by Leslie Wolfe
“Yes, a twenty-three-year-old store clerk who matches every criterion to the letter, except,” Michowsky flipped though some notes, “she was stabbed once, in the heart. No torture, no rape. Her grandmother was also stabbed, in the neck. Weapon is a match to The Chameleon’s favorite blade. The old lady pushed a button on her medical alarm bracelet before dying.”
“It doesn’t fit,” Tess said, thoughtful. “He would have known about the grandmother. Don’t tell me she was new to the home too.”
Both Michowsky and Fradella nodded vigorously.
“That’s Shirley,” Fradella said, and displayed the image on the TV screen. She fit The Chameleon’s type to perfection.
“So, he was surprised by Grandma when he was just getting started, huh? When was that?”
“Just four years ago. Emergency responders took seven minutes to get there, so he must have just run away. They didn’t see anyone. He just vanished.”
Tess examined the case board again, feeling her frustration climb.
“Please tell me there is some trace evidence found at these crime scenes. Something, anything. DNA, hair, fibers, anything?”
Michowsky and Doc Rizza shook their heads, seeming just as frustrated as she was.
“How the hell does one do that?” she muttered, more to herself.
“Have you seen the movie Gattaca?” Fradella answered. “That’s what I’m thinking he did. Scraped, scrubbed, and shaved every inch of his body.”
“You’re probably right,” Tess replied. “It’s also possible he has access to forensics equipment and information. Crime scene coveralls with hood, hair covers, boot covers, the works.”
“Anyone can get those online,” Fradella replied. “The disposable ones are dirt cheap.”
She rolled her eyes and groaned. “We need a break, guys, come on.”
Michowsky frowned.
“By the way, great job with this,” Tess added quickly and watched Michowsky’s frown subside. “Todd, what numbers have you been crunching?”
“I entered the profile data into DIVS; one conviction for rape or rape suspect who was never indicted, age bracket between forty and fifty, Caucasian, successfully integrated, and so on. DIVS rewarded me with 788 males fitting the profile.”
“Did you file against known arsonists? Bedwetters? Animal cruelty charges? How about sealed juvie records?”
“Whoa…” Fradella replied, laughing. “Yeah, just let me tell you about it. We crossed with juvie, petty arsonists who either weren’t charged or records were sealed. Your analyst, Donovan, wasn’t that happy to hear you asked him to help, but he did deliver.”
“I asked him to help?”
Fradella looked at her sheepishly.
“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Tess replied, laughing. Fradella had initiative and got the job done, at the cost of a white lie that didn’t matter. She liked Fradella more and more.
“Out of the 788, only 5 are left, if we add petty arson to the mix.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Nope, not even close. Based on what I’ve seen so far, these five men never crossed paths with the Watsons.” Fradella ran his hand through his hair. “Michowsky and I will round them up anyway, speak with them.”
“There was another guy who surfaced; someone who sued Watson, then his estate, a few times, all bogus claims,” Michowsky added.
“Who?”
“A hotel owner who went belly up; he claimed Watson recommended the wrong model of wall sconces and that was what killed his business. Then he claimed Watson had an affair with his ex-wife and planned to ruin him. He filed that one a year after Watson died. Then another far-fetched claim against his estate, stating Watson had promised he’d feature his hotel in some magazine, but didn’t. Got thrown out of court.”
“Bring him in; let’s hear his story,” Tess replied, feeling invigorated. A business going bust could be the trigger that created a serial killer.
“He’s, uh, sixty-five now, Latino, and overweight. No rape charge in his past, nothing, just petty stuff and bad business skills. He doesn’t fit the profile, not a single point,” Michowsky replied, letting his discouragement show.
“Bring him in, anyway. I want to know what fueled his hate for Allen Watson,” Tess replied. “Apparently, no one else hated him.”
She looked at the three men, noticing again how tired and drawn they looked. She hadn’t caught more than three hours of sleep the past few nights. They’d worked for two days running, and for what? They still had nothing. Except…
“Garza was right,” Tess said “This unsub, The Chameleon, doesn’t know who he is, or what he wants. He’s evolving, just like Garza said. He’s exploring.”
“Do you think he stopped? After Shirley Freeman and her grandmother?” Fradella asked. “We’ve found nothing else since then. Do you think he got caught? For something else, maybe?”
“No,” Tess replied, thoughtful. “He didn’t stop; not after getting this good. Not after getting used to the kill, to the smell of blood.”
“BTK stopped,” Fradella said, not lifting his eyes from the computer screen.
“I’m impressed with your knowledge, Todd,” Tess replied. “But something tells me this unsub didn’t stop. He can’t stop. I feel it in my gut.” She paused for a second. “I know he’s out there, somewhere. He’s not dead, and he’s not in jail. I know it.”
She half-expected them to snicker or at least scoff dismissively at her remarks, but none of them did.
“Then what happened? Why can’t we find any sign of his handiwork for the past three years?”
She bit her lip, thinking hard. How does someone like The Chameleon continue killing, without anyone even knowing about it? What would she do if she were him?
She shuddered, repressing the gruesome images that invaded her mind. “It’s simple, really,” she replied eventually. “He got that much better. He figured out a way to kill without worrying about unexpected grandmas or dogs anymore. I’m willing to bet that some of the missing-person cases with matching physiognomy victims are his. He’s built himself a den somewhere. His own, private torture chambers.”
“We’ll never find it,” Fradella replied immediately, voicing Tess’s inner fears.
“Maybe we will,” she replied. “We’ve got one shot, and that’s Laura Watson’s regression sessions.”
“Really?” Fradella scoffed. “That’s all we got? Then we’re so screwed.”
“What, you expect Laura to dream up the guy’s name and social security number?” Michowsky asked bitterly.
“I’ve got a better question for you,” Tess replied. “Admitting that I’m right, and he’s still out there killing, why is Laura Watson still alive?”
38
Reflections: Lady Luck
Now that we agree you and I are not that different after all, I think I can answer your last question: how did I become who I am today? How can I enjoy my numerous, sophisticated feasts undisturbed, without leaving even the tiniest trace behind?
The final phase of my becoming started with a young lass by the name of Shirley Freeman, a store clerk who took her sweet time packing my groceries, while she smiled, batted her long lashes at me, and looked sideways with each can of tomato juice she dropped in that paper bag. She flirted with me shamelessly, with me, a man twice her age, wearing his wedding band in plain view, and shopping for tampons, among other things. I figured she’d be willing… well, at least up to some point. I sized her up, and, happy with what I saw, I decided she was going to be my next feast.
Only then I smiled back at her, and she blushed delightfully, like a Jonagold apple touched by the rays of the sun.
I did my research thoroughly during the next couple of months. I soon knew everything there was to know about her, or so I believed. I remember thinking how her house seemed way above her pay grade, an isolated home in a nice neighborhood, but, then again, people inherit things all the time. Her paycheck probably covered the taxes and the utilities for tha
t property, but not a whole lot more. Her car, though, seemed more in line with her social status, confirming the hypothesis of an inheritance, and one of some emotional value that she didn’t want to part ways with.
On the scheduled day, when all records had me traveling for business in Jacksonville, I landed in her living room ready for my feast, armed with a full kit of accessories I had learned, over the years, to pack and bring along. Large trash-can liners. Cable ties. Duct tape. Coveralls and booties, to prevent any hair or fiber to stray behind. All that and more, packed handsomely in a duffel bag I dropped quietly on the carpet the second I stepped into the house.
I looked around for her, and she was nowhere in sight. The main floor, an overly decorated open concept, proved to be a challenge. As I snuck around the dining room cupboard, a ghastly shriek froze the blood in my veins. Instantly, I turned around and saw her there, drawing breath to shriek again. I leapt forward and managed to tackle her, then covered her mouth while I crushed her with my weight. She pounded her feet against the floor and wouldn’t subside until I pulled my blade and brought it within an inch of her widened eyes. Only then she quieted down.
But it was too damn late. In the living room door, clasping the doorjamb for balance and searching the room with the eyes of an eagle mother, stood a frail, old woman. When she saw me and our eyes locked, I read in there a death sentence. Mine. Without saying a word, the hag let go of the doorjamb and pressed the emergency button on her medical alert bracelet, time and again. Within seconds, the phone rang.
I had no choice.
Even now, as I look back, I realize that I had absolutely no choice than to do what I did that day. In the back of my head danced the forever-unanswered question, “How was that possible?” I had stood in that very home just days before, when Shirley was at work, and no one was there. No one, and not a trace of anyone else living with Shirley. How was it possible?
The same unanswered questions circled my brain, as my blade plunged into Shirley’s chest, silencing her forever. As she stopped squirming, the old shrew screamed, not too loudly, and made a feeble attempt to get to the front door. I reached her with two large steps and grabbed her by the arm, to stop her before she could reach the doorknob, while the phone continued to ring.
The voicemail system picked up, and I heard a young man confirming that they’d already dispatched an emergency crew, that should reach the address within five minutes.
Damn! I was trapped in there, with one dead woman, and another one who was dying and saw it coming, with blue, watery eyes wide open.
But I wasn’t caught yet.
I gasped as I raised my arm holding the knife and lowered it forcefully, aiming for the woman’s chest. She turned unexpectedly, and my blade sliced her throat instead, severing both her carotid and jugular.
Then I knew… when Lady Luck decides to be a bitch, there’s no bigger bitch on the face of this earth.
The old bat must have had skyrocketing blood pressure; otherwise, I just can’t explain the arterial spray that burst all the way to the ceiling and drenched me in blood, head to toe. I grabbed my duffel bag, ran to the back door, and I slipped and fell twice on the slick hardwood until I was on firmer ground, outside, in the dusk-shrouded garden.
I heard sirens in the distance, approaching fast. I rushed to the street, chose the dark side of it, and ran without raising my eyes from the ground, clutching my precious duffel bag to my chest. I had two blocks to run to my car, and I remember thinking just how smart I’d been to park in a dark, unsecured parking lot that night, although typically I tend to be overprotective toward my new Lexus SUV. You never know who trolls those neighborhoods, right?
I didn’t run into anyone on my way to the car, and the emergency crews entered the street after I had turned the corner and was well out of sight. Maybe Lady Luck was starting to smile again.
Safely behind the wheel of my car, I pushed the ignition button and drove away, stopping at every stop sign, and yielding to every pedestrian. Then, while I waited for a red light to turn green, the driver in the car next to mine gave me a stare, and I froze. I looked at my hands, my face in the mirror, the steering wheel, my clothes… all covered in blood spatter, appearing dark brownish in the dim streetlight.
I managed a smile and a quick nod to the other driver. He smiled back and looked away. Some people are such idiots… but that worked well for me. Then I disappeared into the Glades, taking the shortest route out of the city I could think of, then losing myself on some small roads.
Deep in the darkness of the forest, I finally dared to turn on the interior light in my car and look at myself.
Nope, Lady Luck remained an unforgiving, pre-menstruating bitch.
I was soaked in drying blood, and so was my car. Everything I’d touched was stained. The cream-colored, perforated leather seats, the carpeting, the door, most of the center console controls. A forensics death sentence.
Where could I go like that? Really, where?
I couldn’t go home, and explain the state of affairs to my wife. She might be loyal and loving, but I think even that has its limits. I couldn’t check in to a hotel, looking like that. There was nowhere I could go.
I thought of many scenarios, one more far-fetched than the other, as my overheated brain kept spinning in circles and arriving at the same conclusion.
I was finished.
39
Outcomes
Tess watched a poorly digitized recording of an old interrogation tape with Kenneth Garza, shot in an unfamiliar interview room. The light was too dim for the recording to be very clear, and she squinted and approached the wall-mounted TV to see more detail.
At the forefront, she could see the upper back and the head of an unknown investigator. He was balding at the top of his head, and his heavyset frame didn’t remind her of anyone she knew. She checked the email from Donovan, who had done her a huge favor and dug up all the Garza interviews, digitized them, and arranged them in chronological order. He had labeled this one as, “Detective McKinley—Miami-Dade, Kenneth Garza, re. Watson murders.” It was the same McKinley, the detective who’d passed away shortly thereafter, who had worked the Townsend case.
Tess turned up the volume and followed the exchange between the two men with curiosity, biting at her index fingernail. A younger, but just as relaxed and accepting Garza was replying to questions in a calm tone, giving quick, almost monosyllabic answers. They went through several case files like that, then McKinley presented Garza with the Watson murder file. Garza quickly reacted, by saying, “I don’t know who these people are.” McKinley pushed back, refusing to believe him.
They argued for a while, with Garza offering to take a polygraph, then asking McKinley what reason would he have to lie, when he’d already confessed to tens of murders. But logic got him nowhere with Detective McKinley, who obstinately insisted The Family Man had killed the Watsons too. He even taunted Garza about The Watson Girl, saying, “It must have made you feel like a fool, leaving that girl alive like that.” Garza didn’t flinch; he just stated calmly he didn’t care one way or another, because he’d never seen those people before in his life.
Garza tried one last time, telling McKinley he wanted the record set straight for the sake of truth and honesty, but McKinley laughed in his face, and Garza called him a moron, just as calmly. Then Garza took to studying all the case photos included in the Watson file. On the low-resolution video, Tess thought she could see Garza’s lips twisting in a faint, intrigued smile, as he went through the photos, one by one.
The recording ended, leaving the screen dark and the conference room quiet. That video had shown Tess exactly how the three cases were unsolved for so many years, how a serial killer was left to his own devices to continue killing for years. First Michowsky, then McKinley—they both rushed through cases, ignoring evidence and turning away from logic and common sense. Too late to dwell on that now, but she found herself wondering if there was anything else they’d missed.
&nbs
p; The phone disrupted her fruitless introspection; it was Dr. Jacobs. She picked up immediately. “Dr. Jacobs,” she greeted the caller.
“Agent Winnett,” Dr. Jacobs replied. “You asked me to call with anything. I’m not sure if this is something relevant or not. I’ve scheduled another session with Laura Watson this morning, and it didn’t yield much more than before. It followed yesterday’s pattern quite closely, making me believe this could be everything we could hope to learn from this.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Tess replied, frowning and scratching her forehead.
“It seems to me the few things she remembers are incoherent. For example, there are some questions I’d like answered. She was found in a bathroom in the dark. Who turned off that light? Was it always off? She doesn’t go there, no matter how hard I try. However, she remembers the doorbell ring, and, in regressive state, she imitates the door chime like children normally do. Then she becomes frantic and breaks down crying, screaming, ‘no, no, bad; no, no, bad, no.’ She sobs uncontrollably, so I must end the sessions, always at the same point. If we could somehow go beyond that point, then maybe we—”
“What do you make of that, Dr. Jacobs?”
“Remember we’re talking about a traumatized five-year-old girl. In regressive states, it’s normal for patients to talk and act like they did back then, in a mirroring, or reenacting of what they did, or saw others do during the traumatic events. Laura talks with her five-year-old voice, and says things that a five-year-old would normally say under duress. Sadly, I couldn’t get anywhere else with her; not yet, anyway. I’ll keep trying, but—”
“Do you have recordings?” Tess asked, still staring absently into the dark TV screen. “Videos of these sessions?”
Dr. Jacobs hesitated a little.
“Yes, I do, but I would have to get her permission to share them with you.”
“Please do that, and fast,” Tess asked. “After that TV show, we can’t be sure he won’t—”
