The groomer, p.23
The Groomer, page 23
He spent a few minutes sobbing in the living room. A cool breeze from the broken glass door carried his whimpers through the house. His anger transformed into sadness, and determination into fear. Although he murdered and tortured several people, he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. Violence wasn’t in his DNA. He taught himself to hurt people in order to save the most important girl in his life. He thought about his options.
I can kill myself like Harry, he thought as he stared at the old man’s sliced neck. I can run away and forget this ever happened, just disappear or hide out with the homeless. I can go to my family and explain everything. Or I can go straight to the police and turn myself in. My family deserves closure, but I can’t be the one to give it to them. No, I can’t face them.
“Booth,” he whispered. “The police.”
He grabbed his duffel bag. He walked over to his hammer, which landed on top of a criminology textbook. He stopped as he bent over to grab it. His eyes grew wider and wider. He pulled a book off the shelf—and then another and another.
He whispered, “No… It’s impossible. No, no, no.”
He pulled all of the books off the two shelves at the center of the bookcase, flinging them across the room. Some of the textbooks landed on the broken glass. A novel hit Harry’s head, causing another squirt of blood to shoot out of his neck.
There was a door behind the bookcase.
A hidden door.
He tugged on the bookcase, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to move the bookcases beside it—impossible. He looked down and noticed the bookcases were installed on a set of tracks. He searched for a crank handle or lever. He pulled a few more books off the shelves, hoping to find some sort of secret switch, like in the movies and books.
“Fuck this,” he muttered.
He knocked all of the books off the bookcase, then he destroyed the shelves with the hammer. Splinters of wood hit his face and spiraled through the air. He reached the door. It was a heavy, wooden door. He turned the knob—locked.
“The hard way. Always the hard way,” he said.
He rammed the door with his shoulder twice, then he kicked it with his steel-toe boot five times. A sliver of wood snapped near the doorknob while a boot-sized crater was pushed into the door. He swung the hammer at the doorknob. After three swings, the doorknob detached, fell to the floor, and rolled away. A few loose screws followed it down.
He screamed as he tackled the door again, then he kicked it once more. The door burst open, splinters and chips of wood flying back against his face. He coughed and rubbed his irritated eyes while waving his other hand in front of his face. His vision focused after a couple of blinks. He took a flashlight out of his bag and aimed it at the door.
He whispered, “Holy shit. Grace… I’m coming.”
***
The hidden door in the living room opened up to a small hallway. At the end of the hall, stairs led down to a basement. Andrew imagined a dungeon. And bad things happened in dungeons. He saw a lean man with a thick mustache, stubble on his jaw, and a set of evil, piercing eyes—a cliché sex offender—in his head.
His worst nightmare.
Andrew drew the revolver and walked through the doorway. He aimed the gun and flashlight down the stairs. He saw a concrete floor thirteen steps down. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he descended the stairs carefully. Halfway down the stairs, he heard a man whimpering and muttering incoherently. There was panic in his voice.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Andrew said, “You... You’re Damian Hall, aren’t you?”
A short, fat man stood in the farthest corner to the left beside a workbench with a vise. He cowered with his back to the stairs, sweat soaking through his large gray t-shirt. His matching sweatpants were soaked in piss. There was a small puddle of urine under his wet slippers.
“Turn around,” Andrew said. The man continued whimpering and muttering. Andrew barked, “Turn around! Look at me!”
The man followed his orders. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was flabby. He cried so much that his cheeks almost wrinkled, like fingers and toes in a pool. Sweat shined on his bald head, like a polished bowling ball. His fat breasts sat atop his large, round belly. His anti-androgen medication took a toll on his physique, but it had little effect on his temperament.
Andrew asked, “Are you Damian Hall?”
“Y–Y–Yes,” Damian said, his voice nasally and weak.
“So, you... you are also... Cheese? Right?”
“Y–Yes, I–I am.”
Tears in his eyes, Andrew smiled and said, “I’ve been looking for you for so long. You’re the... the last piece to the puzzle. You have the answers. So...” He took a step forward. He asked, “Where’s my daughter?”
“You... I don’t... My mom and dad and... You killed...”
Damian couldn’t finish a single sentence. Hiding in the secret basement, he had heard everything—the gunfire, the shattering glass, the screaming, the crying, the murder. And even when the chaos ended, he couldn’t muster the courage to leave. He waited and hoped for the police to arrive, and he prayed no one would find his underground dungeon.
But his prayers weren’t answered.
Andrew glanced around. In the opposite corner, he saw a desk and a computer. The computer was off. There was a stack of blank CD cases next to the mouse. DVDs were stored in the cases. A bin of USB thumb drives sat at the corner of the desk. There was a pile of laptops on the floor beside the rolling chair.
There were hundreds of thousands of pornographic images and videos on those discs, drives, and devices—from amateur porn captured through unsuspecting victims’ webcams to the most violent images and videos ever shot.
In another corner of the room, there were boxes and cases filled with video production equipment. There were some iron chairs, patio chairs, and a metal highchair—as well as some cleaning supplies—in the other corner. The room reeked of blood and rotting flesh. The atmosphere was haunting, bleak and chilly.
Andrew stopped smiling. He noticed there were no other doors in sight. There were no vents, either. Grace couldn’t fit in one of the cardboard boxes in the room. It was a dead-end.
He asked, “Where is she?”
“My mom and–and dad, did you... Are they alive?”
Andrew took another step forward and wagged his gun at him. He said, “You don’t get to ask any questions, motherfucker. Where’s my daughter? Grace McCarthy. A five-year-old girl, brown hair, one brown eye and one hazel eye, taken from Plaza Elementary. Don’t make me ask you again. Let her go. Right. Now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What? Don’t... Don’t fucking apologize to me. Just tell me where you’re hiding her.”
Voice breaking and face scrunched up, Damian repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“Stop it! I’ll blow your brains out, you fat piece of shit! Where is she?!”
Damian yelled, “She’s dead, man! She’s in the woods! With the others!” He fell to his knees and clasped his hands in front of his face. He cried, “Please don’t kill me! I–I’m sick, man! I don’t know why I do this shit, I just do! I’ll give you anything, I swear. Whatever you want, man, whatever...” His eyes widened. He shimmied forward on his knees and said, “The money... The money, man! I was moving in a few months. To Vietnam or the Maldives, but I don’t need to do that anymore. I can give you the money instead. It’s a lot of money, bro. And it’s untraceable! You can have it! All of it! And I’ll go to jail! I’ll tell the police everything. Just please don’t kill me. Please, man. I don’t want to die.”
Damian was happy to hurt children. He was tough around weak and vulnerable kids. He derived pleasure from torturing them. Around adults, he was a completely different person. He was a weakling. He was a sadist, not a masochist. Like most people, he was scared of dying, too. Death was scarier when it could be seen from a mile away.
Andrew heard Damian’s voice overlapping itself. He heard an echo of his first shout—she’s dead!—and he heard the rest of his begging at the same time. His legs rocked. His breathing accelerated. He felt nauseous. His face and lips became pale. He glanced at the desk in the corner. He frowned, then he scowled at Damian. He stepped forward with the revolver out in front of him. He aimed down at Damian’s head.
Damian scooted back, but he could barely move. He begged, “No, no, no! Please! Please, man! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! I swear!”
Andrew asked, “Is she in there?”
“Wha–What?”
“Did you record her? Hmm? Is she on your computer? On one of those discs?”
Damian nodded.
Gun shaking, Andrew asked, “What did you do to her?”
“You don’t... want to know. Take the money and go. I won’t tell anyone you were here. It can’t bring her back, man, I know that, but it can... Just take it. Please don’t kill me.”
“What did you do to her, Damian? I mean, maybe we can still save her, right? Maybe she’s not dead, right?”
“Fu–Fuck,” Damian whispered as he lowered his head. “I’m sorry, du–”
“Tell me!”
Andrew’s bark echoed through the house. Damian lowered his head and groveled at Andrew’s feet. Foamy saliva dripped from his mouth.
He said, “We… cut… her. It was… It was all Emilio’s idea. You… You should go after him. He works at–”
“He’s dead,” Andrew interrupted.
“Sh–Shit…”
“What did you do to my Gracie?”
“She… She’s gone. We hung her… from the ceiling… from her feet. Then we whipped her.”
She could survive that, Andrew thought.
Damian continued, “We took her eyes out. We put them up for sale online. That was Emilio’s idea. And someone actually bought ‘em. Then… we took her apart.” His voice shifted from fearful to monotone. He said, “We cut her into little pieces. And we used those pieces to decorate this room for another video. Her arms, her legs, her organs… they were like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Then we buried her near the creek with the others. She’s gone. I wish I could change things, I wish I wasn’t me, but I can’t do anything to bring her back. But I can pay you. I can make you rich.”
Andrew visualized Damian’s confession. He saw his daughter’s severed limbs hanging from the walls. He imagined a man holding her eyes in his hand in a dark room, lit up solely by a computer monitor. He was at a loss for words. He couldn’t live in denial anymore. He accepted the truth: Grace was dead and gone. Tears trickling from his eyes, he pressed the muzzle of the revolver against Damian’s forehead. He could see him weeping hysterically, but he couldn’t hear him.
Then a feminine shriek ripped through his head. The men looked at the stairs.
“Hailey?” Damian said, concern in his eyes.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” the woman cried upstairs. The sound of rumbling footsteps entered the basement. An alarm followed—the panic button. The woman whimpered, “Daddy… mom… Oh my God, no…”
Andrew wiped the tears from his cheeks and asked, “Who is that?”
“My sister,” Damian said. “Don’t hurt her. She just turned eighteen, man. She’s still in high school. She doesn’t know about this. I swear, she had nothing to do with any of this. You have to believe me. Please, let me pay you. Let me make this right.”
“Get upstairs.”
“Millions. I have millions, bro.”
“I have two rounds left. I’ll blow your head off, then I’ll go up there and kill her if you don’t follow my orders.”
Damian had to use his hands and knees to boost himself up to his feet because of his weight. He walked ahead of Andrew with his hands up. He felt like a death row inmate marching to the electric chair. Fear stopped him from fighting back.
“Dame!” the woman shouted as Damian reached the top of the stairs.
“Hailey,” Damian said, voice laced with fear.
Hailey Hall was Damian’s eighteen-year-old sister. Her brown hair was tied in a ponytail. Her tears smeared her makeup. She knelt beside Harry with her cell phone in her hand. She was calling the cops.
“Oh my God,” she said. It was her default expression of shock. She asked, “Dame, what hap–”
She stopped as Andrew emerged from behind Damian. The revolver struck just as much fear into her heart as the carnage in her home.
Andrew said, “Hang up the phone and turn off the alarm.”
“Oh my God,” she repeated.
“Do as I say and you won’t get hurt. Hang up the phone, turn off the alarm, then come back here and take a seat. If it’s not done in the next fifteen seconds, he’s dead.”
“N–No. My dad, my mom, you–you killed my-”
“One, two…”
“Just run!” Damian shouted. “Leave and don’t come back!”
Andrew continued, “Three, four, five…”
Hailey was terrified and devastated, but she couldn’t abandon her older brother. She disconnected from the call, then she lurched to the foyer. The world spun around her. She mumbled something unintelligible but predictable: oh my God. She punched their code into the alarm system’s keypad. The ringing stopped.
She glanced at the front door. Just run!—Damian’s scream rattled around in her skull. She shook her head and went back into the living room. She kept her eyes on the ceiling so she wouldn’t see her dead father. From the periphery of her vision, she saw her brother sitting on the sofa with his hands up while Andrew stood on the glass from the broken coffee table.
Andrew said, “Sit next to your brother.”
“Oh my God,” Hailey whispered.
She raised her hands above her head and stepped forward. She shuddered as the glass crunched under her sneakers. She breathed shakily as she accidentally kicked her father’s stiff arm, but she never lowered her eyes. She stepped over him, then she sat beside her brother. Grief left her depressed and woozy. The emotional pain associated with the loss of life crippled her.
Andrew walked backwards without taking the gun off the siblings. He sat down as soon as he felt the other sofa’s cushions against his calves.
Andrew said, “Hailey. That’s your name, isn’t it?” Hailey sucked her lips into her mouth and nodded. Andrew said, “It’s nice to meet you, Hailey. We have a lot to talk about, don’t we? I’m going to need your cooperation and your undivided attention. The police are on the way, so if you work with me for a couple of minutes, you can get out of this alive. Think of it as… buying time. Can you do that for me?”
Hailey glanced at her brother, then she looked back at the ceiling. She had caught a glimpse of her father’s blood-soaked pants leg. She nodded again, her entire face twitching.
***
A rendition of Ave Maria played through the speakers.
More tears flowing down his cheeks, Andrew asked, “Do you know what your brother did? Your brother and your father? Your mother, too? Did you know about that secret basement?”
Hailey glanced over at the busted door behind the broken bookcase. She stuttered, “It–It’s a panic room. A–A panic room…”
“You’ve been in there before?”
“Years ago. When I–I was a little kid.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Eight–Eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” Andrew repeated, amazed. “My daughter is… Well, she was five years old. The most beautiful girl in the world. She had this thing called ‘heterochromia.’ You know what that is?”
Hailey shook her head slowly.
Andrew swiped at a tear on his cheek before it could reach his jaw. He explained, “It’s when you have two different eye colors. Grace—that was my daughter’s name—she had a hazel eye and a brown eye. Now, it’s not like she was walking around with a blue eye and a green eye, but she was still unique. She was special, you know? She loved Disney stuff. Her favorite was, um… Frozen. She wanted me to dress as Olaf next year for Halloween. I was going to do it, but…” The lump in his throat suffocated his voice. He grunted, then he said, “But our plans changed. My daughter was killed, you see? You’re probably wondering: what kind of monster is capable of killing a five-year-old girl? Of torturing, dismembering, and killing a five-year-old girl?”
“Stop it,” Damian said. “Please, she really doesn’t know. She doesn’t need to know.”
Ignoring him, Andrew said, “Well, let me tell you.” He pointed at Damian, then at the dead body at their feet. He said, “Your brother and your ‘daddy.’ They did it.”
“No,” Hailey said in awe.
Damian said, “It wasn’t dad. He didn’t do anything to anyone. Don’t listen to him.”
“Oh–Oh my God, oh my God…”
“Hailey, it was me. This is my fault. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I told you I was sick. You know I’m sick!”
Andrew said, “And it wasn’t just my daughter, darling.”
“Shut up!” Damian yelled while Hailey sobbed beside him.
Andrew continued, “There are others. He said they were buried near a creek. He said he’s made millions killing kids. And the sick fuck enjoyed every second of it! And now he wants to cry like a little bitch!”
“Shut up!”
The Blue Danube by Johann Strauss II started playing. The music was accompanied by heavy breathing and whimpering.
Andrew said, “Your brother doesn’t want you to know this because he’s a psychopath. He’s not ashamed of his actions. He’s embarrassed because he got caught. He had no intentions of stopping.”
“That’s not true, man,” Damian said in a squeaky voice. “I’m really sick. The doctors said so. I–I have pills.”
“He does,” Hailey said.
“So what? So fucking what?!” Andrew yelled. “You know every single person in this goddamn country is sick, don’t you? You know every fucking medicine cabinet is filled with pills from some busy, careless doctor, right? We’re all sick—anxiety, depression, OCD, PTSD—but only you and your kind hurt kids over and over. Pills don’t work for people like you, Damian. They don’t fucking matter. You need something else. And, before the cops get here, we’re going to treat you.”
“We?” Hailey repeated.
