Video Kill

14


Christie could barely contain her excitement as Mr. Brother set up his video camera. This date had turned out even better than her wildest expectations, and Christie felt like pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Mr. Brother had promised that she could audition for the movie he was making. She was going to be an important movie star!

She paid close attention as Mr. Brother explained the camera and how he could operate it with a remote control. He would play Lars Thorwald, her husband, who killed her in front of the open window.

They were almost ready. Christie watched while Mr. Brother carried his tripod out onto the small master bedroom balcony that her parents had decorated with plastic ferns and flowers. He’d mentioned something about filming the scene from a different P.O.V., establishing a macrocosm leading to a microcosm in the critical scene. Or was it the other way around? She’d have to remember to ask her acting coach tomorrow if she could remember his exact words.

He looked so intense! Christie shivered a little even though the room was stifling. The balcony door was open, but there was no breeze to stir the muggy summer air. She was wearing her mother’s high-necked flannel nightgown, a costume Mr. Brother had said was perfect for her scene. If any other man had told her to put on a nightgown and get into bed, Christie would have refused before the words were even out of his mouth, but it was different with Mr. Brother. He wasn’t interested in her body, only in her talent as an actress.

Christie smiled slightly as she thought of what her parents would say if they saw her now. Naturally, they’d be upset that she’d invited Mr. Brother to the apartment when they weren’t home. They’d ask all sorts of questions about his background. Now that she thought it, Christie didn’t know much about him at all. They hadn’t actually been introduced, something that was very important to her parents, but she’d seen him almost every Sunday at the Bijou. That should count for something.

As she took the deep, calming breaths that her drama teacher had recommended before a performance, Christie glanced over at Mr. Brother. He was dressed in a black robe and heavy gloves that he must have brought with him in his camera case. Now he was pulling on a funny kind of black hood with holes for his eyes. Christie felt like giggling, but she managed to control herself. There was probably a very good reason for his silly-looking costume. She just didn’t know enough about film techniques to recognize what it was.

One more check of the camera and Mr. Brother was ready. He raised his hand for her cue, and Christie went into the part of the nagging Mrs. Thorwald that she’d practiced so diligently. At first she was self-conscious and nervous about the camera, but after a few lines the magical moment that her acting coach had told her about actually happened. She ceased being Christie Jensen and became Mrs. Thorwald, berating her husband with the total force of her personality.

Mr. Brother took a step toward her, and Christie gave an involuntary gasp that she hadn’t rehearsed. She knew she looked frightened, and it wasn’t entirely due to her acting ability. He really did look menacing. As she went into her lines again, screaming and railing at him, Christie knew she was giving the best performance of her life.

As his black-gloved hands closed around her neck, Christie didn’t have to act any longer. Now she truly was terrified. His hands were squeezing like a vise, and she couldn’t get her breath. Her vision started to fade. She struck out at him with all the strength she had, but she couldn’t dislodge his hands. Her scene was over. Why didn’t he stop?!

Christie struggled, clawing at his hands with her fingernails, but her strength was gone. Still his hands squeezed tighter and tighter until her eyes bulged and her arms dropped limply to her sides. Then, as her tortured lungs screamed out for oxygen and she was rendered even more helpless than the invalid she had portrayed, she knew the awful truth. Mr. Brother was the Video Killer.





Allison sat in front of the large-screen television set, munching on blueberry-flavored popcorn and taking notes. In the past week she’d finished the first tier of the giant box, and now she was working her way through the other six flavors. Tony had been pathetically grateful when she’d agreed to help him with his research, but the whole thing had sounded more like fun than work to her.

Allison had been a dyed-in-the-wool Hitchcock fan ever since she’d taken a class on his films in college. It had been no trouble at all to watch several films each night, and she’d added quite a few names to the list of victims Tony had asked her to make. Allison was grateful for the diversion and the fact that the project was a lengthy one. Watching fifty-three films would keep her occupied for quite a while.

When Tony had called earlier to tell her he wouldn’t be home until late, Allison had slipped into her most comfortable outfit and double-locked all the doors. Since it was Sunday, she was a bit nervous about being in the house alone. The Video Killer’s three victims had all been murdered on Sunday nights. Of course, they had all been actresses, and she was no longer in the profession, but she’d taken precautions anyway. The gun that Tony kept in the bedroom was now sitting right next to her on the table by the couch.

Allison had started today’s work by pulling out a DVD at random. It was The Pleasure Garden, Hitchcock’s first complete film as a director. She’d never seen it before, and it kept her mind off the Video Killer. The sun had been lowering in the sky when she’d completed her notes and selected her second film, The Trouble with Harry, which introduced Shirley MacLaine to the screen.

When that film ended, Allison took a break for dinner. Rather than preparing something herself, she dashed out for hot dogs from a stand a few blocks away. She ordered two of them, as well as a container of hot German potato salad and a side order of coleslaw, and went home to watch Topaz. She added Karin Dor to her list of Hitchcock’s female victims and wrote a concise analysis of the film for Tony. The antique clock on the mantel was chiming nine in the evening when she slipped Psycho into the machine and pressed the play button.

The moment she heard the theme music, Allison rejected the DVD. Sharee Lyons had been murdered in the shower, and it would only make Allison more nervous to watch Psycho all alone at night. The Birds didn’t seem like a good idea, either. Or Notorious. Or even Suspicion. She was all too aware of the Santa Ana winds blowing outside the window and the way the house creaked and groaned. The sound of the sprinkler system going on outside the family room window almost made her jump out of her chair.

Aware that she was being silly, Allison managed to laugh at herself. She’d promised Tony that she’d watch four films for him every night, and she still had one left to go. There had to be some Hitchcock film that wouldn’t frighten her out of her wits.

Allison looked through the titles carefully. Under Capricorn was simply too weighty, and she wasn’t in the mood for the rambling and confusing plot of The Paradine Case. Finally she chose Rear Window, one of her favorites.

It was close to ten p.m. when Allison stopped the DVD to make a note. Rear Window had a female victim, Mrs. Thorwald played by Irene Winston. The murder itself hadn’t been very scary, perhaps because Hitchcock had filmed it from James Stewart’s perspective. Allison knew it would have been much more frightening if it had been shot from the victim’s perspective, like in Psycho. Or even from the killer’s. Had Hitchcock ever used that technique? Not that she could recall, but she’d know for a fact by the time she’d finished watching the complete collection.

Allison sat back and sighed. Suddenly she wished she’d taken time to finish her degree before she’d married Tony. A remake of Hitchcock’s murder scenes from the killer’s perspective would make an intriguing graduate project. She was surprised some enterprising filmmaker hadn’t done it already.





Katy’s list of questions went much more quickly than she’d expected, and they were finished in less than an hour. Sam had given her a great interview. Perhaps she could actually use it sometime. Katy closed her notebook with a snap and glanced at her watch. It was still early, and she had to think of some excuse for staying.

“Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate your help, and I know you probably missed dinner because of me, so maybe I could order a pizza or something to make up for . . .”

“I already thought of that, Katy. I ordered a large Sorrento’s special for both of us. I hope you have time.”

“I’ve got all night.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Katy blushed furiously. Thank God Sam hadn’t seemed to notice her blunder.

Katy hurried to the kitchen and collected plates, silverware, and plenty of paper napkins. Sorrento’s pizzas were notoriously messy. She was about to bring everything back to the living room when she realized that Sam hadn’t changed a thing in the kitchen since she’d left. The plates were still in the upper-right-hand cabinet, and the silverware was just where she’d placed it when they’d first moved in. Was that a sign that Sam hoped she’d come back? Or had he been simply too busy to change things around?

By the time Katy got back, the pizza had arrived. Her mouth watered in anticipation as Sam opened the box and put a piece on her plate.

“Are those anchovies, Sam?”

“Yup.” Sam nodded. “I decided I liked them after all.”

Katy frowned slightly as she took a bite. Sam had always claimed that the concept of fish on a pizza was bizarre. Why had he changed his mind now, after all these years? Had a new girlfriend managed to talk him into trying them?

They ate in silence until the last slices of pizza were on their plates. Then Katy’s curiosity got the best of her. “How did you happen to try anchovies, Sam?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sam took the last bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I guess I just decided that if you liked them, they couldn’t be all that bad. How about some coffee? I can make it.”

“I’ll do it.” Katy pushed back her chair. “You just sit here and relax, Sam. You look tired.”

The moment Katy left for the kitchen, Sam glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. The Video Killer could be out there right now, murdering his next victim. Even though a full complement of police officers was patrolling the streets, Sam had very few illusions. Los Angeles was a huge city, and their chances of catching the Video Killer in the act were very slim indeed. He was glad Katy was here to take his mind off the waiting. Of course she had an ulterior motive, but now that he knew what it was, he’d figured out a way to deal with it.

When Katy had first asked for help on her Sunday supplement article, Sam had known something was up. One telephone call to a buddy at the paper had confirmed his suspicions. There was no such article, and rumor had it Katy Brannigan had been assigned to something big. Sam knew it was the Video Killer story.

At first Sam had been furious at Katy’s duplicity, but then he’d decided to turn the whole thing to his advantage. He needed help with the murder videos, and Katy had a fine mind. It was possible she’d spot some clue on the discs that he had missed. Sam was going to make sure Katy had access to the murder DVDs, although he wouldn’t admit that to her. It would be interesting to find out just how far she’d go to get her story.

Sam knew he was taking a gamble. His job was on the line if there were any leaks to the press before the Video Killer was caught. But Sam was betting on the fact that Katy was too loyal to publish anything without coming to him first. Which would win out? Her loyalties or her ambition? Sam needed to find out.

“Is the coffee ready yet?” Sam called out to Katy in the kitchen.

“Just a couple minutes more, Sam. I’m waiting for it to finish perking.” Katy leaned against the counter. Actually, the coffee wasn’t perking at all. Sam had a drip pot, so she was waiting for the coffee to finish dripping. She arranged cups on a tray with plenty of Cremora and sugar cubes for Sam and wondered what excuse she could give for sticking around long enough to find the murder DVDs. So far it had been easy . . . almost too easy.

A tiny seed of suspicion began to grow in Katy’s mind. Sam had agreed right away when she’d asked for the interview, and he’d been the one to arrange for the pizza. It was almost as if he was trying to keep her here. Cherries in her Manhattan. Anchovies on the pizza. Sam was trying to butter her up for something. But what?

Katy picked up the tray and carried it back into the living room. She found Sam sitting on a floor pillow next to the fireplace with the stereo playing softly in the background.

“Bring it over here, Katy. We’ll have our coffee by the fire, just like we used to do.”

“Uh . . . fine.” Katy set the tray down and joined him. There was no reason to be upset. She’d planned to stay the night. She’d even decided to go to bed with Sam if that was what he wanted. But suddenly the whole thing seemed so cold and calculated.

“I poured us a little cognac, Katy.” Sam handed her a small snifter. “Let’s toast your Sunday supplement article, the one about women cops.”

“Oh, good idea!” Katy nodded solemnly. “To my article.”

Katy tried to bring the glass to her lips, but suddenly she was so ashamed she couldn’t do more than stare at Sam and blink back tears. She dropped her eyes and swallowed hard.

“No. That’s silly. Let’s drink to . . . to . . . Oh hell! I can’t think of anything.”

Katy looked at him with such distress that Sam couldn’t help himself. He took the glass out of her hand and set it down on the rug. Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

“Oh, Sam!” Katy uttered a sigh that turned into a sob as she melted into his arms. She hadn’t realized how very much she’d missed him until now. They kissed for long moments, and she drew her breath in sharply as he slipped her dress from her shoulders. She reminded herself that this was completely familiar, that Sam had made love to her countless times before. Yet there was an element of renewed discovery. Had his arms always been this strong? His touch this exciting?

Katy wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. And all the while he was carrying her into the bedroom, she told herself that she was in control, that she was using him to get what she wanted. But if she was only using him, why was she telling him over and over again that she loved him?





Erik sat up in bed, suddenly alert. It was almost eleven in the evening, and the pills Dr. Trumbull had given him had been aptly named. His headache was gone, and he had been zonked for over five hours.

There was a plaintive meow from the side of the bed, and Erik looked down to see Al staring at him hopefully. He patted the bed and Al jumped up, quickly claiming the warm spot on the pillow.

“Okay, Al. It’s your turn. I’ve slept long enough.”

Erik headed for the kitchen, where he warmed a cup of his breakfast coffee. Then he dialed the office, but the answer phone was on. Tony wasn’t there. He must have finished his work and gone home. Even though it was late, Erik dialed Tony’s home number. Allison answered on the first ring.

“Hello? Is this the gorgeous Mrs. Rocca?”

“You must have the wrong Rocca.” Allison laughed. “Hi, Erik. What’s up?”

“You are, obviously. What makes you so happy tonight?”

“I guess it’s because I’m doing something worthwhile. Tony brought me a complete collection of Hitchcock films, and I’m watching all fifty-three, plus taking notes for him. It’s fun being involved in an alumni research project again.”

Erik frowned. He could understand why Tony might ask Allison to watch the three films they were using in the script, Psycho, Strangers on a Train, and Frenzy. But there was no possible reason to ask her to watch every film that Hitchcock had ever made. And what was this story he’d told her about an alumni research project?

“That sounds like a massive task, Allison.”

“It is, but I really don’t mind. Somebody from the UCLA alumni group is doing a study of the female victims in Hitchcock films, so I’m compiling a complete list for Tony.”

“Oh, I see. Can I talk to Tony, Allison? I need to ask him a question.”

Erik was careful to keep his voice neutral. He was willing to bet that there wasn’t a UCLA study.

“He’s not here, Erik, but you can probably catch him at the office. He said he’d be working all night. Something about blocking out the next scene so you could have it in the morning.”

Erik’s frown had turned to a scowl by the time he’d said good-bye to Allison. Tony could be at the office and not answering the phone, but Erik doubted it. And he was sure he wouldn’t find the blocking for the second scene on his desk, as Tony had promised.

Erik grabbed his car keys and headed for the garage. A terrible suspicion was beginning to grow in the back of his mind. It was Sunday night, and the Video Killer had struck the past three Sundays. And no one knew where Tony was.

Tony needed money. Erik had taken enough calls from creditors at the office to know that. And their one chance of making big bucks was the Video Kill sale. It had been an impossible long shot until the Video Killer had appeared on the scene.

As Erik drove toward the office, he thought about the way that Tony had changed over the past few weeks. All those excuses he’d given that had turned out to be lies. The times he’d promised to show up at the office and hadn’t. The way he seemed to know exactly how the Video Killer had murdered his victims, even though he swore he didn’t have inside information. The fact that Diana Ellington had been murdered, right after they’d discussed casting her in the movie. And now the way Tony had conned Allison into watching a complete collection of Hitchcock films and making a list of the victims. There was no reason to watch all fifty-three of the films, unless Tony needed the information for something other than the script, something that Erik didn’t even want to think about.

Erik told himself he was jumping to conclusions. It was insane to think that Tony was in so much financial trouble that he’d lost all touch with reality and become the Video Killer to sell the screenplay.

Traffic was light, and Erik pulled up in the parking lot at the office in record time. There was no car in Tony’s space. He let himself in the back door of the building and headed for the elevator. His shoulders were slumped, and he felt the weariness of the world as he rode up to the office. He supposed the smart thing would be to call the police and tell them his suspicions, but there was no way they’d believe him when they found out he’d been locked up in the psych ward of the V.A. hospital for six months. They’d assume the whole story was a figment of his imagination, and maybe it was.

The lights were off in the office, and Erik frowned as he checked the coffeepot. Cold. Tony hadn’t been here any time recently. And there was no second scene blocking on his desk and no sign of any work in progress.

Erik got out his video camera and took a few shots of the office. He wanted to show Jamie where he worked. Then he got a pillow and blanket from the closet and stretched out on the lumpy couch. He’d be right here to confront Tony, no matter what time he came in. As Erik stared out at the lighted dome of the Capitol Records building, he prayed that his suspicions were wrong, but as he dropped off to sleep, one hard fact remained. He needed some answers from Tony.





Katy was startled out of the deepest sleep she’d had in months by the shrill ringing of the telephone. She reached out to answer it, and her hand touched a very real, very warm arm. For a moment she was totally disoriented, and then she heard Sam’s voice, as if it had come straight out of her dreams.

“Okay, Bob. I’m awake. Another one? Jesus! Give me that address again. I’m on my way.”

Instantly alert, Katy rolled over and sneaked a look at her watch before she closed her eyes again. Past one in the morning. There was only one reason to call Sam at this hour. The Video Killer had struck again. All she had to do was play possum until Sam left, and then she could look for those murder DVDs.

“Katy?” Sam spoke her name gently.

“Hmmm?”

“I have to leave. Police business. I set the alarm for seven in case I’m not back by then.”

“That’s nice . . .”

Katy let her voice trial off and resumed deep, even breathing so Sam would assume she’d gone back to sleep. She peeked out through her eyelashes as he switched on the light in the dressing room and pulled on his clothes. This was a perfect opportunity. She could hardly wait until he left to get a look at those DVDs!

Sam bent down to kiss her good-bye, and Katy started to react before she caught herself. Sleepy women didn’t kiss that passionately. She let her body go limp and turned over to tunnel back down under the blankets. She didn’t raise her head again until she heard the apartment door close behind him.

The moment she was sure he was really gone, Katy jumped from the bed and hurried to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Her whole body was sated and lazy, the way only very good sex could make it. It had been a long time since she’d gotten out of bed with the urge to purr like a well-fed cat. She’d missed it. She’d known all along she’d missed it.

There was no time for dallying. Katy put the coffee on to reheat and opened the refrigerator. There was a quart of orange juice inside, and Katy poured herself a glass. Sam didn’t drink orange juice. He must have bought it especially for her, in the hopes that she’d stay the night. Was that proof that he wanted her back? Katy’s heart raced until she considered that he might have a girlfriend who liked orange juice for breakfast.

As Katy drank the juice, she cased the kitchen thoroughly, opening cupboards and drawers. She discovered that Sam had also stocked up on English muffins. She popped one in the toaster and jiggled it to make the element work. The same old toaster. She wondered if Sam had figured out how to work it. It wasn’t until she had buttered the muffin and taken the first bite that she realized Sam had bought the kind she liked, with raisins. He hated raisins. Either he’d been sure that she’d be here in the morning or he’d found a woman with similar tastes to replace her. And what did that prove? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Suddenly Katy felt tears come to her eyes as she pictured another red-haired woman, probably twenty years younger and much prettier. The woman would wear Opium, Katy’s favorite perfume, and she’d dress in long silk blouses, the kind Katy favored. She might even know all the lyrics to “The Wild Colonial Boy” like Katy did. Even worse, she might have discovered how to kiss that tiny sensitive spot on the side of Sam’s neck that drove him to distraction. She could see them now, the beautiful younger woman with eyes even greener than hers, sleeping in Sam’s arms on the very bed Katy had talked him into buying.

Katy stopped cold. Sam wasn’t her husband any longer. She had no right to be jealous. She took a deep breath and switched off the kitchen light as she walked quickly to the living room. There was work to do, and she couldn’t do it efficiently if she didn’t concentrate on the problem at hand. She had filed for a divorce so she could be Katy Brannigan, woman reporter, and she’d better start acting the part.

A small stack of disks were sitting on top of the oak entertainment center they’d bought when they’d moved into this apartment. Katy got a chair from the dining room table and totally ignored the dirty dishes sitting there. She told herself she wasn’t Sam’s wife any longer, and she shouldn’t feel she had to load them into the dishwasher, but she knew she probably would.

As Katy climbed up on the chair to grab the small stack of DVDs, she felt a rush of excitement. This could be it! But one glance told her it wasn’t. This was a series she’d ordered from a catalogue and never watched on oil painting.

It wasn’t until Katy had climbed down and was about to move the chair back to its place that she noticed a stack of disks in plain sight on top of the television.

Katy was so excited her hands trembled as she reached for them. Three disks and there had been three murders. The number was right. They were in black plastic cases with no labels. Sam always labeled his disks right after he recorded them, and he’d been furious with her when she’d forgotten to do the same.

Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped a blank DVD into the second slot of Sam’s recorder and set it up to record Sam’s disks. The murder videos were Sam’s property, and she had taken advantage of his feelings for her to get them.

Should she do it? Of course she should. This was what she was here for, wasn’t it? Katy pressed the button that would start the copying process. She knew she should be feeling excited and proud that she’d accomplished her goal. But all she felt was a terrible sense of guilt.