Becoming the Boogeyman, page 26
CHIZMAR: Games get old and tiresome.
GALLAGHER: Sometimes… and sometimes new rules are required to freshen things up a bit.
CHIZMAR: Speaking of fresh, I have to say you look good. Well rested. They must have improved your diet.
GALLAGHER: It’s almost time.
CHIZMAR: Time for what?
GALLAGHER: I’m changing, Rich.
CHIZMAR: I can see that.
GALLAGHER: Oh, but I want the whole world to see…
Cumberland Penitentiary (Photo courtesy of The Cumberland Times)
Joshua Gallagher fan mail featuring a hangman figure (Photo courtesy of Maryland State Police)
Note card reminder on the dashboard of Chizmar’s truck (Photo courtesy of the author)
Excerpt from telephone interview with James L. Largent, retired psychiatrist, state of New York, recorded October 14, 2019:
LARGENT: Atkinson was a lot like Bundy in that regard. A frenzy killer. Multiple victims within a short period of time, often during the same night. Extreme sexual compulsion and loss of control. Atkinson was a hunter. Always searching for his next victim. Had he not made the mistake that led to his arrest, he would have gone on killing for decades, I’m sure of it.
CHIZMAR: I was surprised by how little you’ve written about Joshua Gallagher. How familiar were you with the Edgewood murders when they occurred in 1988?
LARGENT: The Boogeyman murders captivated the entire country that summer, and I was no exception. But as luck would have it, someone beat me to the punch and wrote a real insider’s view of the case. [laughs] All kidding aside, Richard, you did a terrific job with your book. I’m anxious to read the follow-up once you’ve completed it. I assume that’s the reason for your email. Research for the sequel?
CHIZMAR: [pause] Yes, exactly. What are your current thoughts regarding Gallagher?
LARGENT: Joshua Gallagher is what I call an atypical visionary serial murderer. He believed—through his visions—that he was being instructed to kill. He most likely suffers from some form of psychosis that alters his perception of reality. Where Gallagher differs from other killers in this category—the Son of Sam, for example—is the fact that he went to great lengths to cover up his crimes and elude capture. Gallagher was a great many things, but a disorganized killer was not one of them. This is all textbook analysis, of course. I imagine you could teach me a thing or two about Mr. Gallagher.
CHIZMAR: I read an article you wrote about a man named Henry Metheny. This was years ago and I don’t recall many of the details, but I’ve always been curious because Metheny lived in Maryland for a number of years. What can you tell me about him?
LARGENT: Metheny was a fascinating subject. Much more controlled than, say, Atkinson. Horribly abused as a child: physically, mentally, sexually. Beginning as a teenager, he experienced lengthy, extremely detailed fantasies that involved taking control over strangers. Somewhat surprisingly, it took him years to finally act upon these fantasies.
CHIZMAR: It’s my understanding that you interviewed Henry Metheny face-to-face on numerous occasions. What kind of impression did he make on you?
LARGENT: Metheny was often talkative and could speak on a variety of subjects when he wanted to. He was also rather moody. [pause] Other than that, in person, I found him rather… ordinary, I suppose. He’d killed five people that the authorities knew of, yet he couldn’t even begin to articulate why he’d done it. His facial expressions rarely changed. His voice was monotone. He had absolutely no remorse for his victims. No guilt whatsoever for his actions. Even after all those hours of research, Henry Metheny remained very much a mystery to me…
FIFTEEN
CHIZAPALOOZA
“A dark shadow fell upon me.”
1
The drive home that afternoon felt endless.
I kept replaying my conversation with Joshua Gallagher inside my head. As usual, I was left with the nagging suspicion that he had tiptoed around something of vital importance—all while saying nothing at all. It was like that with him. He was a puzzle. Some days, the pieces fit. Other times, no matter how much you twisted and turned them, it was like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. He liked to dance around things, answer questions with questions of his own. It was maddening. You had to keep pushing and prodding, but at the same time, you had to remain patient and not show weakness—the one thing he craved, even now.
I was barely out of the correctional facility’s parking lot when Lieutenant McClernan called to ask how the meeting had gone. I didn’t know what to tell her, so I pulled a Gallagher and encouraged her to watch the interview video and get back to me with what she thought. McClernan promised she would and hurried off the phone before I could ask the two questions that were weighing the most heavily on my mind:
Who was the detective that had asked Gallagher if he thought I was involved with the murders?
And why in the hell would he ask such a thing?
I almost called her back once I got on the freeway but decided against it. She had more important things to deal with today.
The three mannequins that had been hung from the sycamore tree in my side yard had been traced back to a flea market superstore in Hanover, Pennsylvania, called the Black Rose. The cashier who had rung up the purchase was seventy years old and remembered very little of the person who had bought them. He was male, Caucasian, somewhere between twenty-five and forty, and unshaven. That was about it, narrowing it down to countless individuals. McClernan didn’t believe it was a coincidence—nor did I, for that matter—that the mannequins had been obtained in the same town where Joshua Gallagher and his family had lived at the time of his arrest. The Black Rose was a sprawling two-hundred-thousand-square-foot maze of independently leased booths and display lots, most of which were not under any type of video surveillance. There were, however, security cameras positioned outside in the parking lot. Detectives were currently in the process of tracking down the appropriate footage—after all, those mannequins weren’t transported out to the lot in little gift bags meant for artisanal soap.
Detective Gonzalez called a short time later—I have to admit I almost didn’t answer the call—but he never once mentioned my meeting with Gallagher. “What can you tell me about your neighbor Ken Klein?” He was on speakerphone in his car. There was an annoying echo.
“Not much. Seems like a nice enough guy. He’s a talker.”
“That he is. Anything about him strike you as… unusual?”
I thought about it. “I mean… no more than the next guy. Like I said, he’s a talker. He tends to show up when I’m outside doing yard work. Bends my ear for a while and goes back home again. Kara thinks he’s lonely.”
“You think he watches for you?”
I shrugged my shoulders even though Gonzalez couldn’t see me. “I don’t know if he’s watching, but he sure knows when I’m out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if his other neighbors say the same thing.” I hesitated for a moment, then said, “He asked the other day if we had a gun in the house.”
“Why did he ask that?”
“He said I needed to protect my family.”
“When was this?”
“A few days ago, I think.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we were good. I didn’t go into any details.”
Gonzalez was quiet for a moment. I was about to ask if I’d lost him when he spoke again. “Klein was in the crowd videos we took on the day you discovered Anne Riggs’s body. People came and went, but not Klein. The guy never left. He’s also a regular visitor at the memorial in your front yard. My detectives tell me he hasn’t missed a single day.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” I wondered what his detectives said about my daily visits to Annie Riggs’s memorial.
“He also has quite the library in his home. A whole row of shelves devoted to true crime and serial killer books. Appears to be a special interest of his.”
“Is he… do you consider him a suspect?”
“I consider him a person of interest,” Gonzalez said without hesitation. “I can’t see him climbing that tree in his backyard and spying on your house, much less murdering two people. Then again, stranger things have happened. I will say he definitely has an unhealthy interest in the case… and you, in particular.”
“Me?”
Another pause. “You should know that he practically has a shrine set up in the corner of his library. Copies of all of your books with those little ‘autographed’ stickers on the covers and what looks like a bunch of promotional items. He even has a stack of magazines and some photographs.”
“Of me?”
“A couple from a book signing. I asked and he said they were taken at the Bel Air Barnes and Noble. There was another one from what looked like a movie premiere.”
“I guess he’s a big fan… I had no idea.” My voice sounded calm enough, but just the thought of what Gonzalez was saying gave me the creeps. “So… what happens next?”
“Not much. We’ll keep eyes on him for a while. If he comes over again and chats you up, let me know.”
“Will do,” I said, and we ended the call.
2
After saying goodbye to the detective, I connected to Bluetooth and listened to a podcast for a while to pass the time. Bad idea. Fifteen minutes in, a guy I’d barely known in high school was interviewed. He claimed I was a loner and obsessed with horror even back then. And then he told a story about me bringing a Jason Voorhees hockey mask to school one day and scaring my classmates. What he failed to mention was that it was Halloween and all the kids in my homeroom had dressed up for a class photo. Shortly after, when the podcast host started referring to me as “Creepy Chiz,” I turned it off.
And called my wife.
All this time, I’d been stalling, but I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.
She answered on the first ring. “Hey. How did it go?”
“Okay, I guess. Glad it’s over.”
“Me too,” she said. “Even gladder if you hadn’t gone in the first place.”
“Well… hopefully, I won’t need to go back for a while.”
She sighed. “I wish I could believe you mean that.”
“I do,” I said. “The whole thing was… exhausting.”
“It’s always exhausting, Rich! And then you come home a different person. Distant. Distracted. Quiet. I hate it.”
Trying to change the subject: “Anyway… I’m on 70 around Frederick, so I should be there in less than an hour and a half. Unless I run into traffic.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Did he say anything? Anything at all that might help the police?”
I wanted to lie to her, to claim that my visit had been helpful to the investigation—that by talking to Gallagher today, I had uncovered crucial information that would help catch a killer and save innocent lives.
But in the end, I simply told her the truth. I didn’t really know anything.
3
For the second evening in a row, we ate dinner on the screened-in back porch. Spicy fish tacos, fresh salsa and guacamole, and a frosty pitcher of margaritas. Suffice to say, there were no leftovers.
Billy was playing poker at a friend’s house and wouldn’t be home until late, so it was just the three of us again. Kara and Carly were sunburned and chatty. Mostly, we talked about their day—they’d binge-watched the first few episodes of a series called Hightown and lounged by the pool catching up on gossip—but eventually, the conversation turned to the big event scheduled for tomorrow night.
In the spring of 2017, when Gwendy’s Button Box, a novella I’d cowritten with my friend Stephen King, became a surprise bestseller, I’d celebrated by inviting over a handful of good friends for a bonfire. Beers were consumed, stories were told, car keys were hidden, and the bonfire soon became a sleepover in the grassy field beside our pond. The next June we did it all over again—this time with tents and food and a few more guests—and it was promptly christened (not by me) Chizapalooza.
Tomorrow night would mark our five-year anniversary—we’d skipped 2020 due to COVID—and the confirmed guest list included such beloved childhood friends as Jimmy and Jeffrey Cavanaugh, Brian Anderson, Steve Sines, Bill Caughron, and Bob Eiring. Sadly, regular attendees the Pruitts and the Crawfords were out of town on family vacations.
I’d initially argued—for the better part of the past week—that this year’s soiree should be canceled because of everything that was going on. Wouldn’t it be in seriously bad taste to host a party when two people were dead and the local community was in such turmoil? But Kara had disagreed and made repeated arguments that this year, more than ever, the show needed to go on. It wasn’t hard to figure out her reasoning. Anything that might distract me from Joshua Gallagher and the recent murders—even for just one night—was a good thing.
“You know how much everyone looks forward to this,” she said. “The Cavanaughs can’t cancel their airline tickets this late. And besides, Brian’s already on his way from West Virginia. He’s staying at his parents’ tonight.”
“I’m really not in the mood,” I said.
“All the more reason to do it.”
“If the press finds out, they’ll crucify me.”
“They won’t find out,” Carly said. “I’ll pick up all the goodies you need. We can have the guys park at the school, and I’ll taxi them right up to your gate. No one will even know they’re here.”
“You need to do something fun for a change,” Kara said. “It’s like you’re being held hostage in your own house.”
I slouched in my chair and let out a deep breath. As usual, when Kara and Carly teamed up against me, I didn’t stand a fighting chance.
4
I was in the garage looking for camping gear when my phone buzzed.
I slid it out of my pocket and checked the screen, figuring it was one of the guys letting me know their travel plans.
It wasn’t.
It was an Edgewood number that looked familiar.
“Hello?”
Someone breathing on the other end.
“Okay, I’m hanging up.”
“Mr. Chizmar?”
He sounded different, but I recognized the voice of my mentee right away.
“Sam? Hey… what’s up? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this… but my parents don’t want me to see you for a while, so I can’t come to lunch next week.”
I could tell he was upset. We’d both been looking forward to the next writing session. “What did they say exactly?”
“That it was best if we took a break until things calmed down.” He lowered his voice. “I think it’s because of those stupid cops.”
“What stupid cops?”
“The ones who came to my house. They were here twice.”
I already knew that Detective Gonzalez had spoken with Sam’s parents, but I hadn’t heard anything about a repeat visit. “It’s okay. You can still email me your stories, Sam.”
“It’s not okay.” He coughed into the phone, and I could tell he was trying not to cry. “I finished the first chapter of what I think could be a novel. I really wanted to show you.”
“So send it right over. I’ll read it tonight.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s not the same.” I heard someone talking in the background, and then: “I have to go now, Mr. Chizmar.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling to—”
But he was already gone.
5
That night in bed, the television playing, my laptop open in front of me:
“I’m glad you changed your mind about the bonfire.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Of course,” Kara said. “You always have a choice.”
“If you say so.”
“It was nice of Carly to offer to stay and help.”
“Europe. Alaska. Australia. Our guest room. She’s really making the rounds.”
“She seems to have found some peace.”
“I hope so. I hope she still feels it when she goes home again.”
“I think that’s what she’s working toward. Finding her place in the world again. At least, that’s how I see it.” Kara shuddered and hugged herself. “I can’t even imagine what I would do if I lost you.”
“No need to. You’re stuck with me for a long time.”
“I better be.”
I closed the laptop and placed it on the nightstand.
“Any sign of the Boogeyman?”
I looked at her in the glow of the TV screen. “Did you really just say that?”
“It was a serious question. Kind of.”
“Uh-huh. No sign of him on the security cameras, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure he’s far away from here by now.”
“That’s what you said last time.” She rolled onto her side, facing me. “What was it like today?”
“Seeing Gallagher?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty much the same as it always is. Frustrating.”
“Were you scared?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s all chained up. The guards are there. You know that.”
“If he wasn’t chained, would you be scared?”
I gave it some thought. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“Sometimes… when I think about you being so close to him, I worry that you might catch something… some kind of germ that’ll make you turn into someone like him.” Her eyes were closing. “I have… nightmares about it… sometimes.”
Five seconds later, she was asleep.
6
Carly caught up with me the next morning after breakfast.
“I was dying to ask about it during dinner, but I knew better than to bring it up.” She was sitting outside in the breezeway, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
“I figured as much.” I sat down across from her.
