Kill Me Once Read online

  About the Book

  ‘Terrifying, suspenseful and genuinely original, Kill Me Once will chill you to the bone’ Karin Slaughter

  Nathan Stiedowe is seeking perfection – and he has been learning from the best. Recreating some of the most sickening murders in history, his objective appears chillingly simple, but his true motive remains unclear.

  On the trail of this sadistic monster is FBI Special Agent Dana Whitestone. Driven by the brutal childhood slaying of her parents, Dana’s relentless pursuit of the most evil and twisted criminals has seen her profile many violent cases. But never has she encountered a maniac as demented as Stiedowe, or a mind as horrifyingly disturbed…

  Fiction

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  Contents

  Cover

  About the book

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part I: Becoming Richard Ramirez

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part II: Channelling Dennis Rader

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Part III: Updating Richard Speck

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Part IV: Reprising David Berkowitz

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Part V: Reshaping John wayne Gacy and Redeeming Nathan Stiedowe

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Epilogue

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409038498

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2011

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Jon Osborne 2011

  Jon Osborne has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  Apart from references to actual figures and places, all other names and characters are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

  Arrow Books

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099550921

  As everything, for Khloe

  KILL ME

  ONCE

  Jon Osborne has been a newspaper reporter for a decade, most recently for the Naples Daily News in Florida, where he covered everything from bake sales to triple murders. He is a veteran of the United States Navy. He is currently at work on his second thriller.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First thanks goes to my wonderful literary agent, Victoria Sanders, whose tireless dedication to this project provided the rock-solid foundation. She truly is the best, and I will be eternally grateful for everything she has done. Also to agency Editorial Director Benee Knauer – whose countless reads and structural suggestions were invaluable – and to up-and-coming agent Chris Kepner, who I know will have a long and outstanding career in the industry. Thanks, everyone, for hanging in there when the seas got choppy.

  To everyone at Random House UK – especially Kate Elton and Georgina Hawtrey-Woore. From the first phone call to the final edits, Kate and Georgina embodied the genteel side of publishing I always imagined existed, and I couldn’t ask for better editors or nicer people to work with. Thank you, ladies, for everything. Thanks also to Nick Austin for his wonderful eye for detail.

  To author Jeff Shelby – who showed me how a true pro does it. Also to retired FBI agent James Jessee, who selflessly ensured that all the procedural elements were in place. I still owe you that dinner, Jim.

  Finally, I would like to thank my family. My parents, Richard and Della, made me the person I am today – so please direct all complaints to them. Thank you, Laura Osborne, for changing my world for the better the first time I laid eyes on you. We’ll always be like ‘peas and carrots’! To Madison and Justin, for letting me in, and to my sisters – Kathleen, Elizabeth and Julie – for sharing my childhood and making it so much fun to be a
kid.

  PART I

  BECOMING RICHARD RAMIREZ

  ‘I love to kill people. I love to watch them die. I would shoot them in the head and they would wiggle and squirm all over the place, and then just stop. Or I would cut them with a knife and watch their faces turn real white. I love all that blood.’

  Richard Ramirez, aka ‘The Night Stalker’, who murdered at least thirteen people between 1984 and 1985.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Los Angeles – Friday, 12 November – 10:30 a. m.

  Red, orange, yellow; green, blue, indigo, violet. Of all the colours in the rainbow, orange was by far Nathan Stiedowe’s least favourite, but on this morning it was making itself blessedly useful by warming his skin.

  Thank God for small favours.

  He stared directly up into the blazing ball of fire in the sky, not blinking, not feeling pain in his eyeballs like a normal person would. Then again, he’d always been different, hadn’t he? Different and weird – or so he’d been told countless times since childhood by his parents and schoolmates.

  Legend had it that he didn’t cry upon receiving the painful round of inoculations all children received as one-year-olds. Not a single tear. The nurses were amazed – and horrified – by his complete lack of reaction when the sharp needle punctured his baby-smooth skin.

  What the hell was wrong with him? they frantically wondered, fear in their voices as they scurried about. We must run more tests immediately. It was just plain weird. All babies cried.

  Not Nathan.

  Then there was the time in fourth grade when he’d broken his ankle in three places while playing soccer on the playground during recess. His terrified classmates had actually heard the bone breaking – or so they’d breathlessly informed the playground monitors – a loud crack that had sounded like a thick dry tree branch snapping underneath enormous pressure. But Nathan hadn’t cried then, either. Not a whimper. Like everything else in life pain was only a state of mind and if your mind was strong enough you could simply block it out. Didn’t anyone understand that?

  The names had followed after that, of course. Names that would stick with him throughout the remainder of his schooldays. Freak. Nutcase. Weirdo.

  Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.

  Nathan smiled sardonically. Who cared what they called him, anyway? To paraphrase old Billy Shakespeare, what the hell was in a name? Did a rose by any other name not smell as sweet?

  These days the hopelessly childish nickname they’d pinned on him was ‘The Cleveland Slasher’. For Christ’s sake, how cartoonish was that? But as usual a press corps hungry to sell more papers had gone straight for the jugular. With Nathan’s journalism background he understood that better than most, even if he knew that he’d have done a much better job chronicling a case that could surely land the right reporter with the proper motivation a goddamn Pulitzer Prize.

  Nathan shook his head. Fuck it. In the grand scheme of things names were of little consequence here. The only thing anyone needed to know about him was that he’d soon be considered the most perfect serial killer who’d ever lived. And once he was done sharpening the thorns on this particular rose – sharpening them to the point they drew gallons of blood – it was something they’d never forget. Not his parents. Not his former classmates. Especially not the thieving bitch in Cleveland, Ohio, who’d so carelessly stolen his life all those years ago.

  But first there was work to be done, so that was the primary task of the day.

  Nathan had already had a busy morning – an exquisitely beautiful fifth murder followed by the long plane ride back out to California – but a killer’s work was never done, was it? Not for the good ones, at least. Certainly not for the best one.

  Running was a strange way to prepare to kill people, but he knew he had to do it if he wanted to be the best there’d ever been. And he did want to be the best. God knew that much. Ever since he was a little boy (freak, nutcase, weirdo) he’d always felt the need to contribute his own special slant to the events of the past. To erase the jumbled chalkboard and start over from scratch. To make things better than they were. To make them clean again.

  This morning it was hill repeats in Los Angeles’s Griffith Park under the steady California sun. Hill repeats sucked ass, especially for a man Nathan’s age. Spring twenty-five yards up the steep incline, jog down and repeat. The thighs would burn and ache like they were on fire, the chest would gasp helplessly for air and the sweat would pour in endless rivers down the back.

  Most athletes would do this drill ten times, maybe fifteen if they were seriously world-class and really looking to build up a strong aerobic base. But that wasn’t enough for Nathan. Never had been. He knew he had to push himself harder, faster and longer than all the others if he truly wanted to be the best killer of all time, so he forced himself through an agonising twenty trips up the steep hill before finally beginning the short jog back to the cheap motel he was temporarily calling home.

  Running was the key for this one. It would establish him as a real player and set the tone for the other murders to come. And unlike most people out there running away from their own fucked-up pasts – chickens running around with their heads chopped off – he was running toward his future now. Running for his future. At least that was what he kept telling himself. Hell, one of these days he might even get around to believing it.

  But it was fucking hot outside. Nathan had no trouble believing that. Over the past couple of days an Indian summer had slapped LA around like a husband would a mouthy wife, taking her by the throat and throttling hard. Eighty-eight degrees and air so heavy with humidity you could probably wring it out like a saturated washcloth if only you could get your fingers around it.

  The sun was the sizzling yolk in the centre of a robin’s-egg sky, beating down on his head like a solar jackhammer wielded by an especially malevolent god as he struggled out of the park on cast-iron legs a good ten times heavier than when he’d first started out this morning. But at least the exquisite fatigue in Nathan’s aching muscles let him know that he’d accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do.

  He knew there was no way in hell that Richard Ramirez had trained like this for his killing spree. Fat fucking chance. Wan and gaunt, with hollow cheeks sucked in around twin dead eyes, the only time when the Night Stalker had probably ever run was to the nearest corner store when he’d been looking for another pack of off-brand cigarettes to further pollute his wheezing lungs.

  Nathan shook his head and chuckled to himself as he left the park. The Night Stalker. What a joke that was. When you really looked at things with a critical eye, it was amazing that Ramirez had ever been given a nickname at all.

  Outside the park, his rubber-soled Nike cross-trainers slapped rhythmically against the cement and pushed the hot pavement back in consistent five-foot increments. Reaching up, he slid an annoying layer of perspiration away from his eyes and frowned suddenly. What the hell had been Richard Ramirez’s problem, anyway? How could he have let himself be so fucking careless? So goddamn unprofessional?

  If you wanted to become a master of your craft – to become a killer so far above reproach that not even your harshest critic would utter a single bad word against your work – all it took was a little bit of thought, a little preparation, a little goddamn discipline to get it right. What was so hard about that?

  Absolutely nothing, that was what. If you wanted to be the best then you had to swallow your pride and become a student of the game first. That much went without saying. And if nothing else Nathan had always been an extremely diligent student, carefully studying even the tiniest details of how the heavyweights who’d come before him had operated inside the killing zone.

  That was why he was going to be the best there’d ever been. It was as simple as that.

  Lost in his thoughts, the bouncing breasts fifteen feet away knocked him out of his reverie and back onto the cracked sidewalk snaking its way along the boiling shore of the Paci
fic Ocean. Seagulls squawked noisily in the blue sky above and a strong westerly wind heavy with sea salt whipped hard through his full head of thick brown hair as he summoned up his best smile and nodded to the pair of attractive college-aged blondes jogging by in the opposite direction. Wearing matching sweat-soaked sports bras and barely-there Adidas running shorts, the little sluts held up their flawlessly manicured hands and smiled back at him in return.

  Kill the right way, they seemed to be telling him.

  Nathan chuckled again when they had passed and lowered his head, forcing himself to pick up his pace despite the fingernails of pain clawing at his sides. Hell, if even the stupid whores out here in sunny Southern California knew that much, just what, exactly, was so goddamn difficult about the equation?

  Again, nothing hard about it in the least. Nothing to give him the slightest pause or reason for concern. There was no room for conscience here. Killers killed: it was what they did. It was their job, for Christ’s sake. The good ones never got caught. The best ones were still talked about hundreds of years after they themselves had given up the ghost. But there was only room for one at the top of the heap – the unquestioned dominant lion of their special pride, as it were – and that was a title Nathan fully intended to claim for himself.

  Now it was time for the dominant lion to show off his sharp white teeth and let out a thunderous roar.

  Finally back at the run-down motel fifteen minutes later, Nathan couldn’t help flinching at the building’s outward appearance – dull, square, busted-up, a real shithole from ass to elbows – but he knew the anonymity that it provided was well worth the sacrifice of having to live there.

  Waves of reflected heat shimmered up from the baking pavement like a troupe of drunken belly dancers in a crowded bar while he carefully picked his way through the rusted-out cars littering the blacktopped parking lot. Datsuns, Cadillacs, Chryslers – even a forty-year-old Pinto featuring a smashed-in back window. Moments later Nathan’s taut calf muscles were bouncing him up the concrete stairs on the outside of the building two at a time like a pair of stiff new pogo sticks until he reached the third floor, where he pushed open the rickety wooden door to Room 312 and locked it behind himself before kicking off his brand-new running shoes and tossing his room key onto the queen-sized bed that was covered by an especially garish paisley comforter.