Taker of Lives: A Gripping Crime Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “He could hold a position associated with implicit trust,” Donovan said, “like a priest, for example.”

  She frowned for a moment, recalling the visualization she put together in her mind. A priest didn’t fit the bill.

  “These crimes don’t have a religious vibe or message,” she said. “But he could be, or pose as, someone anyone would trust, like a cop, perhaps?” She wrote “trustworthy” on the list. “Or he could be quite attractive. Statistics show that women let their guards down in the presence of attractive men.”

  She took a swig from a stale cup of coffee and wrote another word on the whiteboard, followed by a question mark. “I have to presume he’s impotent, until future evidence dictates otherwise,” she explained.

  “Maybe he has a different motivation,” Fradella offered.

  “Maybe,” she agreed, weighing options in her mind. “I’m puzzled by the absence of violence in these assaults. They’re pristine, careful, almost caring, but, as with all sexual assaults, penetrative or not, it’s all about power. The extent of the devastation these attacks bring to the victims speaks to an incredible amount of rage, but his actions don’t. He’s… cold as ice.”

  “Fame is a factor,” Donovan said over the phone. “We’ve seen envy-motivated attacks against successful or famous people before, right?”

  “You’re talking about envy or jealousy over a specific concept, not a person?” Fradella asked. “Like that British woman who set her neighbors on fire because they were happy?”

  “That was both personal and proximal,” Tess replied, “but you’re right. Although envy or jealousy as motivators for serial offenders is almost never seen. I’d have to do some research to see if—” She stopped, thinking hard. She’d lost track of an important idea, and she wanted to recall what it was. Yes, the absence of violence. “Jealous rage leads to overkill,” she added, “like when we see multiple stab wounds in a single homicide, while this unsub preserves their bodies. It’s almost as if he wants to make sure all the victim’s suffering is psychological, not physical.”

  “Does he take souvenirs?” Donovan asked, and Tess could hear him typing at the other end of the line.

  “Nothing was missing from either crime scene,” she replied, “unless…” She paused, then opened the folder with the photos the unsub had taken and posted everywhere. “Unless the photos are his keepsakes. He might take some he doesn’t share with anyone.”

  “Let’s not forget stalker,” Fradella offered, and Tess quickly added the word at the bottom of the growing list.

  “That he is,” she confirmed. “One of the best stalkers I’ve ever seen. We still don’t know how he knew we were onto him or why he called us out on his webpage.”

  As she said the words, she turned her eyes briefly toward the screen.

  “Oh, crap,” she said, right after reading the heading now showing at the top of the page. “How the hell does he know?” She pointed angrily at the screen with an accusatory index.

  Above the countdown clock, the words, “Taker of Lives” were written in bold, block letters, the type you see on theater marquees.

  No one answered. She felt her blood boil in her veins. “How the hell does he know, people?” she asked again, raising her voice. “Either he’s surveilling us right here, right now, or one of us spilled.”

  “No one spilled,” Donovan said calmly, “I promise you. What the hell, Winnett? You’re not the only one with half a brain in this room.”

  “He’s in control right now,” she said, grinding her teeth in anger. “He’s the one in control, not us. We played right into his hand and gave him a moniker that feeds his ego. We think we’re getting ahead of the game, but he’s always the one pulling the strings, and we’re only dancing.”

  A moment of uncomfortable silence engulfed the room.

  “Let’s go back to his stalking methods,” Donovan said calmly. “I need something I can work with. How do you think he’s doing it?”

  Tess forced herself to breathe slowly, to calm down before she opened her mouth. “He must have the houses under video surveillance,” she eventually said, when she felt she could trust her voice again. “Otherwise someone would’ve seen him lurking. I believe he’s continuing to watch after the assault, to see the effects of the damage he’s done. This is his reward.”

  “All right, I’ll pull whatever street cam video I can from RTCC and see if I notice any strange patterns, anyone working on the street or installing something around the properties.”

  “Send a bug-sweeper team to Estelle’s tonight,” Tess said.

  “What, now?” Donovan pushed back. “It’s late.”

  “Yes, now. We need to be sure. If he’s still watching, we need him unplugged, blinded, off his game.”

  “How about the Bartlett residence?”

  “That’s the weirdest thing,” Tess replied. “A man like Bartlett sweeps for bugs every week or so. I’m willing to bet good money on it.”

  She called Bartlett, who reluctantly confirmed he conducted periodic bug sweeps and had found nothing. He was willing to accept a late call from the FBI’s team though, just to be sure.

  Then she took a seat in front of her laptop and started typing an email to Bill McKenzie.

  “Dear Bill,” the message said, “Sorry to have been a stranger for so long; I hope you’ll understand. Please take a look,” she inserted the link to the unsub’s streaming site and a couple of other links to his earlier press releases, “and let me know if you can help me refine an unusual profile. This man is at that point where a serial sex offender is about to commit murder for the first time. He will kill, and when he starts killing, he’ll be unstoppable.”

  26

  The Date

  It was soon after 9:30PM that Carrillo finally left the house on 1105 Mercury and climbed behind the wheel of his Lexus convertible. Michowsky welcomed his decision, rubbing his thighs vigorously, to reestablish a healthy blood flow after a few hours of immobility.

  Carrillo spent some time in his car with the engine turned on and the music playing, engulfed in his phone. The device projected a spectral glow on his face, making him visible from a distance in the darkness of the street, and Michowsky kept his eyes glued on the man’s features. Carrillo bounced his head with the rhythm of the music, but rarely lifted his eyes from the glowing screen.

  What was he doing?

  Michowsky wished he could see in real time what Carrillo’s screen showed, but, unfortunately, Winnett didn’t think about it too much and forgot to set him up with a clone of the target’s phone. It might’ve come in handy. He snickered to himself… Look at you, he thought, talking phone clones and stuff. You’ve seen a TV show one time and you think everything is possible.

  In the brief silence between a salsa and a merengue, Michowsky heard a faint chime; Carrillo was texting. He hesitated for a moment, then said to himself, “Screw it,” and messaged Donovan.

  “Next text activity dump for 305-555-1853, ASAP, please.”

  Donovan didn’t reply to his text; instead, a few moments later, an email with an attachment popped on his screen. He opened the attachment and looked for the most recent message. In passing, he recognized how well-organized and efficient Donovan was; the report emulated a real messaging screen, arranged by conversations and by date.

  Other than a few meaningless confirmations and banal exchanges, the main texting conversations took place with Pearson’s daughter, Lily. The messages were typical for a young couple in love. Sweet and silly, or at least that’s how they seemed to him, who’d never been so extroverted as to put the words I love you in writing, not even once.

  In the most recent exchange, only a few minutes earlier, Carrillo confirmed he’d finished the day’s business and was on his way to pick her up. She’d replied enthusiastically that she was ready and waiting for him, then added a row of emojis of all sorts and shapes, variations of hearts and smileys.

  Pearson must’ve been thrilled, seeing her get ready
to leave the house at ten in the evening.

  Carrillo peeled off the curb and Michowsky let him gain some distance before following him. He was comfortable increasing the distance, because he knew where the young man was headed: Pearson’s house. A few minutes later, he watched Carrillo pull over in front of Lily’s place and wait in the car. He didn’t ring the bell or honk; maybe he sensed Pearson’s aversion to him, or maybe, being where he’d spent the bulk of his evening, he was a little uncomfortable being around a seasoned cop’s nose. His clothes most likely reeked of marijuana and cheap perfume, considering the crowd that populated the den at 1105 Mercury.

  The door opened, and Lily stepped out, dressed in a light, summer dress with a yellow floral pattern that made her visible from a distance. There was a happy spring in her step as she leapt over the few steps and almost ran toward Carrillo’s car. Watching how happy that girl was made Michowsky think of his own kids and of Pearson’s predicament. Most likely Pearson had tried to warn his daughter repeatedly about that man, but had no arguments, no criminal record he could invoke, just his gut. That didn’t go far with a young daughter in love with a man from the wrong side of the tracks. What would he have done in Pearson’s place? Probably the same thing; call Winnett for help.

  He followed them for a while, and then stayed well behind when they pulled over at Baiocco, where Carrillo was a perfect gentleman with Lily. He held the car door for her, offered her his hand, then held the restaurant door open for her with a charming smile. She was walking on a cloud.

  Michowsky considered going inside for a moment, but thankfully he didn’t need to. The couple was seated by a window, and he could keep his eyes on them from a safe distance. He watched Carrillo continuing to behave impeccably, holding Lily’s seat, offering her the menu, topping the wine before the waiter had a chance.

  It seemed almost too good to be true, and too damn easy. The easiest stakeout in his entire career. Unconvinced, Michowsky groaned and got out of his car, then opened the trunk and rummaged through the duffel bag he had in there. A few minutes later, he slapped a magnetic GPS tracker underneath the rear fender of the white Lexus.

  27

  Live Streaming

  The countdown showed eleven minutes left, and Tess was so edgy she couldn’t settle in one place. She paced the room like a caged animal, furious with her own powerlessness. She was about to witness an assault and all she could do was watch. She couldn’t step in and stop the attack, she couldn’t draw her weapon and fire the liberating shot.

  Doc Rizza knocked twice, then entered the conference room with a tired smile on his lips. A faint smell of stale cigars and yesterday’s aftershave came in with him, surrounding him like a cloud.

  “Thought I might join you,” he said quietly, shooting a side glance at the wall-mounted TV where votes continued to pour in faster and faster, incessantly.

  Tess gestured with her hand toward one of the many available seats. “Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it.”

  “I’m set up on my end,” Donovan’s voice came to life across the conference line. They’d been keeping him on that open line for six straight hours, but he wasn’t complaining. He was an expert multitasker, and Tess could hear him take other calls and handle other things that came his way, while continuing to run searches for the next victim. “I have one station set up to do real-time tracking of the streaming feed,” he continued, “although I wouldn’t hold my breath. This unsub isn’t going to start making mistakes now.”

  “How will we find her?” Fradella asked. “I have maps pulled up on my end, if that helps.”

  “It does,” Donovan replied. “You do geographic searches starting from the shortlisted names, while I search various databases using all the criteria we can think of, and anything else new we’ll find today. If we see her face, I’ll capture that screenshot and run a facial recognition against the shortlisted three hundred and forty-seven potential targets.”

  “Are you recording this?” Tess asked.

  “Yes, I’ve been recording it since the counter passed five million votes. That was twenty minutes ago. Can’t believe he’s at 5.7 million already. A lot of bored people out there.”

  “A lot of sick people,” Doc Rizza intervened. “Bored people get hobbies, read books, walk their dogs. This,” he gestured with contempt toward the screen, “doesn’t qualify.”

  No one argued, and for a few moments they waited in silence, watching the countdown clock inch closer to the deadline. Would he prove audacious enough to stream live? Or would he serve the masses a few photos, maybe a short video, and be gone before they could catch him?

  A beep on the conference line announced a call waiting. Tess squinted at the LCD screen in the dim light and recognized Bill’s number. She patched his call into the open line.

  “Bill, thanks for calling in,” Tess said. “Fradella’s here with Doc Rizza, and we have Donovan on the phone.”

  “Hello, everyone,” Bill said, his voice somber against a background of rustling paper.

  The moment the countdown reached three minutes, the screen changed, displaying a message from the unsub.

  It said, on two centered lines of white text against a black background, “You’ve been generous, my dear audience, and so will I. Tonight we’re streaming live.” Nothing else, but the moniker he’d adopted from them was now embedded with graphics into a header that topped the Web page.

  “Taker of Lives,” Bill read. “When did he start calling himself that?”

  Tess groaned with frustration and closed her eyelids to hide the roll of her eyes. “Immediately after he learned we were calling him that.”

  “How?” Bill asked, the elevated pitch in his voice betraying his unspoken disapproval.

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” she replied calmly, although she was nowhere near being calm.

  Seconds passed quickly on the timer under their fixed eyes, and as zero approached Tess held her breath, bracing herself, willing herself to not feel any emotion, to be factual and analytical in her deductive reasoning.

  A chime marked zero on the timer, and the image changed to a live feed from a lushly decorated bedroom. Window treatments in jacquard silk with long fringes and satin sheets gave the room a luxurious warmth, youthful rather than snobby through the choice of pastel colors.

  The video camera was immobile, installed on a tripod by all appearances, and positioned near the foot of the bed. It was elevated to a vantage point similar to that of a standing person, giving the viewers a perspective as if they were standing right there, by the bed, watching what was about to happen.

  The girl lying on the pale green sheets was already naked. The duvet had been pulled to the side, and multiple sources of light were trained on the girl’s perfect body. Her face, turned slightly to the side, was covered by wavy strands of long, blonde hair. She fought to open her eyelids, but her eyes stayed stubbornly closed; she was probably too drowsy from the chemicals he’d given her. She kept shaking her head slowly, restlessly, as if desperately trying to emerge from the narcotic daze that had rendered her almost unconscious.

  “Damn it,” Tess muttered, “tell me we have enough for face recog.”

  “We don’t,” Donovan replied between clenched teeth. “We need her face clear of all that hair, and at a good angle. All we’ve got is chin and curls.”

  Then the unsub partially came into view. His entire body was covered in a black, shiny latex suit, complete with gloves and head mask. The suit was several numbers too large; it didn’t stretch tightly over his body; it creased and hung in places, out of shape. They didn’t see all of him; only whatever parts of his anatomy came on screen as he moved around the bed, going about his business in a relaxed, methodical manner.

  Tess let out a long, muttered oath on a pained breath of air. “That explains the lack of forensics. He’s too damn smart. Anything we can get on that suit?”

  “Nope,” Donovan said. “They’re quite popular with folks engaged in cosplay. They go
for twenty-five bucks apiece and they’re everywhere. No dice.”

  “I can approximate some body measurements, based on what I see,” Doc Rizza said. “I’ll know more after I analyze this in detail and compute in the actual dimensions of the furniture, but I can already tell you he’s about five-eight to five-ten, not very athletic, a little flabby even.”

  “How did you come up with his height, Doc?” Tess asked. “On video, it’s all relative.”

  “The door came into view a few moments ago when he opened it,” he explained. “The standard height for a bedroom door is six feet, eight inches. He seemed a foot shorter than that, maybe less than a foot.”

  “He’s not big and strong,” she muttered, thinking of how that played with the absence of violence. Was that the cause? Was he physically weak, or impaired somehow, so that he chose to chemically restrain his victims, rather than overcome them physically? Most lust predators enjoyed physically overcoming their victims. It was like foreplay in their sick, perverted minds.

  The unsub came into view again, this time holding four colorful scarves he might’ve taken from the victim’s dresser drawers while he was off-screen. Slowly, he tied the girl’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts, taking his time and never stopping to look at the camera, not even once. Tess watched the gestures, the way his arms moved, the way he walked from one bedpost to the next.

  “He seems to have some difficulty walking,” she said, “or maybe it’s the suit.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” Doc Rizza said. “Might be a lower back injury, which could be accompanied by impotence if there was nerve damage.”

  The unsub finished tying the girl’s limbs to the bed and stopped for a moment, as if admiring his work. Then, as if he’d heard their request earlier, he propped the girl’s head higher against two pillows and pulled the strands of hair away from her face.