by Leslie Wolfe
“What is this?” Delacruz protested. “Are you crazy or something?”
“You’re fired,” Tess said, throwing the man a glare loaded with all the disgust she was feeling.
“You have no right to fire me,” Delacruz replied with a quick, defiant laugh. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Believe me when I say you’re fired, and you won’t be able to leave this building until you answer some questions,” Tess added, her voice cold as ice.
“You’re fucking crazy, bitch!” Delacruz yelled, and yanked his arm out of Fradella’s grip.
Captain Cepeda appeared, probably drawn by the commotion. “What’s going on here?”
“She can’t fire me,” Delacruz shouted. “FBI doesn’t have the authority.”
Cepeda sighed and ran his fingers over his gray moustache, as if to check that it was still in its rightful place on his upper lip, then turned to Tess. “What’s he talking about?”
She glared at Delacruz one more time before replying. “He’s one of the people voting on the Taker of Lives’ website. He wants the victim stabbed; he just expressed his preference.”
“I’m only helping with the case,” he shouted, but blood drained from his face as he spoke.
“You’re not on the case,” Cepeda said calmly. “You’re right, Agent Winnett can’t fire you, but I can.” He turned his gaze to Tess. “I’m guessing you want to question him?”
She checked the time, then the TV screen. “Yes, but not now. We don’t have time now. Have him wait, please.”
Cepeda beckoned a detective and Delacruz was taken away, still shouting senseless excuses and accusations, and some references to his union rep. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “My apologies, Agent Winnett.”
“Captain,” she said, remembering that her mandate included maintaining excellent relations with local law enforcement, “I understand he could easily claim a justified professional curiosity, and I hope you don’t feel I overstepped, but regardless, I’m aware that I did, and I apologize.”
“Thank you, Agent Winnett,” Cepeda replied. “I probably would’ve lost it too if I were in your shoes. Strange place we find ourselves in, only two days after this wasn’t even a case, huh?”
She’d already turned her attention to the screen, where the timer showed less than twenty minutes until the show would start and another innocent girl would die.
“Donovan, talk to me, man,” she pleaded. “Where are we?”
“Almost eighty percent complete,” he replied.
“Has your software identified the existing victims yet?”
“Yes, all of them, and in the right order of priority, matching the unsub’s chronology.”
“Who appears after Haley Estrada on that list?”
“Nora Frye, twenty-seven, but the engine hasn’t finished crunching all the data. Nora could be the next one for real, or hundreds more could still be found with higher scores than hers.”
“Let’s send patrol cars to Nora Frye’s place and the next two after her. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Fradella coordinated the action and had dispatch call the respective patrol units by cell phone, after first identifying who was nearest the respective addresses. At two minutes before midnight, all three units had reported back. The Taker of Lives was at none of the addresses.
When the streaming finally started, Tess was out of breath; her heart thumped against her rib cage and her palms were sweating. She approached the TV, taking in all the elements of what she was seeing. This time, the girl, a slender blonde who looked very familiar, was already naked, spread-eagled and immobilized on a wide, poolside bed. Like others before her, she seemed unconscious, unable to fight her attacker. Rebel strands of hair covered her face, making facial recognition impossible.
Tess breathed deeply several times, willing herself to stay clinical. The Taker had changed his MO. The set up was outside, by a pool, not in her bedroom like before. What did that mean? A larger property, secluded, where he could have his way with the girl and not be disturbed? The nearby waterfront with boat dock seemed to contradict that theory. Was someone sleeping soundly on some drug in a bedroom nearby?
The Taker went off camera for a moment, then returned with what appeared to be a twelve-inch blade tactical knife in one hand, and an ammonia vial in the other. He was careful; that part of his signature hadn’t changed a single bit. Not once did the camera show his face, or any part of him other than his back, his arms, and the back side of his head, all covered in black, shiny latex.
The Taker ran the blade against the girl’s pale skin, caressing her thighs with the shiny metal, going up and down against her body as if anticipating, savoring what he was about to do. After a long minute or two, he broke the ammonia vial and put it under the girl’s nose. Panicked, the girl rose as much as her restraints allowed, struggling, yanking at them and screaming, bloodcurdling shrieks of pure terror.
The Taker didn’t seem to mind the screams, despite the open waterfront only yards away, overlooking nearby properties. He looked at her intently, brushing the hair from her face, and that only fueled her fear. Then, without any hesitation, the knife came down.
“No!” Tess shouted, tears filling her eyes. She lifted her arms in the air, in a gesture of despair, then let them fall under their own weight.
The video feed faded, and the screen turned dark, then the familiar white text appeared. It was a message for her. It read, “How was this for live action, Special Agent Winnett? Are you satisfied now?” Then a close-up portrait of the victim was displayed right under that message.
“Oh, crap,” Fradella said, “that’s Marla Quinn. You know, Adam Quinn’s wife?”
Tess grabbed her keys and ran out the door. “You know where she lives?”
“In Miami Beach,” he replied, “on La Gorce Island.”
“Shit, that’s sixty miles away,” she said, her voice showing the despair she was feeling. How could they hope to catch him? “We need to dispatch Miami-Dade units.”
Fradella stopped briefly in Cepeda’s doorway. “We have a lead, and we need backup. Doc Rizza too. Miami-Dade is closer; it needs to respond.” He didn’t wait for an answer. A moment later, his SUV burned rubber on its way out of the parking lot, its siren blaring, followed by three other units.
By the time they arrived at the Quinn residence, Miami-Dade cops had finished clearing the property. They’d discovered Marla’s body, but the Taker was nowhere to be found, gone without a trace.
Tess entered the property, feeling nothing but dread and a paralyzing sense of déjà vu. How many times were they going to do the same, watch the Taker’s crimes on TV, powerless, hopeless, unable to intervene? How much longer was he going to remain at large, free to prey on innocent girls?
Her frustration subsided somewhat under the assault of reason; yes, he was still out there, but the gap had been closed, and the crime scene was fresh, untainted. She focused on the crime scene and the details she was seeing. The house was huge, about six thousand square feet, set on a sprawling property surrounded by tall, thick hedges. That wasn’t why he didn’t care about the screams, though. Marla’s cries for help must’ve carried over the water and neighbors might’ve heard something, but between her first scream and the moment the Taker had fled the scene, less than a minute had passed. Impeccable planning, lightning-fast execution.
She looked up and found motion sensors and surveillance cameras were installed everywhere. She beckoned one of the Miami-Dade cops who were swarming around.
“Did anyone check the security system?”
“Yes,” the man replied. “I believe they said something was wrong with it. It was stuck, or frozen, or something like that.”
Of course, it was.
She approached a group of uniforms huddled together, chatting.
“The party last night. I heard it was huge,” a woman was saying.
“What party?” Tess asked.
“Adam Quinn won a Billboard Music Awa
rd,” she explained, “and they always throw some kind of poolside bash after those kinds of events. We’ll see it in the media tomorrow.”
Media? That meant social media too, and that had a different dynamic; no need to wait until morning. She called Donovan.
“Hey, D, I’m willing to bet the Taker was at the Quinn party tonight.”
She heard him type and waited patiently.
“It was select,” Donovan said. “Massive but select. Only big names and close friends. Didn’t you posit that the Taker is someone who isn’t famous? He’s craving fame because he can’t have it?”
“Yeah… I’m thinking maybe he wasn’t a guest. Perhaps he’s someone who works with celebrities, and their fame is in his face all day long, fueling his rage. Look at service personnel, cameramen, crews, staff, including cleaning.”
Donovan cleared his throat quietly. “But didn’t you say he was gainfully employed, well-educated, making good money?”
“Okay, maybe not cleaning personnel then, but still. Let’s start digging. All those people will post photos online. Let’s grab them and identify every single one of the people who were here last night.”
“You got it,” Donovan replied.
“One more thing,” she said, almost afraid to ask the question. “How come Marla, who’s obviously the most famous of all the victims so far, didn’t rank higher from the Taker’s point of view?”
“I wondered that also. The software hasn’t even found her yet, but that’s because it’s still processing. I believe the answer lies with the fact that Marla hated social media and rarely posted anything. Her points are really low, much lower than Haley’s or Christina’s.”
“Okay, that would mean the model we’ve built is still valuable, but why does someone like the Taker only care about social media following, and chooses to ignore someone like Marla, at least for a while? What are we missing?”
“That’s for you to figure out, Winnett. You’re the profiler. I’m just a data cruncher.” He hung up, leaving her to wonder whether they understood all the facts of the unsub’s victimology.
She approached the bed where Marla’s body lay, covered by a white sheet some cop had pulled off a nearby bed and covered her with. A large blood stain continued to spread, originating from her abdominal area.
Doc Rizza crouched next to the bed, liver temp probe in hand. “Oh, I wish they’d stop doing this,” he gestured at the white sheet covering Marla’s body. “I understand why they do it, but I still wish they wouldn’t.” He lifted the sheet to insert the probe, then waited until the device beeped quietly. “This time he did it live,” he said, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his gloved hand. “Preliminary time of death confirms it.”
“Cause of death?” she asked, in barely a whisper.
“Single, sharp-force trauma to the abdomen. By the amount of blood loss, the blade severed one or more critical blood vessels, probably the abdominal aorta or the mesenteric. I’ll know more after I’ve got her on my table.”
“Thanks, Doc,” she said, then turned to leave, about to walk through the entire crime scene in her protective booties, looking for that specific detail that would change the game in her favor.
“Hey,” Fradella said, appearing next to her out of the blue. “We got started on fingerprints and access points. How are you holding up?”
She smiled sadly. “Don’t ask.”
She stood in silence for a moment, making a mental inventory of things they needed to do. Call the technicians and have them screen the property for the Taker’s surveillance equipment, including all the trees or high vantage points. Run a search for images posted online. Talk to family members, to Adam Quinn when he returned, to find out why Marla was home alone that night, and who knew that was going to happen. The detectives had notified him, and he’d turned his jet around, halfway to California; in a couple of hours, she’d know.
“What does he get from calling you by name?” Fradella asked.
“What do you mean?” Her mind was elsewhere.
“The Taker’s acknowledgment at the end of the video,” he clarified.
“He’s taunting me,” she replied. “Doing that in front of his fans consolidates his appearance of power and control and feeds his narcissistic ego. An FBI agent has perceived power, lots of it. When he’s challenging me openly, he states his superiority.”
Fradella nodded once. “I see.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t be for much longer. That hunger for power, for superiority, and for recognition is his Achille’s heel. That’s our weapon.”
47
Findings
Tess stood by the poolside bed where Marla’s body still lay, feeling numb, petrified by a single thought. What if she’d caused this? What if the Taker of Lives was nothing but a cyberbully with a perverted, mean streak, but she’d helped create the serial killer that he’d become? What if Marla’s blood, crimson and still glistening against the white sheet, was on her hands?
She remembered reading an article about influencing events by expecting certain outcomes and taking actions based on those expectations, as if the desired result were a certainty. She saw a serial killer in the making, when she analyzed what could’ve been the deeds of a deranged, vengeful freak, but not a killer. Then she acted as such. Did she create the monster?
Her phone rang, and she picked up without checking the caller ID, her eyes still fixed on the young woman’s body.
“Winnett,” she said, in lieu of hello.
“Hi, it’s Bill,” the familiar voice said.
She felt a wave of relief; the call couldn’t’ve come at a better time. He’d understand. Could she really voice her concerns to him, a supervisory special agent? What would be the consequences of that?
“I saw what happened,” Bill continued. “Any way I can help?”
“Um, not sure yet,” she said. “We’re here, at the scene, and the Taker’s gone again, without a trace.”
“What’s on your mind, Tess?”
“I’m just tired, that’s all. We all are.”
“I hear more than that in your voice,” Bill pushed back gently. “Remember what I do for a living?”
“You’re scary, Bill; really, you are.” She took a deep breath, then spoke quietly, turning her face away from the other cops. “I’m afraid I might have caused this. What if I pushed him too far with my comments, and made him into something he wasn’t going to become on his own?”
“Whoa,” Bill reacted, “aren’t you quick to place blame on yourself for things that happened before you even knew the Taker existed? He killed Deanna long before you posted your first comment.”
“But I challenged him to do his freak show live, and now…” Her voice trailed off, strangled by emotion as she looked at Marla’s lifeless body.
“You had no choice but to challenge him, and even so I don’t believe that’s why he did it. Now you have a fresh crime scene, and you’re starting to assert some control over his game. Next thing you’ll know, he’ll make a mistake, and you’ll be right there, watching, waiting, rattling the handcuffs.”
She snickered involuntarily at the visual he put in her mind, although handcuffs had stopped rattling a long time ago, when they’d replaced the metallic bracelets with plastic zip ties. “Thanks, Bill, I mean it.”
“Anytime,” he replied. “And please, don’t have the chutzpah to imagine you can create serial killers with a simple online comment. You’re not that powerful.”
“I was being arrogant, wasn’t I?” she replied, feeling embarrassed.
“What I believe you are is exhausted and unable to accept it when you have little, if any, control, but you’re close, closer than you’ve ever been to catching this monster.” He paused, waiting for her reply, but that didn’t come. “I’m here if you need me,” he added, then hung up.
She wanted to accept everything he’d said, but there was a part of that she still couldn’t bring herself to believe: that she was close to catching the Taker
of Lives. Maybe Bill knew better, and all she needed to do was accept the possibility he was right. After all, he was a senior profiler.
Feeling energized for no apparent reason, she called Donovan.
“Hey, D, please coordinate with RTCC and let’s track the Taker’s steps after he left the property. He tampered with the security system here, but not with every camera on every property from here to wherever the hell he went.”
“Already on it,” he replied. “Miami-Dade cops are knocking on all doors in the neighborhood asking to see their security videos. The area is strictly residential, so no street cameras or ATMs or anything, but we do have a stoplight camera almost a mile from there.”
“That’s far,” she groaned. “Maybe he didn’t even take that route.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty shot. It’s the first traffic light you hit when leaving La Gorce Island heading for the mainland.”
“All right, as soon as you have something, let me know. How far along is that software of yours? We need that list, like we need air to breathe.”
“Eighty-seven percent done. By morning we’ll know, and we’ll be ready.”
She hung up, then turned to the Miami-Dade crime scene technicians.
“You, please bring 360-degree cameras on tripods and scan every room of this house where the unsub might have been. Any signs of forced entry?”
“Here?” one of the techs gestured to the vast yard, fenced by tall, lush greenery. “How could anyone tell? He could’ve come from anywhere.”
She took a few steps toward them, angry and no longer concerned with hiding it. “That’s not a good enough answer. Work on it until you can definitively say yes or no.”
The tech scoffed with disdain and turned to his colleague. “Who the hell does she think she is?”
Then he shrugged and went about his business, ignoring her request. The other technician stood in place, looking at her unfazed. For a brief moment, she eyed Tess’s FBI badge, displayed on her belt, then looked away.
