A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  “He won’t qualify for diminished capacity or as unfit to stand trial.”

  “Good. By the way, I heard you’re the profiler for the double homicide.”

  A flash of cold lifted the hairs on her arms and her heart began drumming like a marching band.

  “Yes,” she said, repressing the shudder as her worst nightmares aroused. Bloated bodies. Ruined lives. “And I heard you recommended me.”

  He grinned. “Guilty.”

  If he expected her to thank him, he’d have a long wait.

  “I told Demko about how much you’ve helped me since you’ve been here. Glad you got the nod.”

  She was happy someone was, because she felt nauseous every time she thought of this assignment.

  Wernli thanked her for coming in and she hurried away, her mind racing with her footsteps.

  After leaving Detective Wernli and his prime suspect behind at police headquarters, she took an early lunch, swinging by Selby Library to do some digging into her past. The research specialist pointed her in the direction of fifteen-year-old newspaper articles.

  It was terrifying and surreal to see herself as a fourteen-year-old, all gaunt cheeks and big eyes.

  She made several copies, scribbled notes and hurried back to the office, where she organized data and read the copies she’d made. She now had a list of Arleen’s known homicides. Of course they’d been known to her ever since she’d given evidence against her mother, and even before that. But now the list was in front of her, in black and white. She was confronting information she’d had inside her for years and filling in the blanks.

  When she was a girl, and her mother had made that first bizarre entrance into the trailer on Nadine’s eighth birthday, Nadine knew Arleen had done something bad. What that something was took years to work out. But here they were, Nadine’s formless fears, horrifying suspicions and final realization. Her mother had killed people. Four couples, eight human lives.

  She also confirmed three gruesome similarities. First, her mother and this murderer dumped their victims in natural bodies of water in Florida. Second, all victims were involved in infidelity. And third, all but one pair had been tied together, and that pair, murdered at separate times and places, had both had a length of rope tied to their wrists. Arleen used clotheslines. This killer used red nylon rope.

  Coincidence or copycat?

  Further reading revealed no mention of odd cuts or marks left on any of her mother’s victims, just stab wounds and lacerations intended to disable and kill.

  Maybe Nadine was overreacting?

  She navigated to her mother’s Wikipedia page on her phone. Of all the gruesome dark websites out there, nothing could strike chills into Nadine like this page. As a teen, she had checked it obsessively, in a state of disbelief that her own mother had this kind of infamy.

  As a student of psychology, she’d spent years absorbed in self-evaluation and therapy to deal with her tragic childhood. But the underlying terror, the fear that she never spoke aloud to anyone, was this: what if her mother had passed to her only daughter the same murderous tendencies?

  Reading the page, Nadine was reminded that Arleen had incapacitated the males first. It also said that she kept her victims for longer periods as her crimes progressed, to spend more time torturing her female victims. The first two women, at least, were still alive when she threw them in the water. Which meant that her female victims were aware of what was happening as they were dumped in the murky, alligator-infested river to drown.

  Nadine sat back, staring at the photo of her mother on arrest, and shivered because the image somehow captured exactly what Arleen Howler was capable of.

  After her second Thursday happy hour with Juliette, Nadine headed home to her rental.

  She lived in an area called Laurel Park, near the artists’ community of Towles Court. The building boom had transformed this area into a highly desirable combination of chic vintage homes, eclectic cottages and sleek contemporary builds. All sat so near downtown that the shadows of the bayfront high-rise condominiums stretched over them at sunset.

  Her place was a restored one-bedroom, one-bath cottage perched on concrete blocks on a quiet street overgrown with tropical vegetation. It was as close to Key West as you could get and still walk to the Sarasota courthouse.

  She had fallen in love with the property, which was above her price range, and signed a two-year lease. Once she paid off this car, there would be more room in the budget. Until then, she could manage.

  Alone at last with her incognito browser window, she navigated to the State of Florida’s website, located the department of law enforcement, and slapped down twenty-five digital bucks for the criminal history of Arleen Howler.

  The next morning at the office, she scanned her email, discovering the promised access to Demko’s files. He’d been busy, adding notes until after 3 a.m., according to the time stamp.

  Nadine wondered if he’d slept as little as she.

  She expected a call from Demko on the autopsy, but the morning dragged on and no call arrived. As a distraction, she took a trip over to personnel to sign the forms to get her 401(k) and city’s 6 percent match. As of her next paycheck, she’d be putting 5 percent away for the future. Nadine still had her doubts that she had a future, but she liked to picture herself somewhere ahead in time. It was preferable to looking backward.

  She planned to grab the forms from an assistant. But the head of personnel was in the main reception area and ushered her into his office.

  Gary Osterlund had thin brows, receding hair and eyes that sloped down at the corners. His mustache hid some of his narrow upper lip.

  There she paused as he circled behind an L-shaped desk. Papers and files, Post-its and folders, covered much of the surface. Beneath the closed upper cupboards, several binders sat. Two framed images were wedged between the large printer and a silver rowing trophy. One held the school photo of a girl, perhaps eight, who looked familiar. Beside that, a framed image of the same girl, with a dark-headed boy, leaned. She wondered if they were his kids.

  “You’re a rower,” she commented.

  Rowing had become very big in the city since they’d finished the artificial lake and won the bid to host the world rowing championships.

  “I was. Now I’m a volunteer at the regattas and races at Benderson Park.”

  “That’s fun.” She didn’t like water, boats or getting too much sun, so it really seemed the opposite of fun, but she continued to smile.

  “I hear you’ve had a position shift,” said Osterlund.

  Taken off guard, Nadine felt her face flush. “Yes.”

  How had he heard so quickly?

  “Got the press release this morning. News travels fast,” he said.

  “Did the release include a photo?”

  “Yes. Good likeness. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “Not yet. No.”

  This only increased her concern and her heart rate. The last thing she needed was for someone seeing her photo to recognize that Nadine Finch was Nadine Howler, the daughter of the state’s most successful female serial killer.

  Nadine glanced about, searching for a way to change the subject as her heartbeat pulsed at her temples.

  The only things hanging on the wall were framed diplomas, service awards and photos of many Little League teams. The chaos of his desk did not match the uniformity of his public displays.

  “Do you coach?” she asked, lifting a finger toward the grinning lineup of kids in colorful uniforms, redirecting his attention and their conversation.

  “Every year. They also put me in charge of rosters, which is a nightmare.” He motioned to the empty guest seats and settled behind his desk.

  “Do your kids play?” She nodded toward the photos.

  “Oh.” He followed the direction of her gaze. “No, unfortunately.”

  The silence ticked with the second hand of the wall clock. Nadine held her rigid smile.

  “But back to the retirement opti
ons. It’s too good a deal not to take full advantage,” he said, referring to the city’s match.

  He passed her the necessary forms, along with a list of holding companies.

  “Bring these on back when you’ve filled them out. Call me if you have any questions.”

  She collected the forms.

  “Seems a long way off.”

  “But anything worth doing requires planning. Planning is so important.”

  En route back to her office, Demko phoned. Nadine connected the call through the car’s Bluetooth system.

  “I’m driving. What’s up?”

  “Autopsy’s at two. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll clear my afternoon.”

  “Be there early. I want you to see them before they cut.”

  Nadine shivered. Why did he say “cut” instead of “begin”?

  “Blood work is back. Lido Beach is the crime scene,” he said.

  “I read that in your notes this morning.”

  “Maybe we could drive over to the barrier island afterward. You can have a look.”

  The pause stretched as she tore a piece of her thumbnail away with her teeth.

  “Nadine?”

  “Yes. Okay,” she said, her words sharper than she’d intended.

  She returned to the office and reviewed Demko’s notes on the crime scene, eating at her desk, and heading over to the ME’s office at the appointed time. The office manager checked her in, studying her identification. Then gave her instructions.

  “Observation window only. You stay off the autopsy floor.”

  That was good news, as far as she was concerned. Seeing this kind of thing gave Nadine nightmares. Not right away, but they popped up after marinating in her brain with all the other horrors she couldn’t forget.

  Who was she kidding? She couldn’t do this. She performed an about-face.

  “Nadine!”

  Juliette stepped out of an office, dressed in surgical scrubs and a cap, and slipping into a plastic gown. There was a plastic visor over her cap, tipped up to reveal her smiling face.

  “You came! Clint told me you’re his profiler! Congrats!” She tied her apron strings at the waist. “He’s already here. Come on. Let me get you some protective gear.”

  She seemed so cheerful, as if she wasn’t about to spend her afternoon cutting open human remains.

  Nadine fell into stride with her as they headed into a changing room, complete with shower and toilets and private stalls. Juliette began selecting surgical scrubs, booties and an apron.

  “I can’t go on the autopsy floor,” said Nadine, parroting the words of the office manager.

  “Who told you that? You’re part of the investigation. You can even touch the bodies if you like, with gloves.”

  If she liked? Who would like to touch dead bodies?

  The answer came like a kick in the gut. Her mother liked it.

  Nadine accepted the PPE.

  “Were you the one who collected them from the bayfront?”

  Juliette hummed an affirmative.

  Meanwhile, Nadine pulled on the apron and fumbled with the ties as her heart pounded in her throat. Her emotions were all tangled up at seeing similarities in this case to her mother’s.

  Nadine tugged on the booties, which were ridiculously large, and the apron swam on her.

  Juliette shoved the sleeves up for her. “Oh, sorry. We don’t have extra smalls.”

  Nadine gulped.

  “First autopsy?”

  Nadine nodded.

  Juliette patted her on the arm. “You’ll be great.”

  The ME’s confidence came from not knowing her well. Nadine believed it would be best for both of them to keep it that way.

  Juliette paused at the door. “But if you are going to be sick or faint, step back and away from the body, okay?”

  She nodded to this and trailed Juliette along the corridor and through the first set of double doors.

  Demko stepped from the observation office to the left, also dressed in PPE. On his head sat a blue ball cap emblazoned with spd. He wore black latex gloves. Protective glasses covered his eyes. He cast her a smile.

  “Dr. Finch, you made it.”

  Juliette gave her another pat. “You two stand across from me. If you want the bodies moved, just ask. I’ll be doing a superficial exam first.”

  She headed through the final set of doors, leaving Nadine with the detective.

  He passed her a pair of gloves.

  “I’m not touching anything,” Nadine whispered.

  Demko opened the wide door for her. Stepping into the room, she saw the autopsy area had four stainless-steel tables, beneath bright lights. Each table resembled the ones seen in commercial kitchens, except for the headrest, the lip that circled the perimeter, and the hole and drain beneath.

  A garden hose and sprayer attached to a huge deep sink and a freezer with double doors filled much of the wall before them. The first two of four tables were empty. The tools of a surgeon sat beside the third. Nadine’s attention turned to the body, the woman, as they stepped farther into the autopsy room. They stopped opposite Juliette, facing the female victim, with their backs to the male. Air vents hummed and Nadine was surprised that the smell was not overpowering. But her nose wrinkled at the caustic odor of ammonia and decay.

  She swayed and Demko gripped her arm. He leaned in and whispered encouragement. Now she was thinking of his warm breath on her neck. A tingling awareness replaced the sensation of horror. She glanced up at him, noting the confidence reflected in his eyes.

  “Seeing photos of victims isn’t the same as seeing the victims. It’s rough, I know, but the information you’ll gain is invaluable. Autopsies are an important part of a homicide investigation.”

  She nodded, believing him. She didn’t know what she would perceive, but anything that helped them solve this case was worth overcoming her apprehension.

  “You can do this,” he said.

  Juliette had taken a position opposite them. The body lay between them, a grim offering to forensic science.

  The deceased was only a year older than Nadine was now, fit, with long black hair. She was also naked. A thick mat of hair was plastered to her cheek and neck. Her arms lay neatly at her side and her legs were pressed together, making her look like a model for an autopsy textbook. Her eyes were not closed but peered at them through slitted lids, the cornea gone milky over the dark irises. Black eyeliner smeared her lower lids. The red lip stain and gray skin gave her a vampiric appearance.

  Nadine scanned downward past the horrific gash in her neck to the perfect orbs of her breasts and fixed on her greenish bloated stomach. The wound there gaped, and intestines bulged. The swollen abdomen indicated that decomposition had begun. Farther down, a nest of sculpted black hair curled at her crotch. Death was so humiliating.

  “My assistant washed her. You can see the wounds at the neck and lower abdomen. She was in the water for several hours. It speeds the decomposition significantly.”

  “Trace evidence?” asked Demko.

  “I collected what I could. Honestly, I don’t have much.”

  “Why is the wound so ragged? Did the unsub use a jagged object?” he asked.

  Juliette shook her head. “No, that’s predation. Fish got after her. Also the sand abraded the skin on her back. When the bloating occurred, the bodies left the bottom and were floating for hours, likely not on the surface or they would have been spotted sooner.” Juliette lifted the woman’s left hand. “This, however, is not predation. The skin was deliberately stripped from around the ring finger, making a bloody band, of sorts.”

  Nadine glanced at the hand. Turquoise acrylic nails tipped long slim fingers. Juliette extended the digit intended to wear a wedding ring. A thin line of flesh, circling the base of the finger, had been removed. She’d never seen anything like that before.

  “They were both married,” Nadine said to Demko.

  “Yes. We’ve established that.”


  “Where are their wedding bands?”

  He gave her a sharp look and his brow descended.

  “I don’t know.”

  Juliette chimed in. “None recovered. But see here?” She indicated the indenture above the denuded flesh. “She did wear a wide band and an engagement ring. It’s left a mark.”

  Nadine looked away from the body. The thing before her looked less like a human being than a wax model in some house of horrors.

  Demko gripped her elbow, lending silent support. She leaned against him, ashamed and relieved at his aid.

  “The larynx and jugular were both severed,” said Juliette.

  Just like Gail DeNato. The woman sold carpets at a wholesale place in Ocala. They were murdered in 1994, two years after Nadine was born. DeNato had also been found tied to Charlie Rogers, with whom she worked. The similarities made her queasy.

  Demko stared at her. “Could you show Nadine the cuts on her backside?”

  Nadine mentally shook herself, trying to remain in the moment instead of looking back. She wanted to get out of this room.

  Just a few more minutes, she told herself. He thinks you can do this. You have to do this.

  Juliette used two hands to roll the body toward her, giving Nadine and Demko a view of the woman’s back. Nadine realized the ME was stronger than she looked.

  The abrasions had taken the skin off Poletti’s shoulder blades. Nadine felt the bile rise in her throat and glanced to Demko. He pointed and Nadine peered.

  Juliette spoke as she nodded toward the cuts.

  “Superficial bruising around this wound on her left buttocks means the victim was still alive when cut. Seven separate cuts more or less horizontal. These are not deep. Except for the cut on her stomach, the other injuries targeted tendons and major arteries.”

  “To incapacitate and kill,” said Demko.

  “But not these and not the long cut across her abdomen. What was the reason to do this?” asked Juliette.

  “Inflict pain. I think the killer wanted to hurt her, punish her,” said Nadine.

  They both stared at her.

  “For what?” asked Juliette.