Letters From Rachel

by N L Westaway

  As they ate their fancy meal of chips and water, Rachel lay there listening to Jamie tell of the plans he had. “My father wants me to be a cop—go to the academy. I’ve already been to college, but I want to travel—see different countries, see all the mysteries of the world.” She’d never been anywhere, but she’d read about different countries and wonders in many books.

  When they were done eating, they both lay in silence, watching the sun slowly set. The colours of yellow, orange, and red were brilliant and blazed like fire. When the sun finally disappeared behind the red maples, the stars began to make their appearance, and a warm breeze blew through the opening into the barn and across their reclined bodies.

  Jamie shifted closer to Rachel then, bringing the arm closest to her down along the side of his body, his elbow touching hers. She felt flushed suddenly and sat up. She reached over and took the last water bottle cracked it open and then took a big gulp. Still warm, she wriggled out of Jamie’s leather jacket. Balling it up, she placed it at the head of the blanket and rolled back down to put her head on it, the back of her hand grazing his hand then. She took in a long shaky breath.

  “Yer safe here, Rachel,” Jamie said, as if sensing her anxiety.

  She wasn’t scared—not in the least, but she was anxious, nervous really. The blood pulsed in her ears as before, but this time it was the good kind of nervous. Not nervous, either she realized, she was excited to be there with him, and she felt free. This is what freedom felt like, and it was coupled with the need to move even closer to him. “I feel… safe,” she said in response to him.

  Jamie rolled on his side then to face her, resting on his elbow, the side of his head on his hand. “Do you always wear your hair pulled back?” he asked, lifting the end of her long braid off the blanket to examine it closer. “The colour catches in the sun, like gold.”

  She smiled at that and turned her head to look at him. He smelled good, like fresh laundry and mint. “No,” she said, lifting her head and sliding her hair free of his hand to loosen the braid. She mirrored his posture, turning her body then and resting her head on her hand to face him.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jamie said, running his fingers through the loose waves that hung down now. “You’re beautiful—did you know that?”

  She felt herself flush again. No one had ever called her beautiful before, and she wondered if what she was feeling now—this need to be close to Jamie, was what she’d read about in the romance novels she’d sometimes read at the library. She gazed into his eyes; his face was lit by the moonlight. She had only read about the love and intimacy in books and had never bothered with boys at school—there was no point really, she wasn’t even allowed to watch TV let alone have a boyfriend. She kept to herself at school, plus she knew most of the kids thought she was weird, a loner the nicer kids had called her. But she knew Jamie was handsome, his features were just like the men she’d read about, and the way he made her feel looking back at her, well… that was what they called chemistry, and she was feeling all kinds of science right now.

  Jamie’s hand moved from her hair then to caress the side of her cheek. His eyes shifted from gazing into hers, down to staring at her mouth. “What are you thinking, Rachel?” he asked then.

  “I’m thinking… I should be scared being alone with you… but I’m not.” She touched her hand to his. “I’m thinking….” She was thinking she’d been beaten for less, but she was never going back to there again, so what did it matter that she was here alone with him. “… that I never want this night to end.”

  Jamie licked his lips, then leaned in to brush them against hers. His mouth was soft and warm, and she didn’t resist, in fact she leaned in to press her mouth firmly against his. As she did, Jamie’s hand slid around to the back of her head to cup it. Rachel’s mind raced and her skin heated as if under the rays of the sun. Jamie’s touch was so unlike that of her father who commanded, pulled, and shoved in his abuse of her. Jamie’s caress was a comfort, one she had never been given, and in this moment Rachel let go, let go of all her anxiety and fears, giving herself over to the feeling of being beautiful, being adored, being a woman, and being free.

  ✽✽✽

  Jamie awoke to the sound of a harvest combine grumbling by the barn. They had fallen asleep after, he realized then, rubbing his eyes free of sleep. Sitting up to reach for his jeans and t-shirt, he grasped something else… his leather jacket was gone… and so was Rachel.

  Chapter 2

  July 1st, 2019 Current Day - Auburn Hills, MI

  Behind the reporter, a second police car screeched to a halt. “We are here at Oakland Community College here in Auburn Hills,” the female reporter said, over the commotion behind her. “Where the unconscious body of the newly hired Professor of Biology, Timothy Armstrong was discovered at the CREST building early this morning. Emergency medical personnel have been called to the scene, but they found no signs of life upon their arrival.” The reporter moved to one side as the body in a black coroner’s bag was rolled by her. “Based on the injuries sustained, Police are now calling this death a homicide,” the reporter continued into the camera. “Sources tell me that all evidence is pointing to the same MO as the notorious serial killer known as the Small-Town Strangler. It was 20 years ago, when the killings first began. Back then, after 12 university professors across 12 states were killed, the press had labeled the killings the Professor Murders. It has been 6 years since the case file, now known as the Professor’s Dozen—still unsolved, went cold. And this latest killing, number 13, makes it a baker’s dozen. Where has the killer been all these years—and why have they returned?”

  Gwen shook her head and turned away from the reporter to see an unmarked Crown Victoria roll up. This kind of reporting was why she disliked the press. This professor was dead—murdered, and the reporter was treating it like some kind of entertainment piece. “Baker’s dozen,” she repeated, under her breath.

  Gwen was in her last month of training as a paramedic, she had done most of her training here in fact, at this college, right here in the training center. This facility had a combined regional emergency services training program that was set up like a tiny city to provide realistic settings. The trainers took you from the classroom into virtual live lab scenarios based on real-life problems they would be facing as emergency responders. Her instructors and professors here had been amazing, and her paramedic partner, Scott, was an excellent trainer who she had become close friends while on the job. As for the biology class, she had taken the class in her first year here but not with this professor, he’d been new this term. She had heard rumblings that he may have been a little too handsy with the female students. Perhaps one of them had had enough, she pondered, watching as Detective Jim Franklin approached their rig.

  “Hey, Dad,” Scott said, when he had reached the open back doors to the ambulance. It was normal protocol to wait for the police before declaring anyone deceased, and now that the cops were here and dealing with things, they had taken this time to do their own paperwork.

  “Good morning! You guys working out of the Oakland location?” Detective Franklin asked.

  “Ya, we got the call to come here,” Scott said. “Some poor student found the professor and called 911, and they dispatched us to the scene, but the guy was gone—no signs of life, when we got here.

  “Hey, Gwen, how’s the training going? My son getting you ready to take on the world?” He had his hands on his hips in a way that reminded her of a superhero stance.

  “Hi, Detective Franklin—yes, I’m learning from the Jedi Master,” she said, with a chuckle.

  “What can you tell me about the victim’s injuries?” Detective Franklin asked, directing the question at her. He’d most likely already heard the scoop or he would not be here, but he liked to be part of the training process any chance he got. He planned to teach at this facility when he retired from the force, Scott had told her, and she felt he would make an excellent addition to the staff
here.

  “We found ligature marks around his neck, but not from a rope—something wider,” she said, pausing. She had heard about the serial killer when she’d been in high school, but when no other murders that matched were found, the story had disappeared from the news and she’d forgotten about it until Scott had mentioned it to her awhile back, when she’d first met Detective Franklin. “And he’d been tasered,” she added, this had been part of the original MO of this killer, she had remembered. She also recalled what Scott had told her about his father, well—stepfather, and how he had met and married Scott’s mother, Gayle, 15 years ago. He had officially adopted Scott after marrying his mom, and Scott had taken his last name. Scott was 25 now, but when he was fresh out of training, he remembered then how distraught his stepfather had been when this case had gone cold. Scott had told her that his stepfather had been working this case in one capacity or another almost since the beginning. When he was Scott’s age, he had moved up the ranks fast, and when the murders began traveling across the country, he’d followed the case as a homicide detective. In 2003 he had been recognized for his collective experience as a specialist on the case and had been teamed to work in conjunction with the FBI. He had worked other cases over the years, but he had never given up hope that he’d find this elusive small-town strangler.

  “Same MO,” Detective Franklin said, to his son.

  “Same MO,” Scott said back, jumping down from the rig, confirming what they had all concluded.

  “You guys have time for some breakfast or coffee?” Detective Franklin asked, glancing back and forth at the two of them.

  Scott shut the back doors to the ambulance. “Overnight shift is done,” Scott said. “I just need to swap vehicles and then I can meet you at the diner. Gwen—you in?”

  Gwen hopped down from the back of the ambulance and shut the doors. “You bet—I’m starving,” she said, then opened the passenger side door of the rig to get in. She gave the detective the thumbs up, then climbed in and shut the door. “Let’s go!” she said, through the open window on her side, reaching out and giving the outside of the door a double giddy-up smack with her hand.

  “Okay see you there,” the detective responded.

  In the hospital ambulance bay, they locked up their rig, turned in their respective paperwork, and then climbed into Scott’s blue and grey 1994 Ford Bronco. He and Detective Franklin had restored it, still worked on it when they had a day off together, and it was his pride and joy. She couldn’t blame him, it was a great truck, and she had no car to speak of and was always thankful for a lift.

  On the ride over to the diner, Gwen thought about the last time she had crossed paths with Detective Franklin during her training. It had been a month ago on an exceptionally warm night—her third shift in a row—and she still had yet to become accustomed to the level of exhaustion, when she and Scott had been super busy with all kinds of calls. It was in the University District at just after 2 a.m., outside an old brick colonial home adjacent to one which had obviously been managed through the heritage society because that one was immaculate, this one they were heading into had not, it had been changed into a halfway house for troubled homeless youths.

  The first thing she’d noted when they’d entered, was that it was as hot inside as it was out, and they had to climb two flights of stairs to get to the third floor of the place. The stair railings were solid dark wood like the trim in the house but had clearly been painted over several times, and the floors and stairs creaked with every step. The place had smelled like pot and incense, and everywhere it was dimly lit.

  On the landing, she’d seen that the bedroom they were heading into was one of three, along with a small bathroom on that level, and there were at least three teenage girls up there they could see, each sobbing quietly and keeping their distance. There must have been another girl in one of the rooms out of view because they could hear her heartbroken wailing.

  When she and Scott had entered the bedroom through the doorway that was offset in the corner of the room, she’d seen a small side table covered with a silk scarf with a small lamp and several artists’ pencils were atop it. There’d been a large queen-sized bed with colourful blankets and pillows on it but the colours had been dimmed from the pale lighting. There had been a lot of stuff on the walls, art, more scarves, posters. The foot of the bed had a short white bookshelf full of books by Stephen King, paperback, hard cover, and even those with his pen-name Richard Bachman. Around the other side of the bed, along the same wall as the table and the headboard, there had been a tiny door to a closet.

  The door had been propped open and inside hanging amidst the clothes, the colourful hippy-style flowing skirts and loose-fitting blouses, facing towards the right of the closet, was a small-statured teenage girl. Gwen had only been able to see her from her right side, but her head was tilted forward as though nodding yes. She’d had short pixie hair, noticeably shorter in the back almost shaved, with longer bits at the sides that had perfectly circled the outline of her face along her jaw. To this day, Gwen still couldn’t recall what the girl had hung herself with or what she was wearing, but the top of her head had been right up against the bar where she had secured the noose, and her toes… they had been only a fraction of an inch from the ground. The girl could have easily stretched a bit and stopped this if she had wanted.

  Scott had been attending to this call, so he had checked the girl’s right arm, starting at the fingers, then wrist, and then the elbow, checking for rigor mortis, and he had found it at the elbow. “She’s cool to the touch,” he had told her, realizing that the girl was obviously dead and there was nothing they could do. This had then become a crime scene, and they had needed to notify police. Scott had backed away from the closet, then had turned her around so they could both leave the room. “You’ll see enough of this in your career—you don’t need to start it off with this,” he had said to her.

  When they’d been leaving the room, she’d noticed the books again. She had read those same books because she was also a Stephen King fan, and she also folded the corners of the pages of her books instead of using a book marker like the girl had. Gwen had internalized and empathized with this dead girl’s personality very quickly and paired with the emotions of the other girls in the house, tears had begun to stream down her face. She’d kept her head low and excused herself to go outside. At the truck, she had gathered herself by the time the police had arrived, and Detective Franklin had shown up. He had gone to speak to Scott first, but then he had come over to see her, and had asked if she was okay. Scott had obviously seen her tears and had told him. “Scott has this covered—no need for you to stay up there with all that sadness,” he’d said. Then he had gone on to tell her the girl’s tragic story, about an 18-year-old with a debilitating illness and anxiety over revealing her sexuality to an estranged family at an upcoming gathering. The young girl they had heard wailing from the other bedroom had been her girlfriend, she hadn’t heard from her partner in several days. Then one of the housemates, who had feared the worst, had then come in and found her.

  That had been Gwen’s roughest call to date, but Detective Franklin had been exceptionally kind with her that time. She hadn’t cried again, but she’d been pretty shaken up and he’d taken the time to explain, how the job can get to you at times, and that she shouldn’t be afraid to reach out and talk to someone if needed. He had reminded her that Scott had seen some pretty horrific stuff his first year, and that he had made a point of talking to the counselor they had on staff. Detective Franklin had known just what to do, and what to say, to make her feel better. She had never had a father, but she was more than grateful for the comfort he’d given her then, and she had never forgotten it.

  In the back of a small Ann Arbor bakery, news coverage barked out details through a small TV set on a side table. “This latest murder makes the total thirteen now,” the male reporter stated.

  “Noooo, god—no, he’s back,” Laura Jamison said, with a g
asp.

  Chapter 3

  January 1st, 2002 - Lewisburg, PA

  Laura had been in Lewisburg for almost a year now, but she had moved four times in the three years prior, since the killings had started, though she had yet to receive another postcard.

  She had received a postcard shortly after every move, each one sent from the town she had lived prior, even though she had never left a forwarding address with anyone. They were never signed, always had a photo on the front of some popular landmark from the last city she had lived in, and all handwritten on the back with the same message,

  Welcome to your new home, Laura.

  I killed that professor for you. Please don’t contact the police, you will NOT live to regret it. Remember, I’m watching you.

  Enjoy your stay!

  Each time she moved she ran through the same routine of setting up her personal security. She had learned a lot about how to secure her tiny apartments, from checking the lighting in all areas to simple fixes for doors and windows that she could obtain from any hardware store.

  Apartment buildings and complexes sometimes had dark nooks and crannies she’d noticed, making it perfect for anyone who wanted to sneak around. It’s important to have good lighting in common areas like hallways, garbage areas, stairwells, laundry rooms and parking areas, not that she had a car, but having to walk through them, it made sense to note the lighting. She preferred smaller apartment complexes, with fewer than eight units, usually renting on the first floor. A first-floor unit may make it easier for an intruder to get in, but it also made it easier for her to get out, and was especially good for moving in and out, she had found. If she had to take a higher floor, she always considered the emergency exits, making sure she could get out in case of any danger.