The Feminine Touch

by V. J. Chambers

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know, maybe five years ago. It was in September, I remember that.”

  Five years ago, huh? According to Charity, that was when Siobhan had been rescuing her from living at the womens’ shelter. Siobhan couldn’t have been directly involved in whatever this was.

  Scott was still talking. “You know, Nathan had already made threats about what would happen if I ever went public about how he was gay or whatever, right? Before that, I always thought he was kind of joking. But after that, I was scared. I’m not going to lie. I lift weights and shit to look good, but I don’t know jack about how to protect myself.”

  “You thought he’d come after you?”

  “It wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility.”

  * * *

  “So, anyway,” said Nash, “he said that he was afraid of him. Like he was worried he would come after him.” Nash was recounting to Zoe what Scott had told him over the phone. “Anyway, that’s what I found out. You get anything interesting?”

  “I did,” said Zoe, “and if you put it together with what you just told me, it’s kind of crazy.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Well, I was looking for missing men in Hollywood, and I was getting a fat lot of nowhere, so I put in something like, ‘serial killers at large California,’ or something. I don’t remember what. Anyway, I found this article about a bunch of transgender prostitutes who were turning up dead. At first, the police didn’t make a connection, because apparently this sort of thing happens all the time. These kinds of prostitutes take men to hotel rooms, and maybe the men aren’t aware that the women are transgender, so when they see what’s actually between their legs, they get angry.”

  “So, they kill them?” Nash raised his eyebrows. “That’s not normal behavior. I don’t care if I do take a girl home who happens to be a boy. I might be surprised, but I’m not going to kill her. Him.”

  “Her,” said Zoe. “They’re women, they’ve just been born with equipment that doesn’t match their true selves.”

  “Right,” said Nash. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be offensive.”

  “I know you’re not,” said Zoe. “But I’m just saying, put yourself in their place. Imagine if you were born with female parts.”

  Nash did for a second. He mused. Then he blushed.

  Zoe glared at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, let’s get back to the, um… The dead prostitutes?”

  “Right, okay,” said Zoe. “So, anyway, it took until they had found about five bodies in the span of maybe two years before anyone saw the killer’s signature.”

  “It was the same killer, then?”

  “Yeah,” said Zoe. “He cut their throats, and there was a lot of blood, and they thought that they were all isolated, but then one guy was examining the latest victim, and he saw that there was a little X carved into the victim’s neck, right under her ear. He went and looked at the other crime scene photos, and he found it on all of them. So, they started calling him the Kissing Killer.”

  “What?”

  “As XOXO? Kisses and hugs? The X was a kiss, or that’s what they thought.”

  Nash made a face. “Serial killers are so demented.”

  “You’re the one who’s into this kind of thing.”

  “Used to be,” he said. “I used to do a serial killer podcast. But I almost never report on serial killers anymore.” And he was glad of it, actually. The subject matter had started to weigh on him after a while. He didn’t like thinking about all that death and blood.

  “Anyway,” said Zoe, “It’s pretty obvious Nathan Parker is the Kissing Killer.”

  “Is it?” said Nash. “Just because he came home covered in blood one night?”

  “Well, look, we know that it can’t be like you were saying with Martin. Siobhan wasn’t having him kill for her. Because she wasn’t even around when the murders were being committed, and we know where she was. She was with Charity during several of the dates. And I did some double-checking on some of the dates for the Blue Lake Stalker, and some of them are during the Christmas holiday, when she’s busy making her jewelry.”

  “Okay, I was way off base, but what how does any of that prove that Parker is a serial killer?”

  “The pattern,” said Zoe. “It’s staring us straight in the face.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Siobhan,” said Zoe. “She kills killers. She’s like a black widow Dexter.”

  “Dexter…?” He was confused for a minute. “Oh! You mean that show on Showtime, with the guy who only killed other killers? That show was so unrealistic. No fucking actual psychopath could be content with that. Serial killers are motivated by sadistic sexual power play. Unless Dexter was sexually drawn to his victims—”

  “It was actually a book first,” said Zoe. “Darkly Dreaming Dexter. There’s a series of them. He’s annoyed about the traffic in Miami a lot. Honestly, I would think you’d be into this stuff.”

  “No, I hate that shit,” said Nash. “Like Hannibal or whatever? They always want to turn the serial killer into an anti-hero. What no one seems to understand is that these people are deeply disturbed and that they don’t think like regular people. You can’t identify with a serial killer. Or if you can, you’re wasting your time, because he can’t identify with you. There’s no layers there to peel away, nothing interesting underneath. They’re all the same. Run-of-the-mill sociopaths, every single one.”

  “Well, I guess if Siobhan is marrying all of them, that means maybe it is somehow sexually motivated—”

  “No, women don’t do that,” said Nash. “When women kill, it’s not about sex.” And then he got up off the bed and started to let what she was saying sink in. “You’re saying…” He took a deep breath. “Martin was the Blue Lake Stalker. All on his own. She found out, and she hunted him down, gained his trust, married him, and then killed him?”

  “Yup,” said Zoe. “Same thing with this guy. I think she picks killers that haven’t been caught, just like Dexter. Maybe she got the idea from the show. Or the book.”

  “Would you stop it with the Dexter business? I’m telling you, there’s no basis of reality in that thing.”

  Zoe shrugged.

  Nash rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “So, if this is true, then in high school, there would have been someone else. Someone who was actually killing the girls, and maybe… maybe she was an intended victim, but she killed him, and that set her off. Like Aileen Wuornos. She killed her rapist, and then she couldn’t stop killing men she thought were like him. But she was very unstable and very irrational. Someone like Siobhan, who had a stronger background, maybe the trauma set her off in just the right way…” He sat back down on the bed. “Holy hell.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nash’s phone was ringing. He was in the middle of trying to upload his latest podcast, a piece he’d finished up a long time ago, about a cold case in middle America involving a former beauty queen turned kindergarten teacher. He grabbed the phone and didn’t recognize the number. He held it out. “Hey, Zoe.”

  “What?” She was on the other side of the hotel room, perched on her bed and watching TV.

  He shook the hand that was holding his phone. “Be a good intern and answer the phone, would you?”

  “Me? What if it’s like some ex-girlfriend of yours trying to track you down with another of your love children?”

  He gave her a withering look. “Answer it. It’s going to be something about the podcast. Just write down the info and say I’ll get back to them.”

  She sighed and took the phone from him. “Nash Steven Wilt’s phone,” she answered in a chipper voice. A pause as she listened. “Oh, hey, Charity, how are you?”

  Nash looked up. “It’s Charity? Put it on speaker.”

  Zoe complied.

  “Hi, Charity,” said Nash. “Can you hear me?”

  “Sure thing, I can,” came Charity’s voice
through the phone. “How y’all doing?”

  “We’re, uh, doing all right,” said Nash. Should they tell Charity that they thought Siobhan was some kind vigilante black widow? How would she take that?

  “Listen, I found something, well, actually Rachel found it,” said Charity. “I don’t know what to make of it, but I have to say, it kind of upset me. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I should call. Ever since you two showed up, I’ve been feeling sort of doubtful about my life with Siobhan. I was happy, but now…” She let out an audible breath and when she started to speak again, her voice shook a little. “Well, anyway, I thought maybe I would just put this up on a high shelf and forget about it, because I didn’t want to know anymore.”

  “What did you find?” said Nash. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sympathetic to Charity’s emotional reaction. He was. He even felt guilt for having destroyed the placid surface of her life. But he was driven now to unravel the mystery that was Siobhan Thorn, and nothing was going to take that away from him.

  “Well, you know where you found that other wedding invitation in her office?” said Charity. “Rachel was playing in there. She found a whole shoebox full of them.”

  “Full of what?” said Nash.

  “Full of wedding invitations,” said Charity. “All with different names on them, too, but they all begin with S. Siobhan’s been running off on me and marrying these guys. Everything we have together is a sham.”

  “No, it’s okay,” said Nash. “She’s just marrying those guys to kill them.”

  “What?” said Charity.

  “They’re all serial killers,” said Nash. “I figure she marries them so that she can get to their money. She uses the money to help the victims in whatever way she can. I mean, she’s obviously disturbed, but I think she truly does care about you.”

  Zoe gave Nash a look, shaking her head.

  He mouthed “what?” at her.

  “Charity, of course you’re angry, and of course the thought you’re girlfriend is a serial killer doesn’t make you feel better,” said Zoe, glaring at him.

  “What do you mean she’s killing them?” said Charity. “She wouldn’t kill anyone. I know you two think that she’s that way, but she is not. Not at all.”

  “Charity, can we come back and look at those invitations?” said Nash.

  “You want to come back here?”

  “Just to look at the invitations,” said Nash.

  “Charity, we’re sorry to tell you all this,” said Zoe.

  “You mean if I start looking up these men, they’re all going to be dead?” said Charity.

  “Is it okay if we come back?” said Nash. “Can we take a look?”

  “Oh, I guess you’ll do what you want, won’t you?” said Charity, flustered. “You just find yourself a hotel this time, though.” She hung up.

  Nash looked at the ceiling. “Damn it, we pissed her off.” He shut his eyes hard and then opened them. “I seem to be pissing people off a lot this time around.”

  “Don’t you always?” said Zoe. “I listen to your podcast. Whenever you have some person you think is the murderer, you just go interview them and make them all kinds of uncomfortable.”

  “That’s different. It’s a one-off,” he said. “I don’t need their continued cooperation. And I get their consent to be recorded before I start asking questions. Besides, if I have to piss people off to make a good podcast, then it’s worth it.”

  “Is it?” said Zoe.

  “Yes.”

  Zoe was quiet. Then she clasped her hands together. “I guess we’re going back to see Charity.”

  * * *

  Charity wouldn’t let them in the door. Instead, she shoved the shoe box full of invitations into their hands and said, “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”

  “That’s okay,” said Nash. “We understand, and we’re sorry.”

  “Just take that,” said Charity, pointing at the shoe box. “I don’t want it back. I want it out of my house. You were right. I looked up a bunch of those men. They’re all dead. All of them. And all within months of the date of the marriage on these invitations. I don’t like to believe that about her, you know?”

  “But you told us about…” Nash groped. She hadn’t given them a name. “You called him a sperm donor. Your old roommate. You said—”

  “Deep down, I didn’t really think he was dead,” said Charity. “I thought maybe she scared him good somehow, or maybe she paid him money to go somewhere else and never come back. I didn’t think…” Now Charity was starting to cry. “I don’t know what to do, do you understand? If I leave Siobhan, I don’t have anywhere to go. But how can I stay with her when I know what she’s doing?”

  Nash wished he was recording this, and hated himself for being so callous. But the truth was, this kind of emotional breakdown would be dynamite on the podcast. He’d have to describe it as best he could.

  No, he’d have Zoe do it, so that it would be in a woman’s voice. That would give it a little something.

  Charity had dissolved into sobs.

  Zoe was patting her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Charity. I’m so sorry.”

  “I tried to call her, but when she’s off like this, she never does pick up her phone. I left her message after message, and nothing from her. I don’t know where the hell she even is. When she goes away, she could be gone for six months, and I don’t hear from her. That’s just the way it is, and I used to be okay with that, but I’m not okay with anything anymore.”

  Zoe put her arm around Charity. “What you’re going through is so intense right now, there’s no way you could be okay.”

  Charity pushed her off, sniffling. “Just go. Take the invitations and get the hell out of here.”

  “We really are sorry,” said Nash. “We never meant—”

  “Go.” Charity was firm.

  So, they left.

  They got back in the car, and Nash drove to a nearby church parking lot. He pulled in, parked, and then they started to look through the wedding invitations. Zoe divided them in half, giving half to Nash and keeping half for herself.

  The first thing Nash did was count his half. “I have five,” he said. “How many do you have?”

  “Six,” said Zoe.

  “So, eleven victims,” said Nash. “She’s pretty prolific.”

  “Is that a lot of victims?” said Zoe. “I don’t know.”

  “For a black widow, it’s a heck of a lot,” said Nash. “But the fact that she’s not using her own name and that she disappears helps her to keep from being caught. We’ve got to look these guys up, too. Historically, a lot of black widows kill with poisons, and those are easier to detect than they used to be, so a lot of women don’t get by with it. How’s she killing them?”

  “Okay,” said Zoe, “we can do that.”

  Nash sorted through his stack of wedding invitations.

  “Then what?” said Zoe. “Do we go talk to more people? Visit families of the victims?”

  “I guess so,” said Nash. He wasn’t actually sure where they went from there. “Look, we’ve got a theory, but we have no proof. We need to find out if all of these men really were killers.”

  THE PAST

  After the dance, he didn’t bother talking to Siobhan anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was something he’d done or if she really was crazy, but it all came to the same thing. She didn’t want him around. Fine. He’d stay away. He didn’t need her either. Plenty of other fish in the sea and all that.

  Nash eyed other girls, trying to decide which of them he should ask out. He could do it if he just screwed up his courage. The worst thing that could happen was that they’d say no. If so, he was no worse off than he was now.

  At least that was what he tried to convince himself of, but the truth was, he would be worse off. He’d be incredibly embarrassed. He would look like an idiot, and he was pretty sure that the rejection would wear away at his already fragile self-confidence.

  He didn’t ask anyone o
ut. And a month went by. Christmas holidays happened. New Years. And then they were back at school.

  At the end of the day, he was out in the parking lot, heading for his car. He usually had to share the car with his sister, but she was at some after-school practice thing for marching band, so he was alone. He saw Siobhan. She was kneeling down next to a car which had a pretty flat tire.

  He thought about just going on his way. Would she stop and help him if he was in trouble?

  But then he heard a steady string of curses coming from that direction, and the creative combinations of them made him laugh. He headed over.

  She looked up at his approach.

  “Hey,” he said. “You want a hand?”

  “Hey, Nash,” she said, sounding disgruntled. She hadn’t bothered to call him Classic Rock.

  He wondered if that was a bad sign. “Not that I’m saying you couldn’t handle it on your own. I mean, I bet you’ve changed the tire on your car a thousand times.”

  “Actually, I’ve never changed a flat tire,” she said. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” She held up the jack which was in two pieces—the jack itself and the crank handle that screwed into it. “These go together somehow?”

  “Get up,” he said, chuckling. “I may not know all the tough-man stuff that guys are supposed to know, but I can jack up a car.”

  She sighed, got to her feet and handed the jack over to him.

  He sat down and got to work.

  She peered over his shoulder. “That’s how you do it, huh? Why does it look easy when you do it?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve got skills.”

  She snorted. She settled back, crossing her arms over her chest.

  He looked back up at her. “You doubt my tire-changing prowess?”

  “I didn’t say a word, did I?”

  “You made some little noises there that sounded as if you were doubting me.”

  “Maybe you’re imagining things, because you have a fragile ego,” she said primly.

  He grinned. “Well, if so, I’d advise you to talk me up here, because if my fragile ego gives out, we may never get this spare on.”