by Leslie Wolfe
“I promise,” she eventually said, and lifted her eyes. Cat wasn’t there anymore, busy with closing the bar. He wiped the counter, then washed all the dirty glasses, keeping his eyes on the TV screen. Late at night, it showed a rerun of a prime-time interview with two women Tess didn’t recognize, but the captioning caught her attention.
“Cat, turn that up, will you?”
He clicked the remote while she approached the TV in a hurry.
“Miss Watson,” the interviewer was asking, “what do you recall of the night when Kenneth Garza, the serial killer known as The Family Man, murdered your family?”
Oh, crap.
The Interview
Laura Watson hadn’t been in front of a TV camera in years, and she didn’t miss it. She still felt nauseous and a little dizzy in front of the blinding, irradiating lights, and was grateful that most of Brandt Rusch’s pointed questions were addressed to Dr. Jacobs. If her role was going to be limited to just sitting there, on the black leather armchair backed against the green screen, she had no objection.
She hoped the interview would end soon, as she struggled to sit still, holding her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her back straight. She projected a professional, composed image, complete with a frozen smile that made her facial muscles sore after the first few minutes. She looked tiny and frail, vulnerable in her navy blue pantsuit, and she felt just as vulnerable.
Dr. Jacobs was a natural in front of the cameras. She was excited to be talking about her new methodology and explained in detail the numerous benefits of extracting deeply buried, traumatic memories in a controlled, therapeutic environment. Then she moved on to explaining, in non-technical language, how the process would work and why. Finally, guided by Rusch’s questions, she turned her attention to Laura and spoke a little about her background.
Laura found it even more difficult to sit still in her seat.
“Some of you might remember Laura Watson,” Dr. Jacobs said, gesturing toward her as the camera zoomed out to include her on the screen. “She was known as The Watson Girl, the famously smart and brave little girl who survived Kenneth Garza’s deadly attack on her family fifteen years ago.”
Rusch smiled and nodded in her direction, and Laura made an effort and widened her smile, and acknowledged the greeting with a quick head bow.
“Her iconic survival presents us with the unique opportunity to use the new method to extract Laura’s traumatic memories and compare them against known case data. The project team was fortunate enough to elicit Miss Watson’s commitment to participate. Thank you for doing this,” Dr. Jacobs said, smiling widely at the cameras. “I can only imagine how difficult it will be for you.”
Laura nodded, also smiling, while the unwanted line of a frown appeared on her forehead. She just wished the whole thing were over and done with.
Then Brandt Rusch turned toward her and asked her the first direct question, and she felt sweat breaking at the roots of her hair, and a sudden urge to throw up.
“Miss Watson,” Rusch asked, “what do you recall of the night when Kenneth Garza, the serial killer known as The Family Man, murdered your family?
Laura conjured all her willpower and managed to take in a breath of air, hot and dusty in the projector lights.
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’m guessing that’s what makes me such a good candidate for the study. I’ve been told I was hiding in the upstairs bathroom laundry hamper. No one else knows anything else, and I can’t remember.” She choked a little at the end of her answer. She quickly recited Rusch’s earlier instructions in her mind. “Short, simple phrases,” he had said. “Keep it to the point, and remember to breathe.”
Good advice. Hard to put in practice though.
“We’ve seen a lot of you on camera, especially after Garza was arrested,” Rusch said. “Your survival story was inspiring. Then you suddenly disappeared. What happened?”
“I grew up,” she said, almost chuckling. “I finally got to have a say in it, and my say was no.”
“You don’t like the publicity?” Rusch pressed on.
“Not at all,” she replied with an apologetic smile. “The reason why everyone wanted me on camera, and today is no exception, was the fact that my family was killed. Not a reason to celebrate, at least not in my book.”
Rusch made a gesture with his head, and his eyebrows shot up, while a smile of admiration lit up his face.
“And modest too,” he said. “Our viewers would love to know you better, Miss Watson.”
She shot a quick glance at Jacobs, and she nodded an almost imperceptible encouragement. She repressed a sigh.
“I remember being happy, growing up with my brother and my sister, playing, having fun. It’s like a blur today, but the memories are still there. Then nothing… Like a cloud of darkness engulfed a few years of my life. Then more recent memories, of my new family, my new sister, Amanda, and my new parents, Bradley and Carol Welsh. Bradley was Dad’s business partner and cofounder of WatWel Lighting. I was privileged to be raised by them, to be able to grow up so close to my family’s legacy, to be a part of what my parents had built and left behind.”
“What are you hoping to gain from participating in the study, Miss Watson?” Rusch asked, flicking a quick glance at Jacobs, who leaned forward a little, in anticipation.
Laura thought for a second before responding.
“I—I want to remember,” she said, feeling the claw of tears choking her. “I want to remember everything. I hope I will finally see the killer in my memories, and remember what he did, and what he said. Maybe that will—” she stopped abruptly and cleared her throat quietly, “that will bring an explanation as to why. Maybe I’ll understand why they died. Why them, not others,” she finally added, overwhelmed. “I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I want to know. And I want to remember them, my parents, to be able to see images of them in my mind.”
“You’ve done well in life so far,” Rusch abruptly changed the subject, making her frown a little. “Are you concerned what your participation in the study might do to your own well-being?”
She shot Dr. Jacobs another quick glance.
“Honestly, I am,” she replied. “I’m already scared of looking in there, of opening this—this chest filled with monsters that hide locked inside my head. But I feel I owe it to my parents, to my brother and my sister, even to myself.” She paused for a second, but Rusch didn’t interrupt with a new question. “I’m sure I saw something that night. I’m sure that’s why my memory is gone. I know I saw him. There’s no way they all died, and I didn’t see or hear anything. That can’t be. I just have to remember.”
The moment she finished talking, she felt a pang of fear wring her gut. She tried, but couldn’t shake it.
Rusch nodded a couple of times before moving on to the next question.
“Kenneth Garza was arrested four years after the death of your family. How did his arrest change your life? Did it bring closure?”
She frowned pronouncedly, not caring that her frown was televised. That question wasn’t on the preapproved list.
“It changed my life to the point where my adoptive parents stopped being afraid the killer might come after me and tie up the loose end. He never did; in retrospect, I think it had become public information that I didn’t remember anything, so I wasn’t at much risk after all. Closure? No. I don’t think there could ever be closure; not for me.” Her breath caught, and she covered her mouth with her hand. The camera operator promptly shifted the angle and focused on Rusch.
“There’s a strange timing between your study and Garza’s upcoming execution. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Jacobs?”
“I agree, Brandt, and I have to admit I’d prefer his execution was postponed until we finish, but that’s not going to happen. We do, however, have the case files and numerous interviews, evaluations, and notes of Garza himself to help me establish the reliability of the methodology. I think we’re good.”
“Miss Watson, what woul
d you like to say to Kenneth Garza?”
The camera refocused on her, bringing her anguished features at the center of the screen, up close.
Laura felt a wave of unspeakable anger toward Rusch, who put her through such hell after making numerous reassurances that he would stick to what they’d agreed. Goddamned attention-seeking bastard, that’s what he was. A shark, preying on people’s misery. Yet ultimately, it was her fault for being there. She should have never agreed to do the interview.
“Nothing. I have nothing to say to Kenneth Garza,” she spat, unwilling to share anything anymore. She shot Rusch a murderous look, then watched on the control screen how the camera zoomed out and moved away from her face.
She remained still for a few more minutes, waiting for Rusch to wrap things up with Dr. Jacobs. Hours later, the feeling of doom curled inside her gut still kept her awake, and she couldn’t explain it.
10
Reflections: Memories
I turn off the TV with an angry press on the remote button, then send the remote flying across the room. It crashes against the wall, then pieces scatter everywhere on the thick carpet. My fists are clenched so badly my joints crack, but even that gesture fails to bring any relief.
I want to wring her neck, right then and there. I’m pining to go out there, to find her, and silence her careless, troublemaking mouth forever. If only I could.
“Goddamned, stupid, motherfucking bitch!” I let myself mutter under my breath, more subdued than I want. I wish I could let my anger roar, to relieve the burning pressure I feel in my chest, but I can’t.
This shit ain’t over yet. This shit could still hurt me. Talk about mistakes of the past coming back to haunt me.
I let myself fall on the sofa and close my eyes, trying desperately to remember. It’s been fifteen years, yes, but I can still recall that night with plenty of details, mostly because I screwed up so badly, and I spent countless nights afterwards wondering how the hell that happened. Well, now I know.
I remember going upstairs twice, not once, and both times I passed by the upstairs bathroom. Not the master bathroom. The one in the hallway, the one the other three bedrooms shared. Was she hiding in the master bathroom and that’s why I didn’t see her?
There’s a burning sensation in my eyes, and I rub them furiously, getting very little relief. I recall checking the master bathroom at least once. The light was on in there… I recall that much. I keep my eyes closed, trying to visualize the master bathroom. Yes, I can still see it. The lights were on, two powerful sets of six lights above each sink. The shower stall was empty and its glass walls completely clear of steam; I could see clearly that no one was in there. The tub was empty, and that’s it. There was nothing else in that master bathroom. No hamper, no small closet, nothing that could hide that girl. Definitely she wasn’t hiding in the master bathroom.
I let a frustrated sigh escape my parched lips, then pour myself a generous shot of bourbon and sink it down in one thirsty gulp. Suddenly, I’m pacing the room like a caged animal and I hate the feeling. Not even the bourbon can wash that feeling away.
Why didn’t I check the hallway bathroom? Why?
I recall the door was open. The bathroom was dark; the lights were off. The only light that made it inside was coming from the hallway. I focus my weary mind on that faint flicker of a memory. The bathroom door is right there, open, and passing by I see nothing. No one.
First time I didn’t hesitate or stop to look; I just walked by it in a hurry. I’d just found and shot the three kids I thought were all Watson’s; so there’s no reason for me to keep looking. The second time though, I looked. I was pressed for time, of course, with the cops’ sirens blaring, but I still opened every closet and looked under each bed. I even opened the pantry, the massive fridge, the double oven, and the dishwasher.
Did I stop to check the bathroom?
My head suddenly hangs low, heavy with the burden of guilt and humiliation. I fucked up badly.
No, I’d barely slowed down my pace, passing by that bathroom. The door was open, and the lights were off. I assumed… Yes, I know just what you’re going to say. I assumed. And it could cost me my life.
But now I remember. I can visualize. I can see that blue laundry hamper, large enough to hold laundry for a family with three kids. Large enough to hold her, Laura Watson, the biggest mistake of my life.
My sweaty hand clutches the bourbon glass and suddenly shoots it across the room, sending it crashing into the fireplace.
She needs to die. Now. Today.
My reasoning is fear-driven, and that’s really bad. Real predators stay calm in the face of a threat. The bigger the threat, the calmer they get. Have you ever seen a tiger freak out? Or a lion?
If I kill her now, everyone will know that Garza didn’t kill that family. They’ll know that with more certainty than ever. I would provide them with the proof they need to exculpate Garza for the killing. You see, he must have told them he didn’t kill the Watsons, but apparently, they didn’t listen. Or maybe he did confess to the killing, to add one more notch to his belt. Hmm… You never know with people.
I continue to pace the room, feeling more and more caged, trapped, about to be caught and killed. I hate that… I hate that my life depends on some psychological mumbo-jumbo that might be entirely bogus science. Who the hell knows… Maybe the years Laura believed Garza killed her family will have overwritten her real memories, and she’ll reveal she saw Garza doing it, and that will be the end of it.
But how would I know? How could I find out what she does in those, whatever the hell it was she called it… regression sessions? I can’t just sit here and wait for the police to break down my door and drag me out in chains.
Stupid, stupid girl. She’s got everything a girl could want, but no, she has to open the can of worms from hell. She must die… there’s no other way. And I better not break my neck in the process.
I can’t kill her; that’s for sure. No matter how much I want to. No matter how many nights I’ve dreamed of plunging my blade into her, again, and again, and again. No, I must be strong and deny myself.
She must have an accident, one that will be above anyone’s suspicion.
11
Direction
It was still dark when Tess pulled over into a parking spot reserved for visitors and went upstairs, to the floor that housed SAC Pearson’s office. She was the first one there; normal business hours didn’t start for at least another hour.
The entire floor was dark, except for the night lights. Sensors activated the ceiling fluorescent lamps throughout, the moment she opened the glass doors. Yet she didn’t bother to pass by her desk; she just grabbed the nearest chair, rolled it in front of Pearson’s door, and took a seat, waiting impatiently and tapping the sole of her shoe against a desk.
Two minutes later, she decided in favor of a hot cup of coffee and the Watson case file, to pass the time with some usefulness while she waited. She checked her watch two or three times a minute and promised herself that she’d call Pearson at precisely eight, not a second later.
“I’ve never been stalked before, Winnett,” Pearson’s loud voice almost startled her, resounding and echoing in the silence of the deserted office. “Have you heard of using a phone?”
She sprung to her feet and followed him inside his office. She noticed his shoulders hunched a little, making his jacket’s fine fabric stretch over his back, although it was loose enough to be a comfortable fit. He carried an old leather briefcase, his all-time favorite most likely, because he could afford one in better shape, one with fewer scratches and a shinier look.
He put his tall Starbucks on the desk, and loosened his necktie just a little.
“I didn’t want to call so early—”
“Well, next time call. What’s up?”
“We need to reopen three cases. I have reasons to believe these three cases were attributed to Garza in error. I’m talking about the Watson, Townsend, and Meyer cases.”
Pearson took off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, slowly, thoroughly, taking his time. His face scrunched up in a multitude of deep lines. He obviously wasn’t thrilled with the news she’d brought, but Tess expected no different.
“How strong are your reasons?”
She hesitated a little, thrown off by his phrasing. She bit her lip before replying and wiped her hands against her pants.
“I’m not 100 percent sure, but there’s a strong enough likelihood that Garza didn’t kill those families. There’s a copycat out there, someone we missed.”
“Are you sure Garza’s not playing you?”
She averted her eyes for a split second. No one could be sure of anything when it came to a psychopath.
“Again, not 100 percent, no. But—”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Do you realize what this means? It will be a public relations nightmare. We can’t just say, after fifteen years, that we’re sorry, we made a mistake. Just when the man we maintained for so long is the killer is about to be executed.”
He ran both his hands across his shiny scalp, one after the other. If Pearson still had hair, he might have been tempted to pull some of it out, in a gesture of deep frustration.
“The Watson case is now a priority, sir,” Winnett pushed.
“Why is that?”
“There was a TV show last night, featuring Laura Watson, the Watson family massacre survivor, declaring she’s going to undergo experimental memory recovery therapy, or something like that. If the real killer’s out there, he’ll be coming for her.”
Pearson’s frown deepened. He extended his hand silently, waiting for her to give him the case file. Minutes later, he lifted his eyes from the pages covered in Tess’s scribbled notes, his frustration even more visible.
