by Leslie Wolfe
A few minutes later, they were back upstairs into the conference room.
“This was a professional hit,” Tess said, her face reflecting the confusion she felt. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Could The Chameleon be ex-military, or commandoes, or something?” Fradella asked, not even trying to hide his excitement.
“The two profiles are in serious contradiction. Our unsub is a power-lusting psychopath. You don’t find those in the military, where they have to take orders all day long. They’d never survive.”
“Then, what’s your theory?” Fradella asked.
“If The Chameleon is not military, and this was the work of a professional, he could have emulated or hired one. A hitman. I’d go with hired.”
“What kind of serial killer delegates his killing?” Michowsky asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Silence engulfed the room for a second.
“A very smart one,” Tess finally replied. “Now we know a little more about him. He’s not only incredibly smart, but he’s loaded, can move cash freely, and he’s probably got an alibi for that night. I know just whose finances I want to look at.”
“Come on, don’t start, not again,” Michowsky said.
“Speaking of Mr. Welsh, how’s that warrant coming along?”
“The judge said he needed a few hours to think about it. He really grilled us over it, though. How about the warrant you filed for Laura’s protective custody?”
She scrunched her lips and frowned.
“The judge threw me out of chambers; I got nothing. If Pearson had made the call, maybe the outcome would have been different, but he didn’t, and that’s that. Is your man still at the hospital?”
“Yeah, and he’s off the clock,” Michowsky replied. “He’s doing it pro bono. Our captain pulled the plug; until this moment, we had no probable cause. Now we do, so guess where I’m going.”
“I’ll try that warrant again; maybe now we’ll get it signed,” Tess offered, sounding unconvinced.
A young uniformed officer knocked on the door, then put his head in.
“This is for you, Detective,” he said, then handed Michowsky a letter.
He opened the envelope and extracted the papers inside.
“Just like I expected. The Welsh DNA warrant has been denied. It made no sense to begin with; I’m not surprised. Listen to this,” he muttered, then read from the judge’s letter. “‘There’s not nearly enough evidence to support the invasion of privacy of a church-going, outstanding pillar of our community and substantial contributor to numerous charities.’ Can you believe it?”
Tess hopped to her feet, muttering a long, detailed curse. She couldn’t sit idle and feel better, just because the cold case statistics were on her side if she failed. Not with Monica Delgado still missing.
“Yeah, I’m not surprised either, but I won’t give up, you know.” She grabbed her keys and headed for the door.
“Whoa, take it easy, partner,” Michowsky said, “where you going?”
Her frown deepened, as she weighed her options. Bradley Welsh had just filed a formal complaint with the Bureau that very morning, so she stood no chance of asking him nicely for a DNA sample. But she was going there anyway, and somehow she was going to get that sample.
“You two follow the contract killer lead. Not many places supply microcharge detonators. As for me, I will tempt fate. I’m going to pay the Welsh family a visit.”
“Tess, it can’t be him. Why are you risking your career over this… nonsense?” Michowsky insisted.
“I know it’s most likely not him. But wouldn’t you like to be sure? Absolutely, positively sure? Sorry, Gary, but I can’t settle for anything less.”
48
A Visit
Tess waited in front of the Welsh family residence for a good minute after ringing the doorbell. She had her badge out, but doubted she was going to need it, being that at least Mrs. Welsh knew her personally. She’d decided to speak with Mrs. Welsh, and not ask for the man whose DNA she was after. Not at first, anyway.
The property was surrounded by its own private oasis, a landscaped paradise with palm trees, palmettos, and flowering shrubs, providing privacy and shade, and hosting a plethora of birds. Their evening chirping was the only sound she could hear; all the greenery surrounding the property muffled the distant city noises, creating an atmosphere of complete serenity. She’d expected nothing less from the founder and CEO of WatWel Lighting, but she couldn’t help admiring the imposing home and its peaceful surroundings.
Carol Welsh opened the door and stood in the doorway, rigid and tense in her business pantsuit, staring Tess down with a direct, condescending look. Then she stepped to the side, making room for Tess to walk in.
“You have some nerve showing up here,” she said through clenched jaws, almost spitting the words out. She closed the door behind Tess, slamming it to make her point. Then she turned to face Tess, with her hands propped firmly on her hips, and the same glare filled with contempt. “What can I do for you?”
Tess looked around, taking in as much information as she could. She was in the two-story foyer, and Mrs. Welsh was blocking her access to the massive living room.
Just like Laura’s apartment, only on a much bigger scale, lamps and fixtures of all sorts and designs adorned the home, from what she could see. The foyer’s walls were covered in hundreds of small, triangular shadows, projected by a one-of-a-kind chandelier. It had three staggered circular layers of triangular elements carved in brushed metal, pointing up, each hiding behind it a small, but powerful light source, probably LED. Each triangle seemed unique, with bases of about two inches and about three inches tall, but irregular shaped and almost wavy, as if made of soft fabric and blown upward by the wind. The effect was exquisite; each light source projected shadows on the walls, multiplied countless times.
“Are you here to stare at the lamp, Agent Winnett?” Mrs. Welsh asked.
Tess snapped back to reality and met Mrs. Welsh’s burning glare.
“No, although it’s a striking piece. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“My husband dabbles with design sometimes. What can I do for you?”
“Not for me, for Laura,” Tess replied. “Please convince her to go voluntarily into protective custody.”
Mrs. Welsh dropped her glare to the ground and with it, her shoulders dropped too. When she looked up, all the contempt was gone; only the worried mother was left. She absentmindedly browsed the collection of family photos framed on the wall. Throughout the years, the Welshes had been good parents to both their own daughter, Amanda, and Laura. Ski trips, Christmases in Lake Tahoe, summers in the Caribbean, smiling faces, lots of fun and color, with the two adults always there, watchful while enjoying the two girls participating in their games.
“It took years, you know, to get that girl back on her feet. Can you imagine? Having to live through what she did?”
For a second, Mrs. Welsh looked like she was about to cry. Her chin trembled slightly, and her eyes misted. But she took a sharp breath of air and recomposed herself. “Did you know she didn’t speak for years?” she continued, hiding her emotions better, but not entirely. “Not a single sound, no laughter, nothing. For years. We worried she might have been lost forever, unable to forget the most terrible nightmare a child could live through.”
Mrs. Welsh averted her eyes for a second and took another deep breath. “Therapy, struggles, countless socialization efforts, a painful few years. Then one day she spoke; she called my name, like she used to do before that night. Auntie Carol, that’s what she called me. That’s what she still calls me. I was so happy… we celebrated, we played music and danced with the girls, both of us. Slowly, from that day onward, she recovered, got caught up with school, and grew up as a healthy, normal child. She’s about to finish school and join Brad at the helm of the company. She was happy until a few days ago.” Her voice had hardened somewhat, as if she was getting angrier with every word. “
Then you come in, and blow everything out of the water. I just wish you’d disappear and leave her alone.”
“If Kenneth Garza didn’t kill her family, wouldn’t you want the real killer held accountable? Wouldn’t you like Laura to be safe again?”
“How dare you talk to me about her safety, when you people lied to us all these years? You put her life in jeopardy, you and the other troublemaker, Dr. Jacobs, that busybody, that wild goose chaser who’s responsible for Laura’s returning nightmares and panic attacks. And now you want my help to put my daughter in jail? Or send her to Montana somewhere, to pack groceries at Walmart for ten an hour, until you incompetents catch a killer you didn’t manage to catch in fifteen years? I think this conversation is over, Agent Winnett. Please leave.”
Tess raised her hands in the air, in a pacifying gesture. Somehow, the rapport she thought she was building had vanished, dissipated by very rational arguments that fueled Mrs. Welsh’s parental anger. But she couldn’t leave; not just yet, not without having a shot at the DNA sample she’d come to get.
“Before I do,” she replied calmly, “may I please speak with Mr. Welsh?”
“He’s not in right now. Contact our attorney and set up a meeting. He’ll be happy to help when he comes back from travel. Your boss has his number.”
“Oh, I see,” she replied. “Can I please use your restroom?”
“There are gas stations, you know,” Mrs. Welsh replied, her old condescending glare returning in full force.
Tess remained calm and smiled. “Please. It won’t take long.”
Mrs. Welsh pointed at a door just a few feet away, then promptly crossed her arms at her chest.
Tess nodded once, then entered the small half-bathroom. She closed the door gently, then turned on the sink faucet. The perfectly clean marble counter was completely empty, except for a brand-new liquid soap bottle and a neatly folded hand towel. The medicine cabinet was also empty and wiped clean.
She opened drawers quietly, one by one, only to find two spare rolls of toilet paper, nothing else. No toothbrushes, no loose hairs on the sink, nothing.
She kneeled on the soft, blue carpet and squinted in the dim light, but saw no hairs anywhere. Finally, she shoved her fingers in the shower drain and dug in there, but came back empty. She frowned, wondering who cleans their shower drain that perfectly. Then she realized that the small half-bath was probably reserved for guests, wanted or not so much, and that shower stall had probably never been used.
She flushed the toilet, then washed her hands and dried them on the small towel. As she opened the door to step back into the hallway, Bradley Welsh was coming through the door leading to the garage.
He froze when he laid eyes on her, then his eyes filled with the same burning contempt she’d seen in his wife.
“The nerve you have—” he started, but his wife cut him off.
“My words, exactly. Agent Winnett was just leaving.”
Tess straightened her back and extended her hand to Mr. Welsh, but he ignored it, continuing to stare her down.
“Please, Mr. Welsh,” she said, as persuasively as she could, “Laura will be released from the hospital today. Please help me help her.”
Their eyes met, and Tess felt a chill down her spine. There was something in his cold, blue stare; not just contempt or hate; it was something that reminded her of her own personal ordeal, of the look her attacker had given her years before, as he was tying her down, ripping her clothes off, and getting ready to rape her. A look of lust, of blood thirst, of anticipation.
But how can that gut feeling be reconciled with the family pictures she saw on the wall? That man on the wall was the real Bradley Welsh; years and years of photographic evidence, lined up and displayed on the wall for everyone to see. The love his daughters had for him, that meant something; that was a testimony to who Bradley Welsh really was. And still… those eyes…
She repressed a shudder; she didn’t have time to worry about that; instead, her eyes desperately screened his jacket for any loose hairs that could have fallen from his head. He wore his hair much shorter than before, less than half an inch in length. He probably dyed it too, because not a single white hair was visible.
There it was, right above his elbow, a barely visible strand of hair, black against the light gray of his jacket. She calculated her move and clenched her jaws. It was going to be now or probably never.
“Please call me if you—” she started saying, and offered her business card.
“I can’t tell Laura what to do, Agent Winnett. I can’t and I won’t,” Mrs. Welsh said, and opened the door for her.
As she headed toward the door, she passed Mr. Welsh and pretended to trip. To stabilize herself, she grabbed his sleeve, in apparent reflex.
“Christ!” he growled, moving away from her and pulling his sleeve from her grasp. He didn’t even try to help her get her footing back, but she didn’t need him to.
“I’m so sorry,” Tess said in a humble voice. “I… well, thank you,” she added, and stepped outside. She heard the door slam behind her and didn’t look back. Her hair still stood on end at the back of her head, and a chill traveled up and down her spine, restlessly.
She didn’t open her right fist until she was in her car, and when she did, she saw a hair there, as black as a raven’s feather. With a wide grin, she took out an evidence bag and sealed the tiny hair, then drove off with a smile.
“Got you now, Mr. pillar-of-the-community, church-going, gives-me-the-creeps Welsh.”
49
Reflections: A Sensible Plan
The main difference between you and me is, I don’t hesitate. When something needs to be done, I get it done. No delay, no denial. Normally, you do hesitate, and waste countless hours, days, even years, weighed down by your conscience and by your overwhelming anxieties. You endlessly ask yourself, What if I get caught? What if something happens? What if… What if?
I don’t worry, I plan. Hence, I don’t get caught, because I plan well.
Someone once said something that stuck with me and helped me shape my life. I think it was a historian, something-Parkinson was his name. He said, “Delay is the deadliest form of denial.” It applies to everything, no matter the circumstance, from your always procrastinated cancer screening to everything else your anxiety enslaves you into fearing, but never facing. You think that if you don’t get that cancer screening done, you’re in fact healthy? No, it just postpones the moment you, a terrified, vulnerable human being, must deal with your reality, while your initially small problem grows unseen into a death sentence. But how do you know that you won’t celebrate, once negative results come your way, eliminating all that angst? Why do you always expect the worst?
I don’t.
My problem is now still small, but it has the potential of growing into the killer of me, if I let it. Therefore, I won’t. Thankfully, I don’t have the ball and chain normally referred to as conscience to hold me back, and that means I will deal with my lovely Tess this very evening. She’s becoming a nuisance, and delay is, as I was quoting, the deadliest form of denial.
I’m also getting ready for my evening with Monica, and for a few minutes, I close my eyes and envision the two of them together, Tess and Monica, all ready for me, waiting for me, screaming for me. How would that play out? How incredibly delicious would that be? What kind of rush would that give me? I bet it would be unprecedented, a new level of exhilaration, a new beginning.
But let’s get real here, despite the already bothersome erection that’s been keeping me company the whole day. We’re talking about an experienced federal agent, someone trained to kill. Someone who’s killed before, and, who knows, might even enjoy it. Mmm… just how awesome would that be, if I could possess a killer, a true hunter, slowly, enticingly?
It’s a good thing I have a steeled willpower, you know. I can always take a cold shower, and kill her quickly and effectively, without taking the risk that she kills me instead. No woman is worth that. No
matter how wonderful, there are others better than her out there. If I want a night of fascinating sex with a federal agent, I can always pick me another one, someone who’s maybe a little younger, and who won’t see me coming.
Long story short, I need to deny myself this rush in favor of pragmatism, and get the job done quickly, quietly, and without getting shot in the process.
Tess Winnett is not an apple for me to enjoy; she’s a countermeasure.
I don’t think I ever mentioned how grateful I am for people being so vain and so careless, leaving their windows uncovered after dusk and allowing me to see everything there is to see from a safe distance. My work would be infinitely more difficult if it weren’t for this… honestly, I don’t know what this is. A trend? A fashion? Vanity, to let everyone see what nice furniture they have and all that? I’ve always wondered about people who watch TV with their curtains wide open at night, so that everyone sees their new LED screen and surround system, don’t they like to watch their movies half-naked, like I do? Don’t they need to scratch their balls occasionally? Do they ever do it? Do they care that they’re seen by people like me? Are they, in fact, exhibitionists? Do they secretly get off, knowing people like me are out there, watching? Craving? Dreaming?
It makes my life and my work so easy, I was saying. I just walk down the street, in a strolling pace, and take it all in. What neighbors are home, what time, what do they do? What time is dinner? How many kids? Is there a husband or a dog? I will know. Is she coming home every day at about the same time? I’m there, watching, and, thanks to the age of all-window transparency, I’m seeing.
