The Keystroke Killer Page 12

  Matthew scowled. “I can hear both of you, bring me the damn file.”

  “You have a short fuse.” Peterson brought over the file.

  Matthew jerked it from his hand and at once flipped through it.

  “Not even a thank you.”

  “Thanks Peterson. This is something I must see for myself.” He tossed the file onto the desk.

  “I tried to tell you there wasn’t anything in it worth your time.”

  Matthew turned his attention to his computer. “Deedra, search for any records for Livia Lynn Raymond.”

  “Search parameter commenced.”

  Matthew waited for Deedra to respond as Peterson looked over his shoulder. “Take my advice. You need to give this up for your own sanity.”

  Matthew motioned for Peterson to go away and dismissed what he thought to be a frivolous statement.

  Peterson shook his head and returned to his own desk; his face flushed.

  “And mine.” Debra scratched her head.

  “I’ll never give up.”

  “Of course, you won’t.”

  “I’ll find the proof. My sister is out there, I can still feel her. We’ve always had this connection since the day she was born.”

  Peterson couldn’t resist the temptation to join in the conversation. “Has anyone ever told you how insane you are?”

  “Leave him alone Peterson. It’s not your problem what he does.”

  “It is when it affects this office.”

  “Deedra, any results for Livia Lynn Raymond?”

  “I’m still processing the information, Matthew. Please remain patient. I’m only a computer.”

  “Deedra, stop current search. Search Livia Lynn Raymond and New Orleans.”

  “Livia Lynn Raymond and New Orleans parameters have commenced.”

  Peterson glared toward Matthew and raised his brow. “Matthew, do you know what it means to do the same thing over and over and get the same results?”

  “He has a right to find the truth.” Debra sipped her water.

  “Does anyone really know what the truth is?” Peterson’s tone filled with scorn and spite darted deep inside Matthew.

  Now frustrated, Matthew banged his desk using a clenched fist. “Come on. This is twenty fifty-eight. You would think Deedra would be faster than this.” He swirled in his chair and punched the wall behind him.

  “There are no matches for Livia Lynn Raymond and New Orleans. Would you prefer changing the parameters?”

  “Damn it! Deedra search Livia Raymond and Birth Certificate.”

  “There are no records matching those parameters.”

  “Search the damn records.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand that.”

  “Damn you, Deedra, search Livia Raymond and Death Certificate.”

  “There is no reason to use abusive language toward me. I am only a computer.”

  Matthew kicked the corner of his desk. “Deedra, please search Livia Raymond and death certificate.”

  “There are no records matching those parameters.”

  Mr. Hammer slouched and held his weight using a cane as he tottered from the break room toward Matthew. “My whole life I’ve spent searching for people who didn’t want found. I kept looking until I did.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  “Don’t take it as support. Take it that if you keep trying, you’re bound to find the answer. Have you considered your answer is disguised and not wrapped up with pretty paper and a bow? You got to know the difference; and, sometimes that means changing how you go about doing things.”

  Matthew developed a frown of absolute concentration. Maybe Peterson and Mr. Hammer have a point. I am getting the same results. This time he resorted to the old-fashioned way and typed his parameters into the D-Global search.

  Peterson went to Debra. “That search isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I’m right here you two.”

  “Insanity!”

  “Son of a bitch!” Matthew slammed his fist on the desk.

  Debra shook her head. “Do you see what I mean? He’s insane. You all right over there?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Pull yourself together.” Mr. Hammer tapped his cane. “We have a new client coming soon.”

  “Why are we taking a new case?”

  Peterson pointed to Snead’s office. “Take that up with the big man.”

  “Now Peterson, that’s the best advice you’ve ever given me. I think I will.”

  Mr. Hammer puffed his cheeks. “Hold it, not happening! Snead retired. I make those decisions now. I take offense to anything otherwise.”

  Matthew gathered his belongings and headed for the door.

  Mr. Hammer raised one brow, crooked his mouth and stared inquisitively at Matthew. “Where do you think you are going?”

  Matthew didn’t stop and opened the door.

  “Matthew, wait!” Debra chucked a pencil in his direction. “Your drag queen is on the way. I believe he’s insane.”

  “I’d run too if Ima Star was coming to see me.”

  The door closed behind Matthew as Peterson gave flashed a reprimanding scowl.

  chapter 11

  The House of Torture

  The Ford Taurus crept along Saint Charles Avenue in the Garden District of New Orleans known as The Jewel of America’s Grand Avenue. It stretched from Uptown to Downtown. Matthew stopped at a red light. A loud clackety green streetcar rolled past on the neutral ground. The stoplight turned green. A woman behind him blew her horn jolting Matthew. “Okay, give me a break.” He pressed the accelerator.

  I don’t want to do this. An internal battle conflicted him. His visits always ended in a fight. I don’t expect this visit to be any different. The car came to a complete stop, three houses before his parents as he reflected on his upbringing and what he called The House of Torture.

  ***

  In the darkened corner of his bedroom closet, Matthew, age seven, cowered as he listened to the beating his father delivered to his mother. The brutality reverbed through the paper-thin wall from the master bedroom. His egotist father always found something to blame on her and was quick to use his fists. “Why isn’t dinner ready?” His father’s voice roared like the force of a starving lion. “You didn’t dust? You left a light on. Did you sit on your ass all day?”

  Matthew’s father portrayed the picture-perfect husband to the rest of the world. He had to at least maintain this persona because of his position. At seven, Matthew comprehended the brutal man he had for a father. Because he shared his name, he promised himself he would never be like his old man.

  Like his mother, little Matthew couldn’t get away from the beatings; so, each night uncontrollable tears flowed as he cowered in the corner of his closet. He experimented using lots of items from his cluttered room to shield himself from the tortuous noise coming through the thin walls. Nothing worked. Matthew pressed his lips against the wall and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Stop hurting my mother!”

  “Matthew, this is none of your business.” His father backhanded his wife. “You want to be next?”

  Matthew recognized what that meant. He cringed every time he heard his father hit his mother. He never understood why his mother played that off. She hated his dad’s drinking to the depth of her soul. “Baby don’t worry about your father, he’s sleeping. He had a difficult day.”

  Although seven, Matthew understood what a drunken stupor looked like because every night of the week his father passed out in his recliner before his mom could get dinner off the stove and onto their plates. Most evenings, they ate their meal in silence around the table with nothing to entertain them but his father’s loud guttural snoring.

  “Don’t bother him.” Matthew’s mother placed her dish pan hands on his cheeks. “We both know what he’s capable of doing if you wake him too soon.”

  “Carol, get over here.”

  Carol and Matthew jumped as if to expect a backhand lashing as one
of them always took the brunt of the old man’s brutality. The old man bolted from his oversized recliner, grabbed Carol by the arm, jerked it and dragged her to the kitchen.

  Matthew clenched his jaw. He jumped to save her.

  “Don’t Mat! Go to your room.”

  The swinging door to the kitchen closed.

  Matthew remained beneath the dining room table and listened.

  “Please, stop. I’m pregnant.”

  “That’s a damn shame. I never wanted another child. Much less fucking two more.”

  “Two?” Matthew retreated to the safety of his closet. He hid and waited for the abuse to stop as he heard his mother’s screams. He waited several minutes before he crawled into the comfort of his bed. Soon, she would tuck him in for the night. He covered his head using his pillow and cried not wanting to upset his mother with his tears. The more he tried not to cry, the harder the burning tears fell.

  His mother entered his room and knelt beside his bed. “What is it baby?” She gently stroked his hair. “You don’t want a baby sister or a brother?”

  “Daddy will hurt the babies.”

  “No son. I won’t let him.”

  “Why do you let him hurt us?”

  Matthew grasped he couldn’t make headway; she was in constant denial. At least that is what he thought. He may have been only seven, but he understood right from wrong.

  “When I get bigger, and he gets littler, I’ll beat his butt.”

  Matthew counted the days until he could either protect his mother or leave; that day couldn’t come soon enough. As he grew older, he learned he should not have complained about those passed out evenings because it kept his father from his nightly beatings; and he didn’t have to talk to him.

  As his mom’s pregnant belly grew, his hatred for his dad surged too. He master-minded creative ways to kill him. “I could use my father’s gun and shoot him in the head when he’s passed out drunk. No, I could leave a banana peel on the floor and he’ll slip on it and bust his head open. I could pour bleach in his beer.” For a seven-year-old killing his father proved not to be an easy task considering his dad’s profession. If murdered, every cop on every street corner would not stop searching for his killer. They only didn’t uncover his disgusting dirty secret.

  The old man came home sober out of uniform one night. Both Matthew and his mom thought how strange of an occurrence. His father hurried his mother into the kitchen as Matthew hid beneath the dining table.

  “Carol, you and Matthew are leaving tonight. Pack up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s for your own protection. For the twin’s protection. For Matthew’s protection.”

  Matthew believed for an instant his father might care about them.

  “What is going on?” Carol’s face flushed red as her heart pounded. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I don’t have time to explain.”

  “Make the time; or, we’re not going anywhere.”

  Matthew heard a wicked slap and his mom fall to the floor. She screamed in agony. He bolted into the kitchen to save her. “Don’t touch my mother!”

  “Go to your room or face the consequences.”

  Out of self-preservation, Matthew returned to his listening post beneath the massive dining room table.

  “Carol, there have been five murders. There’s a serial killer gunning for me. That means he’s gunning for you and Matthew too. He wants his revenge for me chasing him.”

  Matthew wanted to jump for joy. He comprehended the definition of a serial killer because for most of his life his dad boasted about chasing and catching the Mind’s Eye serial killer. So, the thought of a serial killer going after his brutal father elated him. He realized if he couldn’t kill the bastard and if a serial killer wanted to do it for him, he had no problem giving any serial killer his address.

  The creepiest wail emitted from his mom. Matthew rushed back into the kitchen. His mother fell onto her hands and knees. She hunched over in a puddle of water. “The babies are coming. Take me to the hospital.”

  “Get your ass up now and get into the car. You too, Son.”

  Matthew looked at his mother dismayed. “Are you okay?”

  ***

  A garbage truck stopped behind Matthew’s car. The driver blew his horn jolting Matthew from his deep memory. Matthew continued his route until he stopped in front of his parents’ home.

  The Victorian house reflected the pompous nature of the New Orleans Police Commissioner and his family - a three story exquisite historic early 1830s masonry mansion in the Garden District. The white home renovated to historical specification caught the attention of tourists. Four decorative columns highlighted the wrap around veranda on every floor. Two white rocking chairs seemed perfect to the left of the massive double eighteen foot stained glass door. The cut Saint Augustine lush lawn and a curved summer perennial garden featuring pink Achillea Millefolium, yellow African Daisies, purple Star of Bethlehem, orange Marigolds and ferns matched the pompous style of the house.

  Matthew hesitated before he vacated the Taurus. This won’t be pretty.

  He stomped to the front door, knocked and peered through the stained glass embossed door.

  Footsteps. His father opened the door. Matthew Raymond Sr. stood proud, authoritative and sober in his six foot two inch glory. “What brings you to my doorstep?” The old man’s eyes narrowed with despise.

  “We’ve got to talk.”

  Matthew’s mom stepped down the two-story grand spiral staircase to the foyer accented by an antique crystal chandelier. She gave a smile of assurance to son. “Glad to see you, come in. I’ll make us some tea.”

  “We need to talk.”

  His Dad leered with a vengeance toward him. “Son. Whatever you have to say, I’m not interested.”

  Carol stepped forward and squeezed Matthew’s hand. “I am.”

  Matthew defiantly entered the house. His father slammed the door behind him.

  As they entered the grand French Quarter style parlor that looked like it belonged showcased in a magazine, Matthew looked around. Two gorgeous chandeliers, three inch crown moldings, a fireplace, a custom mantle displayed a family portrait of the three, eighteen foot ceilings, custom cabinetry and many architectural details representative of the period stood out. The lack of evidence of Livia sickened Matthew.

  Matthew sat on the floral sofa near his mother. His dad sat in his oversized black leather recliner. Matthew retrieved his only picture of Livia from his wallet and handed it to his mother. “I will ask both of you again. Explain this picture.”

  Carol looked at the photograph as Matthew waited for her response.

  “Don’t you think if I had another child I’d be the first to claim her? Don’t you think I’d love her the same way I love you?” Carol handed the picture back to Matthew.

  “Why don’t you? I’m begging you, Mom. Believe me.” Matthew’s voice increased in pitch as he berated his mother. “You have a daughter. I have a sister. Her name is Livia. The Co-Ed serial killer murdered her.”

  “Calm down.” His mother rose and stepped backward. She looked at her husband and flinched. Did she overstate her bounds?

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. He’s out there. It will happen again unless I can stop him.”

  Matthew’s father stood. “Son. Don’t do what I did and let this consume your life. I went crazy tracking a serial killer for more than a decade.”

  “Tell me, Dad. When everyone thought you were crazy going after the Mind’s Eye serial killer, did you give up?”

  “Son, it’s not the same situation. His victims were real. We had the bodies to prove it and the Mind’s Eye serial killer’s DNA. I understood who I was chasing. You’re chasing a phantom that doesn’t exist.”

  Again, Matthew held up Livia’s picture for his parents to view. “What in the hell do you call this? Livia is your daughter.”

  “You could have taken that picture at a local bar.”

&nbs
p; “It’s happening again. Girls are being murdered who look like her. You are the best serial killer tracker we’ve got in this city. Damn, in the entire country. You’ve got to help me save these girls.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe we have a daughter? Do you grasp how crazy you sound? If you don’t stop this path, you’ll wind up locked up in a psychiatric ward. You need help. More help than either one of us can provide.”

  “Stop it!” Carol’s eyes flushed. “This can’t continue. You’re both hurting me.”

  “Have you even been listening? You never believed in me or what I thought. The only thing you ever cared about was...”

  “...Enough!” The old man’s face turned blistering red. “Don’t you dare have the audacity to come into my home and question me. Can’t you see what this is doing to your mother? You need professional help.”

  Matthew searched the living room.

  His father sat and leaned back into the recliner. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Finding evidence. This girl is Livia’s clone.”

  “Go ahead. Look around. Do you see any pictures of your so-called sister? There are none. There are none because she doesn’t exist.”

  “Never say that again!” Matthew picked up a vase from the coffee table and threw it across the room shattering it against the wall.

  Matthew Sr. bolted from his chair, stormed toward his son and punched him in the face. He shoved him toward the front door. “Get out and don’t come back.”

  Matthew’s lip oozed blood. “This is far from over.” He wiped the blood on his shirt.

  “No, Son. It is over. Leave.”

  chapter 12

  Friday Night Lights

  As Matthew entered his apartment, the fragrance from Roxy’s sweet perfume lingered in the room. He threw his keys on the dining room table and retrieved a can of beer from the less than functional fridge. The amber lukewarm liquid quenched his thirst. After crushing the empty can, he tossed it like a basketball into the overfilled trash bin. “Two points.” He proceeded to his bathroom and unbuttoned his shirt. The doorbell chimed. Now what? Who can that be?