The Watson Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. The first stabbing, Rachel Watson, was done with a kitchen knife, a weapon of opportunity found at the scene. He didn’t come prepared for the stabbing, yet he came prepared for everything else. I can close my eyes and visualize the scene. He shoots everyone, then he stops short of shooting Rachel Watson. There, in front of him, he has a woman afraid for her life, trembling, pleading. A heady arousal for the power-assertive rapist. He grabs the knife instead, the biggest one in the knife block, and takes his time inserting the blade. He savors the penetration. How many stab wounds were there?”

  “Three,” Doc Rizza replied. “One was a little hesitant, but all were in the lower abdomen.”

  “She must have screamed and made him rush through the kill. For the Watson murders, I’d classify him as an organized killer and disorganized rapist, all in one.” He looked at the puzzled faces of all in attendance. “I see how that can be confusing. Think impulse shopping. You go to the market for vegetables, but you also bring home a pint of ice cream, and you hate yourself. Same psychology applies here. He enters the home and does what he came to do, but then he sees the temptation: a woman, screaming, pleading, weak, and subdued. He goes for it, without thinking.”

  “Huh,” Tess reacted, “interesting way to put it. But why not really rape her then? Why fake it with a knife? Is he impotent?”

  Bill turned to Doc Rizza.

  “Based on the evidence found during Emily Townsend’s postmortem, I’d be willing to bet he’s functional in that area.”

  “Maybe he needs chemical assistance to be that functional?” Fradella asked, slightly blushing.

  “Like what, Viagra?” Tess asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Tess conceded. “But people like that never leave home without the blue pill. I kind of struggle with it though; I can’t get it to make sense in my mind.”

  “Here’s another theory,” Bill offered. “What if he didn’t rape them because he was afraid of forensics? Of leaving evidence at the scene? What if instead of forgetting or needing the Viagra, he forgot the condoms?” He stopped talking and stared at the ceiling for a second, scratching his head. “Even with condoms, rape is messy. The rapist never knows if he hasn’t dropped a pubic hair somewhere at the scene, or a couple of drops of seminal fluid. Most rapists get caught because of the wealth of trace evidence we normally find at the scene and on the victims.”

  “That’s true,” Doc Rizza replied.

  “Jackie Meyer was stabbed multiple times and tortured for a few hours. With Emily Townsend, he prolonged the thrill and added a full-blown rape to the menu. My guess is he was afraid to rape the women until Emily Townsend, so he settled for substitute acts.”

  “Then you’re saying he killed because he was sexually frustrated that he couldn’t rape?”

  Bill remained thoughtful for a while before responding, rubbing his chin with his fingers.

  “It’s a theory,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s my turn to say it doesn’t ring true to me, somehow. Those shootings were too precise, too cold and emotionless. A sexually frustrated killer is disorganized and bloody. Kills while screaming his anger and makes his victims pay for his abstinence. This was different; execution style. I don’t think we understand his complex motive yet. Nor do we have any hint of what his trigger might have been.”

  “But you’re saying it’s possible he did start as a rapist then?”

  “Yes, one who most likely did time for his deeds and learned to be afraid of leaving trace evidence. What kind of trace was found at the Townsend case?”

  “Um, none, except for a single hair strand with a follicle attached,” Doc Rizza replied.

  “Did you run DNA on it?”

  “Back then we didn’t, because we had nothing to compare it against. Hair analysis showed it didn’t belong to any of the Townsends. I put it for approval, but then Garza was caught soon afterward and it was never done.”

  “Okay, let’s do it now,” Tess replied, a little edgy.

  “Sure,” Doc Rizza replied.

  Michowsky had been quiet the whole time. He fidgeted and hesitated, but eventually spoke, after clearing his throat.

  “We shortlisted eight unsolved murder cases and started looking at the facts again,” he said, pushing a pile of file folders toward Bill.

  “How did you shortlist?”

  “We looked at rape murders, similar MO, where the victim matches the physiognomy of these three women. All after Garza was caught. None of the earlier cases truly match.”

  “DNA anywhere? To match against the Townsend hair strand?”

  “No. The crime scenes were incredibly clean. I think he developed a method and perfected it,” Michowsky replied.

  “The only thing, and I just thought of it now, Doc, can you please see if any of these eight victims show signs of that, um, distended wound pattern?”

  “The what?” Bill asked.

  “I noted on Jackie Meyer’s medical examination that I saw an unusual skin distension pattern in one of the stab wounds,” Doc Rizza replied. “There was no trace left in the wound; but it was just as if someone had forced the wound open. And yes, I’ll check.”

  Bill frowned, but didn’t say anything for a few long seconds.

  “It could be part of a signature,” Bill eventually said. “I think we’re ready to sketch a preliminary profile. Let’s get the rest of the team together,” he said, then grabbed the Meyer file and opened it to the autopsy report. “I wonder what he did,” he mumbled to himself.

  Then he closed the case file and stood, took a last sip of his coffee, and threw the empty cup in the trash can.

  “Large decaf drip, no milk, no sugar,” Tess blurted out.

  He turned, smiling. “How?”

  “Here? Now?” she gestured at Michowsky, Fradella, and Doc Rizza. All three men seemed intrigued by the cryptic exchange.

  “Yeah, let’s hear it,” Bill encouraged her.

  “Size was identical with mine, so no profiling there; just logic. Then I noticed you have a bit of hypertension, your face, and sometimes your neck turns red. Yet you spoke passionately about coffee, which means you still love it, the taste, the smell. So, I went with decaf drip, because you were also a bit dismissive of people who go for mocha lattes or other gourmet, pretentious brews, and because you’re always so direct and uncomplicated. A simple, drip kind of guy. As for no milk, no sugar, I can probably be safe betting there isn’t a single ounce of fat on your body, and that doesn’t happen without sacrifices.”

  She rushed through her explanation, embarrassed to bring up Bill’s hypertension and body fat in front of other people. She had a talent for backing herself into corners from where there was no elegant way out.

  He didn’t seem to care; he smiled and nodded once, appreciatively.

  “You know, there’s an opening on the profiling team at Quantico,” he said. “I could put in a good word.”

  Her smile died, and she looked away.

  “Not now,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice. “I…can’t. You know why.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, then walked out.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Fradella asked in a high-pitched tone, the moment Bill disappeared. “I’d die for that opportunity.”

  She stared at him, unable to find a good answer.

  In the squad room, everyone was assembling, ready for SSA Bill McKenzie to formulate a preliminary profile. She thought hard and couldn’t remember a single time when Bill, or any other profiler, had attempted to release a profile without fully understanding the serial killer’s motive.

  31

  The Profile

  The squad room was filling fast with many unfamiliar faces. Most people remained standing, waiting for the briefing to begin. Tess shot Michowsky an inquisitive glance.

  “We’ve called Miami-Dade and Broward Counties to attend, considering the killer’s footprint.”

&
nbsp; “Ah, that’s great,” she replied, a bit frustrated she hadn’t thought about that herself. She’d been preoccupied with Laura Watson; the investigation progressed slowly, and no one had yet managed to secure approval for placing Laura in protective custody. While she was out there, her life was in danger.

  Tess had an idea of how she could force the issue; it wasn’t elegant, but it could yield the result she was hoping for. She thought of asking Bill McKenzie to issue the order, right there, in front of a squad room full of cops. She frowned and bit her lip. Saying it wasn’t elegant was an understatement. She’d be forcing Bill into taking that action, right after he’d been so good to her. She’d prove to everyone she was the bitch they all accused her of being.

  She let a long, pained groan escape; she hated situations like these. Such circumstances had earned her the reputation she was trying to outgrow, that she didn’t care about anyone other than herself and her work. She did care; she cared about Laura Watson, and she couldn’t get her terrified face out of her mind. If only they’d be any closer to identifying The Chameleon.

  “Hello, everyone, and thank you for joining us,” Bill said, his voice commanding instant silence over the clamor-filled room. “We’re ready to release a partial profile in the following murder cases: Watson, Meyer, and Townsend. These names might not sound familiar; they are old cases, previously attributed to Kenneth Garza.”

  A wave of whispers and muffled sounds rose as the law-enforcement officers present processed the information and its implications.

  “For obvious reasons, you are not to discuss what you learn outside this room,” Bill continued. “No media whatsoever. A person’s life might be at stake: Laura Watson, the Watson family murder survivor. Please take this matter very seriously. We have reasons to believe the unsub continued killing after the apprehension of Kenneth Garza and might still be active in the Miami–Fort Lauderdale–Palm Beach area.” He cleared his throat quietly, then pointed at Fradella. “Detective Todd Fradella has maps showing his activity, and the eight, additional, unsolved, cold cases we are reopening. He’ll share those with you.”

  Tess watched the detectives’ reactions to Bill’s statement. Most shook their heads in disbelief; it was hard for them to admit there was a serial killer at large in their backyards, without them suspecting anything. But that story wasn’t new; with most prolific serial killers in history, the story played the same way. Cold cases, unsolved murders, missing persons never found, and then suddenly, a serial killer surfaced that made it all come together and make sense.

  “This man is highly organized and has a high degree of self-control. He’s white. He was at least in his mid-twenties fifteen years ago, when the Watson family was killed. That makes him anywhere between forty and fifty years old today,” Bill said.

  The audience had stopped fidgeting and whispering and was taking notes.

  “He could pass for an average, middle-class man. He emulated Kenneth Garza’s MO to the point that he was successful at deceiving law enforcement and was never suspected for these murders until now. That makes him acutely intelligent, with one of the highest degrees of self-control I’ve seen. He might have a record for rape, a single conviction, followed by an impeccable record thereafter, because this man learns. He might have been suspected in a rape case, but never convicted. Either case, he’s integrated into society and could be a successful, well-adjusted man. He could be married, even have children.”

  Bill paused, allowing everyone to get caught up with their notes.

  “The murders are spanning a large period, demonstrating he has a high degree of impulse control. During the seven years he was able to emulate The Family Man, he only killed three families that we know of. We’re still trying to establish his first kill; once we do, we’ll understand his motives better. The Watson family doesn’t seem like it could have been the first, considering the amount of careful preparation he’d done. Almost perfectly executed, but nevertheless, one survived.”

  Some of the detectives lifted their eyes from their notepads. One of them raised his hand hesitantly. “Um, you’re just describing an average, middle-class, white man. How is this going to help us?”

  Bill didn’t seem fazed by the question. “I realize that; please keep in mind this is a preliminary profile. Detectives Michowsky and Fradella will continue to work with Special Agent Winnett to refine this profile. As they do, they will communicate with you.” He took a quick breath, then continued. “Laura Watson’s regression sessions might hold some interesting answers.”

  He looked at the law enforcement in attendance, inviting more questions. “This man is a power-assertive, sexual sadist, with a strong lust motivation. Look through earlier unsolved rapes, disputed cases that have been attributed to other offenders but didn’t really fit their profiles. Look for later cases, where the sexual factor is more prevalent, as in prolonged rape with torture, ending in death.”

  Bill invited more question with a hand gesture. Tess shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with what she was about to do. She decided to wait though, and she weighed the far-more-decent option to ask Bill privately to put in a word with SAC Pearson for Laura’s protective custody.

  “If this gets out, we’re going to look like a bunch of jokers,” a younger detective from the back said. “People will freak out.”

  “More reason to be careful about sharing any information until the unsub is caught. Only then we’ll issue a statement; not a moment earlier.”

  “Maybe it’s just me, but shouldn’t we be concerned for Laura Watson’s life?”

  Tess smiled widely; she felt like hugging the older detective in the first row who’d brought it up.

  Bill shot her a surprised glance, and her smile instantly disappeared.

  “As far as we know, the unsub isn’t aware we’ve reopened these cases. The only concern comes from Laura’s statement on television regarding her decision to undergo regression therapy with a new, groundbreaking methodology. However,” he continued, raising his hand to quiet the raising wave of murmurs, “there are hundreds of TV channels. The likelihood of the unsub having seen that TV show and feeling threatened by it is very slim, in my opinion. If we’re careful, and don’t leak any information to the media, Laura Watson’s risk will remain relatively low.”

  The detective who’d asked the question didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, and neither was Tess. What was wrong with everybody? Well, almost everybody. Why didn’t they see? If she were the unsub, she’d have already taken care of the one person who could throw her in jail. The only good thing Laura had going for her at the time was that she wasn’t dead yet. Since when was that a good thing?

  “Thank you, everyone,” Bill announced. “As soon as we have more, we’ll let you know.” He turned to Tess and continued, in a lower tone of voice. “Call anytime. Glad to help.”

  Then he turned to leave, but Tess grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “Can you please put in a good word with Pearson to get Laura into custody?” She realized she was still clutching his sleeve and abruptly let it go. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  He studied her tense face for a second, then smiled. “Sure, I’ll make a call.” He turned and left without another word, while she continued to worry.

  Fradella and Michowsky approached, and the three of them walked back into the conference room.

  “That went well,” Michowsky said. “We know so much more now,” he scoffed.

  “We do know a few things more,” Tess replied. “No need for sarcasm there.”

  “What if Gary and I start looking at everyone with that profile, either one rape charge, or former rape suspect, and start building a list?” Fradella offered.

  “That will come back with tens of thousands of names,” Michowsky said, looking defeated.

  “You know that’s the way it always starts,” Tess replied, more hopeful than convinced. “A long list, then we filter. We cross it against age, race, and maybe, if we’re lucky,
he might have been bedwetting too late in his life and it’s on record somewhere.”

  “I thought medical records were confidential,” Michowsky muttered.

  “They… are,” she conceded, then clammed up, unwilling to go there.

  She felt tired and defeated, after a whole day spent with very little progress. She felt she was losing ground, rather than gaining. She felt she was missing critical information, and not looking in the only direction she should have, from the very beginning.

  “Sounds good to me,” Fradella replied. “Gary and I will get to it, and—”

  “How about you help me find out who can deliver a sophisticated, catered dinner to a remote place like Raiford?”

  Michowsky sprung to his feet and took two steps, stopping within a foot of her, and propped his hands on his hips.

  “You can’t be serious,” he almost yelled in her face. “He’ll kill you!”

  A couple of people raised their heads and looked at them through the glass wall.

  “Nah… he won’t. He just wants to play family dinner. That’s his thing,” Tess replied. Her mind was already made up.

  “With dead people!” Gary shouted. “Not to mention showing him the crime scene photos? Don’t those people deserve more respect than having a death-row inmate jerk off at the sight of their bodies?”

  “Gary… Garza isn’t the jerk-off kind of serial killer. There’s no sexual component in his killings. There never was.” She paused, then touched his arm in a pacifying gesture. “I’ve got no other option. Maybe he’ll give us something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I don’t know what, but something that could shed some light.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Michowsky repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Feel free to come and sit in the observation room,” she conceded.

  “You bet I will, gun in hand,” he replied, almost making her smile. He liked to play the protective male partner, despite all their differences.