by Leslie Wolfe
“This guy kills quickly,” Michowsky said. “By the time anything gets reported, the victim’s already dead.”
“Yeah, and that’s more reason for us to step on it. We need him locked up in a cage.” She saved the system alert after entering all their cell phone numbers, then turned to Fradella.
“Todd, are you familiar with the concept of homicidal triad?”
He frowned a little, unsure.
“Um… not really.”
“It’s a set of three childhood behavioral characteristics that has been observed to be linked with later violent tendencies, particularly with serial killing. They are cruelty to animals, fire setting, and excessive bedwetting. Any of the two is a good-enough predictor.”
“Bedwetting? No one reports that,” Fradella replied, seeming more confused.
“No, typically no one does, not to the police anyway. Once you’ve shortlisted a few suspects, we could pull some medical records to look for bedwetting as an additional qualifier to narrow our suspect list even further.”
“We have no suspects on that list yet. What would you like me to do?” Fradella asked.
“Look for small fires,” she replied. “Let’s work the timeline. If he was late twenties to mid-thirties when the Watsons were killed, and that was fifteen years ago, he might have started setting fires almost twenty years before that. Do your search from thirty-five years ago to about twenty.”
“There could be hundreds of unsolved arsons. Thousands even.”
“We have to start playing with maps,” Tess replied. “A young kid doesn’t travel far to set something on fire. He does it within a short walking distance. Same goes for animal cruelty. Typically, they prey on the neighbor’s cat. Map the unsolved fires, Todd. Then map the unsolved animal cruelty cases. The two sets of map points will overlap in certain cluster areas, and those areas will mark the cradles of future Miami serial killers.”
Fradella looked at her stunned, with his mouth slightly open.
“Wow, this is… just amazing you can do that.”
“Yeah, it is. The hope is that science will evolve to the point of identifying and treating those who show the predisposition to become serial killers and avoid countless deaths. But that’s in the future. For now, let’s just catch this unsub.”
“It will take me forever, Tess.”
“Not really,” she replied. “DIVS has a map function right here, on the search results screen. Use that, then move to the new search, filter it, then it will show a link named ‘add to map,’ or something like that. Then we cross-reference that map with the list of interesting people we find in these eight cases we will work. That’s you, Gary, by the way.”
“Uh-huh,” he acknowledged. “I’ll get on it.”
“Include everyone related to these cases, and let’s run commonalities and a separate victimology matrix for them. They’re bound to have something else in common, other than hair and iris color. Don’t forget to filter for suspect age. No way he killed the Watsons before he was mid-twenties.”
“Got it,” Michowsky replied. Then he looked up at the wall, where the once-framed map of south Florida hung, all smudged with circles drawn in black and blue marker. “If your system generates maps, why did we do that?”
“To have it in front of our eyes, all the time,” she replied. “That, plus the fact that DIVS doesn’t know about our Chameleon. That’s nowhere in the system data; only Kenneth Garza is.”
He seemed satisfied with the answer, but Tess almost chuckled, thinking of how much he seemed to preoccupy himself with that décor piece. Probably his captain will give him some grief over that, at some point, or maybe it held some emotional meaning to him.
“How about you?” Gary asked. “What will you do?”
Her entire face scrunched, and, for a few seconds, she riveted her eyes on the worn-out carpet, thinking through her options. She’d hoped she would get the chance to speak with Bill McKenzie on a personal note, before having to call on him professionally. It wasn’t the way she’d anticipated things to happen, but Laura’s life was at stake. Her safety trumped all of Tess’s personal concerns.
“I have to call Quantico. As much as I hate to admit it, we need help.”
24
Reflections: Frustration
Have you ever come within inches of fulfilling an all-consuming fantasy, only to be denied? Have you ever felt the uplifting anticipation of that nearing moment when your craving would be completely satisfied, only to be left yearning, writhing in the bitter pain of defeat? Have you ever felt like Tantalus, enduring endless thirst near receding waters and coveting the prohibited fruit?
It happened to me one night, many years ago. Unlike Tantalus, my sin was simple, yet equally grave. I denied myself too long, and when I finally gave into my craving, I was rushed, careless.
She was a tall blonde with slim legs worth dreaming about and blue eyes just like Donna’s. Cathy Banks was her name. One day, fate offered her to me, right there in the grocery store checkout line. She was the customer ahead of me, and she had no idea I couldn’t keep my hungry eyes off her thin waist and curvaceous buttocks.
I followed her home that day and breathed an immense sigh of relief when I realized she fit the Family Man profile. There was a husband in the picture and a young boy. What a waste of time, to deal with the whole bunch… but I still enjoyed the benefits of copycatting The Family Man back then, and every day I thought how lucky I was he was still out there, at large, so I could feast once more under his brand.
I didn’t do the job right; I must have cut corners. I wish I had someone else I could blame for that defeat, like I normally do, but there’s no one. Just me. I acted on impulse, driven by the all-burning craving in my gut, and forgoing the sound voice of my cold reason. I’d been looking for a tasty bite for a while, and I wasn’t going to compromise, to take just anyone. I wanted the perfect Red Delicious for the celebratory feast that marked the end of a year-long period of self-denial, and you must agree not all apples are created equal.
Enough with the excuses.
That night, I approached Cathy’s home at the darkest hour of dusk, right before night fully takes over. I entered the backyard, unseen and unheard, and reached the side door without triggering any sensor floodlights. I grabbed the doorknob and turned it slowly. It didn’t squeak. I opened the door carefully, just a couple of inches, to get my bearings. A second door, half screen half metal, met my eyes, but that wasn’t going to pose any issues. It didn’t even have a lock.
As I slowly squeezed the handle, I heard a rumbling noise, then some clattering of claws approaching fast. The rumbling soon turned into a menacing, blood-curdling growl, and I instinctively pushed the screen door back, just as a huge German Shepherd hit it with all its might. He clawed through the netting with long, black nails, but I was quick to react. I shut the outer door on its growling snout and ran for my life. I managed to leave the yard and slammed the gate behind me, just as the dog turned the corner. While I ran down the street, I heard a man yelling, “Go get him, boy, get him!” The dog clawed angrily at the wooden fence, ready to tear the 8-foot gate apart.
I didn’t breathe normally until I locked myself inside my car and floored it out of there. An hour later, as I walked through the park slowly, trying to subdue my anger enough to be able to go home, I finally understood where I’d gone wrong.
I’d denied myself for too long.
I had to accept who I was, if I was going to live as long as I wanted to and as freely as I wanted to. I had to understand that attempting to smother my predator nature made me weak, unstable. Vulnerable.
A year of fasting between feasts was too long.
You see, unlike most people, I’m very intelligent. Before you scoff away my statement, I’ll share two things. First, statistically, I rank in the 99.99th percentile from an intelligence perspective. I’m, literally, one in a million. That means I learn from experience, I adapt, and I’m always better than I was before. My lies are
believable. My manipulative strategies work. My tomorrows are always surpassing my yesterdays. That’s why, I promise you, I will not make the same mistake twice.
Second, I don’t believe in being modest about my intelligence. I’m open and direct about it, just as it’s generally accepted to be open and direct about the color of your eyes. If you say, “I have black eyes and brown hair,” everyone sees it’s a simple statement of fact, and doesn’t dispute it, nor do people ever think you lack modesty for admitting it so blatantly. The same goes for intelligence, DNA’s winning lottery tickets. The less endowed frown on this simple statement of fact, while I, the winner, take advantage in ways you’ll never comprehend.
That’s why I’m sharing with you that particular event, because it marked a turning point in my life. From that day onward, instead of negating the predator inside, I accepted it with open arms and worked incessantly at making myself better. Rewards were many… I never let myself feel the same frustration again, the same unquenchable thirst like I did that night. I hunted whenever I wanted, and I got better at it. Much better.
For almost twelve years after that night, I was never denied again, and I was never kept from tasting the apples I so desired.
Until now. The curse of Tantalus is upon me again.
I have another question for you. Have you ever spent a long time waiting for the perfect reward, the perfect sensory gratification, for that perfect apple to grow, ripen, and be ready for your trembling hand to grasp? Have you ever spent your nights anticipating how it would feel to possess such a sublime creature?
That is Laura Watson to me. She’s my forbidden fruit.
I’ve watched her grow, become a woman worthy of my wildest dreams. I’ve patiently controlled my urges, knowing that the day of that supreme feast will come. Every now and then, I look at her discreetly, and I feel a twitch deep inside my body, setting my blood on fire, and telling me that wonderful creature is ready for my body to possess it completely.
But no… I can’t. I couldn’t before, and I must deny myself again. I had to offer the ultimate feast to a stranger, a contract killer who doesn’t even enjoy his work, not like I do, anyway. Some gun for hire who doesn’t even know her; he doesn’t dream of her curves and doesn’t yearn to sink his teeth in the alabaster skin of her young breasts. I can’t goddamn believe it.
Damn Laura, damn Kenneth Garza, and damn that busybody, good-for-nothing shrink who denied me my ultimate prize.
I can’t talk anymore… I’m too angry. Ever since that TV show, I’ve been so enraged I’m afraid to go home at night and touch my wife. I’m afraid one night I’ll slash her to shreds and throw my entire life down the drain.
I need… I need a fix; I need something strong. I need to spend hours and hours with someone special. I need to go to the place where no one hears them scream, so I can make such a feast last.
I built that, you know, some three years ago. It was too easy. Got a piece of land in the middle of the woods, somewhere deep inside the glades, where no one ever ventures. Bought it in cash under a fake name. Got some undocumented workers to build a log cabin, then fed them to the gators when they were done.
Yes, I got that cabin. Now I need a quick fix, someone to take there for a couple of nights. I need to hunt tonight, tomorrow at the latest. I can be denied no more.
25
Rework
The pizza was long gone, after Fradella munched on the last remaining bits, and even Michowsky had finished the last cold slice left on his plate. The sun had set some time ago, and they were still going at it.
Fradella worked on the laptop, and the wall-mounted TV showed screen after screen of search results. Fires. Unsolved arson cases. Solved arson cases with single, underage offenders. Solved animal cruelty cases with underage offenders. Unsolved animal cruelty cases. Hundreds and hundreds of results clogged the screen, spanning more than twenty years. A digital haystack, with a potential needle somewhere in there for him to find.
Michowsky scribbled, pen on paper, a victimology matrix for the eight unsolved murder cases they’d shortlisted. Much of the information was old, only available in poorly digitized files or deeply buried paper files. Every question he tried to answer took forever. He sighed every few minutes, long, tormented sighs that sounded more and more like groans.
Tess still obsessed about the three cases Garza had rejected. She twisted the information in all directions, trying to make sense of how little they had. She kept adding new information to the victimology matrix, focusing on the women. After a few hours of digging, she concluded the only things the three women had in common were age range, marital status, and physical appearance. Not nearly enough. She needed more.
She ran the back of her hand across her forehead, as if to remove the tiredness, the mental fog that lurked in her brain. She needed a fresh approach.
“Maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong,” Tess said, breaking the enduring silence in the stale conference room.
The two men lifted their eyes from their work.
“What if we each take one of these three cases, and work them like it’s the first time we see them? I’m thinking we might get lucky; we might see something that we didn’t see before.”
“We’ve been through this,” Michowsky said. “You got nothing, and you keep going back, but you won’t find anything new.”
“I got nothing,” she admitted, and her shoulders hunched forward. “But I’m not giving up either.”
“No, we’re not giving up.” Fradella agreed. “What about this?” he asked, pointing at the wall-mounted screen.
“Yeah, keep going on that. I just—”
She stopped abruptly and turned toward the case board, hands firmly on her hips.
“Why don’t we do this? Gary, you worked the Watson and Meyer cases back then. Why don’t you take the Townsend now? I’ll take the Watson case, and Fradella will take the Meyer. This way, we’d all have a case we’ve never touched before.”
Michowsky scoffed angrily.
“Listen, this start-and-stop thing you got going on here is driving me crazy. Just a few hours ago, we started doing what you wanted. Todd’s doing the database searches, which is a great idea. I’m looking at no fewer than eight new cases. What, you think we’re done in three hours, and we need new assignments?”
She hated to admit it, but he had a valid point.
“All right, I get it,” she said. “You guys continue for now, but I’ll take the Watson case and start digging. Until Bill McKenzie comes in to help, I have little else to go on.”
“When’s he coming?” Fradella asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” she replied, unaware she frowned.
“So soon, huh?” Michowsky replied, also frowning. “What do you think he’s going to do?”
She paced the floor a little. That was a good question.
“Give us some perspective, I hope.”
They were all silent for a while, and Fradella had resumed the quick tapping on the laptop’s keyboard.
“Okay, so the Watsons,” Tess said. “What suspects did you look at?”
“It’s in the file,” Michowsky replied, visibly unhappy.
She shrugged and pushed the case file toward him in a silent invitation.
“There was no sign of forced entry,” he eventually said, after flipping through some of the pages and reading some of the notes. “We looked at people who knew the Watsons. We started with the business partner, Bradley Welsh.”
“And?”
“Clean as a whistle. No motive whatsoever. Airtight alibi, confirmed by several people. The company was in good shape. Plus, he would have known about Laura. The two families were very close. Family parties, trips together, the works. He would have known to kill her, especially if he were after the money, right?”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Tess replied.
“Not to mention the kid would have recognized him.”
“Yeah,” she replied, thoughtful. Michowsky came with solid a
rguments that made sense. “Who else did you look at?”
“I checked everyone I could think of. Neighbors, business enemies, competitors, friends, and personal acquaintances, everyone the Watsons knew. Nothing… No one had motives, and most people we looked at had airtight alibis.”
Her frown deepened. She needed a break, and she wasn’t getting one.
“How about any lawsuits? Anyone disgruntled enough?”
“Um… there was a lawsuit,” Michowsky said, checking the case file again. “A customer’s house caught fire from a WatWel ceiling lamp. No one was injured. They settled out of court, a few weeks before the Watsons died. That family moved to California and bought a new home in San Diego. Must have been one hell of a settlement.”
Tess felt a faint tug at her gut but couldn’t place it. Someone’s house burning is motive enough. Many things are lost in house fires, things money can’t make whole again. Memories… family photos, videos of departed loved ones. A life’s worth of emotional attachment to objects carrying precious meaning, sometimes more precious than the house itself.
“Did you check their alibis?”
“Whose?”
“The lawsuit customer and his family.”
“Yeah. They were seen having dinner in California, all of them, about the time of the Watson killings.”
“Unusual financial transactions?” Tess probed on, her gut still telling her she was on to something.
“Whose? Watson’s?” Michowsky asked.
“No, the lawsuit family.”
“There’s nothing there, Winnett, trust me. I looked.”
“No offense, Gary, but that’s not how I work a case. I have to verify. Did you check their financials for unusual transactions?”
He turned pale and pressed his lips.
“No. There wasn’t any reason to. They seemed okay with their new lives in San Diego. They’d traded up, if you were to ask me. Bigger house, fancier cars, better-paying jobs.”
