by Leanna Floyd
“Tougher than I like,” he said with a sigh. “Reviewing cases, I think this guy—well, person, but you and I both know the majority of serial killers are male—has been at work for close to a year. The first two murders remain cold cases, both near the Jacksonville airport, but I think they got him started. The more recent cases have been closer to Miami, which means the killer is expanding his territory.”
“Do you think he works near an airport? Any geographic pattern to where victims have been found?” she asked, aware that killers often created a trail back to their home or ‘trophy room’ without consciously realizing it.
“Actually, there are several indicators he may not actually live in Miami. I won’t go into the clues that point that way, but I think he’s likely from out of town—maybe even out of state or out of country—and only comes to Miami to kill. But in the past two months, he’s killing more frequently, which we hate for the loss of life, but which also means he’s likely getting careless or even sloppy. We believe he’s about to strike again, and we think he’s moving to other semi-secluded areas in the state-not just beaches. Which is kinda why I called. Well, I just think it’s a good idea if you maybe stay away from the beach and refrain from running after dusk until we catch the killer. There is a pattern we are seeing with the victims, and the killer is definitely targeting young attractive females—I just want you to be safe and alert until this case is solved. I know how swimming and running are your outlets, but I just have a strange feeling about this killer. Anyway, I’m going to stay down here until Wednesday, head home for Thanksgiving—you’re still coming, right? And then return over the weekend.” His voice sounded tired. “Now, how can I help you with the Barton trial?”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” she said and then added, “Yes, I’m still coming for Thanksgiving—wouldn’t miss it. This will be my third year, practically a tradition.” She paused to switch topics and cleared her throat, poised finally with pen in hand. “About Barton’s case. Like I said in my last email, Carver has uncovered half a dozen different incidents in the past few years in which Zach Barton has caused fights, created major problems, and been forced to leave bars and clubs—in Tampa, but also in Atlanta, Miami, and New York. None have filed suits because he apparently pays them off above whatever the damages cost. I think these incidents establish a precedent pattern showing violent tendencies and lack of impulse control. But how far should I go with this? I’m sure the defense will try to pass these off as ‘collateral damage’ of being rich and famous. What do you think?”
“Hmm,” he said, “let me think out loud for a moment. As you and I both know, killers, especially serial killers, usually repress volcanic levels of rage. And when coupled with impulsivity and delusional fantasies, usually involving revenge or some kind of retribution to produce psychological relief, they can create a dangerous state of mind.”
“Right…”
“And if Barton has this many incidents—as well as that previous, withdrawn assault charge from a young woman when he was in high school—I think you can easily make a diagnosis of a classic narcissist with a chronic pathological predilection for violence and impulsivity.”
“But that doesn’t make him a killer,” she said. “Let alone a serial killer.”
“Correct,” said Dr. Gregory. “But if you describe the ingredients you have well enough, then the jurors don’t need you to tell them what to make of them. You and I both know you can wield an incredible amount of power through suggestion and inference.”
“True,” Brooke said, processing her mentor’s recommendation. “So, I can hint that Barton has what it takes to be a killer, mostly because of the rage and impulse control issues, but avoid using the term.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Listen, I’m going to have to go—looks like one of the agents just turned up a lead. Keep me informed, don’t hesitate to call or text if you need me, and trust your instincts. I believe in you!”
She put her phone down and smiled, used to her professor’s sometimes abrupt, but always positive, goodbyes. If only she could believe in herself with the same unbridled confidence.
What had just happened?
The cocktail waitress was different. What was her name? Tammy or Teresa or Terri, I think. She was, well, difficult.
I’m not sure why, maybe because she almost got away or because I had to have a little help before I could finish the job. Maybe because she probably was really good at nursing and helped a lot of people. Still, if she were so saintly, then why was she all slutted-up like a teen at the mall M.A.C. counter, green-blue eye shadow and ruby lips, downing vodka tonics like water, and shoving her tongue down my throat before we left the bar?
But the fun and games didn’t last long once we went for a drive.
“Nice ride. Where we going?” she said, sounding soberer than she had just a few minutes ago.
“Just for a drive,” I said. “Where you want to go? I was thinking somewhere near the beach would be nice.”
She nodded and buckled her seatbelt, and I reached over and squeezed her thigh. Leaving the neon forest of gas stations, convenience markets, and fast-food joints behind us, she grew tense and stared into the night sky.
“Relax. Here, have a drink,” I said and handed her my bottle of Jack from the back floorboard.
“I don’t like whiskey so much,” she said. “I’m good for now.”
“Suit yourself,” I said and put the bottle to my lips. Finally, I saw a sign that I knew would take us where I wanted to go and turned off the highway toward one of those little islands off the west coast just above Fisher Island. We drove for a few miles in silence, the darkness descending thicker around us with only a smattering of stars. Soon the last gravel road I’d taken dead-ended, and I found a place to park underneath an old cypress covered in Spanish moss on a little hill overlooking the beach.
There were no streetlights, but the clouds broke and then the moon shone like a spotlight glimmering in shards of fluorescent white across the waves. I left the car running and the AC on, but cut my lights. It was early November, and the humidity was as thick as the kudzu smothering the swamp oaks all around us, not to mention the mosquitoes.
She remained jumpy and reluctant to continue our little get-acquainted dance. Somehow, she knew something was up, and after only a couple minutes, she asked me to take her back to the bar. I just smiled and said, "What’s your rush? You just need to relax. Here, I’ll give you a little massage." And I reached to put my hands on her shoulders, hoping she’d turn around.
But it didn’t work.
“Don’t!” she snapped. And that’s when I started to get angry, which I don’t like doing because it makes me feel out of control. I lunged and shoved her head against the window on her side and gripped her neck, which felt moist and clammy. Somehow, she managed to get the door open and to squirm out of my hands, spilling her body out onto the ground.
By the time I opened my door and came around, she was on her feet and trying to run. Her sexy stiletto heels were no help, and before she could go more than ten feet, one of them broke and she cried and fell forward. I just laughed and took my time then.
“No! No! Somebody help me,” she begged.
In a heap at my feet, she began screaming, so I kicked her and pulled out the taser I’d bought under the counter at the army surplus store only two days before. It’s like I instinctively knew I would need a back-up plan for such an occasion as this one. I just didn’t expect to use it so soon.
Instantly, she shook and convulsed as the jolt coursed through her body. Then she screamed one last time before I straddled her chest and clamped my hands around that pretty spray-tanned neck.
After I’d cleaned up and rolled her into the trash bag, I was tempted not to leave her a shell. Unlike the others, she had not turned out to be a fun date. Hesitating for a moment, with sweat running down my back and a mosquito buzzing in my ear and a soundtrack of frogs and cicadas in the background, I compromised.
; I didn’t leave her with the beautiful cream-colored Gulf oyster drill I’d found the day before. Instead, I fumbled through the little plastic shopping bag in my trunk where I’d started keeping shells I found and liked enough to save. Just a plain old, cracked, dull grey cockleshell for her.
It’s all she deserved.
Chapter 28
At first, Brooke thought the incessant ringing was her alarm going off again. Had she really hit snooze twice already? Then she realized it was her phone buzzing and grabbed it from her nightstand where it had been charging. “Hello?” she said in a startled voice as she glanced at the clock: 9:47 A.M. She had overslept.
“I don’t think Alicia is who she says she is,” Jacob said in a low, sad voice.
“What?” Brooke couldn’t believe it. “Why? What happened?”
“After we had that big blowup I told you about,” Jacob explained, “I called back the next day and apologized. She accepted and things were good between us. But then I decided to drive down there and called her when I was almost there. When I told her I would see her in another hour, she freaked out and started talking about how sick Charlie was.”
“Right,” Brooke said. “Isn’t that what you would’ve expected?”
“Yeah, it is, so I told her about contacting the police department and Walmart and not being able to find the police report or any evidence of Charlie’s attempted abduction. I told her about not being able to find him listed as a patient in any of the pediatric hospitals, including the name Jacob Ortiz.”
“Wow, good for you! What did she say to all that?”
“Nothing—she said she could explain it all but that she had to wait until we met in person. She got all mysterious and made it sound like they were in the witness protection program or something. More and more, I think it’s all total bullshit. I just can’t figure out why—why me.”
“I’m so sorry—it’s just so hard to believe someone would make up these kinds of stories,” Brooke said. “Do you think she’s really just afraid to meet you? Or could there be another explanation?”
“Oh, I think there’s definitely an explanation,” he said. He took a deep breath. “How do I find out the truth?”
“Are you sure you want to find out the truth?” Brooke asked. She asked only to reinforce that Jacob had a choice in the matter. She didn’t want him coming back and thinking she had pushed him into doubting Alicia’s intentions. Brooke couldn’t understand why Jacob was so invested in his relationship with Alicia. If she didn’t worry so much about his vulnerability, she would tell him to run as fast as possible away from that crazy bitch, whoever she really was, and never look back. Cut his losses, consider it an embarrassing educational experience, and move on. But she knew her friend well enough to know that he wouldn’t let Alicia go until he knew the truth—all of it, for better or worse. Her mind was spinning with questions. Why did Jacob consistently seem so susceptible to idealizing women? Well, everyone but her? She knew what Freud’s answer would be, along with half a dozen other famous voices in her field. But still, Brooke felt like there was something missing, some flaw in Jacob’s personality that she herself could not see. As if he needed a beautiful, blank canvas on which to paint a perfect portrait impossible to find in reality.
“Listen, let me jump in the shower and then meet you for lunch,” she said. “I’ll meet you at The Sand Dollar—it’s the first place I took you, remember? Around 1, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “Yes, I have to know the truth—even if it kills me.”
Chapter 29
After all the drama with Alicia that morning, Jacob had been grateful for the distraction work provided. The trial was coming to a close, and DeMato thought they had a fair shot at getting Barton acquitted. This afternoon, Carver was scheduled to call his final witness, Zach’s younger brother Brent.
The defense team had spent much of the past week trying to coach the younger Barton and had even role-played with him on the witness stand with Jacob acting as Carver. The other team members had complimented Jacob on what a great actor he was; he had them in tears laughing at his antics as he strutted and mimicked Carver’s speech. Unfortunately, Brent Barton was not a dynamic performer at all. But at least they had bolstered the young man’s confidence and prepared him for several lines of questioning that DeMato anticipated Carver using.
Just the thought of the flamboyant D.A. must have been enough to summon his presence because right then he entered, bringing the buzzing voices to a softer hum as everyone prepared for Judge Ranier to enter and begin the show. Jacob glanced at Zach Barton and thought the trial was starting to take a toll on the dapper millionaire. Dark circles punctuated Barton’s eyes, and he looked paler and thinner than when the trial had started over a month ago.
As the trial resumed and Brent Barton was sworn in, Jacob could see the shared family resemblance between the two brothers. They both had chiseled faces with a hard jawline, dark brown hair, and blue eyes. Jacob thought Brent looked like a younger, blurrier version of his big bro.
Carver went through his usual theatrics and received Ranier’s permission to treat Brent as a hostile witness. And he wasted no time trying to provoke the young man.
“Mr. Barton, is this the first time your brother has been accused of assaulting one of his ex-girlfriends?”
Brent swallowed hard but didn’t avert his eyes, a nervous habit they had worked hard to break during their sessions with him. It was easy to understand why the jury would consider him shady if he looked down every time he answered a hard question that might incriminate Zach. “Yes,” Brent said in a strong voice.
“And how would you describe his relationship with Ms. Winters?” asked Carver.
“She was like a lot of women who enjoyed my brother’s company. Unfortunately, she had a hard time getting over him.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Barton. I don’t need your editorial commentary, just your objective description.”
Jacob noticed Lisa DeMato was itching to object but first wanted to see how Brent handled Carver, which turned out to be like a pro.
“And that’s exactly what I was giving you, sir,” said Brent, gaining more confidence at the chance to prevent the D.A. from bullying him. “I would objectively describe Abby Winters as a sad, pathetic, impoverished woman who saw an opportunity to exploit my brother’s kindness and generosity. When their relationship ran its course, she refused to let go and stalked my brother.”
“Uh, huh, I see,” said Carver, clearly switching gears to another line of questioning. “And what about when you dated Ms. Winters? Wasn’t this after your brother’s relationship with her had ended? Why would you date someone you know to be, in your words, ‘sad, pathetic, and impoverished’?”
Jacob held his breath, knowing they had prepared for this question, unsure of how Carver would try to use it against them.
“I share my brother’s weakness,” said Brent, starting to relax and enjoy the chance to become a champion for Zach and to be the center of attention for once. “We both are attracted to beautiful women who need to be rescued. To tell the truth, I felt sorry for poor Abby after she lost Zach. Before I knew it, we had fallen into a ‘friends-with-benefits’ situation before I realized she was trying to exploit my kindness the same way she had with my brother. It’s really quite—”
“Thank you, Mr. Barton,” said Carver, clearly frustrated that his job was not going to be as easy as expected. “Could you recount your actions on May 4 this year, perhaps starting with when you met with your brother?”
“Of course, Mr. Carver,” said Brent, showing a degree of polished confidence that Jacob was astonished to see. It was as if the young man needed to be placed in the high-stress situation in order to flourish. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Jacob listened as Brent recited, almost verbatim, the narrative they had crafted to cover the timeline on the day of Abby’s death. Brent was clearly a quick study, and a much better actor than anyone expected.
It didn’t surp
rise Jacob to see this huge shit-eating grin on Zach’s face as he watched his little brother rise to the occasion. Which made Jacob wonder if perhaps Brent was always this strong when not in his brother’s shadow? Or maybe the two of them were actually a team?
Jacob recalled from his research the highly publicized Menendez case, in which brothers Lyle and Erik, ages 21 and 18 at the time, murdered their wealthy parents in their Beverly Hills home and tried to stage it as an organized-crime hit. After shooting their mother and father in cold blood, the two young men had then gone to the movies and met friends for drinks to establish their alibis before returning home and calling 911.
They were only charged many months later when younger brother Erik confessed to his psychologist, who shared the shocking disclosure with his girlfriend. Infuriated, Lyle threatened to kill the psychologist if he ever violated doctor-patient confidentiality. However, after the psychologist broke up with his girlfriend, she was the one who alerted police. It was quite the case. Could the Barton brothers be as cold and calculating as Lyle and Erik Menendez?
Jacob debated on mentioning the possibility to his boss but couldn’t see any advantage in doing so. It wouldn’t do any good to have both Bartons charged in this case. No, he would continue to keep his theories to himself. After all, thinking about how he felt about Alicia being a fraud, maybe he could understand their mindset all too well.
Chapter 30
The Sand Dollar was an old beachfront dive on the edge of the bay. Jacob was early but felt grateful to have a few minutes to himself. The place smelled of stale beer and fried fish but wasn’t unpleasant. Being the off-season with ominous skies to prove it, only a handful of locals sat at the bar, and a waitress seated him at a window with an ocean view. He ordered a Bloody Mary and lost himself in the rhythm of the waves, the constant cascading tide, back and forth, surf pounding the shore only to recede and disappear back into itself.
