Whispers of a Killer

by Jen Haeger

Hours later, I’m at home surrounded by an explosion of papers in the office/second bedroom when Ben gets home.

  “Whoa, some thumbtacks and string, and you’re a dead ringer for a conspiracy nut.”

  “Well, this is all starting to feel like some kind of conspiracy.”

  Ben winds his way to me, leans over the back of my chair, and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the lips. “Why do you say that?”

  Leaning back in my chair, I crack my neck, then rest my head on his stomach. “In the original investigation, there was nothing to even remotely suggest an accomplice except for one vague witness statement from a stoned convenience store owner who thought he might have sold someone fitting Chester’s description a Pepsi and a bag of Fritos during the time of one of the murders.”

  “And I take it there’s no video footage of this transaction or a credit card receipt to verify.”

  “No and no. The convenience store has been taping over the same tape every night for the past 3 years, and if Chester did ever shop there, she payed cash.”

  “Okay, so it’s a copycat then.”

  The rising frustration makes me lift my head. “See, that seems like the easiest answer to all this, but it’s not. I can’t find any communications between Chester and a fan or disciple which doesn’t check out relatively harmless. I mean, she has the usual serial killer fan mail and marriage proposals, but she only corresponds with a few, and NYPD’s kept tabs on all of them. Also, I can’t track anything even slightly dodgy in the chain of command of any of the case files or evidence. And if someone did slip case details out the back door, they sure did a brilliant job of hiding the payout. Crone and I have been pouring through financials and no one involved in the original case had any sudden windfalls. No hospital bills of sick relatives suddenly taken care of, no new cars, boats, or vacation homes purchased, no student loans payed off, and no large cash deposits made by any immediate relatives.”

  “Maybe they just stashed the money under their mattress for a rainy day?”

  Exhaustion takes the edge off my frustration. “I suppose it’s possible, but most people don’t do something as desperate and stupid as sell confidential police files for rainy day money. There are bad seeds in the department, don’t get me wrong, but they’re usually not also morons.”

  Ben gives me his thinning patience look. “So, what are you saying? That Chester somehow escaped from prison for one night to commit another murder and then snuck back into prison?”

  What am I saying? My migraine rears its ugly head again. “I’m saying there’s something we’re missing.”

  Smacking his head with his hand, Ben opens his mouth in mock astonishment. “I’ve got it! Identical twins! Like in The Prestige.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  He leans against the desk and folds his arms with a grim smile. “I know. But babe, Chester’s in prison, and unless you think… It has to be an accomplice or a copycat.”

  I know what he was going to say. He was going to ask me if I think we convicted the wrong person, if I think Chester’s innocent. I hadn’t let myself really consider the possibility. All of the evidence had just fit with Chester, and I knew it in my gut it was her. She never even denied the killings until she plead not guilty in court. She’d either lived or worked or frequented each of the crime scenes, she had no solid alibis and a whole lot of hate in her, and a criminal psychologist had declared her both fit to stand trial and capable of murder in his expert opinion. Then there was the physical evidence linking her to three of the crimes. It had to be her, because if it wasn’t, I’d have committed the ultimate fuck up. I’d have sent an innocent woman to jail for the rest of her life and let a killer go free.

  Ben’s face is consoling. I’m sure he knows what a shitty thing it was to imply, but he’s right. If I don’t believe the new murder was committed by an accomplice or a copycat, then it means I don’t believe Chester is the original killer. And since I do believe it, I don’t know why I’m making myself crazy trying to convince myself it can’t be someone else doing the killing now. I hang my head in my hands, screw my eyes shut, and just breathe for a minute before answering.

  “You’re right. This isn’t helping anything. It has to be a copycat. Something got leaked or hacked. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Ben nods. “When do you get Jeffrey’s profile?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He takes my hand and eases me up out of the chair. “Then let’s tiptoe out of here, close the door, order some Gino’s pizza, watch one of your favorite Sandra Bullock movies, and forget about this until morning.”

  It’s a tempting offer, but it’s also a test. I promised Ben I could take this case without it destroying our marriage, and I don’t have the excuse of a hot lead to pursue to keep me from taking a break with him tonight. Even so, it isn’t easy letting him lead me out of the office and into the living room. I still feel like somewhere in the jumble of this case is a piece of the puzzle I keep overlooking and if I just go over the evidence one more time, I’ll finally find it. The only reason I close the door is because I know I can sneak back in after Ben goes to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  “Why won’t the principal grow a spine with this whole WHISP issue? My kids shouldn’t have to go to school with kids with WHISPs. They shouldn’t have teachers with WHISPs. It’s ridiculous! It’s like forcing them to be in the same room with a chunk of plutonium without any protection! We don’t know what exposure to WHISP will do to our children! I don’t want my child getting cancer from some other kid’s WHISP!”

  Excerpt School Board Meeting Minutes, Lincoln High School, Duluth, Minnesota

  It’s three a.m. and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of chai, filling out my therapist-mandated dream journal. I thought I’d be in my office working right now, but it seems my subconscious had other plans for me tonight. I had my usual nightmare about the night my parents were killed, only this time, Rachel Chester was there sitting on the couch in the living room waiting for me, and the faceless figure in front of the television was her WHISP. Right before I woke up chilled, sweating, and shaking, Chester spoke to it. I write the words down in the journal and underline them: Sic ‘er, Ray.

  I take another sip of tea, thinking how it would benefit greatly from some milk, but we’re all out. My therapist said writing down my nightmares would help me deal with them, but for me, it’s just reliving them. Trying to remember the details seems like filling in the cracks of them and making them more solid. Personally, I’d rather just try and forget. Then again, if I don’t follow his advice then what’s the point of going? Finished writing, I slam the journal closed. I’m not convinced there is any point. I still have nightmares, I still have trouble having a face-to-face conversation with my own son because I can’t keep myself from staring at his WHISP, I still have anxiety attacks sometimes when there are too many people with WHISPs in the grocery store with me, and my life is still basically a fucking mess. The million-dollar question is: would it be worse without the therapy?

  The tea isn’t enough to either calm my nerves completely or keep me awake until morning, so I have to decide if I’m going to switch to chamomile or coffee. I very much do not want to go back to sleep, even if it means looking like hell tomorrow and not being sharp when we go over the profile. Coffee and work then. I French press myself a cup from a bag I bought at the coffee bar down the block, Java’s Cup ‘O’ Joe. Though the name sounds cozy enough, there’s never a line out the door and the mismatched, cushioned chairs are never filled, but the coffee’s delicious and they must do a stiff trade in selling their bags of grounds to make up for their apparent lack of patronage.

  I don’t brew a whole pot because I don’t want the aroma to wake Ben. He’d feel betrayed I went back to work after he worked so hard to give me a relaxed night off. Also, he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep and would be an unbelievable crabby puss tomorrow. I drift back into the office with the steaming mug and try to pic
k up where I left off. Four pages later, my eyes are blurry despite the coffee. I set down the papers and open my laptop. Okay, it must be a copycat. Even though Cyber is monitoring any Chester fan sites that pop up, I decide to check them out myself.

  Sometimes Google terrifies me. When I type in “Rachel Chester fan club,” I get over ten-thousand hits. There is no way that Cyber can be monitoring even a fraction of this shit. I go to page twenty and click on the top website, man-hater.net. Many of the individuals posting on this site are praising Chester for having the balls and the strength to murder men who obviously had it coming for one reason or another. All of the chatter is bland and generic with many, “I wish I could…” and “my boss better watch out or I’ll…” statements, but none give any specifics that earmark them as real threats, so I move on.

  The next few sites are similar. Then I’m down to murderwhisp.com and my finger is hovering over the touchscreen. Just skip to the next one. But I can’t. The words of Dr. Fritz echo in my ears, ‘Avoidance of a phobia is not helpful.’ My heart already racing, I touch the link. The screen goes white as the loading bar races across the top, then I’m staring into the featureless face of a WHISP holding a bloody knife. My throat goes dry and blood pounds in my ears. Seconds march by before I come to my senses. WHISPs can’t hold knives. The picture is photo-shopped, and there’s a bunch of them. WHISPs strangling people, WHISPs with scythes wearing hooded cloaks, WHISPs brandishing machetes and sporting hockey masks, WHISPs pulling people underwater to drown; the coup de grâce, Rachel Chester’s WHISP “Ray” kneeling in the guts of a dismembered man.

  ***

  “You look like shit. Guess you weren’t lying about being up until three a.m.”

  I don’t dignify Crone with a response. Jeffrey’s profile came and I’m busy printing us out copies. It’s only a page long, which surprises me. Handing Crone his copy, I’m already skimming. According to the FBI, the victim being Caucasian indicated the killer was most likely Caucasian themselves. The mutilation of the victim suggested the killer suffers from schizophrenia or some other mental illness, though the killer may not show obvious signs of this mental instability. The lack of apparent planning of the crime suggested a perpetrator of only average intelligence, but lack of evidence at the crime scene spoke of an individual with at least a modest understanding of forensics.

  Based on the absence of theft or sexual assault, and the absence of obvious criminal background, extreme religion, or strong political affiliation, etc. of the victim, the motivation of the killer is likely either hedonistic thrill or a desire to control. Since hedonistic thrill seekers tended to be younger while individuals desiring control over their victims tended to be older, the FBI chose to default to the standard average serial killer age of 29 years. Copycat killers tended to follow gender lines, so it was likely the copycat was a woman, as well. The last bit of information was, the killer was likely someone with an unappreciated job or life position who’s seeking attention through association with Rachel Chester, but not necessarily someone who’s obsessed with Rachel Chester.

  I’ve never read an FBI profile before, but movies have led me to believe profilers were near wizards who could narrow down things like height, weight, hair color, and ice cream preference, so this seems pretty weak.

  “Well that’s useless. So glad you pulled strings with the FBI for generic bullshit.”

  Disappointed as I am, I’m not about to give Crone the satisfaction. “Actually, I think it narrows down things quite a bit. We’re looking for a Caucasian woman in her late twenties to early thirties who is good at hiding a mental illness and relatively well-off but feels bored and unappreciated. She’s not a planner, so she doesn’t stalk her victims, therefore we’re likely looking for an opportunist. Chester’s been in prison for a month now, so either it took that long for the copycat to get the information to mimic the murders, or she just got free from an obligation which was taking up her free time until now, or maybe some inciting event set off her latent mental illness just recently.”

  Crone’s gaping mouth makes him look suspiciously like a largemouth bass.

  “Screw the FBI, next time just do the damn profile yourself.”

  Rolling my eyes, I try not to let Crone’s “flattery” go to my head. “Don’t thank me yet. An opportunist is going to be impossible to predict, and if she’s not really a Chester fan, but just riding the publicity train, then Cyber’s wasting their time.”

  He shrugs. “Not necessarily. They may spot other wannabe celebrities, and who knows, maybe since the press isn’t on to the copycat yet, she might go online to brag on one of those serial killer club sites.”

  I nod. “Good point. God, wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Well folks, if you were hoping to move to Greenland to escape the WHISP phenomenon, I’ve got some bad news for you. Yesterday, researchers confirmed the first case of a WHISP in Nuuk.”

  CBS News at Eleven

  “Harbinger, saddle up, we’ve caught a break!”

  From the way my head dips off my hand, I can tell that I’ve been dozing at my desk again, sleep still being an elusive and fickle thing in my life. As I wipe away some drool, I try to play off my sluggishness as having been deeply focused on the files on my desk, and shuffle them around accordingly. “What’s that?”

  Crone toddles in, winded and red-faced but smiling. “We found a link from our vic to a disgruntled ex-boyfriend with a long list of priors.”

  “So?”

  “So, the boyfriend has a WHISP and, get this, before he started dating Petrie, he was court-ordered to go to a WHISP support group for anger management. Guess who also attended the same WHISP support group?”

  “Rachel fucking Chester.”

  “Damn right, and we’ve got uniforms watching his digs. He just got home from work.”

  I get up and grab my coat. “Not nearly enough for a warrant even, and any evidence we can link to him from Alice’s apartment, he’ll just say was there from when they were dating. We can’t even bring him in for questioning if he doesn’t agree.”

  As we head toward the elevator, Crone reaches into his pocket and produces a folded piece of paper. “Oh, ye of little faith. Maybe he should’ve paid his parking tickets in a little more timely fashion.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope, we can hold him until the bench warrant gets sorted.”

  “Perfect. I’ll drive.”

  ***

  On the way to the boyfriend’s Bronx address, I catch Crone glancing at me, a sly gleam in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t ask me what the boyfriend’s name is.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Stan Trentwood.”

  My brow creases. “Stan Trentwood. Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  Crone is giddy. “Maybe because you’ve arrested him before.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, a couple of years ago he was a suspect in the murder of a liquor store owner. He’d robbed the store, but turned out the ex-wife shot the guy and tried to make it look like a robbery gone bad.”

  Vague memories float around in my head. It wasn’t a very memorable case, and he hadn’t had a WHISP then.

  “Huh, small world.”

  In the passenger seat, Crone sulks. I guess he expected more of a reaction out of me, but I’ve arrested a lot of people in the city, and, unfortunately, Trentwood’s not the only one I will have arrested twice. Soon, we’re pulling up in front of a run-down grey house with what used to be a brown Chevy Impala parked in the driveway, the vehicle now a conglomerate of mottled brown, rust, and replacement panels.

  “Wanna dismiss the uni?”

  Parking the car on the street, I shake my head. “Nah, if he tries to flee, best if we have back-up.”

  Crone unbuckles his seatbelt. “Fair enough.”

  After I radio the uniformed officer parked in a patrol car a block down the street, Crone and
I get out of the car and head up the driveway toward the house. Instinctively, I watch for any movement either from inside the house or near the rear. Next to me, Crone is also on alert, though if the suspect made a break for it, I’m not sure Crone would be able to give chase for more than a block before he collapsed. Internally, I snicker. And he wanted me to send the uni away. At the door, Crone presses the doorbell, which then falls off the wall and exposes a small hole with rusted out wiring inside. As Crone stares down at the bell, I knock.

  “NYPD! Open up!”

  From inside comes the sound of movement, but no one comes to the door.

  I pull my gun. “I’ll go cover the back.”

  As I round the side of the house, Crone is knocking again.

  “NYPD! We have a warrant for the arrest of Stanley Trentwood!”

  There’s a chain-link fence blocking access to the back of the house, but when I get closer to it, I spy a man running through the backyard. He fits what I remember of Stan, about six-seven, Italian skin-tone, black hair, and he has a WHISP.

  “Stop! I’m armed and I will shoot!”

  Stan doesn’t slow, but instead busts through a gap in the back-neighbor’s privacy fence.

  “Shit!”

  Using my free hand to help propel me over, I run up and hop the low fence, hitting the ground running on the other side. “Crone, he’s running! Call it in!”

  I sprint to the gap in the fence, but slow and lead with my gun as I make my way through the gap. Scanning the yard on the other side, I don’t see Trentwood, but there are two little girls on a set of swings. When they see me, they both point to my right and I spot him fleeing across the next yard.

  “Thanks.”

  My side starts to stitch with pain as I take off after him again. Fortunately, the fence on this side of the yard is in the middle of repairs and only halfway complete, so I don’t have to leap over it. Sadly, Trentwood is headed toward a taller, wooden fence on the far side of the next yard that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to scale. Since I can’t risk hitting more children on the other side of the fence, I can only hope to get to him before he makes it over and drag him down. I put on a burst of speed, but my stylish, yet sensitive, flats aren’t all that great for running over wet grass. He jumps, seizes the top of the fence, pulls himself up, and gets a leg over. I’m not going to make it.