Confession by Gary Whitmore - HTML preview

Chapter 19

Later that night, Becky and Marty continued cleaning Allan’s house.

During the cleaning of Allan’s desk, Marty discreetly examined the papers Becky had placed in a garbage bag.

Marty searched for any evidence Allan used for his book and found nothing that might lead to the identity of the real October Slayer. But he wasn’t going to give up yet, and he wanted to conduct his own investigation.

So, Marty headed into the garage.

It was dark inside the attic above the garage while Marty removed the access panel.

He stood on a ladder and used a flashlight to search for a wooden chest inside the attic, discovering that it contained only cobwebs and spiders.

Inside the den, numerous packing boxes were stacked along the wall.

Becky stood at the locked cabinet and tried to unlock it with keys she found on Allan’s desk.

Marty entered the den. “I didn’t find a wooden chest in the attic,” he said while walking to Becky.

Becky looked irritated at Marty. “I can’t believe you searched for one,” she said while trying to unlock the padlock with a key, which did not work.

“Do you want me to run to Home Depot and get some bolt cutters?” Marty offered.

“I have one last key to try,” Becky said. Then she stuck the key into the lock, and it worked. Becky cracked open one of the cabinet doors. I hope the Army doesn’t bust down the doors and arrest me for seeing their secrets,” she said jokingly.

Marty chuckled while she opened up the cabinet.

They both peeked inside and saw Allan’s Army uniforms on hangers, Army hats, a duffel bag, an old 35mm camera, and some boxes of old photography developing chemicals.

“It doesn’t look like Army secrets to me,” Marty said while looking over the items.

“I can’t understand why he kept it locked and didn’t want the kids to get inside,” Becky said.

“Maybe he didn’t want them playing with the chemicals,” Marty replied while he looked inside the duffel bag.

Becky nodded in agreement with his statement.

Marty opened the duffel bag and turned it upside down, dumping all its contents on the floor.

On the floor, they saw a pair of combat boots, numerous Army fatigues, countless old pictures of Allan and Billy, a 38 revolver, and five past issues of the Confidential Detective Cases magazine.

“I didn’t know he had a gun? Is it loaded?” Becky said while stepping back a little leery.

Marty picked up the revolver and checked it out. “No.”

“Uncle Billy’s a gun freak, so it must be his. Get rid of that thing!” Becky demanded.

“I’ll see if a gun shop will buy it,” Marty said while he walked over and set the revolver on Allan’s desk.

Marty walked back to Becky just as she picked up the old photos. One was of Billy, then twenty-two years old in 1963. Billy wore his Sheriff ’s uniform and stood by his Curtis, Mississippi, police car with Allan by his side. They looked cocky and arrogant.

“I didn’t know Uncle Billy was a deputy,” Becky said while she looked at the photo.

“Dad’s book had the killer being a Sheriff,” Marty said.

“That man will always make my skin crawl,” Becky shivered while dropping the pictures on the floor.

Marty picked up the detective magazines off the floor. There were five issues from several years in the 1960s.

Marty flipped through the pages of the 1963 issue. Then he noticed some of the pages for an article were stuck together.

Marty flipped through the pages of the 1964 issue. He noticed some of the pages were stuck together.

Marty flipped through the pages of the 1965 issue. He noticed that some pages were stuck together, so he picked at them.

Then Marty’s eyes widened, recalling the part of the A Killer’s Tale book where the killer masturbated into detective magazines. He quickly dropped the magazines like they had some type of disease.

Becky noticed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I need to wash my hands,” Marty cringed then rushed out of the den.

Becky shrugged it off and then walked over to the other side of the den.

She grabbed an empty cardboard box, walked back to the cabinet with it, and began picking up his Army items and dumping them into the box.

Marty walked back over, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up the five magazines off the floor.

Becky saw him. “Why the gloves?” she asked curiously.

“You really don’t want to know. Trust me,” Marty cringed again while walking out of the den with the magazines to dump them in the garbage.

“Whatever,” she said, dumping Allan’s Army items into the box.

They spent the whole night cleaning and packing Allan’s belongings into boxes.

It was the next morning, and Sam got up early and had a quick breakfast of two cups of coffee.

After showering and getting dressed, Sam grabbed Allan’s book and a file folder, then headed out the front door.

Later that day, Allan’s former editor, Rodney Burnstein, was behind his desk while reviewing a manuscript.

There was a knock on the door. It opened, and a woman stepped inside. “Mister Burnstein, there’s a retired FBI agent, Mister Woods, who said he had an appointment with you this morning.”

“Ah yes, please let Mister Woods inside,” Rodney said while he put down the manuscript.

She left, and a second later, Sam entered his office with a file folder in hand.

Rodney got curious when he stood up and walked up to Sam.

“I’m Rodney Burnstein. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Woods,” he said while they shook hands.

“If you don’t mind, do you have some identification? I have to make sure you’re really a retired FBI agent.”

Sam removed his retired FBI credentials and Florida driver’s license from his wallet and showed it to Rodney.

“Please have a seat,” Rodney said while he walked Sam to a chair in front of his desk.

“May I get you something to drink? Some coffee, perhaps?” Rodney offered.

“No, thank you,” said Sam while he put his identification back in his wallet and sat down.

Rodney walked over and sat down behind his desk. “So, you said you wanted to see about Allan Stein’s book, A Killer’s Tale?”

“Yes, when I was with the FBI in the sixties, I worked on the October Slayer case.”

“I remember when that happened. I was living in Chicago at the time. So what does Allan’s book have to do with that case?”

“First, it was very similar to that case, and second, it mentioned events only the killer and myself knew.”

“What events? I read his manuscript,” Rodney curiously asked.

“Well, there was the part where the FBI agent was drunk in a bar, and Jimmy, the killer, talked with him. Then he dropped some sergeant’s stripes in the pocket of the agent’s suit. Back then, I drank heavily and got drunk one night at a bar; the next morning, I found a pair of Army Warrant officer’s bars in the pocket of my suit.”

“That’s interesting, but it could be a coincidence,” Rodney said.

“Then the killer sent me taunting letters. Letters like these,” Sam said, then removed the letters from his file folder and showed them to Rodney. “The book had the same exact words in its letters,” Sam said while he showed Rodney the applicable sections of the book.

Rodney looked at the letters and what Allan wrote in his story. “Allan knew how to dig up information and twist things around,” Rodney said while he handed Sam back the letters and book. “Maybe someone else in the FBI knew about these letters and passed them on to Allan.”

“I’m positive nobody knew about them,” Sam said, looking dead serious.

“I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I was wondering if you could give me the list of individuals Allan consulted with? Or copies of his research material?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have that type of information. Allan kept it all to himself. I only had his final manuscript to review before we published it.”

“But his book had clues I believe will lead to the killer’s identity,” Sam insisted.

“If Allan thought he had discovered the identity of the October Slayer killer, he would have turned it over to the proper law authorities. He was, after all, retired Army CID, so I doubt he would let a killer get away. So I’m sorry, Mister Woods, you’re wasting your time.”

Sam stood up, disappointed. “Thank you, Mister Burnstein,” Sam said while he reached across his desk with his hand.

Rodney stood up. “Have you read his other book, Murder At Night?” Rodney said while he shook Sam’s hand.

“No, sir,” Sam replied.

“You should. It’s also a great read.”

“I’ll give it a read,” Sam said but didn’t intend to read Allan’s other book.

“These books always bring out the whackos,” Rodney said quietly while watching Sam leave.

While Sam drove back down I-95 to Daytona Beach, Becky and Marty relaxed at their house in Kissimmee after cleaning Allan’s house.

It was quiet inside the den while they enjoyed their DVD player’s Nothing In Common movie.

Michael and Nancy were still at their grandparent’s in St. Petersburg.

Becky snuggled next to Marty, where the Tom Hanks character just received a phone call from his father, Jackie Gleason, stating his mother just left him.

The movie continued, and then the doorbell rang. “I wonder who that can be?” Marty said.

“I’m not expecting anybody,” she said while she got up.

Marty pulled her back down on the sofa. “I’ll get it,” he said, exiting the sofa and leaving the den.

Becky watched the movie in which Tom Hanks visited his father’s apartment. There was loud music playing and a steak burning on the stove.

“Becky, you better come to the door,” Marty yelled from the living room.

Becky got up and walked out of the room.

She walked to the living room, where Marty opened the front door. Marty got concerned while glancing at Becky. She had a gut feeling this was not going to be good.

Becky got to the front door and saw Billy outside on the front stoop and instantly got pissed. “What the hell are you doing here?” she yelled.

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Billy said with a smart-ass tone and smirk.

“Never!” Becky snapped back.

“Why did Allan write that book?” Billy asked, looking like he wanted to pound on someone.

“Why should you care?” she asked.

“How could he be so stupid? He promised!” Billy said while he paced by the front door.

“What the hell is your problem? If Dad wanted to write a book, he didn’t need your permission,” she yelled.

Billy walked closer to the front door and tried to get inside.

“No!” Becky barked, then started to close the front door.

Billy stuck his shoe on the threshold and stopped her from completely closing the door. “Listen, I really need to look through his house. I can pay you ten thousand dollars. Just think, ten thousand dollars! That would be a great start on your kids’ college fund,” Billy said with a serious tone, but he would not pay her a dime if he came up empty-handed.

“Like I told you before, no! And what is with you and that retired FBI agent?”

“FBI agent? What agent?” Billy said, then it dawned on him a second later. “Woods! Damn him!”

“I’m going to call the police if you set another foot on my property or dad’s property,” Becky yelled. She slammed the door in Billy’s face when he moved his shoe away.

Becky rushed over to the curtains, watching Billy get inside his red-on-red 2005 Corvette and then driving off down the street.

“Honey, maybe that ex-FBI agent’s right about Dad’s book,” Marty said while Becky continued to peek out their curtains.

“Come on, Marty, this was Dad’s version of solving that case. Pure and simple! So, I can’t help it if some old man didn’t do his job forty years ago,” she said, irritated with him.

“Maybe Uncle Billy wants to find that wooden chest mentioned in the book.”

“Enough! You didn’t find a wooden chest in Dad’s house. So that means it doesn’t exist anymore. Dad threw it away years ago. Case closed!” Becky barked, getting more and more irritated with Marty.

“Didn’t Dad have a skull tattoo with five letters on his back? I thought I remembered seeing that when we dated. His book gave the killer the same type of tattoo but on his bicep,” Marty said, not realizing he was pushing things too far.

“Can’t you let Dad rest in peace? He used that to jazz up his story!” she yelled while her face turned red.

Marty looked concerned while he watched her storm out of the living room. He had a gut feeling Allan’s book was written to provide clues to the identity of the October Slayer.

It’s probably Uncle Billy! He thought to himself while he rushed out of the living room to make up with Becky. But he did not have the balls now to mention his theory to his wife that Billy might be the killer.

Billy’s Corvette raced north on I-4. He weaved in and around traffic and almost caused a few accidents. Some of the drivers blew their horns. And some of the drivers gave Billy the one-finger salute.

Inside his car, Billy couldn’t care less that he pissed off some other drivers, as finding that wooden chest weighed heavily on his mind.

“I’ll wait a couple of days,” Billy said to himself while he quickly moved into the left lane and cut off a Honda Civic. The driver blew his horn.

He sped his Corvette up to ninety miles per hour and raced north on I-4 to catch the Florida Turnpike.

His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the viewfinder. It was a text message, and he smiled as it contained the address and phone number he needed.