without having to come right out and ask the question.

What was wrong with writing about banal things like how to get your start in business; ten things airline hostesses don’t want you to know; and interviews with best-selling novelists and comedy film stars? People enjoyed reading them or she wouldn’t keep winning the commissions. These articles were magazines’ bread and butter, and they always seemed to be the ones she was working on when Marcus asked what she was doing. The Pulitzer Prize-winning articles were never given to freelancers like her. She was fine with that, too. From the first few articles she wrote twelve years ago for 
Seventeen
, 
Family Fun
, and 
Entertainment Weekly
, her career had pretty much travelled down the fluff-piece path.

Kendall opened up a fresh browser and Googled Toby Benson. He was on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and a website called ListenFM (the last being just someone with the same name as his).

When she clicked through to his Facebook account, she found he had 232 “friends.” Over the past twenty-four hours, dozens of posts had been left on his page. Most were from real friends, sharing an outpouring of shock and horror, all messages of condolence, the presiding sentiment being there must be some mistake, that Toby Benson was no killer.

“Good buddy, tell me this is a mistake. This can’t be true.”

“Toby, you will be loved and missed.”

“God bless you and condolences to the Benson family.”

Toby’s account settings must have allowed anyone to post to his page. Comments from people who clearly weren’t his friends shared the feed.

“You fu*&!@# lunatic. Shooting was too good for you.”

“You should have been hacked to pieces or hung.”

“Hope hell is hell!”

Many more continued in that vein. Arguments had sprung up between his friends and these posters. His friends continued to defend the impossibility they knew someone who’d become a cold-blooded killer. Twitter had a similar mix of sentiment among Toby’s 332 followers. When Kendall read back over Toby’s comments and tweets of the previous few days, there did appear no indication he harbored any thoughts of randomly venturing out hell-bent on murder. In fact, he seemed very normal, sharing snippets of weekend activities: a party, a lunch, and an evening watching Netflix. Just like everyone else, he was gorge-viewing 
Breaking Bad
.

Somewhere, at this moment, a freelancer was probably writing a story on violent TV shows inciting murder.

Another twenty minutes of checking the first few pages of Google results for Toby Benson, and Kendall began to feel as surprised at Benson’s actions as his friends. She’d found no comments about him hating the world or being unhappy; no pictures of him holding a rifle, 
à la
 Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinated President Kennedy; not even an Instagram account picture of him holding as much as a bread knife, let alone an axe.

It was weird that a guy who looked 
so
 normal could do something 
so
 abnormal. Kendall was no investigative journalist, but surely there should be 
something
. Maybe it was drugs or a broken relationship? Or was there a 
crazy switch
 in people’s heads? And Toby Benson’s crazy switch simply got flicked?

Now there was an article title: “
The Crazy Switch: How to keep yours turned off?”

She made a note on the ‘pitch’ pad by her computer. It was stuffed full of ideas and thoughts with potential to become stories.

Really, though, she was procrastinating, delaying getting out there and talking to someone who’d experienced 
crazy
. She was truly a wuss. Hearing the gory details, and asking the questions surrounding death and violence was probably her worst nightmare.

“How does it feel to know you came this close to death?”

“Does this make you appreciate your loved ones?”

Even thinking about it, the back of her neck suddenly felt clammy.

Kendall navigated back to 
The Western’s News
 page, to find it updated with further information. Now they had a quote from Toby Benson’s sister.

“My brother was the sweetest, kindest man you would ever meet. Our family is shocked and devastated.”

This new article contained pictures of survivors. Beverley Sanderson—mid-forties, shaggy blonde hair, well-groomed eyebrows, and over-pink lipstick—was one of three people whose photo was subtitled “survivor.” Kendall read the entire article, but found no quotes from any of the witnesses.

Something about the smiling persona of the polished looking Mrs. Sanderson made Kendall think she might be the person to approach, that she might be willing to talk. After years of interviewing people, Kendall had a feel for who was a talker and who wasn’t. Time was the issue. In order to get to these witnesses before a big media outlet pulled out an equally big checkbook, she needed to move.

Searching through the online phone directory, Kendall immediately found Beverley Sanderson. The listing read 
B & R. Sanderson
. “R,” no doubt being the husband, Roy, who was, also, mentioned below the photo. If this was the same woman—and Kendall was pretty certain it was—she lived only a few blocks away.

Kendall scribbled down the address, quickly changed her clothes—tracksuit and slippers just didn’t give her the right air—and headed out the door. The address was close enough to walk. She decided not to call first and give the Sandersons a chance to say “no” to an interview. Most interviewees found Kendall’s enthusiastic and easy style relatable. Complete strangers found themselves opening up to her about the most intimate and personal experiences.

Her stomach filled with stone at the thought of hearing gruesome details. 
You need this commission
. This would also prove to Marcus she was tough, that she’d grown up. She imagined the look of pride on her brother’s face as he read the article.

Kendall hurried out the door, grabbing her laptop bag and an apple as she did. Today hadn’t started well, but it was getting better by the hour. Even her headache had faded. This massacre 
was
 a horrific event, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to pay the rent. Even if that meant dealing with the nightmares that would invariably follow.

O’GRADY STOOD IN THE KITCHEN staring at the pools of dried blood. Trip was out in Café Amaretto’s dining room among the ruins of what had only hours before been a bustling eatery.

He wondered what would become of the place and if it would ever recover. Eventually the murders would become folklore, but it might take several reincarnations of the business for people to forget. At the very least they would need to re-staff their kitchen. Basically the premises was screwed as any type of food establishment in the near future.

Forensics had already been over the place. The remnants of their visit—dozens of little numbered a-form placements littered around the kitchen and dining room—told of the hive of activity in the preceding hours. It would take days to process the scene. Not that it mattered hugely. There wasn’t going to be a trial. Benson had seen to that.

Lesson one for mass killers who want to survive: when police arrive, put down your weapon. No guarantees even then, but if you wave the weapon you’ve just used to slaughter innocent people, don’t wave said implement at armed human beings, police or not. The result rarely goes your way.

Trip and he planned to run interviews today with the witnesses—thirty-four freaked out patrons, four wait-staff, one female owner who ended up in hospital overnight under sedation, and several passers-by who witnessed something they would never forget. By night they should have a clear picture of events.

Preliminary interviews puzzled O’Grady. Toby Benson was unknown to the wait-staff as far as they could remember. Arriving around nine-thirty, he’d smashed in the kitchen door, then proceeded to go crazy with an axe.

Normally these situations turned out to be an ex-employee, a spurned ex-husband of an employee, or at least someone with an axe to grind (excuse the pun). They still hadn’t found any connection. Nada. This Benson character had simply flipped out—O’Grady’s bet was a mental illness—and his victims were simply in a “wrong place, wrong time” scenario. O’Grady’s experience told him if it looked like a crazy fish, smelled like a crazy fish, then that’s what you were cooking … a crazy fish.

Examining the damaged kitchen door, O’Grady ran a cautious finger over the lock’s remnants. The door was badly splintered; thin, jagged pieces of white wood stuck out at haphazard angles.

He pushed gently with his right hip to force the door open, keeping his hands in the air so he didn’t touch anything and contaminate evidence the CSI team hadn’t already noted.

Out in the alley, he carefully scanned the area. More yellow evidence markers littered the narrow laneway. Several forensic officers wearing thin white suits from head to toe moved slowly around, bending every few feet to examine something that had caught their eye. Down the end of the alley, where the entrance opened into the busy early morning street, yellow police tape flapped in the breeze. Just behind the tape, an officer stood, arms folded, staring out at the gathered crowd of curious onlookers.

O’Grady turned back to look at the door. Splinters of wood hung from around the lock. If nothing else, the guy was determined. Why had he picked this door, in this lane, when there were countless other restaurants and bars? The million-dollar question.

The detective took one more glance down the very ordinary-looking access lane and walked back in. He regarded the kitchen from the point of view of the killer upon first entering. The blood on the floor where the waitress had died drew his eye. The coroner had removed the body a few hours earlier. Poor girl. She was only twenty, waitressing to pay her college tuition.

Over by the kitchen sink they’d found the kid. O’Grady would never forget 
that
 image. He’d seen a lot in his eighteen years on the job, with twelve as detective, but what that freak had done to the kid was horrendous.

One of the beat police first on the scene had lost his lunch 
and
 his dinner within twenty seconds of walking in. Fortunately, he’d made it to the lane, so he hadn’t polluted any evidence. O’Grady had taken a moment, too.

The boy’s body had been nearly hacked in two. The first strike caught him full in the right shoulder, cutting through down to the armpit, severing the appendage from his body. Still alive after the first blow, he had tried to escape but looked to have fallen on oil spilled on the floor.

While he lay there defenseless, the killer had swung his axe with such force it took only a few blows to tear the kid apart. All Benson left were two halves of the kid’s body—upper and lower torso, joined by small threads of muscle—and his arm back by the sink.

The kid was seventeen. 
Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?