by Trisha Wolfe
“A key,” I whisper with trembling lips. “He wore a key around his neck. To a dark basement cage where he kept them. I tore it free and drove it into his jugular.”
His fingers softly brush my hair from my eyes, remove my glasses. His gentle touch a stark contrast to the hardness I feel beneath me. He’s aroused.
“What did you feel?” he asks. His mouth hovers near mine, tasting my desperate breaths.
“I felt…free,” I admit. “Disembodied. Like I could do anything.”
“You can,” he coaxes. “It’s in your nature.”
A sharp pain thorns my chest. No. My internal alarm sounds, signaling my departure from reality. I attempt to stand, but he anchors strong hands to my thighs. The feel of him so hard, so wanting, pressed to my most intimate body part. Desire burns away any grasp I had on reason.
I shake my head. Force my glasses on. “We don’t get to do anything we want. There has to be boundaries, rules.”
He touches his forehead to mine. “We can make our own.”
My hands glide over his forearms. Tenderly feeling the scars he wears outside that match my inside. It’s intoxicating, the way he seduces my pain away, as if we really do command our own world.
No pain.
I’m here with him, and it would be so simple to fall all the way. Just let go. No hiding, no shame. He found me. He discovered my vile secret, and it excites him, what it could mean if I’d only release the string tethering me to a life so binding.
But that’s the trade. I risk losing what makes me human. Pain is human, and it means I still feel.
“No. I’m not damning myself again.” I break his hold and stand, backing up until my shoulders hit the wall.
“I’m not giving up,” he says, but he doesn’t pursue me. “We were designed for each other. Don’t you feel the pain when we’re apart? Don’t you want it to stop?”
I swallow. He’s too inside my head; I have to get away. “Guard.”
“You’re mine, London. We can dance this violent dance until we bleed each other dry, or we can surrender. Your choice. But I will have you.”
“That monster born of sin and death died in a car wreck. She’s gone.”
“Then it’s my mission to resurrect her.”
I pound on the door until it opens. I throw myself through the doorway, past the guard and his questions, and out into the open. The fresh air douses my heated skin, but the pain latches on to me, driving a searing iron into my back.
I scream.
14
Departure
Grayson
I only had theories. Wisps of the truth. Newspaper clippings and an old coroner report. But fearing a thing makes it come to a head much more quickly. Threatening her was all it took for London to be thrust back in time, to relive that one moment of ecstasy she allowed herself.
She’s a born killer.
It’s in our DNA. A genial road map of an exterminator.
Sounds like such an atrocity—to admit to being a killer. But we’re all born with purpose. Some to be doctors and save, others to be lawyers and advocate. So what’s wrong with our calling? The world is overpopulated and full of filth that needs picking off.
In this day and time, it’s a calling only fit for the torrid pit of hell.
And yet it can be beautiful. An art form.
I rest my head against the seatback, imagining a younger, freer London driving a perfect replica of her tattoo through her father’s neck. The strength it takes to do this—the sheer power, the lust for the kill. A thrill electrifies my blood.
The man who gave her the only life she’s known, and she snuffed out his in an instant. Her hair wild, skin drenched with sweat, eyes gleaming. And then the serene look on her face that followed. The same one I glimpsed as her body rolled with aftershocks of pleasure.
I want that back. I want to witness it over and over.
My pants tighten. I adjust myself, forcibly situating the aching member of my body that I refuse relief until my beautiful London submits.
“Half an hour till we land.” Officer Michaels glances over his shoulder. “When we reach the ground, just give me an excuse to put a bullet in your head.”
He says this lower, just so I can hear. His righteous anger brings a smile to my face. He was built for killing, too, but he’s denied himself that indulgence. Instead, choosing a profession that teases him, his trigger finger always at the ready.
What a painful existence.
I sit forward, and he noticeably tenses. “When the time comes, it won’t be you who gets that pleasure.”
His lip curls in revulsion. “Move back, con.”
I obey, turning my attention to the airplane window. Just above my head, a box of my meager belongings holds my ticket out of this life. No, Michaels won’t get his chance, because too many others are vying for their shot.
I lean close to the window to see the bend in the horizon. All that appears seamless and unending has a twist, and there is always an end.
New Castle welcomes me home.
“All rise. Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Arthur Lancaster is now presiding.”
A loud shuffle resounds through the courtroom. The pews packed full of the curious. The judge is a thin, aging man; his black robe swallows him. He orders the court to be seated, and I take a moment to glance around, seeking her eyes.
London’s not here.
My court-appointed lawyer nudges me to face forward. He delivered a black suit and blue tie to my cell this morning. He requires my tattoos to be covered, my hair neatly trimmed. As if my presentable appearance holds any sway over the jury.
I can see it on their faces: disgust. This case would need to be heard halfway around the world in a remote location to find a jury that doesn’t already know the grisly details.
“Don’t make eye contact with them,” my lawyer instructs. “Not yet. I’ll advise.”
Not a problem. There’s only one gaze I need to look into. She’ll be here. Her expert testimony won’t be heard until later, but London is typically present for her patients during the trial. I’m not a typical patient, however. She’s punishing me for my behavior—for knowing her sins.
She’ll be here.
My hands fist beneath the table.
My lawyer looks at me. “I won’t bring up the footage used in the previous trial unless we need to,” he says. “That may or may not work in your favor. But just to be clear—” his eyes stare into mine “—there are no recordings of these victims, correct?”
None that were recovered by the police. “There are no recordings.”
“Good.” He straightens his tie and stands.
Only minutes into the trial, and the prosecution wastes no time getting to the shock and appall portion of this production. Enlarged images of victims are propped along a wall, displaying the crime scene photos. Victims, the prosecuting lawyer keeps stressing, beating it into the jurors’ heads.
Referring to the victims as deviants would be too ironic.
But that’s superfluous; they’ve already had their trial, and their consequence.
No one can take that away.
“Detective Foster, how was this new evidence discovered?” the lawyer asks the heavyset man on the stand.
The detective looks at the jury when he responds. “Technically, it was old evidence. We just had no basis for comparison. The defendant wasn’t in any database at the time.”
I admit, I was sloppy. My first attempt was delivered under anxious and taxing effort. I was near defeated by the time I gave in. Exhausted, tired of fighting the need. It was a compulsion that demanded to be answered—an action to be taken to make the desire end. I never imagined it would be so exhilarating, an addiction in the making, that I’d have to feed the craving again.
Once I killed the people who referred to themselves as my parents, I thought the dark thoughts would finally cease. I was their creation, and that part of me would die with them. Changing the scenery to an
American backdrop in my tender youth didn’t stop the cravings, either. Nothing did.
I fought it for too many years. Weary and empty.
The first happened too fast. It wasn’t until my second that I became cautious. I had to be in order to continue on. I knew that my first endeavor would always haunt me, and here I am, being tried for the careless act.
But oh, the rush.
You can never replicate your first. Like two lovers in the throes of passion, clumsily feeling their way through that awkward first encounter, it’s still just as erotic, just as carnal.
“The perpetrator left a palm print on the murder weapon.” The detective points to the blown-up picture of a pulley shaft. The evidence couldn’t be more damning. I remember the night I rigged the contraption, my gloves getting caught in the axel.
“After so many years, a case goes cold,” the lawyer prompts. “What made you decide to run the search again on the palm print?”
“The MO. That is, the method and distinct pattern of the Angel of Maine killings were similar to the murders here in New Castle. It was worth a try, to see if there was a match.”
“And was there, detective? A match?”
“Yes.” He turns his attention to a diagram of the palm print in question. Numbered points of comparison prove that it is in fact a match to my print.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
My lawyer rises from the table. “Detective, there’s no dispute to whether or not this print is a match to the defendant, and therefore he can be placed at the scene. However, do you have any other evidence?”
The detective frowns. “How do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. Let me be clear. Was there any other evidence uncovered at the scenes that can tie Mr. Sullivan to the crimes he’s being tried for here today? Or is this the only evidence to link him to all four homicides based on similarities of the murders?”
“This is the main evidence, that’s correct.”
“You mean to say, your only evidence,” my lawyer counters.
“Objection,” the Attorney General interjects.
“Sustained. The jury will disregard that statement.”
“I apologize, Your Honor. But, Detective Foster, I’m having a hard time understanding this logic, this process, if you will. Let’s walk the jury through it, shall we?”
The detective nods. “All right.”
I’m riveted watching Allen Young pace the courtroom. He’s a fresh trial lawyer that I believe the state thought would hang me. His theatrics are entertaining, but it’s his ability to gain the jury’s trust that’s fascinating. They like him, even if they despise me.
“Mr. Sullivan’s palm print was found on the pulley, but we already know that my client worked in the same fishing district as the victim. Is it possible that Mr. Sullivan used the pulley to load his diving equipment onto a boat at one time?”
“It’s possible, but not likely,” Detective Foster replies. “The charter boat Mr. Sullivan used for work has its own loading dock equipment.”
Young doesn’t miss a beat. “But it is possible, considering the charter boat had numerous reports of faulty equipment at the time.”
The detective furrows his brows. “A slight possibility.”
“Thank you. Now let’s discuss the differences among the cases. When you were first called to the scene, detective, did your initial report state that the victim’s death was more than likely an accident? That it appeared the victim hung himself to the claim of faulty equipment?”
“I did make that statement, but I quickly amended it upon the discovery by the medical examiner.”
“Right. The medical examiner reported contusions, that is bruises, around the victim’s neck, which supports the cause of death due to asphyxiation. Like one would have when strangled by a rope.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But the examination also uncovered several repeated ligature contusions. As if the rope was tightened, loosened, and then tightened again. As if someone was torturing the victim prior to his death.”
“Isn’t it possible that this contusion pattern could’ve been caused by the victim fighting against the rope, trying to loosen it from around his neck?”
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness is not a medical doctor or expert.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “I agree. Detective Foster isn’t qualified to answer that question.”
The detective looks annoyed at having his response suppressed.
Young quickly moves on. “But unlike the other crime scenes, where it was clear a heinous murder had been committed, this first scene—the scene providing your only supposed evidence—has a number of differences, is that correct? Such as the traps the perpetrator rigged to carry out the murders? The pulley was never confirmed as a trap, is this right?”
“That’s not uncommon for a first homicide,” the detective counters. “Repeat offenders get better, bolder, as their kill method advances. The difference between the first crime scene and the others is only that of an amateur versus a proficient.”
My lawyer smiles. “In your opinion?”
“Yes. In my opinion, based on fifteen years of detective work.”
“Was the wife of the victim ever questioned in connection to his death?”
“Of course. Everyone connected to the victim was questioned.”
“But only after the second crime scene was discovered, and after the initial statement declaring the victim’s death an accident had been retracted.”
Detective Foster adjusts his posture. “That is correct.”
“So to recap the facts, you have no inculpatory evidence tying the defendant to the other murders, and the very murder you can link him to, the method is arguably different than the other crimes. You, yourself, said it wasn’t as methodical, and yet it was the only crime scene where any type of evidence was uncovered. That in itself is a deviation from the MO, wouldn’t you agree, detective? That a methodical murderer would make such a blatant mistake? And yet you want to prosecute the defendant for all four murders and have him put to death by lethal injection?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Young is badgering the witness.”
The detective flounders to answer, but Young speaks up before the ruling. “That’s all right. Nothing further, Your Honor.”
“I’m still giving my ruling to have that last statement stricken from the record, Mr. Young,” the judge says.
I have a newfound respect for the state of Delaware. Allen Young almost has me doubting my own memories.
“And there’s our reasonable doubt,” the lawyer whispers to me as he slides into his seat.
Reasonable doubt. For the other kills. Not enough to keep me from serving that life sentence…but maybe enough to keep me off of death row.
There’s a strange lightness to my head, a feeling almost like hope. It’s as foreign as my newfound emotions for London.
“Now, if your psychologist will just work her magic, I’d say you have a good chance to plead for the mercy of the court.”
“She will,” I assure him. He’s just as committed to this case for his own sake as mine. A case like this can make his career. And I’ve invested my time wisely in London. She’ll be here. I’ve made sure of that.
“Court is adjourned,” the judge announces. “We’ll resume at nine tomorrow morning.”
“You better make sure. Do whatever it takes to get her on that stand.” Young assembles his folders into his briefcase and departs, leaving the officers to shackle and escort me to the courthouse jail.
I glance around the room once more, noting London’s absence with a set jaw. She’ll be here. It’s not just my fate riding on her testimony.
Her life depends on it.
15
Prison
London
The first prison I ever saw was in the basement of my family home.
My father had turned the belly of our house into a hell. A cell where he kept the girls he’d stolen—where he torture
d them. Until they were of no more use, then they’d stay down in that dungeon, starving in the pitch-black, until he ended their life.
He buried them under my mother’s garden.
She was dead, he said to me when I asked him why…how he could do it. A dead woman doesn’t care and neither should we, was his simple reply.
The first girl I found by accident. The anniversary of my mother’s death meant sadness. I wanted to cheer up her neglected flowers. My father was outraged when I showed him the decayed body…that’s how I knew. It wasn’t the rational response a person—a cop—should have when one discovers a corpse in their backyard.
And then I remember the shiny glint of the key. That damn key that always hung around his neck. It all rushed together, a crash of elements around my life that I never looked at too closely, but that suddenly unmasked a very ugly, malevolent picture.
The basement.
My mind leapt from detail to detail, stringing together connections, and I understood why I was banned from his private sanctuary. I suddenly knew what was down there.
For three months, I listened. In the still of the night I crept through the house, planted my ear to the floorboards, afraid to hear what my mind wouldn’t allow me to believe.
The faintest cry tore up through the ground and gripped my soul.
There was another girl down there.
I close my eyes now, just for a moment to center myself. The air is stuffy and humid in this part of the courthouse as the officer leads me to the cells, to where Grayson is being kept under heavy guard and surveillance.
“Please check your purse and any personal belongings,” the officer instructs, setting a plastic container near. “Then walk through.”
I unload my items and then step through the metal detector. I’m cleared and instructed to follow a short hallway to the last cell on the right.
I walk the length of the hall toward Grayson the same way I walked down those steps all those years ago. My heart constricted. My pulse firing shots through my blood.
