Wound Tight

By Steve Tullin

Herman Girtler grew up with an abusive, alcoholic foster father, which molded him into the man he is, living in present-day New York City. He has extreme obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, and its only a matter of time before he snaps. Finally, Herman strangles someone to death, and he becomes the target of a citywide manhunt.

On his tail are partners Cornelius Corny Prince and Kristina Del DelVecchio. They strive to bring their A-game to every investigation, yet they have issues of their own. Corny is still fighting to forgive himself for the untimely, accidental death of his wife. Del was once an Olympic hopeful, now kept at home by a severely ailing mother.

Herman takes his killing too far when he murders a cop. Now, this serial killer has become law enforcements most wanted. The investigation moves from New York to New Jerseyfrom present to painful past. Herman will not stop killing until hes caught, but Cornys investigation is now personaland if he has to, hell take this sociopath out single-handedly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475996807

Steve Tullin

Steve Tullin has published numerous short stories and poems. He is a former English teacher and mentor in New York City with an unquenchable thirst for mysteries, thrillers, and crime fiction. He currently lives with his wife in Westbury, New York.

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Copyright © 2013 by Steve Tullin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9679-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9681-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9680-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911743

iUniverse rev. date: 07/31/2013

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Acknowledgements

Dedication

For my wife, Iris, who has always been

my best friend and life partner.

For my children, Jen and Craig, who have always supported my creative efforts and achievements.

Prologue

—July 1983—

rural northwest New Jersey

Herman, Herman! Where the hell are ya, boy? yelled Joe Girtler. Herman, you still got to finish those chores I gave ya. Herman, get your skinny ass over here in the barn. This place is a freakin’ mess. Margaret, where the hell is that boy?

Joe, I ain’t seen him this afternoon, Margaret called out from inside the farmhouse. I know he often goes to the creek fishin’. Take it easy on the boy, Joe. He’s only eight. You give him too much to do every day. He needs a little time on his own, is all, replied Margaret from the kitchen window.

When I find him, I’m gonna whip his ass with the switch. That filthy little bastard, ranted Joe.

Luke can help out in the barn, Joe. You know he loves hard farm work. Built like an ox, that boy. If he had his way, he’d quit school and work ‘round the clock. Let him finish Herman’s work. I don’t need Luke in the house no more, Joe. Margaret called Betty and Luke to come downstairs.

Betty was a year younger than Herman. Betty figured out at a very young age that if she did what she was told quickly and completely, and never answered her foster father back in protest, she’d have an easier time getting along with Joe and Margaret.

Joe knew he couldn’t browbeat Luke anymore because he was so big. So when something went wrong, Herman caught all of the hell. He was the whipping post for Joe, especially when Joe drank his Canadian Club rye whiskey on Friday nights.

Herman was fishing with his homemade fishing pole and the blue nylon fishing line he found in the old junk box in Joe’s attic. He loved being outdoors and hearing the gurgling sound of the cold clear water rushing over the rocks. He loved being alone and out from under Joe’s tyrannical thumb. It was just him, the water, the fish and an occasional bird cawing on the wind. Just as he felt the thrill of the pull on his fishing line, Joe stormed into the clearing of the creek. Herman heard him at the last second, but it was too late to run. Joe clocked him on his left ear and sent Herman tumbling into the creek.

Get your skinny ass out of that water, boy. You left the barn a mess and now you’re gonna pay for it, steamed Joe, red-faced and furious.

I’ll clean it up right now, Pa. I’ll clean it up. Herman dragged himself out of the creek and shivered from fear, not the cold water on his skin.

Herman saw the switch in Joe’s hand and knew what was coming, again. Tears welled up in his eyes.

* * *

—March 1984—

You call this clean, boy? You call this clean? snarled Joe. His breath, saturated with whiskey, blew into Herman’s trembling red face and hung in the air. Herman wet his pants again from the anticipation of Joe’s retribution for not doing his job like Joe told him to.

Herman was tasked with painting the toolshed and cleaning up the paint, the brushes and himself. He did an admirable job of covering the old battleship gray with the exterior brick red that Joe had selected down at Avery’s Hardware in the small village of Carlton. Joe would drive to Carlton in his dented green ‘75 Dodge Ramcharger SE pick-up every Friday afternoon to browse the hardware store for any necessary supplies or tools for the farm. Of course the real reason for the visit to town was three fingers of Canadian Club at Jonah’s Bar and Grill. By the time he left the tavern, there were really nine to twelve fingers awash in Joe’s stomach. He never had a problem driving home, though, since not many other cars took Rte. 38 at that time of evening.

Just look at them paint brushes, boy. Don’t you see the red paint still on them bristles? You call this clean? And look at your hands? Didn’t you use the turpentine like I told ya? You got to rub that paint off with the turpentine. You ain’t coming to supper like that, with those filthy hands on your mama’s dinner table, ranted Joe.

Herman just stared at Joe and didn’t dare say a word back to him. But not knowing what Joe was going to do to him was the worst part. He didn’t know how he would be punished. His whole body shook with fear. He hated this man, Joe, who called himself his father. He just wanted to run right off this farm and right off the face of the earth.

Now, boy. You just stand there and don’t move! I’ll be right back!

Betty heard Joe’s tirade from the front upstairs window. She rushed over to the window, brushed back the curtain and saw her rail-thin foster brother standing like a trembling greenhorn soldier about to go off to war. Color drained from her round face and two salty drops rolled down her right cheek.

Joe marched into the barn, arms stiff by his side. Herman’s teary eyes darted back and forth. He desperately searched for some movement within the farmhouse. An opened front door. A raised window sash. Nobody came. Nobody helped. Only Betty was watching him and crying from her bedroom window, helpless. He was alone with this bad man. He would take his medicine and hope it would be over soon.

Joe strolled back to the toolshed where Herman was whimpering. He hefted a big wire brush, with a blond wooden handle, in one of his meaty hands and a can of turpentine in the other.

Now, boy. I’m gonna show you how to clean your hands and then you’ll know for the next time. Then you’ll clean those paint brushes so there ain’t no more red paint on them bristles. You hear? Joe’s rheumy eyes were gleaming with anger. Put your hands straight out on top of the railing and stand still. Don’t you move, boy! Joe opened the turpentine can and got ready to teach his son another lesson. Say it with me, boy!

Cleanliness is next to godliness. To be dirty is sinful! Satan is filthy! Good Christians cleanse themselves, body and soul.

Again, tears rolled down Herman’s face and his knees trembled. Margaret watched from the bathroom window as she iron-gripped the towel rack with gnarled hands. Hot tears bled down her weathered face and welled up in the corners of her curled lips. And then she heard those terrible screams over and over.

* * *

—June 1986—

Joe was in a fine mood after several healthy shots and some slurred conversation with his drinking buddies at the bar in town. He never worried about driving home, since the traffic was usually sparse and the road flat. However, on this Friday evening in June, thunderstorms were raging and churning out buckets of heavy rain from the inky sky. Joe’s wiper blades were worn and barely sweeping the rain off the windshield. He was only one car-length behind a Supreme Produce eighteen-wheeler, catching his spray like a continuous shroud of moisture. As another semi careened from the other direction around a bend, Joe’s Ramcharger pick-up slipped off to the right of the single lane, off the shoulder and landed in the muddy ditch about twelve feet down. As the Dodge hit the ground hard, Joe’s head went right into the windshield. The result was fractured glass and a fractured skull. Joe’s truck rolled over two or three times and slouched to a halt a good distance from the road surface.

When he came to, the first thing he was able to do was taste coppery blood streaming down from his pate. Even through a whiskey numbness, he knew he had also damaged his right knee on the steering wheel. Luckily, a paper-goods salesman from Maryland, who was driving a rented Ford sedan behind Joe’s truck saw him go off the road. As soon as the salesman was able to reach the nearest rest stop, about seven miles up the road, he called 911. Within the hour, an ambulance and rescue workers had Joe out of his truck and speeding toward Springfield Community Hospital.

After getting the call, Margaret reached out to their neighbor, Wilbur Judd, for a lift to the hospital. She stayed obediently by Joe’s side until the doctors told her that he’d eventually be alright after a good amount of rest and rehabilitation. The children gladly tended to the farm chores and even felt a sense of sublime relief during Joe’s hospital stay of 9 days. When Joe was released, with a promise to go to outpatient rehab for his knee for at least two months, a greater hell began for Herman.

Margaret, Margaret, where is that boy? Joe yelled from his upstairs bedroom. I need Herman to rub my sore knee with that oil of wintergreen. It is sticking me like a somavabitch! Margaret!

Margaret called up from the bottom of the stairs, Hold your horses, Joe. The boy’s coming up. He’s just gettin’ the liniment from the cabinet. Keep your pants on!

Hurry up, Herman. Your pa’s waitin’ for ya.

Ma, do I have to? Why don’t you rub it in for him? I don’t want to…

Herman, just do what your pa wants quickly and come right down. It will only take a few minutes. He wants you to do it. Now get up there and hush now. Margaret clutched the banister with a vice-grip under white knuckles. She unwittingly gouged a few deep scratches in the hardwood with her fingernails.

Luke was working up a sweat in the barn, doing his and Joe’s work. Betty had just brought Joe his breakfast of Cream of Wheat with two pats of butter and a mug of black coffee and dry toast. Betty knew what was going to happen next. She bit the inside of her cheek until she drew blood while washing the dishes and cleaning the table in the kitchen. She knew what Herman was going to have to do.

Herman dragged himself to the steps with the sloshing half-filled bottle of wintergreen in his sweaty left hand. His eyes were glassy pools of hot oil. Herman stared at his mother as he climbed the steps slowly. His perfectly beautiful face was contorted into a grotesque mask of fear and hatred. His extra-large ears were glowing hot coals. He continued to climb as if he was on his way to his execution. However, he wasn’t quite sure who was pulling the switch.

Herman kept climbing the stairs. Just before he got to the top, he heard his Pa bellow again.

Herman, where the hell are ya, boy? I need that wintergreen for my knee.

Comin’ Pa. Right here.

All right, Herman. You’re the only one who knows how to soothe that ache I got. Come over here and open that bottle now. Come on.

A hot tear escaped Herman’s right eye socket and slowly made its way down his warm cheek to the corner of his dry mouth. He dragged his feet over to Joe’s bed. Joe had moved the comforter and sheet aside to expose the injured knee, covered with sallow sagging skin etched with red scrapes and nearly healed irregular lines. Herman placed the bottle cap on the nightstand and spilled a tiny pool of liniment into his right palm. Joe licked his lips slowly and placed his head back onto his greasy pillow. A slight odor of urine and sweat permeated the bedroom. Herman stretched out his arm two feet away from the bedside and placed his oily hand over the knee cap and began to rub the wintergreen onto Joe’s prune-wrinkled porcelain skin, over and over again with his eyes closed.

That’s it, boy. You know how. That’s it. Joe’s groans grew louder from deep within his throat.

Now, boy, put the cap back on the bottle and put the bottle on the nightstand, right here. Wipe your hands on this here towel. Herman opened his eyes and obeyed. Now come back over here. Again, Herman obeyed.

Now, boy, use your strong hands to rub my leg up higher here. Don’t be afraid. You know what to do. Come on, boy! My leg’s achin’ like a somavabitch.

Herman closed his eyes again and placed his trembling hands on his pa’s upper thigh and rubbed him gently.

You know what to do. Come on, boy.

Herman obeyed. His shaking hands were still a little slippery from the oil. Herman heard the groans again and sour bile began to rise in his throat. But, he had to learn how to control the urge to vomit and keep his stomach fluids down. He had to learn control.

Come on. You know what to do. Come on, boy.

And Herman again obeyed, while his mind floated out the window and over to the coolness of the air and water of the fishing creek.

* * *

—July, 1986—

It was close to 4 p.m. when lightning suddenly stabbed gray-white puffs hanging in the sky. Thunderous claps followed seconds later and echoed between the mountains that framed the verdant valley. Steamy summer rain soaked everything in sight. Muddy rivulets ran willy-nilly through roadside ruts. Both the farmhouse and the barn were drenched specters huddled beneath the violent deluge.

Joe bellowed again from his upstairs bedroom. Margaret, where is that boy? With this here storm, my knee’s killin’ me. Send Herman up here with some of that liniment. Margaret…

Herman was shivering in the corner of the kitchen. His eyes were wet orbs and he shook his head.

Ma, I can’t go up there no more. Ma… he makes me… he makes me… Ma, I don’t want to go upstairs to him. Why don’t you do it? pleaded Herman.

Herman, I know, I know. But he wants you. You know how to rub his knee. He’s almost back to himself. Another few weeks and he’ll be back doing the farm work. He’ll be outta bed by then. Just a few more…

Ma, Ma. It’s not fair what Pa makes Herman do. It’s not right. He’s Herman’s pa. It’s sick, is what it is! exclaimed Betty.

A red flash rushed into Margaret’s face. She didn’t know what to say anymore. She was exhausted from making excuses for Joe. These poor kids were hers, too. She twisted a wet dishtowel into a damp knot. Her fingers were white vice-grip talons and her face was screwed up into a grotesque silent grimace. Margaret was frozen. Her feet were lead.

Margaret… where is Herman? Where’s that damn boy?

Margaret was confused. She looked around the kitchen like a lost kitten.

Ma, no more. Herman, don’t go up there! Betty said firmly.

Herman stood near the broom closet. There was a large wet stain in the crotch area of his jeans.

Suddenly, Margaret’s eyes widened and she set her jaw forward. She asked Betty, Where is Luke? In the barn?

I think so, Ma.

Go get him, now!

Betty flew out of the kitchen toward the barn. She skidded a little in the mud, but didn’t fall. Her clothes got soaked by the pelting rain. Through the kitchen window, Herman watched her run to the barn. He suddenly felt he could breathe again. In two minutes, both Luke and Betty were dripping water onto the kitchen linoleum with mud on their boots. Luke looked at his ma. They all did.

Margaret, what’s going on down there? Do I have to limp downstairs and drag that damn boy up here? Margaret, answer me, screamed Joe.

Keep your pants on, Joe. He’s acomin’ up. Hold your horses. We’re gettin’ another bottle of the liniment from the basement pantry.

The slightest smirk crept into the deep crevices on Margaret’s weather beaten face.

Margaret Girtler quickly explained her plan to her three foster children in the kitchen before all of them climbed the stairs to Joe’s bedroom. They all stared at her with mouths wide open. None of them protested. All of them were scared, including Margaret. All of them agreed that this was the only thing to do. Joe was impossible.

As they climbed the stairs, Margaret was at the front of the line. Betty was next, Luke and then Herman, with the full bottle of liniment. The steps creaked loudly under the weight of four individuals. Joe was about to call out again, but heard all of the footsteps.

Okay, Joe. Herman’s here with the oil of wintergreen.

What’s this? Why are all of you up here? I just need Herman. He knows what to do. All of the rest of ya, get downstairs, he scowled.

They all ignored Joe’s rant and surrounded his bed, Luke and Betty on the left and Margaret and Herman on the right. Herman’s hands were trembling, but he began to unscrew the cap of the bottle.

What the hell is this? Get the hell outta here. Get the hell out! yelled Joe. He began to pull the covers back and swing his legs out of the bed on Margaret’s side.

Joe, you asked for Herman and the liniment. Here he is. Get back in that bed and he’ll rub your knee for you. Margaret shouted. The kids had never seen their ma stand up to Joe this way before.

Get the fuck outta here. Joe reached for Margaret’s throat with his huge meaty hand and grabbed her blouse, pulling her down onto the bed.

Luke almost never got angry or lost his cool. Watching his pa attack his ma caused him to puff up his chest and clench his teeth. Suddenly, he grabbed for Joe’s shoulders and wound his powerful arms around them. Luke squeezed tight and pulled his pa back down on the bed. Joe howled in pain and let his wife’s blouse go. Margaret scrambled to get off the bed and move away. Spittle dripped from Joe’s curled lips as he struggled to get out of Luke’s bear-like grip. Herman stood still with the oil of wintergreen uncapped in his shaking hands. Betty ran around to his side of the bed, grabbed the bottle from Herman and splashed a healthy dose of the liquid into Joe’s face. Joe cursed and squirmed and spit and howled. He was a wild boar. His eyes were on fire. Luke struggled to hold him down on the bed.

Take out the fishing line now, Herman. Get it around his neck. Hurry up. Herman, Herman! Betty screamed in Herman’s face.

Herman dug into his pocket and plucked out the blue nylon line he always kept for his fishing rod. He was sweating, crying and shaking, but determined, with the help of his brother and sister, to rid himself of this devil disguised as a foster father. He took the line in both hands and wound it quickly around Joe’s bulging neck three times. He had a small rough-hewn wooden handle tied to each end. Then, Herman closed his eyes and pulled as tight as he could on each handle, while anchoring his right foot on the sideboard of the bed. Luke held onto Joe’s torso and kept squeezing. Betty tried to lay across Joe’s thrashing legs to hold them from kicking up.

Joe’s eyes bulged even more and his lips began to turn purple. He couldn’t scream or curse anymore. He clawed at his throat for the fishing line, but could not pry it off his neck. His fingers stiffened and his legs twitched. His whole body squirmed and wriggled like a huge tuna on the deck of a Montauk fishing boat. Energy and air depleted, he gradually lost consciousness. His life ebbed away into the depths of hell. Joe Girtler had expelled his final evil breath on Earth.

Suddenly the torrential rain subsided and a shroud of silence engulfed the farmhouse, except for water droplets escaping down the aluminum leaders on the outside of the building.

Herman continued to pull on the fishing line with all of his might. His face was blood red. Finally Betty wrapped her arms around him tightly and whispered gently into his ear.

Herman, Herman, it’s over. Herman, he’s gone. He’s gone. Betty held Herman until his breathing assumed a normal rhythm again. Her lips rested on his sweaty forehead.

Luke stood up, revealing the tracks of hot tears on his face. His arms were quivering, hands were numb. Herman wandered over to the window and gazed toward the cool creek. A small smile crept onto his face. Betty turned back to the doorway and looked for her foster mother.

Margaret was leaning against the chipped doorframe, massaging her bruised neck. Her legs barely kept her upright. She kept staring at the flabby dead body, splayed across the mattress, of the man she had married a very, very long time ago. Margaret was trying to come to grips with the fact that life for each of them had changed instantly forever.

Chapter 1

H e was seated at his regular booth in the corner of the Sunshine Diner. He had refused other tables previously offered, so the day hostess already knew where he had to sit or he would indignantly walk out. His back was to the kitchen, so he could eyeball the door and windows. Frying bacon, burgers, and chicken assaulted his olfactory nerve and the incessant clanging of dishes and silverware was offensive, but also familiar to him. He tried his best to ignore the other patrons.

Herman had a full head of prematurely silver-gray hair, very short-cropped. His small dark-brown eyes were deep-set and always scanning the urban landscape. He was slim, about 5’10" tall, and wiry strong. His hands and feet were a little too big for his body, but they served him quite well. His ears stuck out from his narrow head like ice cream scoops. They afforded him with a keener sense of hearing than most. Since the season was mild, he dressed in a pair of clean, razor-pressed khaki Dockers, spit-shined cordovan penny loafers and a meticulously ironed salmon-colored golf shirt with a green alligator emblem.

Before he sat down, he inspected the table and bench seat for crumbs or greasy stains. Once he was satisfied that they were clean as possible (as clean as he could see with the naked eye), he shimmied in, making sure his golf shirt did not touch the edge of the table. Immediately, he dug into his pocket for the wet-wipes in the blue and red hand-i-pack. He extracted exactly three each time and scrubbed his hands for thirty seconds on the palm side and thirty seconds on the back, until he was satisfied that the germs were killed. Next, out of habit, Herman counted the number of sugar and Sweet-n-Low packets—17 sugars and six Sweet-n-Low. He never had a menu in front of him. Bess, the regular waitress, already knew his selection.

However, a new waitress, Maggie, came over to Herman’s table today. He didn’t make eye contact, but visually inspected her apron from the corner of his eye. He grimaced as if he had a sour ball in his mouth. There were two blood-red ketchup stains in the lower quadrant and a grease spot just below her left breast. Acid rose from his stomach and splashed the back of his throat. However, he swallowed hard and controlled his urge to scream at her. He knew he was different than the average man on the street. He knew he had a small problem with certain issues.

What can I getcha, hon? Did Tanya forget to give you a menu?

Albacore tuna fish salad on rye toast, not burnt, with two slices of lettuce and two slices of tomato, from the center of the tomato. Cut the sandwich all the way through, diagonally, please. No cole slaw and one sour pickle, cut into quarter spears. He blurted out his order without looking in her direction.

As she wrote the order in pencil on her pad, Herman caught another brief glimpse of this slovenly mess in front of him and shuddered. Maggie revealed two cracked