by Leslie Wolfe
Her moment of bliss vanished, dispersed by anxious recollections of her recent experience. Who was that awful man? And what did he want? She suddenly regretted not looking over her shoulder as she’d left the store, to see if he followed her. What if he followed her home? What if he knew where she lived?
Her stomach started doing a number on her, unrested, and she felt queasy. She let Boo drop on the table and took her hoodie off in a hurry. Seconds later, she dropped in front of the toilet bowl, retching violently.
She felt Adrian’s hands grab and hold her hair out of the way. She heaved a few times more, then stopped, breathing heavily.
“What the hell, Laura?” he demanded. “What’s going on?” He sounded angry.
“Nothing,” she replied, “I’m just sick, that’s all.”
“That’s all? Let me tell you, that’s not all. It’s the damn Jacobs thing, that’s what’s going on.”
“God…” she pleaded, her frustration exceeding her nausea. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just sick. Must be something I ate.”
“Baby, you don’t have to do it,” he insisted, in a soothing tone. “Not any of it. It’s making you sick, stressing you out.”
She didn’t want to argue. Almost every word she’d said since she’d come home had been a lie. Adrian deserved better, and one day she’d make it up to him.
“Give up this fucking madness, baby, please,” he continued his appeal. “Don’t do this to us.”
She groaned.
“Adrian, I’m not doing anything to us. It’s about my parents, my family. It’s not about you. I need to know. I need to find out what happened that night, and some of these things Dr. Jacobs does are incredible. I feel I’m closer to remembering, closer than I’ve ever been, and I haven’t even started the sessions.”
“What are you saying?”
She still kneeled on the floor, leaning against the toilet bowl, afraid the dry heaves might return.
“She taught me to remember smells, sounds, and the house—how everything felt, before I try to remember anything else. And it’s working!”
Adrian’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re saying you remember?”
“No, not yet,” she said, letting all her sadness come out in her voice and her misted eyes. “But I’m starting to remember things from that time. I’m starting to remember them, my parents, my brother and my sister, and how it felt to be with them.”
“How about the rest? You know… that night?”
“I can’t,” she said, lowering her head, defeated. “Not yet. It’s like a dark closet that’s there; it’s scary, and I’m afraid to open it and look inside. That’s how it feels.”
“Maybe it’s scary for a reason,” he said softly. “Maybe you shouldn’t look. Why would you want to relive the death of your family?”
“I—I just have to, Adrian. I must. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, but I’ve always felt I had to see for myself, see that killer with my own eyes.”
“He’s going to be executed in a few days; isn’t that enough?” he asked, seemingly irritated.
“No… I need to remember. Don’t do this, please.”
“Do what?”
“Keep pushing me like this.”
He stood and took a few steps back into the hallway. “This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous,” he said, shoving his fisted hands deep into his pockets.
She scoffed, saddened and feeling powerless.
“You know, you’re probably one of the very few men out there who’d argue with someone who’s sick, right by the toilet bowl,” she blurted, a little more bitter than she’d wanted.
He turned and left without a word, then she heard him drop onto the sofa and mutter curses under his breath.
She had to keep on lying, at least for a while. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she was pregnant. Not like this, not with his attitude. He’d go completely bonkers.
She repressed a shudder. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the man in the turtleneck either or how frightened she really was.
14
Sensitive Ego
Tess pulled her Suburban right next to the entrance, ignoring all the open visitor parking spots. The two-story building that housed the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office had a new sign in stainless steel, replacing the old, rusted one she remembered. Other than that, nothing had really changed since she’d last been there.
She went straight for the reception desk and pulled out her badge.
“Special Agent Tess Winnett, FBI. Please have the four boxes of case files in my vehicle hauled upstairs to the conference room, will you?” She dropped her car keys on the reception counter, under the rounded eyes of a young man, not a day older than 23.
“Um, I can’t… Sorry, I can’t leave my post, ma’am,” he said stuttering, then turned red in the face.
Her eyebrows furrowed and drew closer to each other, showing her frustration with how difficult everything seemed to be lately. She leaned over the counter, not even attempting to disguise her irritation.
“What do I have to do—”
“Just say yes, Jimmy,” she heard Michowsky holler from the second floor, at the top of the stairs. “Trust me, it will help your career more than you know.”
She nodded once in Gary’s direction, her quick glance long enough to let her notice he wasn’t happy to see her there. He’d propped his hands on his hips, and he wasn’t smiling.
She climbed the stairs a little slower than she liked, under his scrutinizing eyes, then walked right past him on her way to the conference room. Her ribs were shooting painful darts every time she exerted herself.
“Good to see you too, Gary.” She heard him scoff behind her. “Hey, Todd,” she greeted Fradella, Gary’s younger partner, as she passed his desk. Fradella pushed away his chair and turned toward her.
“Hey, Tess.”
She waited in the conference room doorway for them to catch up, then closed the door.
“Imagine my surprise,” Gary said, “when I got a call from my captain this morning, right after you and I talked on the phone. He took us off our caseload and assigned us to whatever goose chase you’re up to now. To whom do we owe the pleasure?”
His sarcasm attempted to be biting, but she didn’t flinch.
“That would be my boss, SAC Pearson. I think the two of you have recently met, in case you want to thank him in person.”
Gary stood uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Todd repressed a hint of a smile that curled the corners of his mouth.
“We done with the bullshit yet?” Tess asked coldly.
Michowsky lowered his angry gaze and pulled a chair. Fradella followed suit.
“Okay,” Michowsky eventually said, letting out a long breath, “What’s going on with the Watson case?”
Tess delayed taking a seat for a second more, then sat and pulled out her notes.
“Short version? I told you on the phone. The Watsons, Meyers, and Townsends weren’t killed by Garza. We need to find out who killed them, like yesterday. Laura Watson’s a walking target after that TV show.”
“You’re sure? Why? Those cases were closed years ago,” Michowsky pushed back, sounding a bit worried.
“There are discrepancies you missed. Two of the cases were yours, in case you forgot.”
“No, I didn’t goddamn forget, Winnett!” Michowsky snapped.
She stared blankly at him, then continued unperturbed.
“The third one, Townsend, was worked by a Detective, um, McKinley, from Miami-Dade. I don’t know him.”
“That’s because he died a long time ago. Massive coronary,” Gary said.
“Crap… I was hoping he could clarify why he pinned the Townsend case on Garza.”
“Pinned it?” Michowsky reacted, his high-pitched voice sounding almost strangled. “You think that’s what we did, McKinley and I? Pinned cases on people, instead of working them?”
She repressed a frustrated groa
n, this time irritated with herself. She managed to say the things that made people blow up and turn defensive, even when she tried her best to be diplomatic. She’d forgotten just how sensitive Gary could be. One word was all it took.
“You know what I meant,” she replied quickly, apologetically. “I meant attributed to Garza.”
“Yeah, right…” Michowsky replied morosely. “Tell me, Winnett, is your career so badly adrift they don’t assign you real cases anymore? Is that it?”
Her breath caught. Could that be true? She felt a sudden urge to call Pearson and ask him why he’d assigned Garza’s interview to her, and what was up with that strange coincidence Gary had mentioned before. Logic took over, and she stopped her descending spiral into the abyss of anxiety, remembering she could have been on medical leave that week and two more. She was the one who insisted to return to work early. It was her decision, and hers only. No coincidence, nada. So much for Gary’s conspiracy theories, all fizzled out flat. She almost smiled.
“Let’s just work the cases, guys. That’s all I’m asking. Let’s just put the cases on a matrix, and map the discrepancies.”
“You’re digging up old cases based on the say-so of a convicted serial killer, Winnett. You know that, right?” Michowsky continued to push back. “You don’t care one little bit about what it does to me, to us here, at the precinct.”
“It doesn’t have to do anything to you, Gary. But if there’s a killer on the loose, out there, wouldn’t you want to know? Wouldn’t you want to be sure?”
“I am sure,” he fired back, raising his voice. “I’m sure Garza nailed them, and now he’s messing with you, seeing how you’re in a hurry to cause trouble and throw us all under the bus. I’m sure he’s enjoying himself right now, having a blast.”
He suddenly seemed older, tired. Tess knew he’d just returned to work himself, a week before, after the concussion he’d suffered trying to help her. Some reunion. They should be downing mojitos and sharing war stories, the three of them. They’d been through a lot together, and had done some good work. Instead, they were ripping at each other. Fradella watched their exchange quietly, with an expression of gloomy disbelief pasted on his face.
“Gary, this killer will kill again, and it’s not Kenneth Garza,” she said softly, trying to appease him.
“Says who? A convicted killer?” he bellowed. “And no surprise, Special Agent Tess Winnett of the FBI takes his word over mine, after twenty-five bloody years spent on the fucking force!”
A few heads turned outside the conference room. People stared at them through the glass wall with disapproving looks. Jimmy approached hesitantly and struggled to knock on the door, carrying two of the four boxes in his arms. She opened the door to let him in, thankful for the interruption.
“Todd, can we have the room for a minute, please?”
Fradella nodded and left, a second after Jimmy.
“Sit down, Gary, please.”
He stood stubbornly, pushing his chin forward in a gesture of defiance. His chin trembled slightly, a sign of deep emotional turmoil.
“Please,” she insisted.
He finally obliged, and folded his arms on his chest.
She studied him for a second, taking in the circles under his eyes, the tiredness he seemed to emanate, the stiff gait, probably from the same pesky sciatica that kept him wondering about old age, and envying his younger partner. She cringed a little, knowing what she was about to say.
“Gary, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just go ahead and say it. Catching a potential killer on the loose trumps your ego and your concern with covering any mistakes you might have made. It’s that simple; I’m sorry.”
He stared at her, astounded. Then he spoke in a low, loaded voice. “You self-righteous bitch! I heard that about you, and I didn’t want to believe it. It’s true, damn it, so true. I’m a goddamned idiot, that’s what I am.”
She expected his reaction, and took it impassibly. “Work with me on this case, Gary,” she continued just as calmly as before, “and I promise you I’ll do the best that I possibly can to make you look like a hero in the end.”
“Huh?” he scoffed, a little surprised. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because you’re a good cop, Gary, and a good man. The rest is life, details, chaos happening to us. Psychopaths playing with us. Sometimes we get deceived, trapped into situations that aren’t our fault.”
He fell silent, biting his lip and clasping his hands together. He stood and paced the room, slowly, keeping his fisted hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t say a word, just stopped his pacing after a while and looked her in the eye before making his decision.
Then he turned to the phone and dialed an internal extension.
“Jimmy? What the hell’s keeping you with the rest of those boxes?” Then he hung up and looked at her with a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Let’s map the damn cases.”
15
Reflections: What I Want
What I want is clear, since the day I killed Watson. Since that exhilarating moment fifteen years ago, I’ve known exactly who I am, or at least I started to discover. I’m a predator, a deadly one. A skilled hunter with sharp instincts and a fearless heart. One kill, and I was hooked for life. I live for the thrill of the kill, anticipating whom I will choose next, how I will do it, planning every little detail over and over in my head. Counting the minutes until the day of the feast.
Hooked, that’s what I am. Entirely hooked. Addicted, down to the last bone in my body, but not out of control. I know I have to be patient and pace myself. Best meals are savored slowly and in small quantities. The biggest change Allen Watson brought to my life is the fact that I can finally see it clearly and accept who I am. I’ll be grateful into eternity. His, not mine.
You see, I’m not like you; not in the slightest. You might have struggled with accepting yourself too at some point, maybe you and I have that in common, but that’s where the commonalities end. I’m a taker, the ultimate seizing machine. I see something I like, I don’t hesitate; I just go after it, right then and there, grasping the opportunity. I’ve always been like that, always understood and loved that about myself, way before Allen Watson and I even met.
Ever since I can remember, I always knew what I wanted. Some people are ashamed of their wants and needs. Some are indoctrinated into guilt by religious precepts; others by their society; and finally, some by the education they receive from their families and communities. That’s not to say they haven’t tried it on me… only it didn’t take, not a single iota. I could close my eyes right now and recite from memory some of that senseless horseshit that turns men into sheep, generation after lame generation.
No, you can’t want to be rich, not openly; people might think badly of you. No, you can’t fuck a different woman every day; that’s a sin. Always forgive, it’s good for the soul.
Good for the soul, my ass. Have you tried killing the man who fucked you over, to see just how good for the soul that would be? Well, maybe not for you… I keep forgetting, you and I are not the same. It could destroy you, put you over the edge of an endless abyss from which there’s no return. Not ever.
Yes, I always go after what I want. My problem back then, right after the Watsons, was getting better at securing what I wanted. Because, whether I liked to admit that or not, with the Watsons I’d screwed up badly, leaving a live witness behind. And I’d screwed up before.
But that night with the Watsons was filled with revelations; Rachel Watson was another surprise. She reminded me of my youth, with its almost disastrous mistake. She reminded me of that long-forgotten feeling of sublime exultation that comes with exerting absolute power over another human being. Over a woman’s vulnerable body, lying helplessly at my feet, ready for my body to take.
What I want is messy, and that’s the truth. So messy, it almost cost me my life, back in college. Her name was Donna, and she was a beauty, a magnificent creature who didn’t k
now I existed. I wanted her; I craved her body like the junkie craves the fix that could end him, with trembling hands and sleepless nights. So I did it; I made my stupid, rushed move, riddled with juvenile, inexcusable mistakes. She had a tight little body that fought mine with every fiber, making my senses vibrate with pleasure every time I penetrated her. She gave me a night to remember, a night that fulfilled my wildest dreams.
Well, she didn’t exactly give it to me, per se. Let’s say I took from her a sexual experience like no other. That’s what I do… I take what I want.
The following day, Donna deeply disappointed me; she reported me to the police. Unbelievable. Statistics say that a vast number of sexual assaults go unreported, the victims being too ashamed to step forward. My astonishing Donna refused to be such a statistic, unfortunately. In retrospect, maybe I’d pushed things too far, and she needed medical attention. She didn’t know who I was, of course. I’d visited with her at night, in the dark, and had been careful not to leave bodily fluids behind. The cops didn’t have much to go on.
Imagine my surprise when the cops banged on my door a day later. I had a flimsy alibi, only half-thought through, because… well, because I was young and careless. An hour later, they had me in a lineup at the station, and what I felt then is indescribable. My life, as I knew it, was about to be over. It took tremendous amounts of effort to maintain the appearance of innocence and calm, to hide my burning rage, to wait it out, to hide the sweat beads that constantly emerged at the roots of my hair and rolled down my forehead.
I don’t feel fear like you do; not at all. It’s hard to describe, but I do feel when things are about to leave my control and enter someone else’s. It makes me angry, and most of all, it makes me tense. It’s a nuisance. For instance, knowing that I could be locked up for years for my adventurous night with Donna gave me a feeling that could be described as fear, although it wasn’t. It was more of a concentrated state of readiness, of alertness. All my muscles were tense, and all my neurons were firing at the top of their game, going through countless scenarios to identify opportunities and analyze my captors’ behavior, searching for clues. During these times, unlike you, my heart rate stays level, instead of escalating, and my breathing slows down, deepening, oxygenating every fiber of my body that needs to be ready to pounce.
