by Leslie Wolfe
She touched, in passing, the antiquated voicemail system on the counter, a system that worked with cassettes. She held on to it, because it was one of the very few relics she had from her real parents. They had touched that very machine, some fifteen years ago. She swallowed with difficulty, then turned around and faced Adrian.
“How was school?”
He scoffed. “You know… some of these folks can be so damn arrogant, it takes away from the material. I keep daydreaming about kicking their asses back into reality.”
She smiled, a crooked smile filled with tenderness. That was her Adrian. Two parts engineer, two parts teddy bear, one part mule, and one part street thug.
“Simpson, huh?” she asked, referring to the electromagnetic fields professor.
“Uh-huh,” he said, then sneaked his hand into the pasta pot and stole a couple of farfalle covered in fresh-grated Parmesan. She slapped him across the buttock.
He still held on to a bunch of mail with his other hand. No way had he washed his hands before touching the food.
“Ouch!”
“Hands off,” she said, “it’s not ready yet. And wash your hands.”
“Looks ready to me,” he replied, then dropped the pile of mail on the table.
“Take that away, I just cleaned the table. Anything interesting?”
“Just this,” he replied, sorting through the mail above the trash can that ended up receiving most of the mail items, unopened.
He handed her a white envelope that bore her name and address in handwritten, cursive letters. She wiped her hands against her jeans and took the envelope, studying it on both sides before opening it. The letter was postmarked locally, in Miami. She opened it and took out a one-page typed letter.
She read the first few lines, then had to sit down, overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. She leaned her forehead into her hand.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
She struggled to speak. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat a little.
“Um, it’s a letter from a Dr. Austin Jacobs, a neuroscientist. She’s conducting some studies in memory, um… here goes, ‘cognitive memory recovery and memory distortion in childhood trauma,’ and she’d like to speak with me.”
“Why the hell would she want to do that?”
“She says I make a great candidate for her study. She says she could help me remember. I will call her on Monday.”
“The hell you will,” Adrian snapped and stood up abruptly. “It’s over, baby, that part of your life is over. Let it go.”
She bit her lip, swallowing the biting response to his outburst. She didn’t like it when he tried to run her life like that.
“I will call her on Monday, Adrian. It’s my only chance to remember. I want to remember… I need to.”
They both fell quiet, each deeply immersed in their own internal turmoil and too troubled to want to speak. The silence between them felt heavy, uneasy, like a foreboding.
Laura folded the letter and stuffed it in her jeans back pocket, then stood and put the bowl of pasta on the table. Then she continued setting the table, adding plates, cutlery, and glasses.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Adrian said, pouting and gloomy. Sometimes he behaved like a spoiled child.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied calmly, yet firmly. “Whether you eat or not, I am calling Dr. Jacobs on Monday morning.”
Reflections: First Kill
I remember the night of my first kill as if it were yesterday. I remember preparing for it in detail, getting ready for it, from both a tactical point of view, but also emotionally. They say killing is hard; it can break a man. It can destroy him forever.
It liberated me.
But let’s not get ahead of my story. The first thing that happened was the need to kill. You see, with me it wasn’t an urge; not at first, anyway. Or, maybe, to be completely honest, I’d felt the urge to kill before, but I didn’t understand it. It felt like waves of restlessness, of suffocating anger without a precise, well-determined object, that I didn’t act on because I simply didn’t understand what I needed to do. Not until that first kill.
Yes, so I had the dire need to kill Allen Watson. The reasons were many, too many, yet irrelevant to what I want to share with you. But, please, believe me when I say I tried everything I could to avoid having to kill him. He didn’t give me much choice. I was backed into a corner, with no other alternative but to end the bastard’s sorry life.
Once I understood I had no other choice, I started to think about how I should do it. You see, going to prison wasn’t—and still isn’t—an option for me. I kept thinking, looking for a solution that wouldn’t land me in a cell. As I was tossing and turning for nights in a row trying to create the perfect murder, something happened. Fate intervened and opened a door for me.
A serial killer, dubbed by the media with the ridiculous name of The Family Man, had murdered a family of four, just miles away from Watson’s neighborhood. I learned about it on the news. I saw everyone on TV fretting about the killings, calling it a gruesome repeat of some other murders, done in about the same way, in about the same area, that I’d somehow missed hearing.
What an opportunity!
I remember sleeping like a baby for the rest of that night. The next morning, refreshed, I started researching everything there was to know about that serial killer. I was careful not to leave a trail. That’s what libraries are for, to research things anonymously, protected by a hoodie and some thick-rimmed glasses, and looking so grimy my own mother wouldn’t recognize me. If I knew who invented the hoodie, I’d send them a check. On second thought, no… I’d be leaving a paper trail; big mistake. I’d send them cash instead.
Soon I knew everything there was to learn about The Family Man from the media and the Internet. Of course, police probably had held on to some details, to prevent perfect copycats from happening, but I didn’t care. Maybe police had even lied about some of the details they released; I still didn’t care. Copycatting The Family Man was still my best shot. I studied his handiwork and noted all the factors, taking them at face value: how he killed his victims, how he gained access to their properties, what kind of gun he used, what caliber and what brand, how he went about doing it. Every little thing.
There was only one problem with copycatting The Family Man: I had to kill Allen Watson’s entire family. Oh, well… That was going to be on him, not on me. He’s the one who pushed me to do it anyway.
Getting the right gun was tricky. I needed to buy a Beretta 9 mil, unregistered, of course, and from a reliable street vendor. Getting to the right street corner near Liberty Square proved more challenging than acquiring the actual gun. I couldn’t drive my own car. Cabs have cameras onboard these days, so there I was, using public transportation for the first time in years, with my phone turned off and my hoodie zipped up, despite an early heat wave. I kept my face hidden behind a newspaper the whole time, and once I was in the neighborhood, I chose to walk the last leg of my trip.
The first person I asked about a gun sent me to hell. He was a well-built black man, who took my question personally and assumed immediately it was because of his race that I was asking him about contraband weapons. Honestly, it was, but I didn’t admit that to him; I just apologized profusely and didn’t stop until he said, “Whatever, man,” and moved on. I’d learned a lesson.
I walked around Liberty Square for a while longer, then approached another young man, a white guy this time; well, at least the skin under his tattoos had been white at some point. He made these quick, twitchy movements with his entire body; he was probably a meth head. But he knew someone, and for a twenty he said he’d point me in the right direction.
He did, and a minute later, a third man approached us and led me to a car, whose trunk held a variety of firearms. He had the exact pistol I was looking for, and swore it hadn’t been used for anything nasty before. Sure, like I was going to believe that… or maybe he spoke the truth, who knows?
He asked
for two hundred. Unfamiliar with the street rate of illegal weapons, I’d come prepared to pay two thousand, and suddenly there I was, struggling to extract the two Benjamins he wanted, without them noticing how thick my roll of cash really was. Delighted I didn’t bargain, he offered two boxes of 9-mil ammo, and I made a mental note to wipe the prints clean off each and every bullet. One can never be too careful.
I was ready, and I couldn’t delay anymore. Allen Watson wasn’t going to go away or learn to shut up; he was becoming a big liability for me. I went there and parked on the street parallel to his cul-de-sac, hidden behind a bush. I waited patiently for him to come home from the office, and then waited some more for dusk to set in. Then I made my move.
He let me in, just as I’d expected, and I didn’t even let him finish his question. There wasn’t any point to it. The time for conversations had come and gone. I pulled the trigger twice and watched him collapse against the wall, leaving a thick smudge of blood against the caramel wood paneling.
The thrill of the kill hit me like a shot of heroin to my vein, going straight to my brain and reverberating into every cell in my body. Whew! What a rush! I remember inhaling the metallic scent of fresh blood with flaring, lusting nostrils, and feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline surge turn me into something else, a superhuman, a predator set on the scent of blood. You see, I’d expected to feel sick after killing Watson, because that’s what I heard others feel; I’d even brought along a plastic bag to barf in, just in case I needed to. But no, that wasn’t my case.
I heard the kids shriek, and I didn’t want Rachel Watson to barge in and turn things messy. I leapt up the stairs and caught up with them easily. I didn’t mind doing the three kids, but didn’t enjoy it either. I felt… nothing. But again, I had no choice, being that The Family Man killed entire families, not just the adults.
I’d saved the best for last, and it was time for me to find Rachel. A neighbor came by and gave me a scare; I hated that. I hated feeling the fear gripping my throat and twisting it, choking me. Real predators don’t feel fear, so why did I? I shrugged it off and went looking for Rachel Watson, feeling a forgotten, yet familiar feeling arouse me, making me eager.
When she saw me, she dropped some dishes and screamed, walking backward until she hit the kitchen counter, then begged me. “No, no,” she kept saying, much like her husband had said, moments before dying. But I couldn’t pull the trigger; something wouldn’t let me. I wanted to; I wanted her dead, and I needed her dead. But not like this… it felt like a waste, a terrible waste of what could be an intoxicating experience, an exhilarating memory to cherish for years to come.
I put the gun down on the counter and grabbed a large knife from the wooden knife block, then took one step closer to her. Her eyes, rounded with fear, stared at the large blade. She gasped and continued to cry, louder and louder, “No, no!” Right… Like that was going to change my mind. Seriously, what did she expect? That I’d suddenly drop the knife and say, “Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll just go home.” How ridiculous.
Yeah, thinking back, I didn’t expect to enjoy killing that much. I remember seeing Rachel in a pool of blood at my feet and feeling exalted, thinking that I had to do this again sometime. Soon.
Then I heard the sirens.
I didn’t care that The Family Man spent days with his victims; I wasn’t going to do that, copycat or no copycat, although I had to admit, I would’ve wanted to take more time with Rachel. I rushed outside and hid behind Rachel’s minivan for a short while. Then my whole world came apart. The stupid decals… I should have checked the decals first. The stupid decals showed two girls and a boy, and that didn’t match the reality inside the Watson’s residence. Did I miss a kid? Did I leave a witness? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?
I went back inside and looked everywhere, checked under every bed, and opened every closet. Nope, there was no one else. With the sirens blaring closer, I had to leave, but I felt confident that I didn’t leave any loose ends.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I learned just how mistaken I’d been.
Laura Watson had somehow survived. Damn her! The press called her The Watson Girl, and that somehow became the moniker for the sole survivor of yet another horrifying Family Man attack.
How the hell did I let that happen?
Death Row
Tess had floored it all the way to Raiford, the small town that houses the state prison, the home of Florida’s death row. She’d turned on the emergency lights embedded in the grille of her black Suburban and enjoyed the thrill of being back in the saddle, blasting through traffic at eighty miles per hour.
SAC Pearson would have frowned, seeing her weave her way through the dense traffic on Interstate 95. Visiting an inmate on death row can hardly qualify as an emergency, but this was a typical illustration of the proverbial blissful ignorance. What Pearson didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. Or her.
She finally left I-95 and had to make her way through a long, winding, country highway, and, after a long stretch of that, she finally made it to the prison grounds. She parked in one of the reserved spots and got out of the car slowly, feeling stiff and sore. Her shoulder hurt, and her ribs sent sharp needles of pain as she extracted herself from the SUV, but she was happy to restore some blood flow to her legs and reenergize herself.
She grabbed her briefcase and started walking briskly toward the main entrance. A series of endless security checks and she was in, after turning in her weapon to a corrections officer at the gate. Then she was escorted to see the warden, who made quick work of giving her instructions about how to interact with death-row inmates. Nothing new in what he had to say; she’d been there before. He knew it too and saved them both as much time as he could without entirely breaking protocol.
They’d already parked Garza in an interview room, and she asked the officer who was escorting her to let her spend some time in the adjacent observation room, studying the killer, and preparing her notes. Tess entered the observation room slowly, taking in all details. The faint smell of disinfectant, omnipresent since she’d arrived at the facility. The chill in the air, a humid, musty chill that got into her bones. The fluorescent lighting everywhere, with bluish hues and almost imperceptible flickering.
The officer offered her a steaming paper cup filled with coffee to the brim, and she accepted it gratefully. It was decent, considering where she was—not exactly Starbucks. She wrapped her frozen hands around the cup and spent a few minutes studying Garza through the one-sided mirror.
He was an average man; she probably wouldn’t have given him a second look if she’d seen him on the street somewhere. His brown hair was shoulder-length and a little oily, and almost without a hint of salt-and-pepper in it, although he was pushing fifty. The only trace of gray was in his five-day stubble, and here and there in his bushy eyebrows. A furrowed, tall forehead emerged above those, the forehead of an intellectual.
So, that was what a serial killer who murdered thirty-four families looked like in person. Credited with 108 victims, of which 30 were children, Garza looked like an average person, and probably that’s what kept him going for so long, despite law enforcement’s constant efforts to catch him. Take away the prison garb, put him in a grocery store pushing a shopping cart, and he’d fit right in, waiting in line at the cashier’s and making casual conversation with everyday people. But then again, that’s why these predators were so successful in luring their victims. They didn’t stand out; they were charismatic and appeared trustworthy. They fit in, everywhere. Anywhere.
She checked her file. Garza had not even finished high school but was self-taught. He’d been evaluated several times during the investigation and later, a few months after his incarceration. He scored thirty-two points out of forty on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist, and he was noted as a highly intelligent, perceptive, and cultivated individual. A certain psychologist had noted, almost six years earlier, that, “Garza enjoys setting the record straight and having meani
ngful debates of almost a philosophical nature.” She was planning to use that.
He sat calmly at the metallic table, almost relaxed in his orange jumpsuit showing a white T-shirt underneath. His hands and feet were shackled, and a chain tied to his cuffs passed through a ring welded into the table. He stared at the mirror, almost straight into Tess’s eyes. There was a state of peace, of calmness in his stare. Garza was accepting his fate, waiting to die. There was no anger in his eyes, no reveal of inner angst or turmoil.
She dumped the empty paper cup into a trash can and grabbed her files, then turned to the officer.
“I’m ready.”
“We’ll be here, watching. Just wave or knock when you’re done,” he replied.
He opened the door for her, and she walked into the interrogation room. Garza looked at her with a hint of a smile. She heard the door closing behind her, and then the clank of the electric locks secured it shut. She repressed a shiver.
“Hello there,” Garza said. His voice had low tones, sounding almost baritone. Tess wondered if he could sing.
“Hello,” she replied neutrally. “I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI. Mind if I sit?”
His eyebrows shot up. He probably wasn’t used to politeness from his prior interactions with law enforcement.
“No, please do,” he replied.
“This is a routine conversation,” Tess said, maintaining a neutral tone. “Considering the date of your execution is approaching.”
“I see,” he replied. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Actually, that’s more up to you,” she offered, deciding to postpone her standard list of questions, known internally and unofficially as the exit interview. If she could get him to open up, to relate, then maybe she’d have a better chance of getting her questions answered.
