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Chapter 146: Burning with Fury
Bernie's voice sharpened. "Now?"
He'd assumed Theodore meant Charles Anderson was with Mildred Anderson at this very moment. Given what they'd learned from the woman, Bernie doubted her son was there to help with any goddamn moving boxes.
Theodore shook his head. "No. He's not ready yet."
"Ready for what?"
Theodore didn't answer immediately. Instead, he circled back to the crime scene, his fingers tapping the edge of his notebook. "The killer broke the lamp. Smashed the wine bottle. Pushed the victim straight through the window."
He paused, letting it settle. "Rage. Pure rage."
"But not at her."
Bernie frowned, waiting.
"The victim was a substitute. The killer used her as a stand-in for the real target of his anger." Theodore's gaze stayed level. "He's not ready yet to commit the crime against the actual target."
Understanding clicked into place. "You mean Charles Anderson's target is Mildred Anderson? He wanted to kill his own mother?"
Bernie thought about Barbie Jo Carter and Mildred Andersonâone young, one middle-aged. Blonde versus brunette. "They're nothing alike."
"In the killer's eyes, they share one critical similarity." Theodore's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "They're both prostitutes."
He leaned forward slightly. "This isn't mistaken identity. The killer knew damn well that the victim wasn't Mildred Anderson. He used her as a proxy, venting his rage on someone who represented what he hates about his mother."
Theodore continued, his voice taking on that lecture-hall quality Bernie had come to recognize. "Many serial killers don't directly attack the focal person they resent. They vent on others firstâvictims who share characteristics with the target, especially the source of their resentment."
"Think of it as rehearsal. They commit the crime over and over, refining their methods, escalating their violence. When they feel ready, they move on the primary target."
A pause. "Some never do."
Theodore added, almost as an afterthought, "Some killers collect trophies and give them to the person they fantasize about killing. 'Found this' or 'Bought this for you.' When that person wears the trophy, the killer relives the excitement, the dominance, the control."
Bernie stared at him with that lookâthe one Theodore had started to recognize but couldn't quite decode. It only appeared when he laid out behavioral patterns, like Bernie was seeing something Theodore himself couldn't see.
Their eyes met. Theodore waited.
Bernie looked away first. "So Charles Anderson has been nursing this resentment toward Mildred Anderson. He's practicing on Barbie Jo Carter. If we don't stop him, he'll find more victims to practice on, until he thinks he's ready for the real thing."
"Or he practices forever," Bernie muttered.
Theodore considered, then nodded. That was essentially correct.
Bernie's jaw tightened. "Would've been better if he'd just gone after Mildred Anderson directly."
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside the hotel.
Third Precinct patrol officers flanked the entrance, their cruiser idling across the street. Bernie exchanged brief words with them, then he and Theodore headed inside.
The lobby was nearly emptyânothing like the Riverside Hotel's perpetual bustle. Three or four guests clustered at the front desk, bags at their feet, voices raised about something. Nearby, a bellhop and security guard huddled together, watching the commotion like it was dinner theater.
Bernie and Theodore ignored the front desk drama. Bernie flashed his credentials at the bellhop, and within minutes, they had the hotel manager in front of them.
"Did a man named Charles Anderson come in yesterday afternoon to apply for a job?" Bernie asked.
The manager nodded, though confusion creased his face. Why would the FBI care about a potential maintenance worker? He studied Theodore and Bernie with poorly concealed skepticism, as if doubting their credentials entirely.
Bernie had him describe Charles Anderson's appearance. The details matched.
Even with their suspicions confirmedâhell, they were ninety percent certain Charles Anderson was their killerâthey still hadn't laid eyes on the man. No photograph. No positive ID. Just secondhand descriptions from everyone who'd crossed his path.
Bernie pressed for details about the interview process.
The manager hesitated, then admitted that he and Charles Anderson had discussed the Riverside Hotel murder at length during the interview.
Theodore looked up from his notebook. "What exactly did Anderson say about the case?"
"Everything you can recall," Bernie added. "Especially his comments about the victim. His tone, his word choice."
The manager's unease grew visible as he recounted the conversation. By the time Bernie confirmed that Charles Anderson had agreed to start work this morning, the manager's face had gone pale.
"We have reason to believe Charles Anderson is the killer," Bernie said quietly. "We'd like your cooperation in setting up a surveillance operation to arrest him when he arrives."
The manager stared at them, speechless.
Bernie watched him with something close to sympathy. "Sir?"
The manager nodded numbly. Then, after a beat of silence, he shot to his feet. "I'm sorryâI just remembered something urgent I need to handle."
Saturday morning, seven o'clock.
The hotel lobby was a morgue. No guests. Just staff.
Near the entrance, bellhop Theodore and security guard Bernie stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bent together like yesterday's bellhop and security guard, whispering.
"You know why business is dead here?" Bernie gestured at the empty floor. "I guarantee you the Riverside Hotel lobby is packed right now. Wall-to-wall people. Here? Ghost town."
"It's not just location," he continued, voice low. "It's the manager. Whatever the Riverside Hotel manager said about the murder, this guy ate it up without a single critical thought."
He moved on to renovation talkâhis new obsession. The past two nights, he'd been hashing out details with his wife. That renovation plan that had looked so perfect on Tuesday now seemed flawed in every conceivable way.
Bernie ran through a list of adjustmentsâwood types, color schemes, fixture placementsâsoliciting Theodore's opinion on each one.
Theodore knew exactly nothing about home renovation. The differences Bernie described between oak and maple, between eggshell and cream, were utterly lost on him.
When renovation talk exhausted itself, Bernie pivoted seamlessly to weekend plans. He and his wife were supposed to go bowling with Edward from the Veterans Affairs Bureau. But the case wasn't closed yet. If the operation went smoothly and they nabbed Charles Anderson, interrogation would need to start immediately.
Bernie tallied up their evidence aloud, then asked Theodore if they should postpone with Edward.
Theodore stared at him.
Bernie had this habitâtalking nonstop before operations. He'd done it during the bank stakeout too, but this was worse. Bernie had been running his mouth for nearly an hour straight.
Wasn't he exhausted? How did he have this much to say about nothing?
Theodore shook his head. "It won't take long. The killer essentially answered every question the manager asked about the case. He volunteered his opinions about the victim, disparaged her openly."
"Strong desire to share his perspective," Theodore said. "And he doesn't think he did anything wrong. He'll confess quickly."
Bernie's elbow nudged him, his gaze cutting toward the entrance. "Charles Anderson's here."
Theodore looked.
A man in gray work clothes approached the hotel, about five-foot-six, stocky build.
Theodore stepped into his role. He moved to the door, pulled it open with practiced ease, and reached for the man's bag.
Charles Anderson froze in the doorway, then shook his head. "I'm here to work. The manager told me to start today."
His gaze swept the lobby, lingering on the front desk, the security guard, finally landing back on Theodore. Confusion flickered across his face.
Yesterday's bellhop had been a gray-haired middle-aged man. Yesterday's security guard had been a redhead, built like a linebacker. The front desk had been staffed by a man and woman.
Why was everything different?
Theodore blocked the doorway with his foot, weight balanced, ready.
Behind him, Bernie moved closer. "What's your name?"
"Charles Anâ"
They hit him simultaneously, driving him to the ground. Charles Anderson struggled briefly, but when Bernie snapped the handcuffs on, the fight drained out of him. He went limp, face-down on the tile, breathing hard.
The agents posing as front desk staff and elevator operator rushed over to help escort him out.
Back at the Third Precinct, the arrest team handled registration while Theodore and Bernie went looking for Detective Thomas.
Thomas stood near the coffee station, chatting with a colleague, Styrofoam cup in hand. When he spotted them, he waved cheerfully.
"Tucson PD called," he said. "Victim's parents left last night. Should be here soon to claim the body."
No follow-up questions. No curiosity about how the identification process would work. Thomas delivered the information like a switchboard operator reading a message slip, then went back to his coffee.
Bernie couldn't help himself. "Aren't you curious about the case investigation?"
Thomas shook his head, expression solemn. "Not curious."
"I have faith in you," he added. "You'll catch the killer."
Bernie had no words. He'd seen lazy cops before, but this level of apathy was almost impressive.
The Third Precinct moved fast. Charles Anderson was processed and sitting in an interrogation room within minutes.
Before Anderson's ass hit the chair, Theodore asked, "On the morning of April fourth, a guest in room 511 of the Riverside Hotel was pushed out the window. Was that you?"
Charles Anderson blinked, then shook his head. "No."
Theodore slid the victim's photograph across the table. "Do you know her?"
Anderson studied it. Picked it up for a closer look. Set it down, picked it up again, squinted at it like the angle might change something.
Finally, he set it down. "No. I don't know her."
Pause. "I remember she checked in around nine o'clock the night before. I'd just finished cleaning a room when she arrived. I saw her then."
Bernie leaned forward. "You're sure you don't know her?"
Charles Anderson examined the photo one more time, then shook his head firmly. "I don't know her."
Theodore pulled out the hotel manager's statement and passed it to Bernie.
"If you don't know her," Bernie said, "why did you tell the hotel manager she was a prostitute during your job interview yesterday afternoon?"
He read directly from the statement, line by line, every disparaging comment Charles Anderson had made about the victim. "How did you know all this?"
Charles Anderson went quiet for a moment. "I was just talking. Speculation."
"I don't know what she did for a living," he added quickly. "I heard from someone she was a prostitute."
"Heard from who?"
Bernie picked up the photo, his voice rising slightly. "She checked in after nine at night. Besides a few staff membersâfront desk, bellhop, elevator operatorânobody else saw her. We interviewed every staff member at the Riverside Hotel who encountered her. Not one of them mentioned prostitution."
Theodore glanced at Bernie.
Every word of that paragraph, except the check-in time, was a complete fabrication.
Charles Anderson fell silent, longer this time.
Bernie laid out the fingerprint reports. "Your prints were collected from the cabinet, lamp, window frame, and headboard in room 511."
Anderson's voice steadied. "I'm a janitor. Of course my prints are in those places. My prints are in every room."
Bernie pulled out the wine bottle fingerprint analysis. "What about this?"
Charles Anderson looked down. Said nothing.
Bernie gathered the photo and reports, taking his time.
Theodore set down his pen and said, almost casually, "We spoke with your mother. Mildred Anderson."
Charles Anderson's head snapped up, eyes locking on Theodore.
Theodore repeated her words with careful precision. "She said she wasn't surprised you'd kill someone."
Anderson's gaze dropped back to the table.
"She also said you were born bad." Theodore's tone remained neutral, conversational. "Said you were still wetting the bed at nine years old, just to torment her. To make her life difficult."
Charles Anderson's head jerked up again, a cold sneer twisting his face.
Theodore continued relaying Mildred Anderson's words, each one delivered with surgical precision. His tone made Bernie glance sideways more than once.
He'd never seen this side of Theodoreâthis deliberate, needling cruelty.
That tone would make anyone want to throw a punch.
Mildred Anderson, desperate to avoid being tainted by her son's crimes, had pulled out every poisonous thing she could think of to distance herself from him.
And Theodore was using those words like kindling.
Stoking Charles Anderson's rage, feeding the fire until it burned hot enough to strip away controlâhot enough to take him back to that hotel room, to the moment when fury had driven him to shatter glass and bone.
Hot enough to make him confess.
[End of Chapter]
Halo, How are you doing? Fine? happy? Sad? Or just passing by?