by Alan Russell
“I keep looking for bridges,” he said. “Something to get me over to the other land.”
“What other land?”
She saw his hand reach out, not to her, but into the darkness. “The land of the living.”
Silence draped the room like a shroud. Elizabeth was sure she didn’t know this man, had never known him, and was afraid of knowing him. He turned to her and sensed her unease.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
There was something invasive about his words and something angry. She didn’t tell him what she was really thinking or how she really felt. The only time Elizabeth could recall being this scared was the time she had gone camping and awakened to a big bear sniffing outside her tent. But this was even more frightening. The bear had only been rooting around for food. She wasn’t sure if this man even knew what he wanted.
“I was considering what you said,” she said, her voice deceptively calm, as if to soothe a beast. “You’re right. All of us need bridges.”
He appeared to relax slightly. He rubbed his chin and kept looking around the room. “You have a lot of books in here,” he said.
The Kappa Omega sorority house had several wings. Elizabeth lived in the so-called nook section, along with Tracy and Paula. They all had their own rooms. Instead of the usual posters, Elizabeth had lined her bedroom walls with cinder-block bookcases filled with books. They cocooned her, keeping the noise of her sorority sisters, and the world, away from her. She had always loved being in the isolated nook—until now.
“I’m a literature major,” she said, as if apologizing for the books.
“Have you read all of them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And have they made you smarter?” he asked.
Through the sheets she could feel the heat of his body. Elizabeth found herself trembling. She didn’t know what to say but was afraid not to say something.
“Not smarter,” she said, “but they helped me to understand things better.”
“Understand what?”
“People,” she said.
“People,” he repeated, and with his echo was a sound that was part laugh and part sob. “Tell me about these people. Explain them to me.”
He was leaning close to her, and that frightened her. She could sense his agitation, his anger.
“I can’t explain people, but there was a poem that Whitman wrote,” she said, her tone shrill despite her best efforts to sound calm, “that taught me how to try to understand a person. He said, ‘Agonies are one of my changes of garments; I do not ask the wounded person how he feels...I myself become the wounded person.’”
It was several moments before the intruder responded. “Oh,” he said, as if hurt, as if wounded. “Oh.”
He edged off the bed and started pacing around her room. Elizabeth saw him as a shadow, something darker than the dark, making his way back and forth. His hand kept moving to his brow and rubbing, as if wiping away sweat, as if a fever had broken.
“No one understands,” he said.
“I’ll try to,” she promised.
He retreated from her, as if now he was the one who was afraid. She heard him feeling through the darkness, moving toward the front of the room. When he opened the door, there was enough light from the hallway for her to catch a glimpse of his face. Elizabeth was surprised at his appearance. He was a very handsome man, with dark good looks and sensuous lips. The lips moved for her.
“Don’t scream,” he said, and then was gone.
Several minutes passed before Elizabeth raised herself from her bed. She had been afraid he was still out there, still waiting. She finally steeled herself to turn on a light. With two hands she grasped a letter opener and slowly made her way out to the hallway. There was no one in sight, and all was quiet. Tracy’s room was the nearest to hers; the door was slightly ajar.
Elizabeth pushed it open. There was no sign of the intruder. Tracy was in her bed, all tucked in. She called to her, but Tracy was a heavy sleeper. She usually set two alarm clocks to get up, and sometimes that wasn’t enough.
“Tracy. There was a man in here.”
Tracy continued to snooze. Elizabeth pulled back the bed-covers. Tracy wasn’t wearing any clothes, but there was a length of panty hose trailing down her back.
“Tracy, wake up.”
As Elizabeth was shaking Tracy by the shoulder, she noticed that the panty hose were twisted around her neck. She turned Tracy over and confronted the horror.
The panty hose had dug so deeply into Tracy’s neck that it looked like a balloon tied into sections. Her face was even worse, her eyes distended and bulging, her tongue huge.
Elizabeth had promised she wouldn’t scream, but she did.
She opened her eyes and let the memories recede. Even after all these years, she sometimes awakened screaming. Parker had murdered both Tracy and Paula, but for whatever reason, he had let her live. When he was finally captured, after he had murdered seventeen women, her testimony helped convict him. She was the only eyewitness and the only woman who had survived his calling upon her.
The captain came on the intercom. He promised a smooth flight the rest of the way to San Diego.
Liar, Elizabeth thought.
4
October 10, 1986
TWENTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD KATHY FRANKLIN had gone on a Sunday outing with her friend Suzanne Epstein to watch the clustering of hot-air balloons. At midafternoon Kathy left Suzanne to go back to her car for more film. Parker intercepted her on the way there.
“I hate to bother you,” he said, his voice reflecting a Southern upbringing, “but I’m kind of in a fix.”
The “fix” was obvious—his left leg was in a cast. The handsome stranger looked as if he wasn’t used to asking for favors. Even without the cast most women would have gladly helped him, but the cast was magic. His helplessness gave women who might have been intimidated by his good looks an easy bridge to cross.
“My car has this big trunk,” he said, “and I can’t reach inside far enough to get this compressor we need. I wouldn’t bother you except that my crew is ready to take off.”
“Your crew?” Kathy asked.
“I’m a pilot,” he said, then tapped his cast with a crutch, “or I was until I broke this.”
No combat ace ever assumed such a manly pose. His plaintive voice was played to perfection, his need apparent. Kathy immediately offered to help the wounded pilot. They talked all the way to his car. He apologized that it was so far away, explained its distant location by saying that he had arrived late and hadn’t been able to park in the main parking lot. Kathy said she liked to exercise anyway. She was a tall woman, with long, straight blonde hair that went almost all the way down her back. Parker commented on her hair, said it was long like that woman in the fairy tale, Rapunzel, who was always having to let her hair down for her prince to climb up. Kathy laughed at that. She was a pretty woman, had broken up with her last boyfriend a year earlier, and she enjoyed the handsome stranger’s attention.
When they arrived at Parker’s car they were off by themselves, though not in a completely deserted location. The balloons, in all their shapes and rainbow colors, were just taking off and had seduced all eyes but Parker’s.
Parker opened the trunk of his Ford and said the compressor was in the very back. Kathy bent over and started tapping with her hand, futilely looking. “I don’t think—” she started to say but never had the chance to finish her sentence. From behind, Parker grabbed her, applied a choke hold, then strangled her to death.
Overhead the balloons, in all their splendor, floated by in the azure Albuquerque sky. Some people in the gondolas waved down to the earth.
The balloons raised themselves higher and higher into the sky, but Kathy’s friends and family believe she preceded them into the firmament. Unlike the balloons, though, Kathy never returned to this earth.
—Excerpt from the book Shame
by Elizabeth Line
The door had
n’t opened easily.
Elizabeth had been stonewalled by the sheriff’s secretary and referred over to Sergeant Hardy, who headed up the sheriff’s Public Affairs Office. She repeated to Sergeant Hardy that she needed to see the sheriff, and to make her point she handed the sergeant one of her books and referred him to a particular section.
Hardy had kept a poker face while reading the passage and then had asked to be excused for a minute. When he returned, Hardy offered Elizabeth a personal escort over to the Sheriff’s Office. Her book had evidently preceded them.
Sheriff Bill Campbell held up the copy of Shame. “Unique calling card, Ms. Line,” he said.
He thumbed through the book, examined her picture on the back cover, then gave her a pointed glance. Elizabeth felt her neck get hot. She’d wanted to update the author photo, but the publisher had preferred her Dorian Gray image. Though she looked young for her age, she was no longer the girl in that picture.
She pushed a piece of paper across the sheriff’s desk. “I also asked your secretary to give you this—my references. I’ve had a lot of dealings with law enforcement, and the people listed there will vouch for me. I’ve earned their trust, and I’d like to earn yours.”
The sheriff looked at the sheet for considerably less time than he had her book picture, then passed it on to Sergeant Hardy. He turned his eyes back to her, volunteering nothing, waiting for what she had to say.
“I referred the sergeant to a section in the book that deals with the death of Kathy Franklin,” said Elizabeth. “She was Gray Parker’s second victim.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” the sheriff asked.
Elizabeth knew that in San Diego County the sheriff was an elected position and that there were those who thought Sheriff Bill Campbell was more politician than lawman. He wasn’t a large man, but he acted large in the way he talked and the way he moved his hands. His face was oversized, with big eyes, and nose, and ears. He had Hollywood hair, thick, curly, and dark. And not one of those hairs was out of place.
“If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be seeing me now,” she said.
The sheriff didn’t move, didn’t blink. Hardy adopted the same expression.
“I want to be involved in your investigation,” Elizabeth said. “You’ve had two recent homicides. I understand they are being called the New Shame Murders. Your murderer is using Gray Parker’s MO.”
Campbell’s face showed nothing. “Where did you get your information?”
She shook her head. “The issue here isn’t sources.”
“Well, I’m just curious as to where you heard this rather fantastic story.”
“This isn’t a fishing expedition,” said Elizabeth. “Lita Jennings was the first victim. She died three weeks ago. She was strangled in Del Mar and transported out to the desert, where she was left propped up. Teresa Sanders was yesterday’s victim. She was found posed in her Rancho Santa Fe home.”
Campbell looked at his fingers as if he were looking at cards. But his bluff had been called, and he was holding a bust hand.
“I really can’t comment on ongoing investigations, Ms. Line.”
Elizabeth stood up. “Thank you, then.”
The sheriff gave Hardy a quick, surprised look. He had expected her to wheedle and cajole, then accept whatever bone he chose to throw her. He couldn’t afford to have her leave without knowing what she intended to do. His look prompted the subordinate to speak.
“What are your plans?” the sergeant asked.
“This is a breaking story,” she said. “I have a lot of history invested in the original Shame murders, which is why I consider this my story. Since you’re not prepared to help me at this time, I’ll have to proceed on my own.”
There was another moment of brief eye contact between the two men. They’re wondering how to handle me, Elizabeth thought. They’re not sure whether to use soft words or a club. Or both.
Sergeant Hardy straightened his tie. He looked and acted more Madison Avenue than cop, had nicely styled salt-and-pepper hair and a mellifluous voice. “You must realize that any premature release of information could ruin our investigation. The potential for panic is catastrophic.”
“Let me in then,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll get my silence in return for giving me the inside track.”
Her threat was implicit. If they didn’t involve her in the case, they had no hold on her silence. The men exchanged glances again.
“It won’t be a one-way street,” she said. “I can help you.”
“How?” This time the sheriff did his own talking.
“If this is a copycat killer,” she said, “no one knows more about the original homicides than I do.”
Elizabeth could feel them wavering, but she also knew how very conservative law enforcement was. They protected their closed doors and resisted letting strangers into their inner circle. Especially women.
“I’d like to hear about the death of Teresa Sanders,” she said.
The men reacted uncomfortably, moving in their seats, saying nothing.
“In particular, I’m interested in knowing about the crime scene.”
Elizabeth could see she had pushed too hard. The men folded their arms, held them tight to their chests. The doors were closing on her.
She had to say something and took a chance: “Were there any balloons at the crime scene?”
Both men tried not to react. Both men did.
“Balloons?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s an odd question,” he said. “Yes.”
It was her turn to stonewall. She had considered the possibilities and thrown out the most likely.
The sheriff tried to draw her out. “If you have any information about this homicide...”
“Am I in?” she asked.
After a long moment’s hesitation, the sheriff said, “We’ll cooperate with you.”
His remark was open to interpretation, but Elizabeth decided to take him at his word.
“Kathy Franklin was strangled while a flotilla of hot-air balloons sailed over her head. At her outdoor memorial service, balloons were released. Your copycat would have known that.”
The sheriff and the sergeant looked at each other for the briefest moment. There was something furtive about their glance, something guilty.
“Mrs. Sanders’s autopsy will be performed in the morning,” the sheriff said, “but there was a preliminary examination of her body this afternoon.”
His unsaid “and” hung in the air. The sheriff sighed, shook his head, then met Elizabeth’s eyes.
“There were balloons found in her vagina. Seventeen of them. All different colors.”
5
ONCE MORE UNTO the breach, thought Elizabeth. She felt like Daniel going into the lions’ den, only without Daniel’s faith. As the detectives entered the room, she reminded herself to smile, though she figured that tactic worked about as well on cops as it did on lions.
The Sheriff’s Department homicide detail was located in a building several blocks away from the administrators in Ridgehaven. Everyone seemed to like that arrangement.
Elizabeth’s participation in the new Shame murders had been shoved down the throat of Lieutenant Jacob Borman. The Shame murders were considered so hot that all three homicide teams, each with four sheriff’s homicide investigators and one sheriff’s homicide sergeant, were working them.
Lieutenant Borman and Elizabeth sat at opposite ends of the Central Intelligence Division conference room. As the sixteen homicide detectives trickled inside, the first thing they noticed was the stranger in their presence. What Elizabeth noticed was the dark circles under their eyes and their dark moods. Most had been working all night; none was in a mood to hear a lecture.
“Let’s get to it,” said Borman, calling to a few men standing at the doorway.
Most of the men took seats in the mismatched chairs at the long, rectangular table. One investigator showed his disinterest by lying down on the sofa
and offering Elizabeth only one open eye. Elizabeth noticed that there was only one other woman in the room. She smiled at her, hoping to engage at least one sympathetic face, but the detective turned away.
From across the table, Lieutenant Borman nodded in her direction. “Elizabeth Line is our guest this morning,” he said. “You’re going to be seeing her around.”
Borman’s announcement sounded more like a warning than an endorsement. His tone made it clear that he wasn’t thrilled to have her among them. He patted the crown of his head, found a slight cowlick, and worked on smoothing it down. With his brown, bloodshot eyes, curly brown hair, drooping face, and perpetual lip curl, Borman looked like a basset hound with an attitude.
“Ms. Line,” he said, “is a writer. In front of each of you is her book Shame. That’s what she’s here to talk about.”
Elizabeth debated whether to stand up and decided the room was too small. She understood their collective tiredness and their distrust of her. She was the outsider let in on their ugly secrets.
“I appreciate how extremely busy all of you are,” she said, “so I will try to keep my comments very brief. As you probably gathered from the title of my book, I wrote about the original Shame murders. As to what relevance ancient history has to the homicides you’re working on, my best answer is that your murderer has apparently read my book very carefully. He also seems to know quite a bit about the life of Gray Parker.
“I have not yet had the chance to get up to speed on your investigations, but it’s my understanding that in many ways your two homicides parallel Parker’s first two murders. Rather than compare notes, I thought I’d tell you what I know about those earlier deaths and let you draw your own comparisons.”
The eyes weren’t so hostile now. Encouraged by that, Elizabeth told them about Alicia Gleason and Kathy Franklin. She didn’t need to refer to notes; the memories surfaced readily. Whether that was a blessing or a curse, she wasn’t sure. She had visited where the women had lived and died, had in fact done that for all of Parker’s victims. His trail of death had taken her from New Mexico to Florida. In many ways, Parker had been her guide. Before leaving on her trips she had asked him questions, and he had answered them matter-of-factly. She always tried to come away from her pilgrimages with three sets of impressions: her own, the victim’s, and Parker’s.
