Page 43 of No Surrender
“Do you remember what the symbols looked like?” Simon found himself holding his breath.
“Figured you’d ask.” Ed took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on the table between them. “Here you go, best that I remember.”
Simon didn’t recognize the sigil, but he intended to keep an eye out for it from now on. “Thank you.” He frowned. “You found symbols, but the cops didn’t care? Or you didn’t think the cops would listen?”
“Gordon and I had a good rapport. I didn’t want to ruin it if he thought I was a nutcase,” Ed replied. “Don’t forget—the whole ‘Satanic Panic’ was just ramping up. People started seeing devil worshippers and crazy cultists under every rock. Serious journalists steered clear, as did cops who thought the whole thing was a witch hunt. So I investigated on my own and stayed quiet, hoping I’d find something irrefutable.”
“But you didn’t.” Simon guessed.
“It was beyond refute in my mind.” Ed lifted his chin defiantly. “But this being South Carolina, my friends who had unusual ‘talents’ were deep underground for their own safety. They could have lost their jobs, their homes, and been hauled in on trumped-up charges. There was no internet, so research meant books. I could have gotten fired if my editor had ever found out what I was doing.”
Simon sat back, his coffee forgotten for the moment. “What did you figure out, aside from the binding spell?”
“I think the killer was self-taught. Probably someone who took horror movies a little too seriously and then was unlucky enough to happen into real sources. I also don’t think he took the women for sex, which went against all the police theories,” Ed answered. “You ever hear of Lady Bathory?”
“The crazy aristocrat who bathed in blood to stay young?” Walt put in.
Ed nodded. “I figured the person taking the women was working some sort of rejuvenation spell. Not to stay young—to extend his life, or cure a condition that medicine at the time couldn’t.”
“Like cancer.” They both looked at Simon, who cleared his throat. “Gordon’s top suspect died of cancer.”
“Exactly,” Ed agreed. “I think he used the murders to stave off the inevitable until he couldn’t function anymore.”
“Did he have a Renfield?” Simon asked, hoping Ed got the Dracula reference.
“You mean a crazy, willing servant? There was this kid who always seemed to be around when the police investigated another disappearance. At first, I thought he was just into crime voyeurism—there are plenty like that. But after a while, I thought it was odd. He was a little too interested—and he seemed to be rooting against the police,” Ed told them.
“Did you get a name?”
Ed nodded. “Bert Judd. I just couldn’t come up with something to report him for that would stick. Gordon didn’t like the kid either, but being creepy isn’t a crime.”
“Are you following the Slitter case?” Simon questioned.
“Who isn’t?” Ed replied, and Walt nodded.
“Then you’ve seen the headlines about bad luck befalling some key players. I don’t believe in luck. I think someone is sabotaging the trial because they’ve got some hero-worship going for Fischer,” Simon told them. “And Judd is at the top of my list.”
“I agree with you—although now as then, I can’t prove it,” Ed said. “I knew as soon as the nightmares came back that this whole mess was starting again.”
“Tell me about the nightmares.” Simon leaned in.
“Like cops and EMTs, reporters see a lot of awful stuff as part of the job.” Ed drained the dregs from his cup. “So bad dreams go with the press pass. But in the thick of the disappearances, the dreams took on a whole new level of intensity. It felt like something was sitting on my chest, sucking out my life. I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. It was like an assault—only there was no one there.”
“Did other people have dreams as well?”
Ed nodded. “Yeah, I heard the victims’ families, and even the cops mention it. My grandmother said it must be a boo hag and to paint my porch ceiling ‘haint blue’ to make it go away.”
Boo hag,Simon mentally filed away.I need to look into that.
“Be careful, Simon,” Ed warned. “You seem like a decent guy—heart in the right place and all that. But you aren’t just up against serial killers and crazy fanboys and maybe a nightmare monster. Myrtle Beach is owned by developers and promoters. Murders—and murder trials—are bad for tourism. There are rich, powerful people who will exert pressure to be done with the bad press and then sweep it under the rug as fast as possible.”
“Gordon had to put up with a lot of that,” Walt agreed. “And if your detective partner hasn’t run into that already, don’t be surprised when it happens. Those power brokers don’t need a connection to the killer to be inadvertently working in his favor.”
Simon thought Vic had mentioned something about the town fathers prodding to get the trial relocated for publicity’s sake. While they didn’t condone murder, they were definitely more concerned with profits than justice.
“Thank you both. You’ve given me a lot to work with,” Simon told them.
“Call me if you think of more questions,” Ed told him, sliding his card across the table.
