by Leslie Wolfe
She studied Esteban Carrillo’s photo first. He was attractive, with high cheekbones and symmetrical features, a pleasant smile that curled his lips nicely, giving him an appearance of sexual allure, of magnetism. Definitely a man Lily could easily fall in love with. He was twenty-eight years old, a business college grad, and well off, judging by his clothes and demeanor.
She set that photo aside, then picked up another, taken when Lily and he were on their way to some event. They were wearing evening attire, Lily charming in a long, beige gown with rhinestones encrusted on the hem and corsage, and Carrillo sure of himself in an impeccable tux. Lily smiled, beaming from her entire being, while she clutched the man’s forearm with her right hand.
Lily had Pearson’s tall forehead and intelligent eyes, and her mother’s predisposition to weight gain. She wasn’t overweight yet, but she wasn’t too slender either. She was curvaceous and somewhat appealing, beautiful at that age when everything seems possible and everything is.
Tess focused on Carrillo’s eyes in that photo. She assumed Pearson had taken the picture, because she recognized the massive stairway and its unique bannister visible in the background. They were inside Pearson’s home. Probably Carrillo had picked Lily up before going to a party, a big-ticket event by the looks of it. His eyes weren’t as controlled as his overall demeanor. There was something rigid in his gaze, a toughness that didn’t match his suit or his smile. There was tension in his jaw and alertness in his upper body, as if he were getting ready to flee or pounce. SAC Pearson’s instincts were spot on.
Tess set aside that photo and moved on to the next item in the folder, Carrillo’s DMV record. Clean history, and a Lexus RC F convertible registered in his name. If memory still served her, that car went for over sixty grand, just the base model without options. How could a recent college grad working as a sales rep afford it? Or was he one of those ambitious, vain, young men who dwelled in tiny apartments just to be able to afford a life of luxury, well above their means?
Pearson had pulled Carrillo’s tax records, and Tess muttered, “Well done, boss,” as she turned the page. The previous year he’d declared income from one source, his employer, a reputable pharmaceutical company. His W2 showed almost one hundred thousand dollars in regular income and commission. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work, she thought for a moment, then visualized herself trying to peddle drugs all over town and sighed. “Screw that,” she mumbled, “I could never do it.” But Carrillo could afford the car, and then some.
The IRS record was the last item in the green folder, and Tess closed the file and set it on the passenger seat. She’d learned everything in there about Carrillo, enough to realize she didn’t know nearly enough. Who was that man, and why was he dating Lily?
True love? Maybe, she reflected, almost chuckling at her own pessimism. No wonder Cupid never happened by in her life if that was her attitude. Lily was twenty-two, Carrillo was twenty-eight, so that worked well. He was a stud, sexy, charismatic, with that Latino fire burning in his veins. He probably had girls lined up waiting for one of his heated glances… Then, why Lily? She was a lot of things and had a youthful innocence about her that was part of her appeal, but she wasn’t hot. If Tess closed her eyes, she could picture Carrillo with a tall, slender girl with legs up to her neck and a V-cut that reached her belly button, not with someone as nice and amiable as Lily Pearson. Lily was wife material, the good girl men take home to meet the parents, after they’d grown tired of sowing their oats in all four winds. Carrillo didn’t seem like the marrying type; didn’t appear ready to settle just yet.
Then what was his agenda? Was he looking to get close to Pearson? Was he a spy, working for who knows whom in the drug world? Due to their proximity to Cuba and Mexico, Miami-Dade and Palm Beach Counties are ripe with drug smugglers and their networks of distributors and clients. Maybe Carrillo was on someone’s payroll and had a mission involving the FBI. SAC Pearson was the ranking officer in the regional bureau, and that made him a prime target for infiltration.
But with what purpose? She knew Pearson wouldn’t open his mouth in front of Carrillo, or anyone else for that matter. His home was treated as a “nonsecure” environment, as he’d advised her on one occasion, when she visited with him and had wanted to discuss a case. Okay, he was cautious, but maybe they, the people who’d sent Carrillo, didn’t know that.
Tess gave the green folder a long look, then shifted into gear and rolled out of the parking lot, on her way to Palm Beach County. She frowned and mumbled something unintelligible. She had a big problem. The regional bureau wasn’t that large. If Carrillo had an FBI-related agenda, he’d see her coming a mile away.
20
Hair
Tess caught up with the detectives on the way to Doc Rizza’s office. He’d texted everyone announcing he had something, and that felt like a miracle. It was about time. Regardless, she chose to hold Michowsky back near the elevators, with a quick touch on the forearm.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, and Fradella took the hint and walked into the morgue by himself.
“Sure, what’s up?” Michowsky replied.
“This,” Tess replied, handing him the green folder with Carrillo’s information inside. “I can’t track down this guy myself; if he’s into what I think he is, he’ll make me in a minute.”
Michowsky grinned, while looking with suspicion at Carrillo’s picture. “Who’s this street cat?”
“This guy is dating my boss’s daughter, and he—we believe he’s got an agenda. This is right up your alley, Gary. Old-style detective work, no technology involved. This guy lives completely off the technology grid. The only exception is the phone number he gave the Pearsons; at least that’s not a burner. Donovan will locate that for you on a moment’s notice.”
“What about the Taker of Lives?” Michowsky asked, taking one step toward the elevator, his left hand suspended mid-air, ready to press the call button.
“We’ll keep you posted at every juncture. If you need me for this,” she gestured toward the green file, “don’t hesitate. We need Carrillo figured out just as badly as the Taker. If the top dog of the regional bureau and his family have become someone’s targets, I’d say that’s damn critical.”
“Why not throw the entire wrath of the Federal Almighty Bureau at this loser?”
“Because Pearson’s daughter is in love with him, and, so far, he’s done nothing wrong. Pearson’s in a tight spot as a parent.”
Michowsky’s index finger completed its journey and landed on the elevator call button. “Got it. I’ll handle this with kid gloves.”
“Gary,” Tess said, “thank you for your help. I know how much you wanted to spend the weekend with your family.”
“Ah,” he sighed, “don’t mention it.”
She waited a moment until the elevator doors started to close, then hurried inside Doc Rizza’s office. As it normally happened when she visited the morgue, the first breath of air she inhaled stopped her in her tracks. The coldness of the air, the vague scent of disinfectant and formaldehyde, the fluorescent lights reflected in stainless steel exam tables, storage drawers, and shelving, all came together and materialized in shivers sent down her spine.
She could hear Fradella chatting with Doc Rizza near the gas chromatograph, but her eyes stayed riveted on the second exam table, where Christina’s body lay under a white sheet. Her long, wavy hair escaped the confines of the exam table and ran down from underneath the sheet, moving almost imperceptibly in the ventilated air. She felt a strange connection to Christina, although they’d never met, and they hardly had anything in common. Anything, except having fallen prey to a predator, a ruthless killer. Tess held her breath, as if afraid she’d wake her from her deep sleep.
Her mind raced back to twelve years ago, to the brutal attack she’d endured. All those years had passed, and she still struggled, but never before had she felt grateful for anything that happened during that assault. It was hard to believe, al
most impossible to accept, but she felt thankful her rapist hadn’t recorded everything to put it out there, on the internet, and ruin her life forever. At least she’d been able to recover, as slowly and as incompletely as she’d managed, in the sanctity of her privacy, in the anonymity of her secret hell. Only Cat knew what had happened to her, the kind stranger who’d taken her in that night and patched up her wounds with his own hands, respecting her wish to avoid the authorities and the risk that were associated with going to a hospital.
What would her life have been if her turmoil had not stayed private? She would’ve had no future as an FBI agent; such imagery is one of the first things that pops up in an internet search. All good employers conduct background searches before extending job offers, and that includes an internet and social media search. She would have had no relationships of any kind, because she couldn’t’ve endured having to face people, knowing what they’d seen, how they’d seen her. How everyone would see her. She would’ve had no life. Nothing but shame.
So much power in the hands of a single man. The power to destroy a life completely, irreparably, permanently.
She approached the exam table and gently touched a rebel strand of Christina’s hair.
“I understand why you did this,” she heard herself whispering, “and I promise you…” She swallowed with difficulty, fighting back tears. “I promise you I’ll get him.”
“I talk to them too,” Doc Rizza said gently, then patted her on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” she replied, striving for a normal tone of voice. “What do you have?”
She avoided Fradella’s curious glance and kept her eyes on Doc’s face, now a more normal complexion, the worrisome redness gone. He’d put on some weight recently, but he’d always been chubby, ever since she could remember him. Chubby and jovial, probably indulging in good foods and the occasional wine, the latter perhaps more often than not. Or was it scotch?
“You’ve seen my email by now, I assume,” Doc said. “This is the least suspicious suicide in my entire career. Official cause of death is cardiogenic shock, as expected. She seized briefly and mildly; I found traces of dried saliva on her lips and cheek, but she hadn’t bit her tongue. The body wasn’t moved, and no trace evidence found anywhere. Crime Scene came up empty as well; not a single fiber or fingerprint that didn’t belong.”
She paced the floor angrily. Doc Rizza said he had something; then why the recap of what they didn’t have? She knew better than anyone they had absolutely nothing. A five-week-old crime scene, trampled, lived in, and cleaned periodically didn’t allow for much relevant evidence to be collected.
“Her blood came back completely clean, except for the pills she took to kill herself. No blood alcohol either, and no other toxicity,” Doc Rizza added, then sat on a four-legged stool on wheels, the type seen in most labs regardless of specialty. “That’s when I thought of her hair.”
Tess stopped pacing and looked at Doc Rizza. “What about it?”
“Hair analysis is one of the most disputed areas in forensics, from matching hair types in the absence of DNA, to toxic residue stored in hair fibers. Some believe environmental sources are to blame for infinitesimally small amounts of chemicals found in hair, while other scientists argue that the respective chemicals have to be ingested or inhaled in sufficient quantities or for sufficient periods of time to manifest in a hair strand, weeks after the exposure has ceased.”
“Meaning?” Fradella asked, frowning at the coroner.
“Meaning what I’m about to say probably won’t hold up in court, but it might still help you.”
“Come on, Doc, spill it. What did she take?”
“Christina was exposed briefly to Rohypnol, and the timeline matches the average hair growth rate.”
“That’s somewhat helpful, but not unexpected,” she replied, frowning a little. “Is that it?”
“That’s all I could find in Christina’s hair, but then I asked Estelle to give a sample. Her hair showed the same chemical signature, albeit a bit more recent.”
“Okay, he roofies them, it’s part of his MO. We suspected some kind of chemical restraint, didn’t we?” Tess asked. “We can’t trace roofies; they’re everywhere.”
“But wait, there’s more,” Doc Rizza quipped, with a tired smile. “I tested Mr. Kennedy’s hair, as he’s a guest here, taking cabin number five in my morgue, and he’d been roofied too.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Tess said excitedly. “That explains how the unsub entered the premises while the family was at home. He probably drugged them all and waited until they were sound asleep. I’m starting to see it.”
“We’ve got to go back to the Kennedys, ask them about that. Maybe they remember a house guest or something. The Bartletts too.”
“Don’t forget Rohypnol obliterates short-term memory,” Doc Rizza said, just before his phone started to ring. He picked it up on speaker. “County morgue.”
“Hey, Doc, Jason Donovan with the FBI. I need you to click ‘accept’ on your laptop screen. I have something I need you all to see.”
“How the hell did you know where we were?” Tess asked, although she knew the answer, while Doc Rizza walked with a slight limp and a hunched back to his desk, where a laptop was powered on.
“So, it’s cool for you to know when I drink my fruit water, but I can’t know where you are?”
Tess heard him chuckling quietly at the other end of the line, and that sounded strange in the cold morgue, a blasphemy in the presence of Christina’s body.
“You’re set,” Doc Rizza confirmed. “You’re on the big screen.”
Tess and Fradella turned toward the wall. A browser page opened, and immediately an unfamiliar website loaded on the screen. Tess recognized some of the photos posted on both sides of the interface. They were Christina and Estelle’s nude photos, mixed together. At the center of the screen, a message was written in large, bold font.
It read, “Now that the police are watching and the feds too, let’s have some real fun.”
“No, no, no,” she babbled, “how the hell does he know? Donovan, how?” she asked in a raised voice, afraid the unsub might’ve figured out who was behind the inflammatory comment by Hornydog17.
“Whoa, don’t shoot the messenger. I have no idea,” he replied. “We’ll figure it out.”
“How did you find this site?”
“I used the photos and ran an image search, like I did when I tracked the press releases and all the other sites that hosted the photos. The arrogant son of a bitch published these as a portfolio of achievement on this site.”
“You can do that?” Fradella asked. “Image searches?”
“Yeah, anyone can.”
“Portfolio of achievement,” she repeated slowly, trying to understand what that meant. “Did he use those precise words?”
“Yes,” Donovan replied, and clicked on one of the photos, opening a gallery page bearing that title, word for word.
“Any traceable intel? IP, ISP, geolocation, anything?”
“No, it’s secure and encrypted.” Donovan replied. “But I’ve seen this type of interface before, with the side galleries and the center frame. It’s a live streaming site.”
21
Clause
Tess rode shotgun in Fradella’s SUV, keeping unusually quiet and somber; he respected her need for silence and didn’t speak a single word. She welcomed the interlude, because it gave her time to run through scenarios and possibilities, to put her thoughts in order before reaching the Kennedy residence. There was one thought that kept bothering her. A roofie wasn’t enough to render the level of unconsciousness she’d seen in the photos. It made people dizzy, tired, and feel as if they were having an out-of-body experience, almost hypnotized, but it didn’t make them pass out cold. Well, like with everything else in the world of drugs, it all depended on the dosage. Doc Rizza had said a higher dose of Rohypnol had lasting effects, days of feeling sick, nauseated, like battling
the flu. Something people would remember. Now she knew what questions to ask.
She’d called Mr. Bartlett before leaving the coroner’s office, but that conversation didn’t have the expected results. The Bartletts didn’t recall a house guest the evening Christina was assaulted; they were actually sure no one visited. They were adamant they weren’t drugged, and with Dr. Bartlett being in the medical profession, Tess had every reason to believe them. Both Bartletts agreed to give hair samples to be tested, but she held little hope. Because the Bartletts were out to that fancy fundraiser that night, the unsub didn’t need to drug them; only needed to wait until they left the house. Had they told anyone about the fundraiser? Sure, Mr. Bartlett’s assistant knew, because she bought the tickets, and his business partners also knew. The three attorneys rotated through such events, seeking exposure to potential clients of significant means. It was a work function more than anything else, but outside the law firm, he’d told no one. Dr. Bartlett had shared it with her hygienist, in a short-lived bitching session about having to wear high-heeled shoes after a long day at work. None of these people seemed likely to be the unsub, or work with him.
Then, how did the unsub know when they’d be out? Like many other tidbits of information, this question also pointed to one logical answer: the unsub was someone close to the family. To both families. It was a start. Donovan was still digging though both families’ activities, social media photos, people they knew, even things they spent money on or liked to do in their spare time, searching for points of commonality. He’d downloaded call histories for everyone’s phones, searching for common numbers they might’ve dialed or received calls from. Desperate but relentless, he’d even compared browsing histories for the two families. Nothing had come up yet. These two families could’ve just as well lived on two different planets; they had absolutely nothing in common.
