by M. Z. Kelly
I realized they were upset. “I’m sorry. I always appreciate whenever you can help me. What have you got?”
Mo made me wait for it, finishing her drink, and then calling the waiter over for another. When he was gone, she levelled her dark eyes on me and said, “Word has it on the streets this ain’t the first time your killer has done this.”
“You mean he’s got a record?”
Her wide shoulders went up and came down. “All I know is that my sources tell me he’s the worst cornflake in the cereal box, if you know what I mean.”
“As in a serial killer?”
My friend nodded her big head, her green wig shifting and brushing against her wide shoulders. “I think you might be dealing with someone who ranks up there with the baddest of the badasses in the Hollywood Killer Hall of Fame.”
ELEVEN
Police Seek Clues in Strangler Case.
William Monroe glances over at the headline in the newspaper rack as he walks along the boardwalk at sunset, not giving it a passing thought. A drizzling rain dampens the ground. The ocean is a gray mist on the foggy, dim horizon, announced only by the pounding surf. He sees there’s a scattering of homeless, most of them propped up against the seawall, sleeping off whatever they used to alter their consciousness earlier in the day.
He turns off Ocean Front Walk and moves up the street into a block of smaller, older homes. Darkness has settled in, the yellow streetlamps barely illuminating the neighborhood.
Monroe follows a now familiar path through the neighborhood until he’s two blocks from the ocean. He stops on the street, watching the house for a minute and scanning the area to make sure that no one is around.
A vein pulses in his forehead as he surveys his surroundings. The pressure is building now, that intense, pounding sensation that he’d pushed down during the years he was in prison. Even when he took the other girl a few days ago, the need hadn’t been satisfied. But this time, everything will be different. This time the craving will be satisfied. This girl will be his alone.
When he’s sure that no one is watching, he strolls down the street, and into the yard, finding a side gate that’s unlocked. When he’s in the backyard, he stays in the shadows before finding his way over to the girl’s bedroom window. The room is dark, just like the rest of the house. He knows the family’s habits. He reasons that he has a couple of hours to make his preparations.
The window comes open easily and he hoists himself over the sill. Once inside, he strips off his wet clothing and stuffs it in his duffle bag. He knows it’s a risky move, spending time in the house waiting, but the excitement he now feels is overpowering. He turns on a lamp on the girl’s nightstand and walks over to the mirrored closet door.
Monroe’s body is lean and hard, his skin a canvas of tattoos. Some of the artwork has been done while he was in prison, but he added to the display a few weeks ago.
As crazy as it sounds, he found what he was after in a library one day, ripping the photograph out of a magazine, and bringing it to the tattoo artist. The large rendering of the spider is remarkably lifelike, its spiny black body crawling above a web and giving the appearance that it’s moving down to that place that now pulses with excitement and has grown larger with each passing second.
It’s perfect.
He takes his time, moving through the empty house and going from room to room. When he’s in the master bedroom he goes through the girl’s mother’s dresser, finding her underwear. He carries it over to the bed where he pulls down the covers and gets in. He spends the next hour pleasuring himself, imagining what he will do to the woman’s daughter.
An hour later, when he’s back in the girl’s bedroom, he hears a door closing and voices somewhere in the house. When he hears the footsteps coming down the hallway he moves quickly. He kills the lamp and then finds his way over to a corner of the room. In a moment his slender naked body is beneath the bed. He holds his breath and, like a spider that has spun a web, waits in the darkness for its prey.
When the girl enters the room, she stumbles her way over to the nightstand and manages to turn on the lamp. She gathers a nightgown from the dresser and leaves to get ready for bed. When she returns a few minutes later, she sits on the edge of her bed sending a text to someone. It’s the opening Monroe has waited for.
A spiny appendage reaches up from the spider’s lair. He grabs the girl and manages to pull himself up, covering her mouth when she tries to scream.
“Ssshh, not another word,” he says, pulling her close to him so that she can see his dark eyes. “We have a long night ahead of us. The party is just beginning.”
TWELVE
The next morning Oz asked Woody Horton and Harry Braden, a couple of other detectives assigned to Section One, to assist us with the investigation. Horton was in his early thirties, blonde, and had an easy going, unpretentious manner. Braden was older, pushing into his forties. He was divorced and trying to raise a sixteen-year-old daughter as a single parent. Ted and I were happy to have them part of the investigation and relieved that the lieutenant hadn’t assigned Christine Belmont and Alex Hardy to our case.
The lieutenant had to leave for a meeting at the Police Administration Building, so we took the opportunity to use his spacious office to update the two detectives on our case. Bernie took the opportunity to snooze in his customary spot in the corner. We spent the better part of an hour, getting Horton and Braden up to speed. I then asked Selfie and Molly to talk about the list of parolees that we’d received.
“The parole department sent over the list of 289PC offenders earlier this morning with specific information about their type of offense,” Selfie said. “Most of the foreign object cases involve digital penetration, although there’s a few involving other objects, including dildos, vegetables, and one subject who used a bone.” She brushed a hand through hair that this morning was magenta with green highlights. Her mouth twisted up in her customary way as she went on, “There’s also a couple of guys who used small animals.” Her gaze moved around the table. “It’s pretty disgusting stuff, but I don’t see anything that comes close to what our suspect did.”
“I’ve taken a look at the map of offenders by proximity to the Stone Canyon Reservoir,” Molly told us. “Several of those individuals are on GPS monitoring. I thought you might want to call their assigned parole agents and see if they were in the vicinity of our victim during the estimated TOD.”
“Let’s divide up the list and make the calls,” Ted said. He looked at me. “You still going to follow up with the treatment programs?”
“There’s a place called Family Health Recovery in Sherman Oaks that specializes in offender treatment. I have an appointment with a supervising therapist this afternoon. After that, I thought I might go by Joshua Graham’s church and snoop around.” I turned to Horton and Braden. “He’s the pastor at the church our victim attended and he’s been living with her mom. Ted and I got a bad feeling about him when we did the death notification.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already taken a look at what the feds have in their databases,” Harry Braden said, scribbling notes on a pad.
Selfie answered. “So far, nothing’s a match. Our killer seems to be a one-of-a-kind whacko.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Braden’s younger partner said. “Where does somebody come across a wasp like the one found inside our victim?”
“I did some follow-up with the entomologist we talked to,” Ted said. “It was likely imported into the country from South America. There’s apparently a thriving import business involving insects, both for educational purposes and also as edible gourmet food ingredients, everything from bugs, ants, larvae, and worms.”
“Nothing like a nice wasp in your oatmeal,” Selfie said.
Ted went on, “There are US customs restrictions on the imports, but, of course, it’s possible our suspect somehow got around those. I’m still pending a couple of callbacks from the feds.”
“Maybe I’m way off base with t
his,” Molly said. “But wasn’t there something about a moth found in a victim’s mouth in the movie Silence of the Lambs?”
“It was a death-head moth pupa,” I said, having done a little research on the book and movie because Ted and I had also thought about there being a connection. “From what I understand, the moth has a skull-shaped marking on its thorax and was found in the mouth of a victim by the main character. It supposedly represented the killer wanting to transform, just as a moth pupates and transforms from a larval state.”
“Maybe it’s as simple as that,” Woody suggested. “Since the wasp had a spider that’s used for food in the reproductive cycle, maybe the killer is telling us, in some sick, perverted way that he’s also transforming.”
The room was quiet for a moment as we all considered what he’d said. I pushed some paperwork into my briefcase and said, “You might be onto something. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that brings us any closer to finding our suspect at the moment.”
“Let’s follow-up on what we talked about earlier,” Ted said, also collecting his paperwork. “We can regroup later if we come up with something worthwhile.”
When our meeting ended, I took Bernie for a short walk and called Brie. Our conversation was brief, but she said her talk with her ex-husband and daughter went as well as could be expected. She said she was holding up okay and promised to call me in the next day or so.
After lunch, Bernie and I drove to Family Health Recovery in Sherman Oaks. The treatment center was located in a stand-alone older stucco and brick building. There were a handful of men milling about the parking lot as Bernie and I made our way into the lobby. After a ten minute wait, we were met by Jeannette Ramsey, who I learned was the interim director of the facility.
After we settled into her small, cluttered office, I explained to the middle-aged woman why we were there in general terms, leaving out specific details of our case.
“I’m not sure how I can help,” Ramsey said, pushing a strand of graying brown hair behind one ear.
“We’re interested in subjects who were paroled over the past year who…” I took a breath and tried to collect my thoughts. “Anyone who you think might be likely to reoffend.”
A thin smile found her lips. “That covers a lot of ground.” Her phone rang and she excused herself, explaining that her daughter was ill and she was checking in with her.
As she stepped away from her desk, I saw that the office was filled with manila files, as well as an internal in-box for the other therapists. It gave me the impression that their workload was overwhelming.
“Sorry about the interruption,” Ramsey said, after coming back over to her desk.
“Not a problem.”
She shuffled a stack of papers on her desk and said, “Do you have children?” I shook my head. “You’re lucky in many ways. My sixteen-year-old daughter has MS.”
I took a moment and expressed my sorrow, at the same time thinking about Lexi. Maybe it was an attempt to establish a connection, but I mentioned her to the therapist. “I guess you could say that I’m trying to act like a big sister. It’s a difficult age.”
Ramsey smiled and seemed to relax for the first time since I’d met her. “My daughter has her first date next week. It seems like she was just starting school yesterday. I’m not sure I’m ready for boys to be in her life.”
I chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s ever ready for that. I haven’t even broached the subject with Lexi.”
She went on, chatting about her daughter for a couple of minutes longer, before getting back to the business at hand. “We get so many subjects through here, it’s difficult to pinpoint any one person who’s likely to reoffend.”
I decided to level with her. “The subject we’re after is extremely disturbed. He raped, murdered, and then posed his latest victim.”
“Are you talking about the man they’re calling the Stone Canyon Strangler?”
I nodded. “Our victim was fifteen and, without going into specifics, a foreign object was used during the killing.”
Ramsey didn’t respond right away. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled. “There is an individual that I’ve been particularly concerned about. His assigned therapist asked me to observe one of his sessions recently. He presents all the classic warning signs of a sexual predator; refusal to take responsibility for his actions, a sense of entitlement, a need for power and control, and a complete lack of empathy for his victim.” She took a moment, maybe to collect her thoughts. “I get the impression that he’s going through the motions of treatment, trying to present himself in the best light possible, but I think he’s still a danger.”
“What’s his underlying offense?”
She went over to a bookcase, pulled a folder out of the stack, and came back to the desk. “He was convicted of false imprisonment and rape in 2005 and did nine years in Chino. The victim was held for several days and sodomized.” Ramsey’s dark eyes found me. “With a child’s toy—specifically the handle from a toy wagon.” She glanced back at the file again. “It says here he’s on electronic monitoring.”
I’d scribbled notes as she talked. “Where does he live?”
She studied the file again. “He’s staying with a cousin in Signal Hill.”
I knew that area wasn’t far from Seal Beach where Jenna Collins had been taken. “What’s his name?”
She pushed a file across the desk that had the smiling photograph of a young man stapled on the inside jacket, and said, “William Monroe.”
THIRTEEN
I decided to hold off on going by the West Fellowship Church and, instead, concentrate on the subject Jeanette Ramsey had mentioned. I went back to the station and ran record checks on William Monroe and then got in touch with his parole agent, Gloria Stevens.
“He’s living with a cousin who works as a bartender in Long Beach,” Stevens confirmed. “I’ve had a bad feeling about him but nothing that’s allowed me to revoke his parole.”
After she confirmed that he was on GPS monitoring, I asked about his proximity to the Stone Canyon Reservoir on the day our victim was killed. Stevens said she would check the system and call me back.
While I waited, I met with Ted and the others in a conference room, filling them in on what I knew. “Monroe’s therapist has a lot of experience in the field and has a bad vibe about him. She thinks he’s going through the motions of therapy but is dangerous.”
“Don’t know if there’s any connection, but we got a report there was a girl, Lori March, taken from her home in Venice last night,” Woody Horton said. “Her mom thinks somebody came in through her bedroom window.”
“Maybe it was a boyfriend,” Ted suggested.
“Her mother doesn’t think so,” Braden said. “Basically a good kid, leading a pretty sheltered life, and not the type to go out and party.”
I gave them a few more details about William Monroe and his underlying offense before my phone rang. It was Gloria Stevens.
“We have pings showing that Monroe was in the general vicinity of the reservoir between two and four in the afternoon the day after your victim was taken.”
“When you say in the vicinity, does that mean you can pinpoint his exact location?”
“The system isn’t that precise, but the radius of the hits is close to where your victim was found.”
After telling Stevens that we would meet her in about an hour, I ended the call and said, “I think William Monroe could be our guy.”
***
Horton and Braden followed Ted and me to Long Beach where we met Gloria Stevens at the parole office. The parole agent was in her thirties, tall and a bit on the heavy side. We took seats across from her, seeing that her desk was covered with files, giving me the impression that she was carrying a heavy caseload.
Stevens showed us the GPS monitoring download that revealed William Monroe was near the Stone Canyon Reservoir in the afternoon the day after Jenna Collins was taken. “It’s probably nothing that will hold up in court,�
�� the parole agent said. “But it’s close enough to the reservoir to raise a lot of red flags.”
“I always assumed that GPS meant you could track a suspect anywhere, anytime,” Harry Braden said.
Stevens shook her head. “Real time monitoring is an upgrade to the system that the state hasn’t paid for. Our system gives general coordinates but we can’t pinpoint a specific location.”
“What do you have on his most recent whereabouts?” Ted asked as I thumbed through Monroe’s file and Bernie panted at my side.
Stevens checked her computer monitor. “The system shows he’s at home or, I should say, in the general vicinity of his home. He lives in an apartment with his cousin, George Mason, over in Signal Hill.” Stevens swiveled back toward my partner. “You suspect him of doing the Stone Canyon killing, don’t you?”
“Right now, he’s our number one suspect.”
I tossed Monroe’s file back on her desk. The sentencing reports indicated that he’d kept his victim a prisoner in his aunt and uncle’s garage for several days while he engaged in some pretty horrific abuse. “Let’s go take the bastard down.”
We staged a block up the street from William Monroe’s small apartment in Signal Hill and made plans. Dusk was settling in and we wanted to make entry before dark. Since I had Bernie, we decided that Ted and Harry would make the initial entry with the parole agent while Woody and I covered the back alley with Bernie.
“I hope the son of a bitch jumps off the balcony and lands right here,” Woody Horton said as we waited in the shadows of the alleyway, a few feet from the parolee’s apartment. “Bernie looks like he could use a good meal about now.”
My big dog was on alert, sensing what was happening. “I just hope he doesn’t get food poisoning from our suspect.”
Moments later we heard Ted on the radio, his voice low and tight. “The PA just got an alert. The suspect cut his bracelet. We’re going in on a three count.”
