Primal Fear Read online

  Primal Fear

  William Diehl

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  BEVERLY HILLS

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of William Diehl. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  http://seven-ways-to-die.blogspot.com/

  Story Merchant Books

  9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202

  Beverly Hills CA 90210

  http://www.storymerchant.com/books.html

  This book is for

  my children, their husbands and wives,

  and my grandchildren:

  Cathy, John, Katie, Emily and Chelsea

  Bill and Lori

  Stan, Yvonne, Nicholas and Jordan

  Melissa, Jack and Michael

  and Temple

  And always for

  Virginia

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank Dr. Everett Kugler of the Georgia Mental Health Department, for his invaluable assistance in the research of mental disorders; attorney Brett Merrill, of Swainsboro, Georgia, for his guidance in law and trial procedures, and for his continued encouragement; Chip and Kathleen, and Steve Collura, for their patience; the members of Save the Beach and the Gunn Committee, for their concern and support; and author Stanley Booth, who couldn’t write a bad sentence if he tried, for the inspiration of his words and for making even the darkest days a little brighter. Salud.

  I believe in the law. I believe in the sanctity of the courtroom and in the majesty of justice. I also believe that things are not always as they appear, that sometimes facts can be manipulated the way a magician manipulates an audience. He distracts you with this hand, while the other hand does the tricks. It’s called misdirection. The prosecutor in this case is a magician. He has misdirected your attention from the facts of the case with flashy tricks and information that really have very little to do with my client’s guilt or innocence. He has produced a body of what he calls evidence—all of it circumstantial. He says my client had motives, opportunities, desires, but produces no hard evidence connecting him directly to the crime. He says my client is immoral, that he is a liar, that he was caught cheating the victim, that he was desperate. My client does not deny these allegations—but does motive or opportunity or desire make him a murderer?

  Is he being tried for being immoral? Or for lying? Or for cheating? Will you send this man to the electric chair because he is desperate? I say in the interest of justice you must ignore the wizard’s card tricks and look in his other hand—the hand where the real evidence should be, because if you do, you will see that it is empty. This is a court of law, not a magic show. My client faces the death penalty.

  Can you twelve ladies and gentlemen honestly say that my opponent has proven this man guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt? The system makes mistakes because no matter how finely crafted it may be, it suffers the weakness of human fallibility. My client is human and he is fallible—but so is the magician who seeks his death. So I ask you not to be deceived by misdirection. Study the evidence carefully and when you do, I am convinced you will have no other choice than to find my client not guilty of this crime.

  Martin Vail

  Summation to the Jury

  The State vs. Nicholas Luma

  September 3, 1979

  * * *

  THERE IS NO CRUELER TYRANNY THAN THAT WHICH IS PERPETRATED UNDER THE SHIELD OF LAW AND IN THE NAME OF JUSTICE. MONTESQUIEU, 1742

  * * *

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ONE

  FEBRUARY 26, 1983

  When Archbishop Richard Rushman, known to Catholic, Protestant and Jew alike as “the Saint of Lakeview Drive” because of his great charitable works, stepped out of the shower, he had less than ten minutes to live. Death stood in the doorway.

  The hot shower had relieved the bishop’s tension, and he started to hum along with the stereo playing in the bedroom. Beethoven’s Ode to Joy—possibly his favorite piece of music. The majesty of the chorus never ceased to thrill him. It was so loud he did not hear the apartment’s kitchen door open.

  The kitchen door’s unlocked. Good. The room so spotless, so sterile-clean, stainless steel and tile, like the autopsy room at the hospital. The music. So fitting. Lovely. Overpowering. Volume all the way as usual, he won’t hear a thing. In the bedroom, conducting the orchestra, eyes closed, imaginary baton in hand, humming along. So fucking predictable.

  The archbishop stood in the doorway of the bathroom, dabbing himself dry with the plush Turkish towel. He was a tall, handsome man, muscular and hard, with a tan line from shoulder to shoulder where his T-shirt usually ended. Dark, thick hair tumbled down over his forehead. He flexed his bicep, admiring the bulge as he dabbed under his arm. When he finished, he threw the towel on the bathroom floor and began to sway with the music as he stood naked in the middle of the room.

  Chocolate for energy. Can almost feel it zooming up like an electric charge, down there, too, swelling me up, preparing the big O. That’s what he calls it, the big O. Don’t screw up, hold your hand against the big six-foot refrigerator door so it doesn’t make that little popping sound when it opens. Like that, perfect. There they are, all those little pony bottles of chocolate milk. Soldiers on the door shelf.

  The intruder twisted the small bottle upside down, right side up, upside down, right side up, watching the drink turn to thick, chocolatey brown before he twisted off the top and drank it. Then instead of pressing the foot pedal on the garbage container, he lifted the cover by hand and placed the bottle silently into the plastic liner.

  So neat, so clean. So fucking sterile.

  The archbishop sprinkled talc into a folded washcloth and, closing his eyes, rubbed it into his body. He was lost in the music, using his voice like a bass fiddle as the brass came in. Bum bum bum bum bumbumbum buuum …

  God, I love the way the knives feel. Light, balanced, cold. So smooth, slick, oily, like she is when she wants it, when she’s ready.

  The intruder slid open the hidden tray under the cabinet where the carving knives were stored, ran his fingertips lightly across the handles, so carefully rubbed with linseed after they were washed. He stopped at the largest one, the carving knife, its broad, long, stainless blade honed until the cutting edge was almost invisible. It shimmered in the soft rays of the night light recessed under the cabinets. He removed it, ran
his middle finger down the length of the blade, leaving a thread of blood on its ridge from the slice in his finger. The intruder licked off the blood.

  The chorus is beginning to build. And me, tightening, tingle in my belly, pulse in my temples, the spasms. Not much time left before it’s time to explode.

  He walked through the living room with the knife held down at his side. The bedroom door was open.

  Sanctum sanctorum. Scarlet drapes and bedclothes, blood of the Father. White carpeting, purity of soul. Candles glowing, clean the air. Incense…

  And the ring, lying on the night table where he always put it when he showered afterward.

  There he is.. All purity and light. His Eminence, His Holiness … His Crassness. Blessed saint of the city? Saint, where is thy halo? On the bedpost? In a drawer somewhere? Evil he stands and naked, conducting his imaginary symphony of angels, anointed with self-righteousness.

  The music was building. The intruder walked to the table, took the ring and slipped it on his finger. His Excellency was rapt in the music, eyes closed, unaware. The intruder closed in, reached out with the knife and tapped the bishop on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. Startled, the bishop turned. His eyes widened with surprise. The bishop started to smile, saw the knife. Questions floated across his face.

  The intruder held out the hand with the ring on it and pointed the knife toward the floor. The bishop was stunned, began to smile. The intruder jabbed the knife sharply toward the carpet and His Holiness slowly lowered to his knees. Fear replaced curiosity. The bishop slowly leaned forward to kiss the ring on the hand outstretched to him.

  Got to be timed perfectly so we come together. Big death, petite death … Forgive me Father for I have sinned, forgive me Father for I have sinned, forgive me Father for I have…

  “Forgive me Father!” the intruder screamed.

  Archbishop Rushman looked up to see the knife slashing a minisecond before it hit. He twisted, felt the blade slash into his shoulder, cutting deeply through the muscle and tissue and slashing his shoulder bone. He screamed, a horrific mixture of terror, fright and pain, like the banshees of hell howling in despair. The knife rose again, and as it plunged toward him he tried to block it with his hand, the other hanging limp at his side. The blade pierced his palm, twisted, withdrew and slashed again, and again, and again. The bishop staggered backward, trying vainly to ward off the deadly weapon. He felt a burning under his ear as the blade sliced through throat, windpipe, jugular and esophagus, nicking bone before bursting out under his other ear, a cut so clean and powerful only the bony spine kept head and body together.

  Blood showered from the horrible gash.

  The knife slashed again, this time across his naked belly. Then again from hip to hip. The deadly blade whipped again and again, flashing in the light as he fell backward, sending a table and lamp halfway across the room, clutching at the wounds, feeling his hand bury into the soft mass of arteries and ruptured flesh. His head lolled, jogged to and fro like a cork in water. Pain overwhelmed him…

  In the small park across the street from the rectory, a city mailman unleashed his dachshund, Gretchen, and watched her waddle along the row of shrubs that separated the grass from the sidewalk. He could hear the strains of classical music coming from behind the blinds in the bishop’s second-floor suite, and he began to hum along with the music, a melody from his past.

  He stood on the walkway letting his memory drift back, sifting through time as he picked up the tune.

  Suddenly a voice cried out above the music.

  “Forgive me Father!”

  He looked up at the window. There was a loud crash.

  The light behind the blinds went askew and a moment later he heard a harrowing scream of terror, so wrought with horror that the dog feathered its ears and began to howl.

  A streak of terror as real as a lightning bolt shot down his back. The hair rose on his arms. The puppy, crying, ran back to him and he swept it up in his arms as another scream just as harrowing, just as horrifying, followed, only to be cut short by a muffled cry.

  Silhouetted against the blinds he saw a figure moving in and out of the light, and the mailman ran into the street, waving one arm at a passing car, yelling for help.

  TWO

  Lieutenant Abel Stenner was the first detective to arrive at the scene. Ramrod straight and impeccably dressed, he was a precise and deliberate man whose stoic expression shielded any hint of emotion. His icy demeanor and complete lack of passion had long ago earned him the nickname Icicle, although never to his face. Two uniformed cops standing near the door to the rectory watched as he got out of his car and walked without any particular hurry toward them. One of them lifted the yellow crime scene ribbon as he approached and he ducked under it.

  “Thank you,” he said without looking at them, and entered the three-story brick building that was part of the towering Gothic church.

  “Jesus, don’t he ever wear a coat? Must be ten degrees out.”

  “What’s he need a coat for?” the other answered. “He don’t have any blood.”

  A gray-haired veteran with the veined nose of a drinker stood with his back to the door of the bedroom. He seemed pale and shaken as Stenner came up the stairs to the second-floor suite. With his hands clasped behind him, the lieutenant stood directly in front of the patrolman.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  The patrolman stammered as he read the details from his notebook.

  “Man named, uh … Harriman … Raymond Harriman … was, uh, walking his dog across the, uh, the street there and … this was about ten after ten … and he, uh, heard, y’know, screams, that—”

  “Who’s been inside the room?”

  “Just me, sir. I checked to, y’know, make sure he was D.O.A. although it… really wasn’t necessary considering …”

  “Nobody else?”

  “No sir. I got a man at the door, uh, in the kitchen, but I’m the only one was in the, the scene itself. I turned off the tape player with my pencil, it was awful loud.”

  “Very good. What have you … what’s your name? You’re Travers, aren’t you?”

  “Travers, yes sir.”

  “You all right, Travers?”

  “Yeah, sure, sir. But God A’mighty, I ain’t ever seen nothing like this and I been on the force for twenty-two years.”

  “What’s happened so far?” Stenner demanded.

  “Uh, ribbons around the outside. We have patrolmen completely surrounding … y’know, the premises. Nobody in or out but we haven’t searched the… the church or anything yet, because I didn’t know …”

  “You sure you’re all right, Officer?”

  Travers nodded uncertainly.

  “Go on outside, get some air. Nobody … nobody … goes in or out except if they’re official, understand? No press. And no… no statements yet. Pass it around. Anybody says a word about this, I’ll personally hang ’em out to dry. Clear?”

  “Right. Yes sir.”

  Travers, glad to escape the scene, rushed down the stairs, passing Stenner’s assistant, a thirty-year-old black detective named Lou Turner, who came briskly up the stairs and then reared back as he reached the bedroom doorway.

  “Sweet Jesus!” he cried, abruptly turning his back on the scene. He took out a handkerchief and coughed into it. There were several bloody smears on the carpet in the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  “You handle this, Louis?”

  “Yeah, sure. Just a shock.”

  “It’s that, all right,” the lieutenant said.

  Stenner stood in the doorway of Archbishop Rushman’s bedroom and stared from behind wire-rimmed glasses at a scene straight out of Le Grande Guignol. His jaw tightened a few times as he slowly appraised the bloody mess inside. Otherwise, his expression did not change. Cold, efficient eyes scanned the room. A few inches from his head there was an almost perfect bloody handprint on the doorjamb.

  “Louis, go back downstairs. I want men around the
entire perimeter. A team of four in the church, another downstairs—” he hesitated a moment, then added“—and on the roof. Start the search immediately.” His voice was a flat monotone.

  “Think he’s still inside?”

  “I doubt we’re that lucky.”

  “Right.”

  Turner rushed back downstairs. Stenner turned abruptly and, stepping carefully, followed a bloody trail of smeared footprints back to the kitchen, where they ended abruptly near the back door. A young patrolman stood beside the door, looking like a startled deer. There was another scarlet handprint on the kitchen counter.

  “What’s your name, son?” Stenner asked.

  “Roth, sir.”

  “All right, Roth,” Stenner said flatly. “Go outside the door there and keep everybody out. I’m going to lock it behind you. Don’t move around until the lab people get here, understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The young cop went outside and stood on a wooden landing, hunching his shoulders against the frigid air, and stared down a sturdy wooden staircase to the grounds below, where men moved back and forth, their flashlights stabbing the night.

  Inside the kitchen, Stenner locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He found a spool of paper towels and carried it back to the bedroom.

  He stood in the doorway, his stony eyes appraising a spacious bedroom decorated in exquisite taste. The entrance was at one end of the room.

  Opposite Stenner and set against the center of the wall was a massive oak four-poster bed with matching night tables on either side of it.

  Facing it on the opposite wall to his left was a stereo and television set in a custom cabinet that closely matched both the bed and a hulking chest of drawers that was located in the corner. Except for the cabinet, the furniture was obviously antique.

  A black leather sofa and coffee table were set against the wall to his right and beyond that was the door to the bathroom.

  In the far corner, next to a large picture window, were a leather chair and footstool that matched the sofa.