Lilith: a novel

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Lilith

a novel

F
rom the depths of sleep, Alan Grooms was first aware of his cell phone ringing. Then he saw the time on the digital clock atop the nightstand: It was 1:37 a.m.

He snatched the glowing phone from its place beside the clock. He sat half-upright in bed, perched awkwardly on one elbow, and said in a hoarse whisper:

“Grooms here.”

Vicki, his wife of twenty-one years, stirred beside him, mumbling. She was still mostly asleep.

“Detective Grooms?” the voice on the other end of the call said. “This is Sergeant Rayburn, of the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department. We were told to notify you immediately, no matter what the hour, in the event of another ‘Lilith’-related homicide.”

“So she got another one,” Grooms said, at a measured volume.

Although Alan’s work, true, was more often than not a matter of life and death, Vicki had to be up in four hours for her job at the accounting firm. There was no point in rousting her if he could avoid it.

“It sure looks that way,” Sergeant Rayburn said. “This one has all the characteristics.”

The sergeant had said the name ‘Lilith’ with the rising emphasis that is often applied to any makeshift, provisional term that is not universally recognizable.

Lilith, to be sure, was only a temporary name for the individual, or group of individuals, who had recently taken one life in Dayton and another in Columbus. And now Lilith had taken a third life in Cincinnati, if Sergeant Rayburn’s initial information was accurate.

“Whereabouts?”

“In Evendale,” Rayburn said, referring to a community near Cincinnati that most people regarded as part of the city. “You’re close by, right?”

“I’m about fifteen miles north of town.”

“The victim’s name is Robert Billings,” Rayburn continued. “I’ll send you a text message with the address and the other details I have. They aren’t much at this point.”

“Thank you,” Alan replied. “Will I see you at the crime scene, Sergeant Rayburn?”

“No. We’ve had a bad night in Over-the-Rhine. Double homicide. But two deputies who work under my supervision will be there. Their names are Lee and Page. They’ll help you with whatever you need.”

“Tell your deputies I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Forty at the outside. Thank you, sergeant.”

“Yep.”

Sergeant Rayburn terminated the call, and Alan Grooms’ mind began churning. He had known that this call would be coming, and likely in the middle of the night, given the way that Lilith worked.

Alan Grooms was a twenty-year veteran of Ohio law enforcement, and a ten-year veteran of the Ohio Department of Criminal Investigation (ODCI). He was a detective first grade. His task now was to take the lead in the interagency investigation of the murders committed by Lilith—to catch her, or him, or them. To stop Lilith from killing any more people as soon as he possibly could.

When Alan slipped out of bed, Vicki awoke. She rolled over, her gray- and copper-colored hair partially obscuring her face. Vicki was forty-five now, and she refused to dye her hair. But she still wore it long, as she had on the day that Alan first met her, twenty-five years ago. Vicki had been a civilian employee in the PX at Fort Benning, Georgia. She had also been a college student on summer break from the University of Georgia, just about to return to school for the fall semester. And Grooms, then an enlisted member of the U.S. Army Military Police Corps, had learned the previous day that he would soon be deploying to Saudi Arabia for Operation Desert Shield.

“Is it Lilith?” Vicki asked. She was as wide awake as Grooms was now.

“Yes. There’s been another one. In Cincinnati. I’ve got to go.”

Alan did not make a habit of burdening his wife and two daughters with the dark minutiae of his work. But he usually kept Vicki generally apprised of what he was working on, so she would not be alarmed in the event that he was called away at some strange hour—which was often the case.

“Do you want me to get up?” she asked. Alan knew that this was a strictly pro forma offer, but he appreciated it, anyway.

“No, you go back to sleep. I’m just going to throw on some clothes and go. I’ll try to get out of here without waking the girls.”

“Okay,” she said wearily. “Be careful.”

“Always,” Alan whispered, as Vicki rolled back over, away from him.

Alan did not need to turn on the light to get dressed. Since this was an emergency call and outside of his normal workday, he did not take the time to don the dress slacks, blazer, white shirt, and tie that he would wear during what corresponded to his “business hours”. Using the small amount of light that filtered through the closed drapes across the room’s main window, Alan located a long-sleeve, pullover shirt and a pair of gabardine pants that he had set out a few days ago for this eventuality. Then he slipped into a pair of ankle-high Red Wing work boots, and knelt in the darkness to lace them up.

Grooms both heard and felt his knees crack as he stood back up again.

He had come into the world in the now distant year of 1967. Grooms was not overly conscious of his age on a day-to-day basis, but he no longer had the immediate limberness that he once did when awakened in the middle of the night.

He was tall and thin, with dark curly hair that was rapidly thinning. Thirty years and a lifetime ago, he had been a high school distance runner of some reputation in the Cincinnati area. Three decades and some nagging knee problems had reduced his running to the occasional two-mile jog. But he still had the lanky build of a lifelong runner.

Grooms plucked his glasses from the nightstand, and then the wallet that contained his badge. Then he slid open the top draw of the nightstand and removed one of his spare service weapons: a holstered .38 special. It wasn't the gun he would want to have in a gunfight, but there would be no gunfights tonight.

Grooms strapped on the shoulder holster as he walked through the darkened house, stepping quietly past the bedrooms of his daughters, Emily and Frances. As this was a farmhouse, there was a side door that opened from the kitchen, and this was the one the family used for routine entries and exits. Grooms’ blue ODCI windbreaker and matching blue cap were hanging on the coat rack beside the door.

Alan stepped out onto the front stoop, squinting against the early March rain. It wasn't a rain, properly speaking, but a sort of mist that carried a chill and fogged up Alan’s glasses. He set off across the pebbles of the side walkway, then through the sallow late winter grass of the front lawn area, and finally onto the gravel driveway.

On the way to his vehicle, Grooms heard his cell phone chime. He pulled the cell phone from his pants pocket and saw the address that Rayburn had promised, as well as some very basic information: Robert Billings, male, Caucasian, age thirty-three.

There was another set of details that Alan could anticipate with reasonable certainty, given the pattern established by the murders committed in Dayton and Columbus: It would be established that Robert Billings had been a single, unattached, socially awkward male. Possibly overweight. It would also be established that Robert Billings had been engaged in online dating—as that was where Lilith seemed to identify and ensnare all of her victims.

Alan drove a white Ford Explorer. He kept a mountable siren in the back, but decided that it wouldn't be necessary. There would be light traffic at this time of night and he would make good time. Most of the local police knew his Explorer, so he wouldn't be delayed if he exceeded the posted speed limit on the highway.

Alan climbed inside the Explorer and started the engine. He nosed the car out onto the rural route where he lived, looking both ways for cars, but also for deer. Just last week, one of his neighbor’s cars had been totaled, and the driver had sustained moderately serious injuries, when a big buck had stepped out into the road from nowhere and there had been no time to stop. This was a common occurrence in the vast semi-rural regions of Ohio.

He turned onto the access road that connected to the interstate. As he had anticipated, there were few cars on the rainy highway at 2:00 a.m. Interstate 75 was mostly long-haul semis at this hour.

He gunned the Explorer’s engine, set the SUV’s cruise control to 72 mph and drove south, into the city.

Tonight, for the first time, he would come face-to-face with the work of the serial killer, or killers, whom the police referred to as Lilith. And the battle against time and the wits of Lilith would begin, with more lives hanging in the balance.

Interstate 75 ran right through the heart of Cincinnati. Alan knew he was getting close to his destination when he passed the vast complex of the General Electric Aviation plant. The plant had been alternately expanded and downsized throughout the years, and now—to the best of Alan’s knowledge—it was focused on the manufacture of aircraft engines for the export market. During the Cold War years, this plant had placed Cincinnati high on the Soviet Union’s target list in the event of a thermonuclear exchange.

Following the directions provided by the Explorer’s GPS, Alan turned off on the exit immediately south of the GE plant. He made a right turn off the exit down a main thoroughfare of old residential buildings and a few gas stations and all-night markets. Then he took a left onto Rosemont Avenue and saw the flashing lights of the police cruisers.

Alan saw at least two black-and-whites in front of Robert Billings’ house, both bearing the insignia of the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department. Despite the late hour, it made for a chaotic scene. The lights from the patrol cars flashed kaleidoscopically across the fronts of the surrounding houses, and there was already a crowd of curious neighbors, gathering to see who was going to jail, the hospital, or the morgue.

Alan parked the Explorer on the street just down from one of the black-and-whites. (He now noticed a third patrol car.) As he approached, he was stopped by a female deputy. Twentysomething and blonde, she was neither Deputy Lee nor Deputy Page. The name on her badge was L. Hall.

Alan showed his badge and asked Deputy Hall, “Are Deputies Lee and Page around here? They’re supposed to be my contacts. I spoke earlier with a Sergeant Rayburn.”

“Inside the house,” Deputy L. Hall said, motioning Alan toward the front door.

The house, like so many houses in Cincinnati, was built into a hillside. The topography down here was distinct from the flatland country where Alan lived. Cincinnati had been built into the hills on the north side of the Ohio River basin. Robert Billings’ house was one of a line of turn-of-the-twentieth century row houses. Alan had to walk up two flights of chipped concrete steps, and then through a chain-link gate that had been left open.

He was about to step inside the house when he heard the sound of a woman sobbing. He looked down to the street level and saw an older woman—perhaps sixty or seventy years old—sitting inside a patrol car. Another female deputy was making awkward attempts to console her. Alan guessed that the woman was Robert Billings’ mother. Or, more properly,
had
been.

Alan knew that he would have to make a point to talk to her—during the investigation phase, of course, but also tonight. His efforts at consolation would be no more effective than those of the female deputy, perhaps; but he would let Mrs. Billings know that he intended to catch her son’s killer or killers.

The front foyer of the house was mildewy. The ceiling was high and water-stained. There was an old-fashioned open radiator in the front hallway, and wainscoting that should have been replaced long ago.

“Detective Grooms?” a voice said.

Alan turned and saw Deputy Lee. He was Asian, about thirty years old, and spoke with an accent—not of East Asia, but of nearby Kentucky. Deputy Lee stood a few inches short of six feet, with broad shoulders and biceps that were visibly bulging out from his short uniform sleeves. Deputy Lee pumped some iron, no doubt.

“Yes,” Alan said. And they made brief self-introductions.

“The body’s in here,” Lee said, indicating the living room. “The crime scene techs are on their way, and of course the coroner’s van. The ambulance arrived about the same time we did, but we sent them away. They can’t do any good for this guy.”

Alan nodded. That was true enough.

Alan walked across the foyer, and then into the living room. Deputy Page, another young deputy in his twenties, stood on the far side of the living room couch, which Alan could see only the back of. When he walked around the side of the couch, Alan saw the body.

Robert Billings was slumped back on the couch as if he had been taking a nap. But this was no nap. The man’s head was cocked to one side, apparently knocked that way from the blow of the bullet that had removed a portion of the top of his head. From where he stood, Alan could see fragments of skull and brain matter in Billings’ tangled dark brown hair. Billings had bled out onto the cushion beneath his head, and one of the couch’s armrests.

Deputy Page, who was thinner and taller than Deputy Lee and had red hair, said: “His mother found him earlier this evening. She said that he wasn't answering his phone, and that wasn't like him. So she drove over around midnight.

Alan recalled the civilian woman in the patrol car. So this was how Billings’ mother had found him.

Robert Billings had been a heavyset man of medium height. One of his pants legs was hiked up on the calf, and the calf appeared to be swollen. Swelling like that was caused by the blood draining into the lower extremities after death. Alan would wait for the coroner’s judgment, but these were the kinds of little details that would help the apparatus of law enforcement begin to put a story together. Knowing exactly when Robert Billings died might be a key factor in catching Lilith. Or maybe not.

“We’ve already started interviewing the neighbors,” Lee said. “But nobody saw anything. I get the feeling that Robert wasn't exactly close to his neighbors.”

Alan nodded again, thinking. If Robert Billings fit the profile of the other men whom Lilith had targeted, then he would have been socially awkward and a recluse. That might very well have made Billings easier to kill; and it would definitely complicate the task of finding the individual or individuals who had killed him. Men who lived alone with few social bonds tended to fade into the background of whatever environments they inhabited. No one noticed their comings and goings much, or whether or not they had visitors.

“Any sign of forced entry?” Alan asked.

“None that we’ve been able to determine so far,” Lee answered, though the crime scene team would do a more thorough analysis.

The previous two victims had also been killed in their homes, more or less like this. A gunshot wound to the back of the head. In the previous two killings there had been no signs of forced entry or struggle prior to the single fatal gunshot. And Lilith had not been foolish enough to leave any fingerprints behind.

Alan glanced around the living room: There were piles of magazines:
Popular Science
and
PC Magazine
. Most of them appeared to be computer-related. The two piles right beside the couch were undisturbed. If there had been a struggle, the magazines would have been scattered, at the very least.

He knew you, Lilith
, Alan thought, silently addressing the absent and unknown killer.
He trusted you. That’s why you were able to kill him without even scattering the magazines.

Over the coming days, Alan and his two partners, Dave Hennessy and Maribel Flynn, would research an additional set of now predictable details that had solidified into a pattern: The records of the bank that Billings had used would show that he had recently made a large withdraw in cash—somewhere between ten and twenty thousand dollars. They would obtain access to records of Robert Billings’ Internet activities, and hopefully his email account. It would be revealed that in the final weeks and days of his life, Robert Billings had been corresponding with someone whom he believed to be a dark-haired woman named Lilith, or Lilly, or maybe even Liza, or Elizabeth. All of those names had appeared in the previous two cases, as the killer had apparently needed to approach the victims more than once, using more than one alias.

But the name Lilith was the one that had stuck with the investigators, and it was the one that made the most sense to Alan. In ancient Jewish and Christian folklore, Lilith had been the name of Adam’s first wife. Lilith, though, had been no mere woman, like Adam’s second wife, Eve. Lilith had been a monster, a demoness.

Alan was quite sure that Lilith—whoever he, she, or they were—would turn out to be all too human. But the name of an Old Testament monster seemed quite fitting for someone who could commit crimes like this one, all for ten or twenty thousand dollars.

Lee and Page were silent as Alan walked around the room and examined the body from various angles, being careful not to disturb anything. He did not believe that the physical evidence here, as discernible to the naked eye, would yield any breakthroughs. But for the sake of thoroughness, he used his cell phone to take a series of pictures. These would supplement the ones that the crime scene team would take when they arrived.

When he was done, Alan addressed Deputies Lee and Page.

“I’m going outside for a few minutes. To talk to the victim’s mother.”

Alan thought of his own mother, who was seventy-nine years old and living in a retirement community in Florida. He imagined her finding Alan, or one of his two brothers, like this.

When he reached the front doorway, he could hear Billings’ mother. The female deputy was still trying in vain to console her.

Lilith
, Alan thought,
I don't know who you are. And I don’t know how many you are. But I’m going to get you before you get anyone else.