by Leslie Wolfe
The elevator chime had alerted the crowd and they rushed forward, stopping at the locked glass doors. Pearson signaled them from the distance with a raised hand, urging them to wait patiently, as the two hastened toward the front lobby. The moment Pearson stepped into that lobby, the clamor of cameras and questions erupted.
One voice rose above everyone else’s.
“Agent Pearson, we heard that The Family Man didn’t kill the Watson family. Is that true? Is it true he’s going after The Watson Girl?”
Pearson held both his hands up and outward, in a gesture aiming to quiet the clamor enough to make himself heard. “We have no evidence to substantiate such a claim. You are…?”
“I am sure Agent Winnett believes differently,” the reporter continued, unfazed. She was a quick, bold woman with a crooked, all-knowing smile that drove Tess crazy.
“And how, might I ask, have you acquired this information?” Pearson asked, not before casting a quick, disappointed glance in Tess’s direction. She stood right by his side, holding her head up, and her face cast in stone.
“A little birdie told me, sir. You know, the bird species protected by the First Amendment?” The reporter’s crooked smile widened.
“Where was this bird singing? At least that much you could share?”
“In one of many hospital hallways,” the reporter offered. “Now it’s your turn, sir. Is it true?”
Pearson pursed his lips before continuing. “It’s a theory we’ve explored, nothing more. Not even a viable one, for that matter.”
“Agent Winnett?” the reporter asked, shoving a fuzzy microphone in her face. “It’s our duty to consider any possible theory, especially when the man thought responsible for the murders is about to be executed.”
“Will he get a stay?” another reporter asked, a short, balding man with a stentorian voice.
“No, we’re not asking for one,” Tess replied dryly. “He confessed to killing thirty-two families. His execution will take place as scheduled.”
The clamor picked up a notch.
“Why thirty-two?” the stentorian voice asked. “I had him down for thirty-four, and if he didn’t kill the Watsons, then that would be thirty-three? Your numbers don’t add up, Agent Winnett.”
“Shit, Winnett,” Pearson muttered.
45
Trapped
The first light of dawn had burned through some of the darkness, making its way inside the cabin through a small window and countless cracks in the walls, where the logs didn’t align properly. She was grateful for every bit of daylight she could get, after a terrifying night spent chained to the wall, seeing nothing, hearing the constant chirping of insects and croaking of frogs.
Through a haze, she recalled being hit on the back of her head, out of the blue, when she’d stopped to check on a flat tire. She didn’t see anyone coming; she’d just felt the blow, then nothing. Nothing, until she woke up as the man who took her tore her clothes off and chained her to the wall.
She remembered begging him and crying endless tears, but he didn’t budge. He just went through with stripping her naked, but then left her there, alone. Before he disappeared, he caressed her face, tugged gently at her hair, then told her, “Wait for me, my darling girl. You’ll be… electrifying, you’ll see.” Then he licked his thumb, where he’d wiped her tears, tasting her pain.
It was already dark outside when he left, and he turned the light off, leaving her to scream in complete darkness and tugging desperately at her chains, while her mind imagined hordes of snakes and spiders crawling on the humid floor and all over her body. She screamed and screamed until she was breathless, then stopped, with her throat raw and her mind darkened by a panic so brutal it numbed her. She let herself slip into nothingness and spent most of the night half-faint, sobbing every time she came to, only to faint again later, exhausted. Then she realized; there was no one outside to hear her. Otherwise, the man would have taped her mouth shut.
The first light of day brought some relief to her fears. As soon as she could see clearly enough, she noticed there weren’t any snakes or spiders near her. A wolf spider’s luminescent eyes stared at her from a few feet away, sheltered under the bed. She followed the spider with her eyes, only to notice the floor was stained, right next to the bedposts.
She crawled as close to the bed as the chains let her and studied the stains.
“Oh, no; oh, no,” she started to cry. “Oh, God, no; please don’t let that be blood.”
She sobbed, hugging her knees and leaning against the damp wall, forcing her eyes shut to block out the disturbing image of the dried bloodstain on the floor. Her imagination ran wild with scenarios of how that blood got there. When she opened her eyes again, the log cabin was flooded with the morning light, revealing even more details of her prison.
She was in hell, a real, tangible hell run by a sick, gruesome man.
Two of the walls were lined with all sorts of objects, hanging in a horrific display of torture implements, some reminding her of the medieval Dark Ages. Floggers, whips, belts, canes, handcuffs, all sorts of dildos, and spreader bars, arranged neatly and ready for use. A wooden cross hung from the ceiling, fitted with cuffs, and attached to a chain that could easily raise or lower it as needed. On the other wall, a collection of blades was on display, from the finest, smallest of scalpels, to full-sized military and hunting knives.
Her wide-opened eyes took all that horror in, her heart battering against her chest, as she understood she was trapped in there, with no way out. Then she screamed again, even if she knew no one would ever hear her.
46
Reflections: A Glossy Feather
Could someone please tell me, how can I be rid of The Watson Girl? What the hell is wrong with her? She escaped me, fifteen years ago, and now she managed to live, after a professional hit went down? What the hell? Is she a cat, or something? Has nine fucking lives?
Yes, I’m livid, ever since last night, when I heard about her accident when I was traveling for business, setting up my alibi for my feast with lovely Monica. I should have heard about her death instead.
What makes it worse is I’m constantly haunted by fantasies, by this intense urge to possess Laura’s body completely. I close my eyes and I see her, not Monica, naked and chained against my log cabin’s wall, waiting for me to return, imagining what I would do to her. I’m aching to hear her take a last gasp of air as I plunge my—
I need to stop that, right this second. It could never happen; she’s too dangerous a kill.
She’s ruined everything for me, Laura. I lived fifteen years wondering if her memory would ever return. I agonized year after year, watching her grow into my wildest, most consuming fantasy, and ripening into the forbidden fruit I could never enjoy.
Finally, after fifteen years of torment, she was supposed to be dead, while I celebrated the news with the next best thing I could find, to help me get over the frustration I feel about not being able to touch her. Now I’m so angry, I’m afraid I could make mistakes. I just ran a red light, minutes ago, and stupid shit like that can get me busted.
I hate feeling like this, tense, on edge, hunted. Predators like me are never afraid. I don’t fret about it, I only get more careful about what I want to do, that’s all. Fear doesn’t rule me; it never has.
From another point of view, I can’t believe what a lame hitman I hired. In my defense, it’s not like I could get on Yellow Pages and browse the ads and check references. Murder for hire is a tricky business. Every time I asked around, I risked my life. Then, finally, I got to the source, some dark web directory of, um, let’s call them unofficial services, and I found someone willing to talk to me.
He had a long list of instructions for how to proceed. I had to buy a new, cheap computer, pay for it with cash, and connect to the Internet from public Wi-Fi, in a busy place with lots of traffic. I had to pay him in bitcoin, and getting that much bitcoin was another challenge. Finally, he quoted me fifty grand, but then tripled the price when he saw
who the mark was. Said if he’d get caught, he’d go down for the entire family’s murder, not just Laura’s, and there was no negotiating with him. All right, one hundred and fifty grand, in untraceable cash, half before, half after. A pile of dough, to rob me of the pleasure of killing Laura, slowly, to my heart’s desire.
Then he fails? Seriously?
I got in touch with him early this morning, and he didn’t even apologize. He said he’ll keep going until the job gets done, but he needs to let some time pass until he can try again, that is if I still want things to look accidental.
I had no choice; I agreed and let him off the hook, momentarily. Later, once the job is finally done, I’ll take care of him. I’ll find him, don’t worry. Anonymous logins and bitcoin can’t keep someone hidden from me, when I’m actually looking. Then I won’t kill him; not right away. I think I mentioned before that killing men doesn’t do it for me, not even as revenge for having me endure all this… anticipation. I don’t get anxiety; but I do get impatient, and I do have deadlines he completely missed. He’s history; he just doesn’t know it yet.
For that, for all the angst I’m suffering right now, he’ll have to watch. If he’s ever loved anything or anyone in his lame existence, he’ll have to sit there, bound and gagged, and watch me destroy it, slowly, painfully, making it last, making it memorable. At the very end, I’ll take mercy on his soul and put his lights out with one bullet to the head. He’s not even worth the touch of my blade. Fucking bastard.
That aside, there was a piece of mixed news this morning. I watched the TV in my Tampa hotel room and saw a breaking-news segment. The bad part was that the FBI suspects Garza didn’t kill the Watsons, and they might suspect more. The really good part is that apparently the only FBI agent who does suspect that is a woman, Tess Winnett. She’s local, here, in Miami.
She looks good. Maybe a little old for my taste; she’s around thirty. But she’s a fine-looking creature; blonde, thin, and her blue eyes can be loaded with such passion.
Her boss seemed to be eager to close this so-called fact-checking thing Winnett is doing; but she’s pushing back. She cut him off in front of the cameras. I swear to you, if you’d do that to me, they’d never find your body.
That made me think… Cops die all the time, and whenever one bites it, a long list of people they put behind bars would be suspected, before they consider other scenarios. Before anyone even correlates her death with the Watson case. They wouldn’t dream it was me.
What if this Agent Winnett—no, let’s call her Tess. She and I will get intimately acquainted soon. Again, what if Tess died? I don’t think anyone would be so eager to pick up her work where she left off, right? The rest of the feds would be busy investigating her death and forget all about Garza, especially after he fries next week.
Of course, that won’t take care of Laura, but I can’t touch her, to my utmost regret. I keep saying that… It’s my obsession. While Laura’s waiting for what’s coming to her, those shrink sessions might still yield some surprises, but is that a valid risk? I think that if she had anything locked in that brain of hers, she would have remembered by now. I heard that she’s been doing sessions daily and still nothing. I think I’m good there, at least for a while.
I also believe that if I focus on Tess Winnett, the shrink will send Laura packing the moment she hears the investigation got unhealthy for one of the participants. I could always help that Dr. Jacobs see the truth with an anonymous phone call or something.
FBI Special Agent Tess Winnett. Now that’s a lush feather for my cap. As I’m starting to think about it, to plan it, I feel aroused, incited. A worthy adversary, one who would fight me like none other.
I shift in my seat and crank up the car’s AC a couple of notches. I won’t get to enjoy Monica until later tonight, but just thinking of Tess gives me a massive, almost painful hard-on.
47
Roadblocks
Tess felt a headache starting to grip her skull with an iron clench. She rubbed her forehead vigorously, hoping to scare away the pain, then took a bite from a stale donut, the last one left in a box Fradella had picked up on his way in, early that morning.
It had been a hectic, infuriating day, filled with dead ends and roadblocks. By the time Fradella was arriving at the office carrying donuts and coffee, she’d already started her day with an unscheduled meeting with SAC Pearson at the FBI headquarters, followed by a less-than-fortunate press conference. After that had mercifully ended, the subsequent conversation she’d had with a fuming Pearson had taken another two hours. He wanted to know every single detail of the case and had countless questions about every conclusion she’d drawn and every assumption she’d made.
She’d been angry and disheartened the whole time during their talk, mostly with herself and her inability to get ahead in her investigation. Not to mention the slip of the tongue with Garza’s case count in front of the press, which led to a crossfire with the reporters she didn’t expect she’d survive.
Then SAC Pearson surprised her, by quoting statistics on cold cases she already knew. Four percent, nationwide, was the clearance rate for all cold cases, regardless of which law enforcement unit investigated them. Of course, local numbers varied somewhat, but overall, nationally, that was it: 4 percent. Most of the cold case success stories she’d read about were due to the scientific advancements in forensic science and little else.
She had DNA on her side now, although DNA had also been there to help investigators fifteen years earlier. Another major reason for unsolved cases was tunnel vision, and she’d encountered that in all three family murders. The previous investigators refused to consider all possible suspects, just because Garza had been conveniently available. As for the other nine cold cases on the board, they stood in testimony of the less-than-stellar national clearance case for murder cases in general: about 65 percent. Most people have no idea that one third of killers get away with it, in modern-day America.
Well, not when she’s on the case. While SAC Pearson quoted the statistics, she only thought of the missing girl, Monica Delgado, and her chances of still being alive. She wanted to pore over every single missing-persons case with a fine-tooth comb, and see what she could find. But Pearson only gave her twenty-four more hours and what was supposed to be an encouraging speech, preparing her for failure.
As soon as he dismissed her, she went straight to Palm Beach County, where Michowsky and Fradella were interviewing the “arson five,” as they called them. They were the five men who matched the profile—who had one rape charge in their past, followed by successful reintegration into society, had the right age, and had set a minor fire in their youth.
It was almost mid-afternoon when she told Michowsky to release the lot. One had served time for statutory rape, an obvious mistake. One look in his eyes, and Tess knew there wasn’t a single violent bone in his body. The rest either had alibis or just didn’t make sense, having never crossed paths with the Watson family or any other murdered family since them. As of very recently, the matching hairs found at both Watson and Townsend crime scenes served as an additional elimination factor, and it completely cleared their suspect list. None of those men had raven black hair. It was another dead end.
They regrouped into the conference room, discouraged and grim.
“What now?” Michowsky asked. “I don’t see another hat trick in our future.”
Tess fired up her laptop and immediately heard the new email chime.
“They found Monica’s car,” she said, feeling energized, then summarized the message. “It was abandoned on a side road, with a flat tire. They’re looking at it now, but so far there are no fingerprints or anything on it. Last night it was pouring rain, so they don’t expect to find anything on the car or around it. Inside so far, no bloodstains, nothing we can use.”
The other message got them to hop on their feet and rush downstairs to the forensics lab, where the mangled remains of Laura Watson’s car was being inspected.
�
��Hey, Javier,” Tess greeted the young forensics technician, as soon as they entered the lab. “Talk to me.”
“Hey, Agent Tess,” he said, giving her a wide smile adorned by beautiful, white teeth.
“It’s either Agent Winnett, or Tess,” she replied, smiling back. “Make up your mind, already.”
“Just wait until I show you what I found. You’ll let me call you anything I want.”
Michowsky and Fradella put their heads closer, looking where Javier was pointing, deep inside the guts of the car’s engine compartment. She approached on the other side.
“Steering was definitely tampered with,” Javier said, speaking with excitement. “The real surprise was how. You see this piece of metal, encroached there?”
She squinted a little, but Javier promptly put his flashlight on the object in question.
“We were lucky, you see. This is part of a microcharge device.”
“A bomb?”
“A very tiny, little bomb, yes,” he confirmed. “Remotely detonated by some form of transmitter, most likely radio. It blew up the steering fluid pressure hose, and the whole steering system drained within seconds.”
“And she didn’t feel the explosion?” Michowsky asked.
“This would have quieter than a champagne pop. I’m talking about a state of the art, Mission Impossible, kind of device.”
“That’s awesome, Javier,” she said, then hugged him. “Finally, a lead we can trace. Call me anything you want.”
“How about any time?” he asked, then winked.
“Ah, let’s not go there,” she laughed, but felt her cheeks warm.
“One more thing,” Javier added. “Whoever did this was very close and detonated when he thought he’d make the most damage. This device is close range; very close. Just a few yards, maybe twenty, but not more. He underestimated the speed at which the power steering fluid would drain; I think he wanted her to hit the guardrail somewhere over the Dolphin and Palmetto interchange. If he’d detonated thirty seconds later, your vic would be history, falling from a considerable height, and most likely bursting into flames upon crashing onto the freeway down below.”
