by Allan Evans
He was startled by the phone’s sudden ringing next to him. “Hold on,” Carlotta called out as she stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes went wide when she saw him. Giving her no chance, the knife came up as he grabbed her. He slid the blade into her midsection as he pulled her close. Carlotta’s mouth opened, but whatever words she had were forever gone as her life drained away. Her eyes dimmed right before him as he held her. It was a watershed moment as he trembled from the adrenaline coursing through him. It was so much better than another nameless rabbit.
The killings happened infrequently at first. Sweetwater knew he couldn’t establish a pattern for the police to uncover. He’d read enough novels and saw enough media coverage to know the police would find the pattern and eventually tighten the noose on him. Sweetwater would hold out as long as he could as the need grew. Eventually, he would drive hours to another city as he sought out his next victim.
He’d never killed men; it was always women. Their vulnerability appealed to him. Sweetwater knew this said something about him, but he wasn’t one to linger on self-diagnosis. He knew he was two fries short of a Happy Meal—as his first sergeant liked to describe the drug-addled street people living under the bridge. He might be crazy, but his brains kept him out of trouble.
His early recognition of the necessity for putting himself in a position of trust had cemented his decision to pursue a career in law enforcement. He’d attended Northwestern University in Chicago and his high marks in the Legal Studies undergraduate program guaranteed a position in the Chicago police department. Sweetwater knew the job would play to his strengths and gain him access to a variety of targets as well. The law enforcement job would allow him to be on the inside track of the serial killer manhunt that ultimately would follow.
Like many of life’s defining moments, the realization came one sunny morning as Sweetwater lay in bed. Why should he have to hide his life’s work? Sweetwater knew his intellect far surpassed those of his law enforcement contemporaries. How could they possibly catch him? He could kill and get away with it. With control and carefully planned steps for the killings, the detectives of the Chicago area law enforcement brain trust would be left scrambling. That was the fun part. In fact, he decided he could take it a step further and make it a game. A game played against the best minds the police department had to offer. A game Sweetwater knew he wouldn’t lose.
To start the game, Sweetwater placed several murder kits around the city. These kits gave him access to the tools of his trade: a variety of knives, rope, and zip ties for when the right opportunity presented itself.
In any game, you need a worthy opponent. For Sweetwater—an avid media consumer—his opponent was an obvious choice. In Chicago, one detective had received the lion share of publicity. Shane Martinson was the Chicago Police Department’s golden boy. The press had gone on forever about how brilliant Martinson had been in stopping the Syrian terrorists. And hearing members of his own squad talk about Martinson’s brilliance was particularly aggravating. Sweetwater knew he was smarter than Martinson. He’d drawn in the detective, using the media and department back-channels to feed him information. He killed those women—all waitresses—wanting to create a pattern for the police detective to discover. The first woman was killed to create a statement. A statement the police couldn’t bloody well ignore.
Martinson believed he was after a serial killer preying on the city’s waitresses. However, Martinson missed one important fact: he was Sweetwater’s target from the beginning. While enjoyable, the women were always a means to the end. Martinson’s end.
Advance security reconnaissance was an important aspect of working on the governor’s security detail. Much like the work the Secret Service performed in advance of the President’s appearances, the State Patrol Executive Protection Unit scouted locations ahead of the governor’s appearances. Detailing the Governor’s routes as well as possible alternates, the advance team conducted thorough site surveys, assessing vulnerabilities and possible threats as well as needs for manpower, equipment, hospitals and evacuation routes for emergencies.
Today was a reconnaissance day. As part of the Governor’s healthy lifestyle campaign, Governor Ritter was scheduled for an appearance in two days’ time at the Minneapolis Athletic Club. Sweetwater was tasked with the advance and was meeting with the facility’s manager. Sweetwater’s assessment would be presented to the team lead who would accompany and drive Ritter to the event. Members of the Executive Protection Unit rotated through assignments with the most-senior members providing the actual executive protection. Sweetwater was scheduled for site security at the governor’s mansion during the Minneapolis Athletic Club event. He much preferred the advance reconnaissance over the security guard-like function of his job.
Sweetwater left his squad in a no-parking zone in front of the historic brick and glass building. He took the marble steps two at a time as he checked his watch. He had a meeting with the facility’s manager, Kouresh Abel, in less than a minute. A large black-and-white photograph of Rome’s Coliseum hung inside the entrance, setting the tone for the opulent space. They met at the front counter of the facility, the hub of the Minneapolis Athletic Club. Abel, a tall man of Middle Eastern heritage, shook his hand warmly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“I appreciate your time this morning. I’m looking to get the lay of the land here.” Sweetwater glanced at his clipboard. “Specifically, I’ll need to see each of the exits, elevators and stairwells—and the event location, of course. It would be helpful if you would walk me through the facility. I’ve never been here before.”
Abel nodded. “You’re in for a treat, my friend. The Minneapolis Athletic Club opened its doors back in 1912. Bustling with luminaries, diplomats and sports figures, it was the premier social club at the time and was as lively then as it is today. The original club was turned into the Grand Hotel back in 2000. Our 58,000 square feet of athletic facilities were carved out of the renovated hotel. Our third-floor gym is complete with expansive cardio, weight training, boxing, yoga, and Pilates rooms. Racquetball, handball, and squash courts are also nearby, along with a running track and stretch rooms. Of course, the former billiard and card rooms, bowling alleys, and the famed Stag Room included in the original Minneapolis Athletic Club are long gone.”
As they walked through the spacious lobby, Abel did the mayor-walk, shaking hands with pretty much everyone he crossed paths with. After a tour of the exits and stairwells, they moved into the gym. “We recently held a Golden Gloves boxing match here. It was packed. This is where we’ll hold the Governor’s Healthy Lifestyles event. Take a look around.”
Sweetwater walked the perimeter, getting comfortable with the room. It was unlikely Ritter would have any issues here. Just another routine appearance for the politician. After several minutes of wandering, he caught up with Abel. “Looks good to me,” he said.
“Great, my friend. Let’s walk through our weight training area. You look like you might know your way around a gym,” Abel said with a smile.
Sweetwater nodded. “It goes with the job. It’s hard to be intimidating when you look like a strong gust of wind could knock you over.”
The sprawling weight training part of the facility was busy as trainers and members worked together through the myriad of machines and free weights. Nice, but he’d seen it all before. He put his pen back into his jacket, ready to call it a day here. And then he froze.
One of the trainers moved towards them, an iPad in her hand and an overweight woman in tow. It was the trainer who riveted him. A tall blonde in her early thirties, the woman was stunning. Her long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and her chiseled features captivated him. He watched her athletic body as she gracefully made her way through the maze of equipment. Though Sweetwater was aware Abel had said something, his focus was on the blonde goddess and everything else was simply a distraction.
Abel’s hand was on his shoulder and the manager leaned in conspiratorially. “I see you appreciate o
ur quality here. Miss Spring is one of our most popular trainers.” Sweetwater found himself staring as the woman shook hands with her client, the training session over. “Allow me to introduce you. Miss Spring,” he called to her.
Smiling, the blonde trainer walked over. “Officer Sweetwater, I’d like to introduce you to Candan Spring, one of our elite personal trainers.”
The moment was awkward. Being tongue-tied in front of women was not exactly a gift from God, not that he believed in a divine higher power. It was only when he held a struggling woman’s life in his hands, that he experienced a higher power. It was all Sweetwater could do to shake her hand.
The trainer had a firm grip. “Nice to meet you, officer.” He didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything. Sweetwater simply nodded as the moment stretched into awkwardness. But he was alive in the moment, feeling her hand in his, her skin touching his skin. And he knew.
Reynolds DeVries was having one of those mornings. Her news director was being an asshole. Not that it was a rare occurrence. After all, this was television news. For some reason, the industry attracted assholes. And douche bags, fame-grabbing talentless hacks, as well as others who were so dumb they had to be watered twice a week. Reynolds heard the new weekend anchor, a young brunette from Philadelphia, described as both hugely ambitious and a man-chasing trollop—essentially the same thing in broadcasting.
Standing in front of the dressing room’s mirror, Reynolds flipped her long hair back and smiled. It was a well-practiced smile from someone used to being the center of attention. She liked what she saw. Her complexion was perfect, as were her teeth. She was fit, not too skinny and not too heavy. Reynolds was proud of her breasts and legs. Both attracted admiring glances, and her wardrobe was tailored to show as much as someone of her status dared. She lifted the front of her blouse, flexing her abs. Her trainer had made a difference there, well worth the agony she endured twice each week.
Now if she could figure out a way to endure her news director’s abuse. With the largest story of the year happening, he was constantly clamoring for more. More updates, more exclusives, and more appearances. How was she supposed to get more updates when the killer hadn’t made any moves recently? Her connection to the lead investigator was promising, but she didn’t want to jeopardize the relationship for her news director’s benefit.
Reynolds gave an appraising look at her reflection. She was in her prime, with none of the lines time would eventually bring. She had the respect of her peers and viewers. Even the local newspaper gossip said nice things about Reynolds in her trashy column. This should be her year.
Her cell rang as she headed for the door. The caller ID said UNKNOWN. It had to be her source. “This is Reynolds DeVries.”
Reynolds recently added an app to her phone for just this moment. She pressed 4 on her keypad, activating the record call feature. She doubted she’d be able to use the recording on the air, but it would be corroboration for her news director. The jerk.
Whoever was on the other end hesitated. She could hear him breathing. Since he called her—it was his agenda after all—so she waited. After a long pause, he finally spoke. “He’s stalking a woman right now. This man, this killer, has picked out his next victim. It won’t be long now.”
“Do you have him under surveillance?”
A pause.
“Are you waiting for him to incriminate himself?”
This seemed to energize the caller. “He’s smart, this one. I’d imagine his IQ is off the charts, so we need to watch and wait, hoping for a lucky break. It might be that plain old dumb luck could be the only way to catch him.”
“It sounds like you respect him.” Not a question.
“When you’re involved in a game of cat and mouse—and you’re the mouse—the only intelligent course is to respect your opponent. Otherwise, you end up dead. We can’t underestimate his cunning.” Starting off slightly above a whisper, the man’s voice grew louder.
“What can you tell me about the killer’s description? Is he actually deformed like they say?” Reynolds asked. She felt like provoking him for some reason—something about him raised her well-tuned red flag. Her intuitive warning system had kept her out of trouble many times before.
No pause this time. “What? I can’t discuss specifics with you on an ongoing investigation—especially one of this magnitude. But I can tell you the killer is not deformed. In any way.” He angrily punctuated the last three words. And he was gone.
Hmm, there had to be more to this story, an angle she hadn’t considered. This couldn’t be just a cop passing along news. That left only one option.
Sweetwater paced back and forth. He kicked at an end table, upending it and launching the lamp. The metal-and-glass fixture shattered against the wall. He swore and kicked the table again.
He knew the woman was messing with him. But she couldn’t have known who he really was, could she? It didn’t matter, she’d gotten to him and he wanted—no needed—to keep his cool to have this play out properly. He was the one in control, the one dictating the game.
He kicked the table again until it was in pieces. It was time to ramp up the stakes. A calculated risk, but he needed to make sure Dawkins was fully on board.
Using his burner cell, he dialed the State Patrol’s administration line, asking for Dawkins by name. Within a minute Sweetwater heard his opponent’s voice. “Cade Dawkins.” And he started the timer on his watch.
Sweetwater took a deep breath, savoring the moment. “I’m going to kill again soon.” He imagined the shock on Dawkins’ face as he heard his announcement.
“How do I know it’s really you?” Fair question—and a nice delaying tactic as well. Six seconds.
“Goodwin was a fraud.” Sweetwater could hear Dawkins’ sharp intake of breath. Yeah, it’s me.
Dawkins: “So…it’s you.” 12 seconds.
“I have someone special picked out. Someone nice, someone pretty. Someone just my type. And when I have her all to myself, I’m going to take my time with her. It will be glorious.” 20 seconds.
“Why are you telling me this?” He could hear the frustration and anger growing in Dawkins’ voice.
Sweetwater smiled. “To see if you’re smart enough to stop me.”
A pause and Dawkins began, his voice growing louder with each word. “Listen to me, you stupid sack of…”
29 seconds in, Sweetwater ended the call. He danced around the room, giving the remains of the end table another kick, this time from joy. Yes, Dawkins was definitely in. He just didn’t have a clue what he was in for.
Cade waited for Reynolds in the lobby of KSTP, one of the oldest stations in the Twin Cities market. KSTP began as a radio station way back in 1925 and started broadcasting television several decades later. Renovated and expanded over the decades as the station grew in prominence, their headquarters on University Avenue was a historic icon. The lobby reflected their rich history with images and mementos from the years, including the very first television camera available from RCA, bought by the station in 1938.
It was a busy morning for Cade. Following the disturbing call from the killer, he’d met with Rob and Rejene. The meeting exploded with differing viewpoints and emotions. “Look, we know the killer is going to take another woman soon,” Rejene said. Her face looked stressed and her eyes radiated her fatigue. “We need to be ready.”
It was Rob’s turn to show his frustration. “But how? Other than saying she was his type, we’ve nothing more to go on. How many tall blondes are there in the Twin Cities? There have to be thousands. And how would we find them all?”
“Clearly, we can’t.” Cade leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps we should focus on the one we do know.”
“You mean your new girlfriend, Reynolds DeVries,” Rob offered.
Rejene’s head swung around from Rob to Cade. “Really? You picked this time to get involved with the most prominent newsperson in the entire city? The same one who has a source within our investigation?” Lt.
Rejene did not look pleased. At all.
“Look, it just happened. I wasn’t looking for anything from her, but sometimes things happen. And just so you know, she isn’t getting anything from me.”
“Information, you mean,” Rob interjected.
Cade shook his head and held up a finger. “Reynolds isn’t getting information from me. Her source is someone else.”
Rejene leaned forward. “But you’re saying she could be his next target?”
“It makes sense,” Rob offered. “She fits his profile, and she’s extremely visible with this story. DeVries has had more breaking stories about these killings than all the other stations put together.”
Cade nodded. “Profilers have shown serial killers are drawn to their media attention. They need to see the impact their brutal crimes cause. So, if you’re the killer, she has to be on the top of the watch list.” Cade looked to Rob. “We should make sure her security is tight. Real tight.”
Rob nodded. “It has to be tighter than a camel’s backside in a sandstorm.”
“And then,” Cade paused, “Maybe we can use her to our advantage.”
“Here we go,” Rob said, standing up.
Rejene looked confused. “Wait. What am I missing here?”
Rob jabbed a finger in Cade’s direction. “This one is suggesting we use Reynolds DeVries—his own girlfriend—as serial killer bait.”
“That’s cold,” Rejene snapped. “But I’m listening.”
