Onyx Webb 10 Read online

  “Did he say anything to you?” Bruce asked. “Do you have any idea what—?”

  “No,” Koda said. Bruce nodded. Then he reached out and pressed the play button.

  Hello, Bruce. Hello, Koda. I’ll assume you’re both listening to this together, which is my hope, because it’s something you both need to hear. The reason for this tape recording is a simple one. There are things I’ve always wanted the two of you to know, but I never had the courage to say. Not while I was alive at least. Which, since you are listening to this, I no longer am.

  By now you know I’ve been sick for a while, something I intentionally decided to keep from you both. I didn’t want my illness to be the focus of our final months together. Hopefully my decision has not angered you, and if it has, I apologize.

  There are things I’m about to say that you might find… surprising. Distressing, even. For that I apologize too. But they are things that need to be said, even if only in this cowardly manner.

  To understand the context of what I wish to tell you, I must start at the beginning of the story. At the orphanage.

  The best friend I’ve ever had was someone I met in the orphanage when I was thirteen. I’d gotten in trouble for disobeying one of the sisters, Sister Mary Margaret. Part of my punishment was no dinner. But after lights out, this kid I barely knew brought me a hunk of bread, and we became fast friends. I’m sure I’ve mentioned him from time to time. Uncle Tommy, I called him. Tommy Bilazzo. There’s a picture of him on the wall in my study.

  I had a reputation as a brawler in the orphanage, which is how I survived. No one messed with me. Tommy was the exact opposite. He was big enough to pummel anyone he wanted, but he’d never been in a fight. Maybe his size was enough. I’m not sure. I think it was more that he simply didn’t want to fight.

  In any case, Tommy and I made it out alive.

  Not everyone did.

  There was a kid once named Randy Iglewski. Randy was a student at Kemper Military Academy in Boonville about eight miles away. I’ve never seen a kid who cried more than Randy did when he got to the Open Arms.

  Then Sister Mary Margaret got her hooks into him and made him carry the stick. She forced this meek, sweet kid to be the Stick Boy. The Stick Boy’s job was to serve as Sister Mary Margaret’s enforcer. That was the role she’d assigned him, and he was too weak to fight back.

  Randy came to me and asked for protection, and I agreed to help him. Sister Mary Margaret didn’t take it well, and she made him disappear. One day he was there, and the next day he wasn’t. Sister Mary Margaret claimed he stole money from the orphanage Christmas fund and used it to run away.

  We all knew it was just a cover for the truth. She killed him. Tommy and I did the only thing we could think to do, which was to go to one of the good nuns—Sister Katherine.

  Sister Katherine was considerably younger than most of the nuns at the orphanage. She had a scar that ran through both of her lips, like she’d been hit with something. She tried to hide it with makeup, but it was still visible. Even so, she was very attractive—though that’s not why we went to her. We went to her because we trusted her.

  She said not to worry. That she’d take care of it—and she did. A few days later, Sister Mary Margaret drowned in the bathtub. The official cause of death was accidental drowning, but I knew better. The drowning was no accident. Sister Katherine murdered the old nun, and I loved her for it. Sister Katherine was, at that point, the only adult I’d ever met who’d kept their word. And it was the defining moment of my life.

  I remember thinking: Maybe that’s how things are handled. Maybe that’s how the world is made right. Maybe praying to God for intervention was a waste of time. Maybe the best way to solve a problem was the way Sister Katherine had. You solve it yourself.

  I’m sure you are wondering why I feel the need to tell you this. I have a reason, so please bear with me.

  A few years after that, the priest who ran the orphanage—Father Fanning—gathered all of us kids together to let us know we were being taken to the Boys Town movie premiere at the Ambassador Theater in East St. Louis. For most kids, it was the biggest day of their entire lives, Tommy and me included.

  Early into the movie, Tommy went to buy candy. Ten minutes later, he hadn’t returned, so I went looking for him. I finally found him in an area of the building that was under construction. He was being raped by Father Fanning.

  The sound of Fanning grunting and Tommy whimpering in pain was too much to handle. A feeling of rage unlike anything I’d ever felt before overwhelmed me. I grabbed a two-by-four from a stack of lumber, took several quick steps forward, and swung. Then I hit him again. And again—the final blow connecting with the side of the priest’s head, and he toppled over like a rag doll.

  He was dead.

  Then Sister Katherine showed up. She helped us dump Father Fanning’s body and gave us money to run away. Needless to say, if Tommy and I weren’t bonded as brothers for life before that, we were then.

  Am I ashamed of what I did? Do I regret taking the life of another human being? No.

  Fanning was pure evil, and I’m glad I bashed his skull in. Given the chance, I’d do it again without blinking an eye. You must stand up to evil. What is it they say? The only way evil can survive is when good men encounter it yet do nothing. And in the scope of the universe, I am a good man—compared to the likes of the Father Fannings of the world who prey on the innocent.

  Tommy and I ran to Chicago, and took a series of odd jobs—working in bowling alleys and amusement parks—until we drifted apart when I enlisted in the army after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. We didn’t see each other for another twenty years.

  Tommy had hooked up with a small-time Chicago mobster who went by the name Fat Sal. His crew included his muscle, Chuckie Bags, and a cocky little weasel named Phil Spilatro, who went by the nickname Milwaukee Phil. Phil was the grandson of Faustino “The Owl” Spilatro, who ran Las Vegas in the 1930s and ‘40s. Phil thought he was hot shit because he was connected.

  When I got back from the war, I drifted around for the next ten years until I lucked into my job as part of Frank Sinatra’s security detail, which I know you already know about.

  It was late November 1962. Frank, Dean, and Sammy were playing a small club called the Villa Venice. It was a small joint in Wheeling, Illinois, secretly owned by mobster Sam Giancana, who was a close friend of Frankie’s. That’s when I ran into Tommy again. It was also the night I met Mary Ann Mungehr.

  Mary Ann was a waitress who was working the event that night. She was also a single mother with a seven-year-old kid named Stan Lee. Stan Lee’s father, it turned out, was none other than Phil Spilatro. He’d gotten Mary Ann pregnant and never took responsibility.

  That night, Mary Ann ran into Phil at the club and confronted him, right there in front of everyone. It was one of the bravest things I’d ever seen, and I fell head over heels for her.

  Mary Ann was different from any woman I’d ever met. There was simply something about her that was hard to explain.

  Before the night was over, I pummeled the crap out of Phil, and both Mary Ann and I got fired for causing a scene in the club. Next thing I know, Mary Ann and I are sitting on a bus bench together, and she invited me for pancakes. I gladly accepted.

  The next six months with Mary Ann were some of the best I can ever remember. I was never happier.

  Then I screwed it up.

  By pure chance, I got a tip from a helicopter pilot that Walt Disney was looking to open a second theme park—this time in Orlando—and I hatched a plan to buy land down there, knowing I’d make a killing. But I needed cash.

  With no other options available to me, I went to Fat Sal Tombo, Tommy’s boss. He refused. At that stage in my life, no was not an acceptable answer. So I robbed Phil Spilatro, who was running cash on the night of the Sonny Liston fight with Floyd Patterson. I headed for Orlando, leaving Mary Ann behind, having no idea she was pregnant.

  I also had n
o idea it was going to take two years to execute my plan, during which I totally stayed away from Mary Ann so she wouldn’t know anything. The whole time, I convinced myself I was doing it to protect her. Looking back on it now, I realize I was doing it to protect the deal.

  I returned to Chicago a wealthy man with a stolen fortune, only to have what mattered most stolen away from me.

  After paying my debt to Fat Sal, Tommy told me that Phil Spilatro had murdered Mary Ann.

  And that she’d had a second kid. A boy she named Bruce after comedian Lenny Bruce.

  Yes, Bruce.

  You.

  People wonder why I never married. I now know the reason. It was because I never met anyone like Mary Ann—a woman whose life and love I traded for money. If I had only stayed…

  But at least I still had you.

  I know how badly a child wants to know their parents, Bruce, and I’ve robbed you of knowing anything about your mother. I rationalized not telling you about her because I survived knowing nothing about mine. It was extremely selfish.

  The truth is I’ve always been afraid that if I were to tell you about your mother, you’d go chasing after more information. And when you did, you wouldn’t like what you found.

  I am sorry.

  As if my decisions hadn’t impacted things enough, the next couple of things I did have reverberated through the rest of my life.

  I ended up killing Phil Spilatro in retaliation for what he did to your mother, and then I picked you up from the Dunning Asylum in Phil Spilatro’s Aston Martin DB5—yes, the same car I gave you for your twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately, I got there too late for Stan Lee, who died shortly after arriving there.

  I have now come to believe it was a lie.

  I believe your half-brother, Stan Lee, is still alive.

  Father Fanning, who has been visiting me here at the house ever since I was diagnosed, told me this. I know you don’t believe in ghosts, Bruce, but you’re wrong. They exist. I promise you, they do. Koda knows the truth. You will too someday, Bruce.

  I know absolutely nothing about my father. And the only thing I know about my mother was that she died during childbirth after being severely injured in the Sulphur Springs train wreck. Each person was eventually identified—all except for one. My mother. The only thing I’ve ever known about her was that she was wearing a red coat, and she was on her way to Chicago.

  One night at the orphanage, Tommy and I snuck out of our beds and stumbled our way in the dark to a cemetery not far from the orphanage. I told Tommy it was to see if he had the guts to do it, but in truth it was because I wanted to see if I could find my mother.

  There was no reason to think I’d find her that night. I didn’t know her name, so it was pointless to search the headstones. The reason I went was because two nights earlier I saw my mother for the briefest moment—standing at the foot of my bed—wearing a long red coat, just like I’d been told.

  She didn’t speak. She just looked down at me. All I really remember was her smile. But I knew it was her. With or without the red coat, I would have known it was her. And I remember what it was like wanting to find her that night.

  They say that history repeats itself, and by God if we Mulvaney men haven’t proven that one to be true. Me searching for my mother in a graveyard…

  You, Bruce, living your entire life knowing nothing about yours due to my selfishness…

  And then you, Koda, losing yours as well.

  Perhaps we’re cursed—a curse I’ve brought upon us perhaps. I don’t know.

  All I know for sure is at every turn I did what I thought was best… yet I fear it rarely was.

  All that’s left now is for the two of you to settle your differences. What a wonderful gift that would be for an old man in his final days on Earth.

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 22, 2010 – 12:22 P.M.

  NEWT WAITED UNTIL James photographed every inch of the kill room, and then gave the go-ahead to venture further down the tunnel toward the house.

  “Let me go all the way to the end of the tunnel, just to check it out,” Stormy said. “Then I’ll come back to get the four of you.”

  Newt glanced at Pipi, and Pipi nodded.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Newt said.

  Stormy nodded and headed into the tunnel.

  Ten minutes passed, and Stormy returned.

  “Well?” Pipi asked.

  “Runs about a hundred yards,” Stormy said. “Packed dirt floor the entire way. Nothing unusual, though.”

  “What’s at the end?” Maggie asked.

  “A door,” Stormy said.

  “Did you try it?” Newt asked.

  Stormy shook his head. “Didn’t have to. It’s open.”

  “But you didn’t go inside,” Pipi said.

  Stormy shook his head. “No.”

  “So there could still be some booby traps,” James said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “He’s right,” Newt interjected. “If he was smart enough to set a trap, he would have done it in the tunnel itself.”

  “So let’s do it,” Maggie said.

  The tunnel was narrow and cramped, approximately four-feet wide and six- to seven-feet high at most—not so low that Newt felt the need to duck, but low enough that claustrophobia started to set in.

  And the lack of lighting didn’t help.

  There were lights strung overhead running the length of the tunnel, assumedly powered by the generator in the kill room. But many of the bulbs were broken or burned out, making it necessary to use the flashlights to avoid tripping on tree roots that stuck out from the packed dirt.

  “The door is not far from here,” Stormy said, stepping over a nasty group of tree roots jutting from the ground.

  “Wait,” Newt said. He dropped to one knee and peered at the ground.

  “What is it?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m pretty sure these aren’t tree roots,” Newt said.

  Pipi crouched down to see what Newt found. “Let’s get this area taped off, and don’t anyone touch anything until we get photos,” Pipi said.

  “What is it?” Stormy asked, coming back toward the group.

  “Bones,” Maggie said.

  “See if there’s a light switch,” Newt said.

  “There’s one over here,” Stormy said. A moment later, the room filled with light and everyone looked around. The room was unremarkable, with brick walls and a cement floor. Except for an old wheelchair sitting in the corner, the room was empty.

  Not that Newt had any specific expectation for what should have been in the room. It could have contained anything. But empty worried him. Empty provided no clues. No data he could crunch. And it made him wonder if the house above them would be empty as well.

  “There’s a door over here,” Maggie said, pointing toward the corner.

  “Let’s get photos of this room first,” Pipi said.

  “It’s empty,” James said. “Why do we need—?”

  “Just do it,” Pipi said.

  James shrugged and walked to the center of the room and snapped a picture, and then turned to his right and took another, continuing the process until he’d made a complete circle. Then he took photos of the wheelchair from a variety of angles.

  “Thank you for humoring me, Agent James,” Pipi said.

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  The room behind the door turned out to be a dark room, filled with chemistry trays, tongs, development spools, film holders, a photographic enlarger, and other items one would expect to find in a photo development lab. The back wall had metal shelves from floor to ceiling, which were filled with various photo development chemicals. There were two stacks of unopened cases of formaldehyde stacked in the corner.

  Newt looked through a book on developing photos once at Barnes & Noble and was reasonably sure that formaldehyde wasn’t involved.

  After Newt exited the dark room and James went in to take photos, Pipi pulled Newt ove
r to the side. “What do you make of things so far?”

  “Make of things?”

  “Profile wise, I mean. Is this what you expected?” Pipi asked.

  “Some things, yes,” Newt said. “He’s male, older than most serial killers, but that’s only because it took us so long to catch him. When we get upstairs, I think we’ll see he lives alone. He uses disguises in public, which I expected. I’m pretty sure we’ll find out he came from an unstable home, witnessed a violent act against a loved one or family member, experienced physical trauma—”

  “Well, we know for sure that he lost his legs,” Pipi said.

  Newt nodded. “Yeah, but there’s more to it. He suffered head trauma too. I know it. Something early when he was young, when he was still developing.”

  “What have you seen that you didn’t expect?” Pipi asked.

  “I expected him to be organized. Clean. Fastidious. The kill room was a pigsty.”

  “Which means?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Newt said.

  “It sounds like you’re empathizing with him,” Pipi said.

  “No, I’m just trying to understand him,” Newt said. “If I can understand him, maybe we can predict—”

  “I think there’s something you should see,” Maggie said walking up.

  Maggie led Newt and Pipi into the dark room. “What do you notice about the back wall?” Maggie asked.

  “If you’re talking about the formaldehyde, I already noticed that,” Newt said.

  “Did you try to pick up one of the boxes?” Maggie asked.

  Newt shook his head.

  “Well, I did,” Maggie said, walking to the back wall and taking one of the boxes from the stack. Then she turned around and threw the box toward Newt. “Here, catch.”

  Newt braced himself to catch the heavy box and was surprised to find it weighed virtually nothing.

  “It’s empty,” Newt said.

  “Yep,” Maggie said, a slight smile forming on her face.