If I Had Two Lives

by A B Whelan

  I’m hungry, and my stomach gives a loud growl. I try to mask it by turning to the ME with a question. “What’s your professional opinion about the killer’s MO? Do you think we are dealing with the same guy who killed Linda Osborne a few weeks ago?”

  The lady in the white coat across the table from me looks nothing like how I imagine a forensic pathologist to look like. She is a beautiful seasoned woman with a slim, tall frame and delicately tied-up blonde hair. Her smooth skin and subtle makeup grant her an air of elegance. She carries herself confidently, a person in charge. She rather gives off the impression of being more a CEO or college professor than someone who cuts up people for a living. Yet, she speaks softly. Her voice is soothing. Following her notes, she tells us about her findings as airily as if she were sharing her favorite recipe with us.

  My profiling mode turns on. I assume that the doctor grew up in a wealthy, Orange County family. Her parents’ primary focus from an early age—maybe as early as kindergarten—was her education and future career path. By the time she was accepted into college, there was no question about her becoming a doctor. Spending four years on campus, she was exposed to new ideologies and progressive world views that altered her compliant and dutiful demeanor. She rebelled against her parents by choosing pathology over a career as a surgeon. But she wouldn’t stray far from the original plan because she understood the hard work and dedication needed to get this far. Her yearning for her parents’ approval has never ebbed.

  If she has children, they must be older now—college-aged. I wonder if she let her kids carelessly enjoy their childhood or followed her parents’ example and set her children on a specific path early on too?

  Dr. Kendrick pulls off the gloves with her manicured long fingers and slips them into her pocket. “I didn’t do the autopsy of Linda Osborne, but I read the report. The distinctive way of committing the crime in both cases is eerily similar, almost identical. It strikes me as somewhat odd.”

  She speaks without emotion in a low monotone voice. No matter how hard I try, I can’t picture this delicate woman wearing a blood-spattered safety mask, cutting through the bone and flesh of a dead body.

  “Serial killers tend to stick to specific methods,” Anaya says, reinserting herself into the conversation. “They commit their crimes using the techniques that work for them. We typically only see a change in a serial killer’s MO after the media foolishly releases a piece of detailed information about the investigation, inadvertently warning the perpetrator that he is leaving a trail for the police to follow.”

  “Like the Southriver Rapist in Ventura.” I may not be a seasoned homicide detective, but I’ve done my homework. “He dumped his victims by the side of remote dirt roads. When he learned about the pieces of fibers he left on his victims in the media, he started dumping the bodies into the river to wash away any trace evidence.”

  Dr. Kendrick rubs her hands with lotion. “That’s entirely correct. Serial killers hunt on familiar ground and use methods they are confident in. However, in these two homicide cases, the bodies were positioned in the exact same way, both victims stabbed the exact same number of times, in the exact same location, which is their kitchen. It’s almost … ritual-like.”

  I lock eyes with Anaya. Her suspicion of us hunting a copycat killer who tries to pin his murders on other killers is building credence. Or are we fitting facts to fit our theory?

  Brestler returns to the table. “Chief wants us to stay here for a few days and investigate. You okay with that?” He poses his question straight at me.

  “Yep. Doug is away for a realtor conference all weekend. There’s nothing but an empty house for me at home.”

  Brestler doesn’t ask Anaya if she was okay with staying. Single people are naturally assumed to have more free time and flexible schedules. Still, Anaya shows no signs of being offended.

  Detective Brown pushes his way into the room through the swinging double door.

  “Julia,” he calls out to the ME.

  “David,” she acknowledges him.

  The detective remains by the door, keeping one panel from slamming shut. “If you guys are done here, I can take you to the captain’s office.”

  “We appreciate it, thank you,” says Brestler.

  “I’ll make a copy for you,” Dr. Kendrick says, lifting the autopsy report. “The toxicology and the analysis on the trace evidence may take a week or more.”

  We don’t shake hands. Dr. Kendrick doesn’t touch people without gloves. She’s germophobic.

  “At first, I thought she refused to shake my hand because I’m black,” Anaya whispers in my ear as we follow Detective Brown out of the building.

  “Did you experience any racial discrimination in England?”

  “No, but before I moved here, I was under the illusion that rich, white people were all racist in America.”

  “What would give you that impression?”

  Anaya shrugs. “I don’t know. Movies. The media.”

  It wasn’t the time or the place to go into a debate about discrimination, so I merely touched her arm to acknowledge what she said and then turned to Brestler. If I don't get a chance to visit my mother this weekend to find out the truth, then I might as well do the best I can with this investigation.

  “I’d like to go to the gentlemen’s club and talk to the owner and other dancers who knew Meredith. Maybe they know a guy who was obsessed with her or had a beef with her. I’d also like to interview Meredith’s parents.”

  Brestler takes a sharp inhale, then he leans closer to me “It’s not normal procedure for FBI agents to conduct those interviews. We haven’t announced our theory of a serial killer in action yet. I don’t want to step on any toes here. I know you were a detective before you joined the Bureau, so I’m sure you understand how sensitive local law enforcement can be about jurisdiction.”

  “I understand, sir. Although I worked cybercrimes, I’m used to collaborating with other agencies,” I correct him. “That’s why we were so efficient.”

  Brestler smiles at me warmly. “Noted.”

  I wait until he’s done scratching his day-old facial hair and makes a decision. “How about you hint a few details about our investigation to Detective Brown to make him feel included, then your request of joining him for a visit to the strip bar won’t raise any eyebrows?”

  “That’s sound doable, sir. Thank you.”

  Brestler beckons me closer. “Remember. Lead the horse to water, but let him drink on his own.”

  21

  The Black Panther Gentlemen’s Club offers a wide variety of cultures from around the globe. The owner is a Russian that moved to California ten years ago when he was twenty-seven-years old from a small town called Leskolovoner, near Saint Petersburg. The few girls on stage and displayed on lit billboards around the walls are mostly Hispanic. The head of security is from Durban, a coastal city in South Africa, and the bartender is American-Canadian who, according to the owner, has lived his entire life in southern California.

  Back in the captain’s office, I suggested to Detective Brown that we start our investigation at Meredith’s workplace. He said he was already on his way to the club, and I was welcome to join him. Brestler and Reed remained at San Marcos PD to help set up a control center for the investigating team.

  According to the owner of this “gentleman’s” club, Mr. Anatoly, it’s too early in the day for business, and most of the girls aren’t expected in until later. I feel guilty for derailing Brown’s investigation by missing the crucial detail about the business hours being busier in the evening at a place like this. We should have gone to Meredith’s parents first, but I was too focused on finding a disgruntled customer that might have killed the young girl that would disprove our copycat serial-killer theory. The mere thought of having a calculating and intelligent criminal at large was chilling me to the bone.

  But Brown asks Anatoly to round up the girls for a voluntary interview to help the police identify anyone who may have ha
d a reason to harm their friend, Meredith. The request doesn’t sit well with the owner, I notice. He looks more annoyed than heartbroken over the dancer’s death. He talks about Meredith as if she were merely a piece of valuable merchandise stolen from him. Despite his annoyance, Anatoly retires to his office to make the calls.

  As Brown and I are left to wait between the bar and the stage, I use my time to get a better feel for the place and what might have prompted a young mother, like Meredith, to choose this line of work. On center stage, two girls are wrapping their scantily clad bodies around the poles, performing for a handful of men nursing their drinks and gawking at the dancers. A single waitress is perched on a bar stool with her legs crossed, giggling at the bartender, undisturbed by the police presence.

  The enormous room has no windows or clocks to warn its customers about the passing of time. Blinded by neon lights and hypnotized by beautiful naked girls, a man could easily lose track of time here. I wonder how many marriages have been ruined or saved by this establishment. How many strip bars has Doug visited during our relationship?

  Anatoly returns from his office. He walks with a slight limp and looks like someone my mother would call a slimeball. His overly tanned and skinny body is mostly covered with black jeans, a white V-neck t-shirt, and a black leather vest. He seems to be obsessively trying to look younger. He’s had considerable plastic surgery to his face that stands out from his blemished and sagging neck. Both his arms are a canvas of elaborate tattoos, the images undistinguishable. His nose is pierced with golden jewels as if he belongs to an ancient African tribe. And every time he moves his hands, a wide array of gold bangles jingles on his wrists.

  He salutes us. “I’ve done what I can, but I don’t expect much success. At the sight of cops, these girls turn and run, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Was the same bartender working here Wednesday night?” Brown asks.

  Anatoly plays with his chin hair as he turns to check the identity of the person behind the bar. “Liam? No, he wasn’t, but that’s Portia with him. She is, I mean was, Meredith’s closest friend here,” he says, twisting a thick golden ring on his finger. “Another girl, Lyric, was close to her too, but she isn’t working tonight.”

  “Do you have security cameras?” I ask, pointing at the black orb mounted on the ceiling.

  Anatoly knits his eyebrows tightly as he measures me up. “Yeah, of course. But you’ll need a warrant to get the tapes. Sorry, sweetheart, nothing personal but I’ve been burned by law enforcement too many times. I’ve learned my lesson, you know what I’m saying?”

  I step forward with a stern expression. “I’m Special Agent Vicky Collins with the FBI, you may address me as ma’am, or Agent Collins.”

  Anatoly quickly throws his hands in the air. “A kitty with claws, I love it!”

  Detective Brown steps between us before the situation escalates. I follow his lead and head to the bar to talk to Portia, a bitter taste in my mouth. Why is it okay for men to engage in cockfights while women are always told to let it go?

  During the short interview with Portia, I learn that she is a single mom with a four-year-old boy. As we talk, she frequently reminds us that she is only dancing for the money so she can save up for college. I don’t judge her. I’ve never been in her shoes.

  We’re told that Meredith didn’t have any known enemies and only a couple of harmless guys had made advances on her in the past year, but according to Portia, that’s not unusual in a place like this. A few girls earn a little extra cash on the side with sugar daddies too. The girls would accept gifts and money from older men, but Meredith wasn’t one of them.

  Brown takes the first names of the frequent customers who showed a particular interest in Meredith because that’s all men give out around here. Anatoly can’t verify the girl’s list. He says he doesn’t get involved with his employees’ personal lives.

  Then we tell Portia about Meredith’s death, saving her from the brutal details. Brown and I are standing in silence as she cries, cuddled in the bartender’s arms.

  Portia pleads for us to catch the killer and make sure he’s punished. She seems genuine as she dabs at her tearing eyes with a napkin. When I ask her if she remembers anything unusual from the past few weeks, she recalls an incident that happened to her and Monique, Meredith’s stage name, back in May. They went to grab a drink at a bar near the beach after work one night—Portia can’t remember which one—While Portia was outside for a smoke, Meredith met a guy who caught her eye, but when she jokingly called him gay for not responding to her flirting, the man exploded in a fit of rage. Meredith was so shocked and scared, that she left, grabbing Portia on the way. She spent the night at her parents’ house because she didn’t want to be alone.

  That would have been an excellent lead to start with, but Portia didn’t know the name of the guy or have a description of him. She said Monique only called him good-looking. I guess it’s not surprising that Portia can’t recoll any details about this perp. That night must have been one of many.

  I make a note to remind myself to ask Meredith’s parents about the incident. If she did stay at her parents’ house the night of the incident, she might have shared more details about the guy with them.

  The bartender, Liam, isn’t much help. He’s been working at the club for only a few months, and although he knew “Monique,” he didn’t have a relationship with her apart from being work colleagues. Brown doesn’t find his statement suspicious, and I trust his guts on this one. He’s been a homicide detective for the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department for twelve years.

  There’s not much else we learn here and, as Anatoly foretold, not a single girl shows up to talk to us.

  Brown hands his card to the Russian owner and asks him to have Lyric call him as soon as possible.

  “We need to get a court order to obtain the security video,” Brown says as we get into his car. “Can you believe what that girl said? She’s only working here to earn money for college. What a truckload of bull.”

  I grimace and refrain from commenting. I knew girls from high school who became pregnant and the baby daddy took off. If a young single mom has no parents or family to support her, then doors close on her real fast. Not many businesses are eager to employ a high-school dropout who misses a significant number of days at work because she has no one to look after her baby. I also knew girls whose parents and family supported them through teenage pregnancy. They managed to finish school, go to college, and attain respectable jobs. Judging is easy to do, but we shouldn’t do it until we’ve lived two lives.

  As I secure my seatbelt, I notice a missed call from an unidentified number and the notification icon for a voice mail on the screen of my phone. I open the voicemail message: it’s from the deputy warden of the Larry P. Smith Correctional Facility.

  “Agent Collins, this is Matt Zielinski from Smith’s. I’m sorry to bother you. I heard about the interview, or I should say the lack of it, you conducted with inmate Paul Gooden. He’d like to apologize for his behavior and has some information to share with you … useful information this time, I understand. Please come back and visit us at your convenience.”

  After all the recent dead ends during my investigations, this new development is a breath of fresh air. Once I’m able to break away from here to visit my mother in Temecula, I’ll certainly swing by the prison to see Gooden. That trip will also allow me to stop by Beaumont and speak with Barbara Sullivan, Blake’s aunt, as well.

  The overwhelming number of tasks, vying for priority, mentally weigh me down. I feel a decade older. Worn and tired. In my life, when it rains, it pours.

  Brown talks to his wife on the phone on the way to the Falcone family home, and I use the time to check Doug’s Instagram posts. After looking at half a dozen pictures and short videos commemorating his timeline, I feel as if I participated in the event. He appears to be happier than I’ve ever felt in my life. He is dressed elegantly, borderline flamboyant. He is surrounded by thrivi
ng and ambitious people. He makes a fortune selling properties people bought or built with their blood and sweat; yet, he is glorified for it.

  I’m surrounded by the scum of the earth, death, and sadness. I make less money bringing justice to families than Doug does selling houses. As a part of the law-enforcement community, I’m disliked by default, and nobody thinks they need us until they do. We get to be heroes for our fifteen minutes of fame. Then it’s over, and we are forgotten once again.

  Where is the justice in that?

  22

  The Falcone house is a typical track home on a napkin-sized piece of land in the suburban area of San Marcos, and a fifteen-minute drive from Meredith’s apartment. It’s a two-story, two-car garage home painted in an HOA-approved pastel color with a matching tile roof. In the front yard, the fronds of tall queen palms sway in the warm afternoon breeze, casting elongated animated shadows onto the two SUVs on the driveway.

  A sheriff deputy’s cruiser parked by the sidewalk is radiating heat from the summer sun. Brown steers his black Camaro behind it and turns off the engine. I’m relieved to learn that they have already informed the parents about Meredith’s death, so I don’t have to witness their first reaction to hearing about losing their daughter. I don’t do well in the company of crying people.

  The Falcones managed a local nursery for over twenty-five years until their older son took over the business three years ago. The son has been interviewed and has an alibi for the murder. He was home with his wife and three-year-old daughter. The Falcones’ younger son is enlisted in the Navy and is currently stationed in Souda Bay, Crete. Other than that, there is scant information in the preliminary report.

  A short, plump female officer opens the door for us. “Mr. Falcone is in the living room. Mrs. Falcone is on medication. She’s sleeping in the bedroom,” she informs us as we pass through the threshold.

  The moment we step inside, we encounter an overwhelming number of religious relics and paintings in the house. As I advance deeper into the home, images of Jesus crucified on a cross gaze down at me from every direction. I feel as if He is penetrating my soul, seeing my deepest secrets. I always considered one’s need for extreme displays of faith as a means to repent for past sins. For what sins are the Falcones repenting?