Glimpse of Death: A Riveting Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  Glimpse of Death

  A Novel

  Leslie Wolfe

  Contents

  Taken

  Waiting Room

  Crime Scene

  A Life

  Cat

  Room with a View

  Captive

  Questions

  House Call

  The Stylist

  In the Dark

  Preparations

  Waking Up

  Lunch

  Pathology

  Sarah

  Memories

  Night Visit

  After the Party

  Another Crime Scene

  Alone

  Battle Plans

  Morning Rounds

  Breakfast

  Remote Office

  At the Mall

  DNA

  An Invitation

  Entangled Leads

  Facts of Life

  Seized

  Preliminary Profile

  Evidence

  Dance of Chromosomes

  New Arrival

  Sketches

  Sick

  The Yoga Instructor

  Ready

  Early Morning

  A Shower

  A Promise

  Discharged

  Back in the Saddle Again

  Turmoil

  The Giver

  Ambulance

  Awake

  Correlations

  Vantage Point

  A Name

  Not a Fit

  Through the Looking Glass

  Courage

  An Invitation

  Thank You!

  Connect with Me!

  Taken

  He watched her from across the street as she left the coffee shop. She was beautiful, this one. Her long, wavy, brown hair coiled and bounced in thick, silky strands around her shoulders, dancing with every step she took. Her smile was dazzling, even from a distance, and her eyes were half-closed, the way they get when laughter touches them and lends a glow of happiness.

  He licked his lips and swallowed hard. Soon enough, those eyes would be looking at him. He felt a twitch below his waist, and a crooked smile curled the corner of his mouth.

  She stopped right outside the coffee shop and turned around to look at the man who’d held the door for her. Then she reached out and took his hand, weaving her fingers through his, and her smile widened. The man leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, lingering a little, then turned away and quickly disappeared around the corner. She unzipped her purse, her eyes still following him as he vanished, and took out her car keys.

  That was his cue. Time to move.

  He ran his sweaty palms against his thinning, blond hair and arranged it into place, although not much could be done with the few remaining strands, pushed backward by an aggressively receding hairline. He straightened his posture and arranged the knot of his tie, then buttoned his jacket. He scrutinized the reflection in the tinted car window and saw a moderately attractive, professionally dressed man, looking the part he was about to play.

  He quickly crossed the street and caught up with her just as she was about to get behind the wheel. He delayed his arrival long enough to give her time to be seated, but caught the doorframe before she could close it.

  “Dr. Katherine Nelson?” he asked, flashing a wallet with his fake police ID.

  The young woman didn’t bother to check his credentials. They never did. But even if she checked, the fake he carried was quite good; it could probably pass for the real thing with most uneducated civilians. He’d paid good money for it, worth it to the last dime. It made things so much easier. He didn’t have to lurk in the shadows anymore, worrying about muffling their screams and getting kicked, bit, and scratched. He could go out in broad daylight and get the job done.

  “Yes, that’s me,” the young woman replied, her voice trembling a little.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your husband, he—”

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” she almost yelled, panic instilling a crystalline, high pitch in her voice.

  He didn’t even have to be creative. They never let him finish his damn sentence anyway.

  “It’s better if you come with me, Dr. Nelson. It’s faster that way.”

  She grabbed her purse and slammed her car door, then trotted quickly behind him, as he crossed the street and headed toward his car. The rhythmic sound of her high heels hitting the asphalt made it unnecessary for him to look over his shoulder to make sure she was still coming.

  He led her to a black, unmarked Crown Victoria he’d bought at a police auction a couple of years before, and held the door open for her. Then he took his seat behind the wheel and shoved the key in the ignition.

  “Please,” Katherine said, turning toward him, “tell me what happened to Craig. Is he okay?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe, then quickly removed the cap. She watched him with bewildered eyes, turning pale, faltering. She pushed herself backward as far as she could, flailing desperately for the door handle, but unable to take her eyes from the approaching needle. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “Your husband is in a world of trouble, Dr. Nelson.” He grabbed her shoulder with a steeled grip and shoved the needle into the side of her neck, swiftly pushing the plunger, before she could react. “You see, his cheating wife was kidnapped today.”

  Waiting Room

  The three men knew one another well, but barely exchanged glances. The occasional word was muttered under their breaths, almost whispered, although no one else could hear them talk. Other than that, they waited.

  Hospital waiting rooms are all the same, no matter where they happen to be. Fluorescent lights, with undecided hues of bluish purple, and the nonstop humming of the ceiling-mounted lamps. A vending machine, also humming every now and then, holding the typical offering of junk food, rich in chemicals and empty calories. A few wide chairs in green, faded fabric, and a wall-mounted TV, with the sound set on mute.

  At least they had their privacy.

  Hospitals tend to be courteous to law enforcement, probably due to the repeat business the profession tends to deliver. Passing, or even enduring, relationships are formed among officers, agents, and their family members on one side, and nurses and doctors on the other. They cross paths, unfortunately, much too often. In their case, the small, private, waiting room was the least the hospital could do.

  The three men had been waiting for a while—a few hours now. Not a word.

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Alan Pearson had loosened his tie an inch or two, then crossed his arms at his chest. That had happened more than an hour earlier. He hadn’t budged since, although somewhat irritated with the restlessness of Detective Todd Fradella, from Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. The young detective couldn’t sit still; he paced the floor like a caged animal, annoyingly running his hands through his shoulder-length hair, randomly stopping in front of the window, as if something of any interest could actually be seen through it, in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  As for Detective Gary Michowsky, he didn’t move much either; but his lips did. He sat in the same chair, his hands clasped together tightly in his lap, and stared into emptiness. His jaws clenched spasmodically, and he constantly bit his lips, munching on them from the inside, angrily. He tried to stay calm and quiet, but his anguish showed.

  Fradella stopped his pacing in front of Pearson and shoved his fisted hands deep inside his jeans pockets.

  “It’s taking a while,” he said, breaking the tense silence.

  The two men stared at him disapprov
ingly.

  “I hope she’s okay,” he continued, almost apologetically. “I mean, when it takes so long—”

  “Shut it, Fradella,” Michowsky snapped.

  Pearson unfolded his arms and sighed. “Come on, guys, take it easy,” he said, staring at Michowsky.

  Michowsky fidgeted in his seat, then gazed at the shiny, floor, following the random design of the cement mosaic tiles.

  “It’s on me,” he eventually muttered. “All this. On me.”

  Pearson frowned, and Fradella turned to look at his partner.

  “How d’you figure that?” Pearson asked.

  Michowsky remained silent, biting his lips some more.

  “Did you stab her?” Pearson pressed on. “Was that you, detective? Or was it a psychopath you two eventually put in the morgue?”

  Michowsky shot Pearson an angry glare, then lowered his eyes again. There was nothing to say, and he didn’t want any consolation coming from any of them.

  “When this is over,” Pearson continued unfazed, making a gesture with his hand, “I’ll need a statement from you. I know it was a good shoot, but she’s under internal rev—”

  Michowsky glared at Pearson again, just as briefly, interrupting him.

  “Yeah, I heard about that nonsense. I’ll give you my statement anytime you want. It was a good shoot.”

  The door opened and a tall man dressed in a surgical gown walked in. The three men gathered around him, all talking at the same time, asking the same question, but with different words.

  The doctor raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Hello, I’m Dr. DePaolo. We met earlier, I think,” he said, locking eyes with Pearson and then Michowsky. “She’s strong and she’s a fighter; she has a good chance to make a full recovery,” he said, and smiled encouragingly, while wiping his brow with his sleeve. Tiny beads of sweat had accumulated there, and the edge of his surgical cap was moist.

  “It was a close call for a while,” he continued, “but I believe she’ll pull through. The next few hours are still critical. She waited too long.” He cleared his throat, then continued in a stern tone. “XStat is designed to stop the bleeding while help is on the way, officers. You can’t get stabbed, XStat the wound, patch it up with a bandage, and go back to work like nothing happened.”

  The three men looked at one another, then, one by one, lowered their eyes.

  “She lost a lot of blood,” Dr. DePaolo continued. “She’s in ICU now, still sedated. I’ll show you where that is, if you follow me.”

  He scampered quietly on the endless corridors, then led them to a room on a restricted part of the floor. The room had a glass wall and a French door, also made of glass. Inside the room, surrounded by stacks of beeping equipment and digital screens, a tiny figure lay immobile on the bed.

  Tess looked thin and pale against the white bed sheets; Gary almost didn’t recognize her. By her side, a nurse took readings from the machines and jotted notes onto a chart.

  Pearson frowned and tapped gently on the glass. The nurse quietly opened the door.

  “Why is she restrained, Nurse… Henderson?” he asked in a curt tone, reading the name off the ID tag she was wearing.

  Gary hadn’t noticed the restraints, but now that Pearson mentioned them, he frowned as well. Her wrists were tied to the bed rails, and she constantly shook her head, slowly, without opening her eyes, moaning.

  “She’s very restless, although she’s heavily sedated. We can’t risk her moving too much and tearing her sutures.”

  “I’ll place a uniform at the door,” Fradella said. “Just in case.”

  That wasn’t a case Gary could think of, but he didn’t find it necessary to disagree. After all, it was Tess Winnett in there, fighting for her life.

  “Are you family?” the nurse asked.

  “Work family,” Michowsky replied, earning himself a curious look from Pearson. “Why? Need anything?”

  “She’s worried about her cat. She keeps mumbling something, I can’t understand what, but it’s something to do with a cat. Can someone check her home and make sure her cat’s okay? Maybe then she’ll be able to sleep better.”

  He stared at Tess, puzzled for a few seconds. He wished he could ask her what she needed. Cops had turned her apartment upside down, and he’d been there too; it was still an active crime scene. No one had mentioned a cat, and he didn’t remember seeing food bowls or cat toys anywhere.

  Then he remembered something else.

  He pulled out his phone and said, “I think I know what that’s about.”

  He dialed 411, then requested the information, “I need the number for a Media Luna Bar and Grill, or something like that. Yes, in Palm Beach. Yeah, connect me; I’ll hold.”

  A few seconds later, Michowsky broke the silence again.

  “Yeah, um, hey, Cat, you might want to know that Tess is in the hospital.” He stopped talking for a split second, then continued. “University of Miami Hospital, third floor, room 3104.”

  The call ended without any additional words. Michowsky had expected a few questions, but none came. All for the better. He felt exhausted, the exhaustion brought by feeling some relief, after a long period of tension.

  The nurse smiled and nodded a silent thank you in his direction. He sat on a vinyl chair across the hallway, and let out a long breath of air.

  “She won’t be up for a while,” the nurse said. “Why don’t you go home? I can call you when she wakes up.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Michowsky replied, resuming his earlier posture, with his hands firmly clasped in his lap and his shoulders hunched forward. Pearson nodded and did the same, leaving an empty chair between them and taking the one next to that. Fradella resumed his pacing, including the occasional stops in front of a nearby window, now completely engulfed in darkness.

  A few minutes later, a uniformed officer arrived, quietly greeted Fradella and Michowsky, and pulled a chair for himself right next to Tess’s door. The nurse frowned when she saw him sit there, but then got absorbed in her work and her frown vanished.

  Michowsky’s phone chime raised disapproving eyebrows everywhere on the hallway, even from passersby. He took the call immediately, shooting apologetic glances in all directions. A minute later, he stood up, ready to leave.

  “Fradella, I’ve got to go. They found Lisa Trask, the missing person from last week. She’s been dead for at least a day. You stay here; I’ll do this solo. Call me as soon as Tess wakes up.”

  “You got it. Where did they found the body?”

  “You’re not going to believe this… in her own backyard.”

  He nodded an acknowledgment toward Pearson and hurried out, not noticing the worried look that appeared on Pearson’s face the moment he’d mentioned where the body had been found.

  Crime Scene

  It took Michowsky almost an hour to get to the crime scene; traffic was still heavy, despite the early darkness of the southern Florida winter day.

  Florida winter… what a perfect contradiction in terms. There’s nothing wintry about it, other than shorter days and longer nights, pleasant temperatures, and somewhat fewer tourists, enough to make the highways usable for a few months a year.

  By the time he arrived at the Trask residence, the street was filled with emergency vehicles with their flashers on, and the area surrounding the house was cordoned off with yellow tape. Neighbors huddled together in small groups, talking incessantly, concern and curiosity written all over their faces. Nothing churns a peaceful, suburban neighborhood more than a dead body found in someone’s backyard.

  Michowsky recognized the medical examiner’s van and muttered, “Good,” happy he wouldn’t have to wait for Doc Rizza’s arrival.

  He flashed his badge at the young uniformed officer who kept the gawkers at bay and entered the backyard, following the trail of crime scene unit technicians who ran back and forth from their van to the location of the body.

  The backyard was flooded in light, coming from several por
table halogen projectors. He hurried toward the far end of the yard, where the techs had removed a portion of the shrubs marking the edge of the property, to allow easier access.

  She lay naked on the ground, as if she were waiting for someone. Her beautiful face, serene and immobile, rested on her folded arm. Her long, luscious hair covered her in part, undulating gently in the evening breeze. Her left arm rested in a relaxed position, and her legs were straight, crossed at the ankles. Her eyes were half closed, and a hint of a smile lingered on her pale lips, as if to welcome an unseen lover. Despite the deathly bluish pallor of her skin, she looked almost alive. It was all in the posturing.

  “Seems alive, doesn’t she?” Doc Rizza asked, touching Michowsky’s shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Michowsky replied. “It almost seems like she’s—”

  “In bed, waiting for her lover?” Doc Rizza asked. A hint of sadness colored his voice.

  “Yeah,” Michowsky repeated, running his hand across the back of his neck. “Any preliminary findings?”

  “Got a few,” Doc Rizza replied, signaling his assistants to start preparing the body bag and stretcher. “She’s been dead about thirty hours. Preliminary cause of death is strangulation. You see the petechiae, here, and here, around the eyes?”

  “Uh-huh,” Michowsky replied. “What did he use?”

  “I’m guessing a rope of some kind. I found a few fibers in the abrasions on her throat. I’ll run trace and DNA.”

  Michowsky jotted a few notes in a small notepad. “I’ll have some uniforms search for that piece of rope. Maybe we get lucky… Dumpsters, bushes.” He cleared his throat quietly. “Was she raped?”

  “You’ll have to wait for the autopsy results, but if I were to venture a guess, I’d say yes.”

  Michowsky’s eyebrows shot up. Doc Rizza rarely ventured guesses of any kind. He took pride in his rigorous adherence to scientific facts. “Observation, not speculation,” he liked to say.

  “You see these ligature marks on her ankles?” He crouched next to the victim and pointed at her feet. “The abrasions are more pronounced on the inside of her ankles, here, and on the Achilles tendons, consistent with her legs being tied apart. This type of ligature mark is common in sexual assault victims. I’ll know more in a few hours.”