A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  “Sleeping with a married man.”

  “They were both married,” said Demko.

  “But only the woman was tortured.”

  Nadine studied the marks, trying to glean their meaning. When she straightened, Juliette rolled the body back.

  “David Lowe,” said Juliette as they moved to the male.

  Of course the first thing Nadine looked at was his genitalia. His scrotum was purple and swollen. She did not ask if that was normal, because she now had her eyes shut as Juliette recited the injuries.

  “He showed defensive wounds to his arms. Artery severed at the juncture of leg and hip. Gastrocnemius tendons and biceps femoris tendon severed.”

  “Came at him from behind,” said Demko.

  “Yes. Then the arm wounds and finally the femoral artery and this again,” said Juliette.

  Nadine peeked and saw Juliette lifting the left hand to display a similar ring of denuded skin around the base of his finger.

  “Nadine?” Demko’s voice held concern. “You okay?”

  She wasn’t, but she nodded, hand still pressed to her mouth as she remembered the knife used in her mother’s job as a carpet installer and later used on DeNato and Rogers. What had this killer used to fillet the skin from the muscle?

  “Any thoughts?” asked the detective.

  Nadine dropped her hand from her mouth and swallowed, then turned to stare at the red receptacle marked biohazard as she spoke, wondering if it would be better to throw up there or the sink. But the feeling passed as she gathered her thoughts and reminded herself why she was there in the first place.

  “I’d say that the killer was using these victims as a target for displaced anger. The perpetrator didn’t just stop the targets from breathing but cut major arteries before tying them together and dumping them naked in the Gulf. Treatment of the bodies shows a lack of regard and absence of personal connection to the victims.”

  “A stranger,” said Demko.

  “No. I don’t think so. The killer likely knew them, because this does not appear to be a crime of opportunity. The cutting on the hands where the wedding band should be. Seems a way to focus on breaking their vows. That would mean the perpetrator knew they were cheating.”

  “Targeted.”

  “Likely. Look for a history of violence to strangers. Early victims might be someone or something more helpless, like a child or an animal. And you might find a current arrest record for theft and sexual assault.”

  “Any personal relationship?” he asked.

  “Unlikely. I believe the unsub knew of them. But is the relationship personal? No.”

  “It’s usually the significant other,” he added. “But I called you because this looks like something else.”

  Was he thinking serial killer? She was but did not want to voice that opinion yet. This was different and the same. Very much the same as Gail and Charlie, her mother’s superiors, made inferior by Arleen’s knife.

  Her mom’s killing streak ran for twelve years, and would have continued indefinitely, if she had not taken Nadine’s classmate.

  Right after Nadine had told her mom that Sandra was terrorizing her, the high school senior went missing.

  Nadine spotted them waiting by her locker and hunched, drawing her notebooks tighter to her chest. Sandra and two of her clique spotted her approach. Upperclassmen’s lockers were across the building, so she knew they were there for her.

  Nadine slowed and then lifted her chin. There were security cameras in every hall. They wouldn’t do anything here. And the names, well, they hurt, but they didn’t draw blood.

  “There she is. The scarecrow!” chirped Sandra.

  Her groupies laughed.

  “Phew.” Sandra fanned her hand before her face. “I can smell her from here. You stink, Howler.”

  The other two lifted their chins and howled on cue. They liked this joke, howling at Howler and calling her a mangy dog.

  They blocked her locker. Nadine stood, head down, heart pounding. Finally Sandra sidestepped. Nadine quickly opened her locker and deposited her books, retrieving her backpack, leaving most of the homework she needed behind. She’d do it tomorrow before school in the library.

  One of the others snatched her bag and walked off.

  “Hey!” she said.

  They all continued away with her property, growling and barking at her. Nadine closed her locker and followed. Stupid, because when they opened the door to the sidewalk that ran behind the school, they were in a security camera’s blind spot. They stopped between the double doors and threw her bag out. The nylon scraped on the concrete, skidding to a halt and disgorging notebooks through the open zipper.

  One of the two pushed her against the door and she staggered, losing her balance. Sandra snatched her phone from a rear pocket, throwing it out the open door and onto the concrete. Nadine gasped as the case flew off on the first bounce.

  A tiny whimper escaped her. They’d broken her phone. She’d have to tell her mother. Now terror of a different sort filled her.

  “Fetch, bitch!” shouted Sandra.

  Nadine did, collecting the pieces of her phone, the bag and contents before returning the way she had come. A mistake, she realized as she saw the satisfaction glittering in their wolfish eyes. The pack closed in.

  Coyotes surrounding a smaller dog.

  Sandra pushed her so hard, Nadine’s head struck the tile, making her ears ring. Then Sandra slapped her across the face.

  Rage boiled in Nadine and she stood, fists clenched, as she took a menacing step. Sandra retreated to the pack, eyes widening, surprised that the little shrimp they’d tortured for months had finally been pushed too far.

  Nadine read the fear and it scared her more than all three of these seniors. Fear of that rage inside her and what she might do if she unleashed that part of her.

  Nadine dropped her head again. Sandra laughed and shoved her back to the ground.

  “Teacher,” said the lookout. The girls left her.

  Nadine gathered her things and took the back door, walking around the school to find the buses pulling out.

  She called her mother from the office, head down, hair cascading into her face to cover her throbbing lip. Arleen screamed at her but came to pick her up forty-five minutes later.

  Inside the rusting Plymouth, her mother grasped her chin and studied her split lip. “What happened to you?”

  And then Nadine did something she’d regret for the rest of her life. She told her mother everything.

  A week later, Sandra was absent from school.

  Demko steered her into a hard-plastic chair. Nadine glanced up at him in confusion. Then she looked about. She was in the hallway outside the autopsy room and near the changing area.

  She didn’t even remember leaving.

  “Did I faint?” she asked.

  “No. But your eyes were rolling back.”

  She hunched forward, cradling her head in her hands.

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “Okay. That’s enough for today. You want me to drive you back?”

  She shook her head and moaned, embarrassment making her face hot.

  “I’m fine.”

  He hovered. “Don’t drive if you’re dizzy.”

  She glared at him. “I won’t.”

  “If I have questions, can I call?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said. Should she tell him about the similarities she was noting? She could be wrong. But not telling him might give this killer an advantage.

  She hesitated, afraid of sounding crazy. She needed more than that rope to connect these crimes to Arleen. What about those marks on the woman and the skin cut from the ring fingers? Her mother had done nothing like that.

  But what if she had?

  She needed to do some more digging.

  “Call me if you have any additional thoughts.”

  He grinned and swept a strand of hair off her cheek. The dizziness vanished and
a different kind of heat swept through her.

  He used one crooked finger to lift her chin, staring down at her.

  “Your color is better.” His finger dropped away. “I’d better get back.”

  Nadine nodded and watched him go, wondering if he was having second thoughts about asking for her. The notion riled. She wanted to help catch this killer, but the similarities to her mother’s crimes made her worry about objectivity. Could she even separate them in her mind?

  Her past meant she was either uniquely qualified to handle this profile, or the worst possible choice.

  He paused to look back and cast her another dazzling smile. They should register that smile as a lethal weapon, she thought as he vanished through the doors.

  Nadine rose like an old woman and hobbled to the changing room. She left a few minutes later, feeling more herself. The emotion lasted until she reached the parking lot.

  She was nearly back to her car when a terrible possibility formed in her mind.

  What if…

  If this was a copycat killer, did he or she know Nadine worked here as a profiler for this case? What if the killer was not only mimicking her mother’s crimes, but toying with her? What if their perp had concocted those two murders to expose her? Or worse, just to watch her slowly lose her mind. Was their perp watching her right now?

  It was possible. There were websites that highlighted the children of serial killers. Some children of killers did television interviews and authored books about their experiences. Others, like her, tried for a normal life by changing their names and disappearing. Nadine’s photo, as a teenager, was still up on several websites. She’d changed her last name, so finding her might be challenging, but not impossible.

  The parking lot now seemed too public.

  Nadine glanced around. Two men loomed in the doorway of the adjoining building, smoking, watching her. Vehicles filled the parking area, the sun’s angle making each a dark mirror of the storm clouds sweeping in from the west. Joggers and bicyclists passed on the sidewalk. It struck her that any one of them could be the killer, hiding in plain sight. Nadine turned in a circle, seeing menace from all sides, falling to pieces at the entrance to the medical examiner’s office.

  A man approached, meeting her gaze.

  Four

  One swallow doesn’t make a summer

  Nadine didn’t remember rushing past the man heading toward her or bolting to her car, just the sound of the beep as the locks released and the door slammed behind her. She re-engaged the locks, panting now. Then she stamped her foot on the brake and pressed the ignition button. Hot air blasted her, gradually cooling as the air conditioner hummed, awakening the vents, driving off the heat and humidity, but not the panic. The man who had met her gaze had simply walked past without taking any notice of her. He was not a threat at all. The real menace was her fear. She needed to get control.

  Nadine ground her teeth together and glared through the windshield as the buzzing in her ears diminished with her slowing heartbeat. If any part of her mother lived in her, then she was stronger than this. It was time to draw on that courage and use it to find this killer.

  If she was right about this perp, she was somehow already involved. She was both the hunter and the hunted. This killer was playing with her, and that made this unsub a personal threat. One thing she knew. Threatening a Howler was a terrible idea. If anything, she was now more motivated to catch their perp.

  It was narcissistic to believe these murders centered on her. Completely paranoid. Yet, she could not dismiss the possibility.

  This killer already had her in his sights.

  But their unsub might have underestimated her. She glanced about now with the predatory stare of a hawk, knowing she had one huge advantage over the victims. She didn’t have to slip into the mind of a killer. She was the great-granddaughter of a killer. The granddaughter of a killer. And the daughter of a serial killer. She had survived among them and was well equipped to hunt them.

  Later, on Friday afternoon, the autopsy photos from both murder victims were in Nadine’s in-box. Juliette Hartfield’s preliminary autopsy reports were there, too, and they also included photos. Lots of photos.

  The sight was enough to bring on another panic attack. But having returned to the office after her meltdown in her car outside the District 12 ME’s office, she held it together. Outwardly she reflected calm as she read each document. Diving into this rabbit hole was easier than she expected. That alone was troubling.

  The sharp rap on her open door made her startle in her seat. Dr. Margery Crean stood in her office. Her body posture was rigid, and her strained expression set off alarm bells.

  “Got a minute?” she asked.

  Nadine braced her hands on her knees. “Yes. Everything okay?”

  Crean stepped in and closed the door.

  “The local television news is outside police headquarters. They have a source inside the department confirming that the two on the bay were homicides.”

  Nadine recalled the reporters crowding her as court officers escorted her to and from her mother’s trial. Her fingers dug into her knees. Once this story broke, there would be no avoiding them.

  “We do not want to scare away visitors, because our city’s tax base depends on tourism. If you are asked, remember cause of death is still undetermined.”

  Nadine raised her brows. Was this sort of concealment routine?

  “I understand.”

  Crean remained where she was. “How goes the profile?”

  “Slow.”

  “I suggest you review the information available on the FBI’s website but don’t reach out to the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. This is a local matter.”

  Nadine frowned “The FBI is expert at profiling.”

  “Not my call.”

  Nadine tried again. “Dr. Crean, wouldn’t you be the more qualified one to create this profile on this sort of suspect?”

  “Two bodies killed at the same time is hardly enough to make that leap.”

  “Then why am I working on a profile?”

  “Because of the viciousness of the attack and the possibility that this might be a disturbed individual.” Crean stared in silence, her expression giving away nothing. “This is an opportunity, Nadine. Your opportunity. You have all the ability you need to support the police in this investigation.”

  Why was she doing this? Was Crean avoiding a powder keg or striving to give her new hire a boost? Nadine sensed a trap. She maintained a placid expression as suspicions swirled.

  “Profilers sometimes come to the attention of the killers they pursue,” Nadine said. “It can get personal.”

  “More likely, he or she would be inclined to toy with the press or police. We can hope. Engagement with us in any form would help.”

  “You’ve met killers, Dr. Crean. You don’t want them toying with you. Their games are dark and hideous.”

  “All true. And all the more reason to catch this person quickly.” She raised her hand, signaling both an end to the discussion and a farewell. Then she turned, opened the door and glided toward her corner office.

  Nadine returned to the photos, the picturesque view of palm trees and bobbing boats on mooring lines spoiled by the two bloated bodies in the foreground.

  She studied Demko’s notes. Debi Poletti owned a paddleboard, now missing. She often paddled on the bay and through the mangrove tunnels, according to her husband. Both victims’ spouses had solid alibis for the night of the murders. Demko had discovered no obvious enemies or rivals, but had learned that the two had been engaged in an affair for over a year. Most of their coworkers were aware of their liaison. Some had even covered for one or the other at work. Debi Poletti wore a wedding ring and engagement ring, both missing. Trophy hunting? David, who worked with machinery for preparing meat, did not wear a wedding ring.

  Her first draft of the profile assignment contained inferences from the attack approach that this was a confident killer, experienced enou
gh to dare to attack two victims simultaneously with only a knife. Initial attack on the male showed a desire to incapacitate, but not kill. Demko’s description of the male, David, likely being in an upright position, kneeling, during the first strike to his legs and then on his seat for the cut to his femoral artery, backed this up. Absence of water in David’s lungs meant he was dead when he entered the water. How much of the attack on Debi had he witnessed?

  The female victim’s defensive wounds meant she saw her killer and made an attempt to escape. But the killer did not find her a threat. Her attacker made a frontal assault, incapacitated the victim, then cut flesh from her finger and carved the strange hash marks into her flank before making the final strike.

  She put forth that this was likely a male or a powerful female somewhere between thirty and forty-five, with multiple prior victims, beginning with smaller, less dangerous targets. The attacks were premeditated, the victims selected and surveilled for some period before the attacks. From the bloody wedding rings carved in each victim, she theorized that the killer sought to punish or expose their infidelity. She reported that the carving on the woman’s flank had some obvious, as yet unknown, meaning, or was a message from the killer to either the world or the victim.

  Both victims were taken by surprise, which meant the killer was capable of planning, stalking, incapacitating and disposing of the bodies quickly and without notice.

  She believed the color of the rope was significant. Red. The color of blood, lust and passion.

  She speculated this was an organized killer who blended with his or her surroundings. They were looking for someone who lived and worked in the area, with some higher education, who was employed in a white-collar job, was not in a relationship and lived alone in a single-family home. This perpetrator would have few close friends but might be involved in community organizations, as was the case with John Wayne Gacy, or their church, as was the case with the BTK Strangler. Serials often used community groups to lend an air of normality. Their unsub was strong, fit, neither overweight nor skinny. Neat and tidy. Methodical. With some anatomical knowledge. Pathologically self-centered. Meticulous in planning. Their unsub had avoided detection, though likely initially covered in blood, and thus had probably driven a vehicle, likely their own, to and from the murder site.