by Kelly Shade
The chair and the woman were behind the kitchen island so that wouldn’t be the first thing someone would see when entering the house. There were ropes next to and under the chair and blood all over it. A piece of cloth was thrown on the oven. Jane went to it, sniffed it and went back to the victim. Now her eyes landed on the victim. Her bangs were fashioned into three braids; it seemed like she had just put on mascara and bright red lipstick and her long nails were polished in the same red color. The beige t-shirt was torn apart but not to the bottom, just to her belly button. On her left breast, a heart was drawn with a knife. Jane kneeled next to her again and leaned toward her hair.
“Still smells like shampoo,” she said.
“Maybe she was going on a date. Did you see the makeup and the nails?” Ian said.
“No, she didn’t do that,” said Jane thoughtfully. “He did.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Ryan.
“Because it is not her style. Look at her nails_well-manicured. Maybe she works at a beauty salon. She likes earth tone colors_look at the interior. No bright colors here. She is a shy, conservative person; she would never wear red lipstick. That would make people notice her. I’m a hundred percent sure, he applied the makeup.”
Ryan, Nick and Ian were spinning their heads to see the house. Nick went to the victim.
“Okay, Blake, I agree with your theory. But can you tell me what the hell that’s supposed to mean?” he cleared his throat and started reading dramatically.
“Beauty, beauty just outside,
Death is coming in the night.
Ugly, Ugly from the inside,
I’m turning off your light.
You’re still Almaz but not that bright!”
“I don’t know.” Jane put her hand on her face “Yet.”
“Guys is it just me, or this is way too creepy?” Ryan was walking around the victim with his hands in his pockets and a disgusted expression on his face.
“It is,” agreed Ian and Nick.
“We are dealing with a psychopath, a sadist.” Blake added, “Let’s go talk to the husband and let the forensics do their job.”
They found Mr. Bray on the same spot they had left him. He was still doing the breathing exercises Jane told him to do. He looked like he was in trance; it took him a minute to realize they were standing next to him and calling him.
“Mr. Bray, now I want you to tell us what happened this morning.” Ian sat on the stairs, and the rest of the team surrounded them.
“I came back from a work trip in Argentina. I opened the door and called my wife. Nobody answered. I thought she went to the supermarket because she knew I’d be home in the morning. I went to the kitchen to make tea and . . .” he stopped talking, and tears rolled down his face.
“It is essential that you tell us everything. I know it is hard, but you have to do it for her,” Jane said softly.
“I saw . . . I saw her on the ground. There was blood . . . a lot . . . I, I ran out . . . I tripped on a chair and fell down . . . I saw the rope . . . got back up and ran out.” He took a deep breath, “I called 911 right away and I . . . I waited here. I couldn’t go in . . . I left her alone.”
“I assure you there was nothing you could do. She had been gone for hours.” Nick tried to calm him, but his words had the opposite effect. The man started to cry louder. Jane looked at Nick with disappointment.
“I want you to take a deep breath and to tell us more about Christine. What was she like?” asked Jane still looking at Nick.
“She was great. Beautiful and smart but shy. She wanted to open her own salon. She was an amazing manicurist, loved to draw. In the beauty center where she worked, she had most of the clients. Everyone loved her.” Mr. Bray was talking and snorting.
“Does Christine have any enemies? Someone who might want to hurt her?” Ian had his notebook out, with his pen in hand ready to writing something down.
“No!” wept the husband. “Everyone loved her, and she wasn’t a very social person. She had me, her parents and two girls she knew for ages.”
“Can you tell me the girls’ numbers and names?” Said Ian sharply. “And one more question. Do you travel a lot?”
“Yes, I do! I work as a photographer for a travel magazine! Do you think I was happy about it? Do you think I like the fact we had to be separated all the time?” Edward Bray stood, and now Jane could see the anger and guilt he was feeling. He took a few steps backward and forward and took his phone from his pocket and handed it to Ian.
“Hannah Sanders and Leah Brooks are her friends.”
Ian took the phone and copied the numbers, looked up and asked. “And her parents’ names?”
“If you want you can tell them the sad news. If you think it is better,” Ryan said quietly.
“No. I can’t tell them I didn’t protect their daughter and she is . . . No, you do it, I don’t know how I’m going to look them in the eyes.” Now Edward was relatively calm considering the situation. “Charlotte and Oliver McCoy. They are on my phone as Oli and Lottie.”
Ian found them and gave back Mr. Bray’s phone. Before anyone could say something, Mr. Bray continued.
“I will be in a nearby motel if you need me. I can’t go in there.” He looked at the house sadly and walked to his car.
“That was intense,” murmured Nick, but he caught Jane’s sharp glance and headed to the Navigator.
“Nick, you come with me to talk to her friends. Leah Brooks and Hannah Sanders. They’ll be waiting in Hannah’s house. Here is the address,” Ian ordered when he finished his conversation with the friends and the parents of the victim. “Jane, you and Ryan will go to see Mr. and Mrs. McCoy. Nick fist stop_the station so Blake and Gray can get a car.”
◆◆◆
“If you want, I can tell them the news. It’s one of the worst parts of the police job,” said Ryan on the way to McCoy’s house.
“It doesn’t really matter. News is just news. The worst part is the aftermath. And we can’t help them with that.” Jane made a right turn, and they were almost at the address.
“I know. I wanted to make it easier for you. Believe me, it’s hard to tell parents that their child is gone,” insisted Ryan.
“Appreciate the concern, but I don’t think it is hard. It’s the truth, and they deserve to know it. And I don’t mind telling it. But you can do it if you will feel better,” she said as she smiled and parked the car.
Mr. McCoy opened the door, and Mrs. McCoy came after him. Jane and Ryan introduced themselves and asked if they could go in. The couple had no idea what the LAPD was doing at their home.
“Charlotte, Oliver. I hope it is okay to call you by those names,” Ryan started and they both nodded. “We are here because of your daughter.”
“Is something wrong?” the mother’s face changed from confused to terrified in a second.
Ryan saw that and froze. He cleared his throat and tried to deliver the news politely.
“Well, yes, something is wrong.” He stopped again.
Jane saw they were anxious, worried and a bit annoyed, so she took the lead.
“We are so sorry to tell you that your daughter was murdered. Her husband found her this morning, so we believe it happened in the night.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. McCoy were stunned. It took them a minute to assimilate the information and burst into tears.
“How? Why?” Charlotte cried. Her husband was caressing her hair.
“There are bothering details that I need to tell you. I think you may know someone capable of that,” Blake continued. “But I want you to relax. We want to catch the person who did this, and we need your help. Can I proceed? Do you think you are strong enough to handle it?”
“Of course, we want to help!” the father shouted.
“Tell us more about her. What was she like when she was a kid?” asked Ryan.
“Great student, good kid. She was shy and kind. We never worried about her as a teenager. She always came home after school, never w
ent to parties. She didn’t like to be around that many people,” sniveled Charlotte. “She met Edward in college. They have a good marriage. They had a good marriage.”
“Can you tell us if she had a problem with someone?” asked Ryan.
“No,” answered the father.
“She had a poem written on her back by the killer, and he put makeup on her face and polished her nails . . . Do you know someone who might do such a thing?” Jane turned to Mrs. McCoy who burst into tears again.
“I don’t . . . know who would do this . . . No.”
“Honey, do you remember that boy from high school. It was twelve years ago . . . ” Mr. McCoy said thoughtfully. His wife didn’t answer but nodded.
“What boy? Tell us about him,” Ryan said and exchanged a curious glance with Jane.
“He liked Christine and tried to take her out on a date. He wrote poems for her, sent flowers. At first, she lied saying that she had homework, or she’d say we don’t let her go out. But after few weeks he started to scare her. He became very insistent, so she had to ask him to go away. That didn’t work, and she had to rudely refuse the invitations. He stopped at that point, and we thought it was over. A few days later he climbed into her bedroom while we were asleep and cut her hair. She found it in her drawer the next day at school. It was really creepy, and from that moment, she became even more shy and insecure than before.” Mr. McCoy wiped his tears. “Of course, the police caught him and put him in juvy. He swore revenge, but we never heard from him. His family moved shortly after the incident. Do you think he did this?”
“Do you remember his name?” Ryan looked interested.
“Do you still have the poems?” added Jane.
“Logan Fuller,” answered Mrs. McCoy. “I don’t have the poems; we gave all of them to the police.”
“Thank you for your time. We are really sorry for your loss!” said Ryan and he followed Jane out.
“Please find who did this to our girl!” cried Charlotte McCoy.
Jane and Ryan nodded.
Back at the station. Ian and Nick didn’t learn anything useful from Christine’s friends. Hunt was walking around them, worried. When he saw Jane and Ryan, he hurried up to them.
“Did you find something?”
“Yes, kind of,” answered Jane without excitement.
“What do you mean kind of? Maybe we found the killer!” exclaimed Ryan.
“The forensics came back. No DNA, no fingerprint, nothing. The poem was written before her death, also the cuts on her hands. They found traces of chloroform. Probably that’s how he tied her to the chair without her fighting. Bradley said he stabbed her right through her heart,” Hunt summered up what they had. “So, Gray?”
“There was a boy in her high school. Long story short_he liked her, she didn’t like him, and he broke into her bedroom and cut her hair. The authorities send him to juvy, but he swore revenge. Also, he used to send her poems. Logan Fuller. I can find him in five minutes,” said Ryan and started typing on his laptop.
“Good lead. We have a suspect. Good job, Gray!” Hunt chirped and turned to Jane, “Blake, any thoughts?”
“I don’t think that’s our guy,” Jane said calmly and sat back in her comfy chair.
“Why?” Ian was surprised.
“Can’t explain it. It’s too easy. There is something way bigger than a high school drama.”
“Maybe you want it to be more complicated than it is. You are not entertained enough?” Ian was a bit annoyed.
“Valdez!” Hunt said sharply and turned to the others. “Lee, Valdez I want you to dig in the victim’s life, her credit cards, work, places she’s been. Gray, her laptop is in the evidence box. It’s password protected. Crack it and see what’s in it. Pictures, notes, social media profiles, everything. Blake, you come with me to see what this Logan Fuller is all about.”
Everyone got started on their job. Hunt and Blake went to Fuller’s apartment. It was in a bad neighborhood, as expected with an ex-convict. The apartment building was miserable; the walls were covered in graffiti, and there was an awful smell. Hunt got his gun out and gestured for Blake to stay behind him. They went to the third floor. Logan Fuller’s apartment door was even worse than the others. There were at least two break-ins recently if they had to judge by the battered condition of the door. Hunt knocked and stepped back. A man opened almost immediately, and when he saw them he tried to close the door, but Hunt put his foot in the way, reached in and grabbed the man’s ragged shirt.
“I’m agent Hunt, LAPD, I’m looking for Logan Fuller.”
“I’m not him,” said the man.
“Nice try. You’re coming with us,” smirked Hunt and took him out.
They went back to the station and straight to the interrogation room.
Logan Fuller looked like a homeless person. He was wearing shabby clothes; his hair was a mess; he hadn’t bathed in at least a month; his face was covered in bruises.
Hunt was happy about the arrest, and he went in with a big smile. Jane was right after him.
“Logan, you have a long sheet. Robberies, fights and of course the Christine Bray incident; actually you know her as Christine McCoy, I believe.”
“That bitch cost me my life! Why am I here?” Logan was angry and at the same time scared.
“She was murdered last night. What can you tell me about that?” Hunt was glowing.
“What should I? I’m not sorry for her, but I didn’t do it if that’s what you mean!” the man looked surprisingly relieved.
“Where were you between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. last night?” asked Hunt.
“In a bar. The Veil.”
“Someone to confirm that?”
“Only like ten people. And of course the cameras,” Logan said jauntily.
“Blake, go tell the team to check his alibi and come back if you have questions,” ordered Hunt. Jane looked at him with a bit of surprise. She couldn’t believe he was actually telling her what to do, but she went.
A minute later she came back with couple sheets in her hand.
“Logan, I want to read you something,” Jane said quietly, and Hunt and Fuller looked at her. “I love your hair, I love your smile, I want you to be mine. I want you all the time. And I promise I will not give up, and I promise I will have your back. If another man wants your heart, you better tell him to lift his guard.” Jane cleared her throat “So what’s that supposed to mean? I can read you the other dozen, but I believe you know them.”
“It means I was a stupid teenager who fell in love with a bitch,” answered Logan.
Nick popped in the door. He made a gesture which meant Logan’s alibi checked out. Hunt pushed him out so they could talk privately. Jane was alone with the suspect, so she took the chance to say what she wanted.
“So Logan, you alibied out. Honestly, I don’t think you are capable of cold blooded murder, but you know police work.” He looked at her with surprise.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You were a messed up kid, and, I’m sorry, but a terrible poet. You are soft from the inside; you always were. But teens can be very rude. They were mocking you about Christine. You cut her hair because you wanted to look tough in front of them. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” he said. Now he was sad and regretful. “As I said, I was a stupid teenager.”
“Yeah, you were. But you still are. All those robberies and fights . . . the same reason, I believe. You have low self-esteem. You doubt you can do anything in life. It is easier to be trash.”
“Why am I still here? Why are you saying all that? What’s your point? Yeah, you got it right. I’m a piece of shit. You happy?” said Logan.
“You can help with more info. And I told you that so you can know I’m good at reading people.” Jane smiled “Tell me if you know someone who might be connected with Christine’s murder.”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since they put me in juvy. I didn’t want to deal with her or her family ever.�
�� He leaned forward and looked Jane in the eyes. “They ruined my life! Believe me or not, that’s all I have to say. Can I go now?”
“I believe you. You can go,” said Jane with disappointment.
Ryan was still digging into the victim’s laptop, but the others looked like they had given up. Gray took a breath and lifted his arm as if he just found something, but he gave up.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have no idea why someone would want to hurt this woman. Everything is clean; she was more than an ordinary person.”
“We don’t have anything too, Gray,” moaned Nick.
“Blake, what do you think about this Fuller guy?” Hunt turned to her.
“He’s clean.” She spoke quietly. “The husband too. He doesn’t have the guts to do that.”
“And he was on a plane by the time of the murder,” Ian added.
They all went quiet. Jane was staring at the crime scene pictures. After few minutes she started talking.
“Okay, we have no motive, no dirty secrets or connections, and no suspects. You know what that means, right?”
“What?” Ryan asked, but he already knew the answer.
“It has to be a serial killer,” said Jane and put the file down.
“Blake, serial killer is a person who kills more than one person with the same m.o. Ryan hasn’t found anything like this. Not just in California, but in the whole country.”
“What if this was his first? What if now he found his thing? What if he didn’t have an m.o. before?” Jane sounded very convinced of what she was saying.
“Okay, tell me your theory. Obviously, you think the killer is a man. What else?” Hunt felt powerless, and any idea was welcome at that point.
“Judging from the way he killed her, I would say he is a narcissistic psychopath with a high IQ. He has the urge to prove he is smarter than everyone, especially the police. He thinks he is an artist, a poet. Organized. He enjoys the preparation, the planning. When he kills, he takes his time. As you saw, the victim with carefully done nails, makeup and there were the three perfect braids. The poem was written on her skin with a knife and still with great handwriting. Every letter was the same size and font as the previous. Can you imagine how hard that is? He sees himself as an aesthete; he loves beauty, and probably thinks the victims should be thankful he killed them with style,” finished Jane.
