by Leslie Wolfe
He didn’t ask anything else, resigned to study her in silence, with that faint smile still lingering. She reciprocated, unwilling to prove too eager, too desperate. She leaned back against her chair, getting ready for a long wait.
“I know you found something interesting in the cases I gave you,” he eventually said, speaking slowly and calmly. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, now, would you, Therese? May I call you Therese?”
“No,” she replied dryly. “But you can call me Tess, if you wish. Although I prefer Special Agent Winnett or Agent Winnett even.”
“I see… Thank you.” He smiled, then fell silent again for a while. “Ask away, Special Agent.”
“How did you know?” she blurted, unable to wait any longer.
“That I didn’t kill those families? Of course, I knew.”
“No, that he raped the women,” Tess replied, sneaking in a tiny bait.
“Woman,” he corrected her impassibly.
She scoffed. “Seriously, how did you know?”
He smiled with superiority and shifted in his chair to straighten his back. His chains rattled. He didn’t respond for a long few seconds.
“You’re not that good at your job, Agent Winnett. I have to teach you how to do your job, for free? What are you offering?”
So, it had come to that, just as the rest of the world had predicted it would. He was leading her on, in the hope to gain some privileges. She felt like slamming the door behind her on her way out, just to see him defeated, punished for toying with her. She wanted him returned to the oblivion of his death-row isolation, where he had little to think about other than his nearing death. But that little ego boost she’d just envisioned for herself wouldn’t help with the case. The negotiation had to continue.
“A stay of execution is out of the question, Mr. Garza. I’m afraid I can’t offer what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t want a stay. I think I told you that before, if I remember correctly.”
It was her turn to be surprised.
“Then what? What can I do for you?”
He leaned back, as far as the restraints allowed, and smiled to himself, as if savoring what he was about to ask.
“Nothing that expensive or complicated, Agent Winnett. No, I’m a simple man.” He licked his lips, and a spark of internal enjoyment flickered in his eyes. “I want to have dinner with you, that’s all. While we review the case photos together, just you and me.”
She frowned, taken aback by his request. “I’m afraid I cannot remove you from the facility, even if it’s temporary.”
“No need, for that, Special Agent. In here would be just fine. Bring us, say, 13-ounce ribeye steaks with fries and a nice wine. Serve the meal on a white tablecloth, without these,” he rattled his chains. “Let me enjoy one dinner with real silverware, not those awful, um, sporks, they call them.”
He kept his eyes riveted on hers, and she didn’t flinch. What’s a dinner compared to the payout of her case? What’s a dinner compared to Laura Watson’s life? But still, having dinner with a mass murderer, a killer of children. Enduring his presence, while having to eat and pretend everything was normal. She made an effort to repress the wave of aversion that coursed through her veins.
“We’ll eat, enjoy, and discuss the case. Just you and me, Agent Winnett, just you and me. On the other side of that mirror, there can be hundreds of agents with their guns on me, but in here, just you, me, dinner, and case photos. What do you say?”
She hesitated for a while before replying. Finally, when she spoke, her voice was low and raspy, almost a growl.
“You’re insane.”
“Ah, but we all knew that, didn’t we?” Garza laughed.
His laughter still reverberated after she’d closed the door behind her, almost running toward the exit.
22
Session
Laura sat on the edge of the wide, leather armchair, as if trying to take the least amount of space possible. She felt painful tension in her shoulders, a burning sensation in her nape, and waves of chills traveled up and down her spine. Without a word, she followed Dr. Jacobs’s movements, as she was getting ready for their first regression session together.
She was terrified.
She zipped up her sweatshirt and tightened the hood strings, as if a bitter winter wind was gusting through the lush office, instead of the warm comfort of the nice, cozy fire. She shoved her hands deep into the shirt’s pockets, and repressed another shiver.
She’d dressed down for the occasion, per the doctor’s instructions, and had brought a number of potential memory triggers. Some of her dirty clothing in a Ziploc bag. A serving of stir fry, made following her mother’s recipe, shared by Hannah after she insisted for almost an hour. A silk scarf, like Hannah said her mother wore, with a whiff of her favorite perfume, also locked inside a Ziploc bag. Now all she had left to do was hope all those sensory triggers would work, and help her take the plunge into the abyss of her buried memories.
“I’ve made you a cup of tea, my dear,” Dr. Jacobs said, handing her a big ceramic mug filled to the brim with clear, gold-colored liquid. “Chamomile. It will warm you up, relax you a little.”
Laura couldn’t unclench her jaws to respond. She nodded instead and wrapped her frozen hands around the steaming cup.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Jacobs asked, frowning a little as she made eye contact.
“Terrified,” she admitted. “I’m… you have no idea,” she eventually blurted. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and I have this constant fear of… of I don’t even know what.”
Dr. Jacobs touched her arm gently.
“Regression is showing encouraging results as a treatment method for patients with all sorts of trauma or bad experiences they can’t remember, but that affect their present lives. One of the results I’m expecting from our sessions is an improvement in your overall well-being.”
“I’ve done it before, when I was young. I know what it’s like. But I struggled,” she continued, sniffling, without even being aware her eyes had moistened, “I really had a hard time with all this. Talking to Hannah about these things and preparing the food, the silk scarf, that… that was hard.” She took one hand off the tea cup and covered her mouth, to repress a sob. She registered the warmth of her palm and clung to the soothing sensation it gave her.
“I can imagine how hard it must have been, and I think you’re doing great. The time you took to prepare these props will help unlock that chamber in your subconscious mind. The smells, the sensations, all these factors will contribute to your success in recovering your lost memories.”
She breathed deeply, steeling herself.
“I watched all your family videos, you know,” Dr. Jacobs continued. “Everything you gave me, all the birthday movies. I will be able to guide you through the process. You won’t be alone in there, I promise.”
She inhaled sharply. “Okay… let’s get it done.”
“All right,” Dr. Jacobs replied, then sat across from Laura on an ottoman. “Today we’ll attempt to access a memory, any memory, that predates the attack. Anything you can recall is good.”
Laura took a few sips of tea, then put the cup down on a side table. She looked at Dr. Jacobs intently, envying her composure, her professional attire. She was dressed sharply in a dark brown pantsuit that matched her silky auburn hair. A white shirt contrasted pleasantly with the suit, emphasizing her light complexion. Yet, to Laura, she seemed too cold, maybe a little distant, maybe a little too focused on her project. She wished Jacobs would at least remove her jacket and kick off her heels, but she didn’t dare ask her that.
“I’m ready,” she said between clenched teeth, not feeling ready at all.
“Lean back and feel your muscles relax,” Dr. Jacobs said. “Close your eyes, and focus on the sound of my voice. I’m right here with you, and you are safe. You will be safe the entire time. Nothing bad can happen to you.”
“Uh-huh,” Laura mumbled, almost too qui
etly for Jacobs to hear her.
“Feel the armchair support your back, so you can relax. Feel the weight of your arms, as they rest on the cool leather. Feel your feet touch the ground, the firm ground that supports you. Take a deep breath, slowly, and let your mind relax. You are safe now.”
Laura breathed and felt she was being engulfed into the massive armchair. She fought the sensation, but Dr. Jacobs continued to speak in the same calm, soothing voice.
“Follow the sound of my voice. You’re safe, here, with me. Breathe.”
Laura felt heavy, and her mind felt heavy and slow, empty of all fears, thoughts, and sensations.
“Go back with me, back to when you were young, playing with your brother and sister.”
Laura fidgeted, and her eyelids scrunched and twitched, but stayed lowered.
“You’re safe. Tell me what you see,” Dr. Jacobs encouraged her in a soft whisper.
She didn’t see anything, just darkness. She looked everywhere, but there was nothing to see. She started to panic, and fidgeted some more.
“Shh… you’re safe. The little girl is safe. Little Laura is safe. I won’t let anything happen to her.”
She relaxed a little and allowed the darkness to engulf her more. She didn’t see anything, but she started hearing things. Voices… distant. She listened intently, and the voices started to become clearer, more intelligible. Her father asking when dinner was going to be ready. Her brother hollering as he ran down the upstairs hallway; that day he wanted to be a train.
Only somewhat aware of what she was doing, she started repeating what she heard in her tenebrous memories. Her voice sounded nasal and high-pitched; it wasn’t her voice anymore. It was as if someone else had taken control of her body and was using it to communicate. Someone else, but not really… it was still her, but fifteen years ago.
“I knew it,” little Laura said, “I knew you’d get me a float.” She mumbled something that didn’t make any sense, then continues, her voice even more nasal than before. “Yes, si’. Daffy Duck… the most sensational discove’y… colossal… Sleepy Lagoon.”
Laura let the sounds she heard in the deepest recesses of her mind stream loosely through her mouth, unable to fight the vortex that was swallowing her. She let herself descend freely, faster and faster, into a universe of darkness and sounds.
23
The Maze
Tess entered the conference room bringing with her a cloud of mouthwatering smells and carrying a large pizza box. Instantly, both Michowsky and Fradella grinned widely. It was midafternoon, and by the looks of things, the two hadn’t stopped for lunch.
“Oh, bring it on,” Fradella said, then grabbed the box from her hands and set it on the table. He made quick work of grabbing paper towels and plates. “Calzones? How come? That’s south of here. I thought you were going to Raiford today.”
“I’ve been there already, but I made a quick detour,” she replied, then grabbed a slice and took a large bite.
“Whereabouts?” Michowsky asked with his mouth full.
“Laura Watson’s school.”
Michowsky let the slice drop back on his plate.
“Did you talk with her?” he asked quietly.
“No, not yet. Just made sure she’s okay.”
“How exactly did you do that?” Michowsky’s tone didn’t foretell anything good.
“Look, a few times a day I check up on her. She lives close to my place, so I swing by at night, in the morning. If it were up to me, she’d be in protective custody by now.”
“Yeah, if it were up to you, the whole world would know we might have let a killer walk free for fifteen years,” Michowsky replied dryly. His face turned grim. He pushed his plate away, and wiped his mouth with a paper towel.
“You know it will eventually come to that, right?” Tess asked, as kindly as she could. “At some point, it will come to that. But I made you a promise that I intend to keep, Gary.”
“Yeah…” he muttered angrily. “So, what, now you’re a stalker?”
Fradella choked and coughed a few times, then rushed to get some water.
“Whatever keeps Laura alive, Gary. By the way, why is she still alive?”
“Huh?”
“I didn’t expect her to live past forty-eight hours after that TV show aired. I wonder why she’s not dead yet. I’m happy that she isn’t, but it just doesn’t make sense to me, that’s all.” She took another bite of pizza and swallowed it almost without chewing.
“He could be dead or in jail for something else. Or he might have missed the show. With so many TV channels, that’s not really hard to do.”
“Yeah,” Tess replied, her frown deepening. “Somehow I doubt she’s safe though. I think he’ll be coming for her, Gary. I can feel it in my—”
“Don’t tell me, your famous gut?” Gary laughed. “This gut of yours, has it ever been wrong?”
She thought for a second and bit her lip. “Nope, not yet. I wish it were in Laura’s case. We need her in protective custody, Gary. See if you can’t get your captain to approve it. Pearson won’t budge.”
Michowsky didn’t reply, just stared at the floor for a long, silent second. She knew she was asking him for a lot.
“Let’s get more evidence, first,” he eventually replied. “Let’s build a case. How did Raiford go?”
It was her turn to avert her eyes.
“I got nothing,” she admitted reluctantly. “Nothing but an invitation. If I’ll have dinner with him, he’ll tell me what I’m missing. No handcuffs, real silverware, the works.”
“What?” Michowsky stood and started pacing angrily in front of her. “Hell, no. You can’t possibly consider it, can you?”
“I might have to, Gary. If we come up empty-handed, what else is there?”
“He’s got nothing to lose, and he’s a psychopath with only a few days left to live. And you want to put a knife in his hand? Are you suicidal? Or crazier than he is?”
She pursed her lips and refused to answer. She took a couple of deep breaths, to help calm herself and refrain from being too abrasive with Gary. After all, if he’d done his job fifteen years ago, the whole thing would be moot, and Laura’s life wouldn’t be in danger. Before telling her what she could and couldn’t do, maybe he should reflect on that. She managed to keep her anger to herself, and moved past it. Pearson would have been proud.
“What do you guys have, after an entire morning spent digging?” she asked, pointing at the conference table covered with scattered files and crime scene photos.
Fradella swallowed quickly and cleared his throat. He seemed excited.
“We thought of checking these cases against this unsub’s established victimology. If we agree that he likes young, blonde women with blue or green eyes, and then if we filter out victims who don’t match that particular description, we narrow things somewhat.”
“That’s excellent work, Todd,” she said, smiling for the first time in hours. She’d been so tense, her facial muscles felt stiff when she did. “Tell me the counts.”
“We’d be looking at only eight murders out of the initial fourteen, and twenty-three rapes out of the total of forty-two. Um, apparently, blondes with light-colored eyes are the preferred rape victims, even here in Miami, where the population is mainly Hispanic. Oh, and one of the assaults where the victim barely survived, the other one was a male victim, so we eliminated it from the pile.”
“Eight murders and twenty-three rape cases?” Tess reacted. “Could he have been so prolific?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Michowsky replied. “Remember Robert Pickton, the Canadian pig farm killer? He killed forty-nine women, and no one knew he existed until they caught him.”
“You know your serials, Gary, I’m impressed. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I guess I’m just saying it’s a lot. Any DNA evidence in any of those rape cases?”
“Some,” Fradella replied. “These days, when there’s plenty of DNA evidence, the perp gets busted
real fast. There was some DNA evidence, but didn’t ping anything in the system. We have nothing to compare it against.”
She paced the floor slowly, biting her left index fingernail and scrutinizing the crime scene photos affixed to the case board.
“Todd, have you found any serial killer in action before or after Garza that The Chameleon could have emulated?”
“No, there wasn’t anyone. I pulled the media archives again to make sure.”
She paced some more, thinking hard. Sometimes, in her line of work, she had to take a leap of faith and go with her gut. She had nothing else better to go with anyway.
“All right, so this unsub apparently ‘evolved’ in the opposite direction, from murder to rape. That’s highly unusual, so unusual that it tells me that once he dared being who his true nature called him to be, a rapist and a killer, he didn’t go back. He might have been a thrill-motivated killer at first, or something might have happened to keep him from raping Rachel Watson and Jackie Meyer, but then he added the sexual component to his subsequent killings, and that changed things for him. I’m willing to bet anything you want, he didn’t go back from there. Once he discovered the thrill of killing, he couldn’t revert to just being a rapist.”
“So, all right, I get that, but what are you saying?” Michowsky asked.
Fradella stood and started gathering some of the scattered case files in a neat pile, then put them in the box they came in.
She nodded, and let a crooked smile appear on her lips. The young detective was smarter than he appeared. He showed real promise.
“Yeah, we scrub all the rapes where the victims lived. Keep in mind The Chameleon is a killer, not just a rapist.”
Michowsky’s face lit up. “Now we’re down to eight murder cases that fit the profile,” he said. “That we can manage.”
“And manage we will,” she said, then grabbed the laptop and started typing fast. “I’m setting up an alert for The Chameleon’s type of victim. We’ll know as soon as anyone when his type vanishes or is involved in any issue.”
