A Killer Like Me

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Saturday, August 4, 9:30 PM

The awards banquet is being held in the Pelican Room on the fourth floor of Harrah’s Hotel on Poydras Street.

The killer doesn’t need to be here. He knows where the young woman lives. The address of her off-campus apartment became public record a few months ago when she applied for a restraining order against a former boyfriend. He is here because he wants to see her. He even dressed for the occasion in what Mother calls his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes: khaki pants, white shirt, maroon tie, and blue sport coat.

The ballroom is cloaked in semidarkness as he slips through the double doors. The house lights shine on a middle-aged man standing behind the lectern at the front of the room. He is speaking about some notable person, listing that person’s string of accomplishments. The room is filled with at least twenty-five circular tables, each accommodating about a dozen well-dressed men and women eating, drinking, some even listening to the speaker.

The banquet is scheduled to end at ten o’clock and appears to be winding down. On a table beside the speaker sit four trophies, each made of a square wooden base topped by a glass globe. The young woman he has come to see has probably already received her award. He will have to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd as it streams toward the elevators.

The sudden announcement of her name startles the killer. It is her the speaker has been prattling on about. For a woman just nineteen years old, her list of accomplishments seems impressive. There will be no more. Not after tonight.

To warm applause, the young woman mounts the podium and stands beside the speaker. Wearing a simple, calf-length black dress, a single strand of pearls, and matching earrings, she looks elegant yet understated. As she smiles, her sparkling white teeth contrast sharply with her nearly flawless brown skin. She looks beautiful.

The man hands her one of the trophies. Then he steps aside and lets her take his place behind the microphone. She speaks for a few moments. She is gracious, thanking several people who have helped her. Then she is through. The man hugs her, a little too tightly, the killer thinks as he watches the fifty-something-year-old man press against the young woman’s firm breasts. Then she steps down and retakes her seat at a table on the right side of the room.

Seated with her are other well-dressed young people. Her place at the table faces away from the stage. Her chair is turned so she can see the awards presentations. Her back is to a young man, and she is partially facing another young woman. Were the man her date, the killer reasons, she would not have turned her back to him.

He has seen enough. Taking advantage of a round of applause for something the awards presenter said, the killer slinks from the ballroom and takes the elevator down to the lobby. He finds an overstuffed chair with a view of the elevators and sits down to wait.

The lights in the den went out at 11:00 PM. Murphy reached into the passenger seat and wrapped his hand around a flathead screwdriver. It had a wide handle and a long, thick shank. Perfect for prying.

In case Marcy Edwards was a bedtime reader, Murphy decided to give her an hour to fall asleep.

While he waited, he closed his eyes and conjured up an image of the killer. He could see the man only in silhouette, with a featureless face obscured by shadow.

Murphy pictured himself dissolving into darkness, then seeping into the killer’s head like a dark mist, through the man’s ears, nose, eyes, and mouth. Once he was inside the killer, he envisioned the dark shadow of himself inflating like a black balloon. He pictured his own head inside the killer’s skull, looking out through the killer’s eyes, seeing what he saw, feeling what he felt, thinking what he thought.

Lee Strasberg’s acting technique, dubbed the Method, taught actors to analyze the feelings and motivations of their characters and to draw upon their own emotions and experiences to help them portray those characters with psychological and emotional authenticity. Al Pacino, James Dean, Robert De Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Paul Newman-all had been students of Strasberg. Using Strasberg’s method, the actor becomes the character.

Tonight, Murphy would become the Lamb of God.

He thought about his mother. All his life, but particularly since his father died, she had sought to control him. She was an overbearing, petty, insulting, selfish woman. She was the opposite of what Murphy thought a good mother should be.

Where would he be, he wondered, if she hadn’t forced him to quit Notre Dame? A lawyer? No, he hated lawyers. A doctor? Probably not. Anal probes and festering sores didn’t appeal to him. An architect or an engineer, perhaps. He excelled at math and was fascinated by puzzles and problem solving. One thing was certain, had he stayed at Notre Dame he would not have ended up a detective with the New Orleans Police Department.

And as for his sister, had Murphy been able to finish school, maybe his mother would not compare him so unfavorably to her.

Your sister is such a good mother. She dotes on that boy of hers. He takes up all of her time. That’s why she doesn’t come home very often. He’s got special needs, you know. He’s autistic.

I know that, Mother. You tell me that every time I see you. His name is Michael, by the way. And that’s not why Theresa doesn’t come home. She doesn’t come home because of you!

Murphy’s father had dropped dead of a heart attack while pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. Growing up, Murphy and Theresa had often joked that it was their mother’s nagging that killed their father. Now, it didn’t seem like such a joke.

I hate my mother.

The banquet has run late. The young woman does not step off the elevator until eleven ten. She is with her table companions, the young woman and a young man. They cross the lobby to the revolving front door. As they disappear between the spinning panes of glass, the killer rushes after them.

Outside on the street, he spots them walking toward the river. The other two are holding hands. The three of them turn right at the next block, but by the time the killer rounds the corner they’re gone. He jogs toward the parking garage on the right. At the entrance, he peeks around the corner. He sees them. They are strolling up the ramp, chatting. The killer’s car is parked at a meter several blocks away. He doesn’t need to follow her. He knows where she is going.

As the three young people disappear around a turn in the ramp, the killer walks away.