“I believe we’re looking for a white male, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five who has some type of criminal record. In all likelihood, his behavior started when he was a juvenile; he may have been arrested for voyeurism, destruction of property, theft, that sort of thing. As he got older, he was probably picked up for burglary and possibly assault or attempted rape. Then, something may have happened, a stressor, in his life to push him to the next level: murder. I’m basing this on probabilities compiled through the years from similar cases of serial killers.”
“You said, ‘a stressor’? Can you give our viewers an example?”
“Yes, Steve. A stressor is a life altering event, or something that the perpetrator perceives to be traumatic, that took place within days, weeks or even a few months of his first attack. In this instance, he strangled the first woman in early September. My best guess is that something major happened in his life just prior to that. It could be anything from a job loss to the death of someone close to him, whom he either loved very much and/or depended on. We already have five victims and this type of perpetrator usually doesn’t stop until he’s caught.”
“So, do you expect there to be another attack soon?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Definitely. The attacks have escalated; they’re getting closer together. There was a month between the first two attacks and, now, we’ve had two this week. That could mean that the Westwood Strangler is devolving; in other words, losing it.”
“That’s really scary,” Steve said. “I have another question. Is it true that none of the victims were raped?”
“Yes, that’s true. There have been no signs of sexual assault on any of the victims. Obviously, that eliminates semen as a source of DNA, which could be used against the perpetrator, if and when he is apprehended. As I’m sure you’re aware, police rely heavily on DNA to prove their case. And, unfortunately, the police haven’t found any DNA at the crime scenes, which indicates a methodical killer who is fanatically neat and clean.”
“Assuming you’re right, that we’re talking about a man who is still young enough to perform sexually, how do you explain no sexual intercourse, no rape? Isn’t that unusual?”
“Well,” Dr. Reneker replied, “that isn’t as unusual as you would think. It could be because of any number of things. A possibility, what immediately comes to mind, is impotency. Perhaps the Westwood Strangler kills these women to punish all women because he is unable to perform sexually. Frequently, this happens when a wife or other important female in his life made fun of his sexuality. It could even go back to his childhood. I’ve seen cases where a mother made derogatory comments about the size of a boy’s penis and, because he was of a sensitive nature, it affected him adversely.
“As an adult, he’s unable to find sexual release through intercourse with a woman. He becomes extremely frustrated and begins to resent all women. He starts to fantasize about killing them and discovers that this arouses him. Eventually, for him, strangling women becomes the only way he can achieve orgasm.”
“Dr. Reniker, is there anything else you can tell our viewers?”
“Yes. Usually, in cases of this nature, the predator lives outside of the hunting grounds, so to speak. However, it’s my feeling and, I need to mention, also the belief of the Cincinnati Police department, that this person, this animal, is most likely someone who is seen frequently in the neighborhood and quite possibly lives there, someone who fits in so well that nobody questions his being there. It’s also possible that this killer even has access to these women’s houses or, at least, that he’s someone they wouldn’t think twice about letting in. There were no signs of forced entry at any of the crime scenes.
“Also, this is almost certainly someone who lives alone because, if he were married or living with someone, he would be accountable for his time. These women were murdered at various times of the day and night. For example, Steve, wouldn’t your wife start asking questions if you weren’t home at four in the morning?” he asked, turning to the newscaster.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Steve said, grinning. “But couldn’t the strangler be someone whose job or other activities give him a reason to be gone at those times?”
“Definitely. There could be any number of scenarios. After all, profiling is based on probabilities. It is not an exact science. Actually, for anyone who is interested in learning more about profiling, I’ve written a book on the subject, The Art of Profiling, available at local book stores.” He held up a copy of the book, angling its cover toward the camera.
“Doctor, unfortunately, we’re almost out of time. I’d like to thank you for being with us tonight. Is there anything else you’d like to say before we close?”
Richard Reneker looked directly at the camera. “Yes. Again, thank you for inviting me. I would like to say that I know that the women in this area are frightened and rightfully so. They’ve received constant warnings from the media about locking their doors, not going out at night alone and so forth. I would like to add one thing to that. Ladies, please, definitely heed all of those warnings and, of course, be wary of strangers but I would caution you to also be wary of men you know. The killer could easily be the boy next door.”
Ann turned off the TV. She mentally reviewed what the psychologist had said. A serial killer! And, she thought, it could be anyone: the cable guy, the mailman or the neighborhood handyman. A white male twenty-five to forty-five years old who is fanatically neat and clean, someone people let into their homes without giving it a second thought.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. Like an insurance agent? She thought of the late hours that David had come home lately and his behavior when he was home. Dr. Reniker had said that the wife would question her husband if he weren’t home at four a.m. Maybe the guy is married, she thought, but his wife is just stupid and naïve. Like me.
She closed her eyes. All she could see were David’s eyes as he’d screamed at her and destroyed the beautiful roses he’d brought her. They were filled with rage, even hatred. For a few seconds, she’d actually been afraid of him. She trembled. Was there any chance, any chance at all, she wondered, that the man she was married to was a cold-blooded killer?
Chapter 28
ANN GOT UP FROM THE SOFA. You need to go to bed, she told herself. You’re tired and you’re not thinking straight. How could you, for one minute, think that David could or would kill or even hurt anyone? True, he has a bad temper but he always takes his anger out on inanimate objects. No matter how angry with me he’s been, he’s never even come close to laying a hand on me or the kids. She reached down to turn off the lamp but, before she could, it and the other lights that were on in the apartment, all went out. “Oh, no,” she moaned, “just what I need.”
Stretching her arms out in front of her, she made her way into the kitchen and found a flashlight in the cupboard. “Please work, please work,” she whispered. She flipped the switch and a beam of light shone against the kitchen wall. “Thank God,” she murmured. She went back into the living room and glanced out the front window to see if the neighbors’ lights were out too but, to her dismay, she saw that there were lights on in several other houses across the street. She looked through the peephole but she couldn’t see a thing. The lights in the hallway were on a timer; they should be on. “Great,” she muttered. Well, you have no choice, she told herself. You have to go to the basement and check the circuit breakers. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her keys off of a hook above the counter.
She went back through the living room and out into the entryway, locking the apartment door behind her and putting the keys in her pocket. She took a deep breath as she grasped the knob of the basement door and turned it. She hated going to the basement, even to do laundry, which she always made sure to do in the daytime. The thought of going down there now, in the pitch blackness, terrified her. The image of the thick stone walls, low ceilings and catacomb-like structure of the basement, with one small room leading to another and then another, sent c
hills down her spine. She’d always felt like anyone or anything could hide there and no one would know.
She had never minded the fact that the front door to the house was always unlocked. After all, it was Olivia’s house and, if that’s what Olivia was accustomed to, she had to accept it. She felt safe enough just locking her apartment door. However, when they’d first moved in, she’d asked Olivia to keep the door to the basement locked at all times and Olivia had agreed. Unfortunately, more often than not, Lawrence or Charlie, the handyman, forgot to lock it.
But, she realized, as she stood there, building up the nerve to go downstairs, even with the upstairs door locked, there are still a few small windows down there, barely big enough for a person to squeeze through and get in. What if someone’s down there now? she wondered. What if someone turned off the circuit breakers to lure me to the basement? The only things I have to defend myself with are a flashlight and a set of keys.
The door squeaked as she opened it, reminding her of a scene in a scary movie. This is the part where the audience in the movie theater is saying, “Don’t go down there! Don’t go down there!” she thought. Great, Ann, why don’t you make yourself more nervous? She took a deep breath, telling herself to calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Stop being a nervous Nellie and act like a grownup. She turned the light switch on at the top of the stairs so the lights would come on after she flipped the circuit breaker. She went down the steps slowly, holding on to the banister with one hand and the flashlight with the other.
Luckily, she knew where the electric box was located. She made her way across the basement floor, through stacks of boxes and crates, and found it on the far wall. She brushed a cobweb from across her face and was about to flip the switch for the main breaker when she heard a sound coming from behind her. She spun around and, in the instant before she dropped her flashlight on the cement floor, she gasped as she saw a figure coming toward her. Instantly, she broke out in a sweat and began to tremble. Where could she run? How could she get away? The man was blocking her path.
“It’s okay. It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”
She let out a deep breath. “Thank God! Lawrence, you about gave me a heart attack!” She bent over to pick up her flashlight, which miraculously, was still working.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.
“No problem. Let’s just get these lights back on.” She flipped the breaker switch up and the lights came on. She turned around, bumping into him. Instead of backing away, he stood there, inches from her, gazing at her face. “Excuse me, Lawrence, but I’ve got to get back upstairs. If the kids wake up, they’ll be frightened if I’m not there.”
He didn’t move for a few long seconds and she began to get nervous. Then, all of a sudden, he stepped back and let her pass. “See you later,” he said as she hurried past him. “Be careful on the stairs,” he called after her. She all but flew up the steps.
As soon as she was inside her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it. Her heart was beating so fast she felt like she’d just finished running a race. My God, I was afraid of Lawrence, she thought. She pictured him standing so close to her, staring into her eyes, refusing to move. Why was he acting that way? she wondered. And what about the note I got yesterday and the one today? They weren’t like the others I’ve gotten from him so I assumed that someone else wrote them.
But, what if it wasn’t someone else? What if Lawrence did write them? Could his crush on me have turned into some kind of sick obsession? Maybe he’s finally realized that I only want him as a friend, that I’m not interested in him romantically. Maybe that’s made him angry with me. Could he be angry enough to want to harm or even kill me? Scenes from the movie, Fatal Attraction, played themselves out in her head. Like the obsessed woman in the movie, could Lawrence’s feelings of love for her have turned into something more sinister, even deadly? What if he’s … ?
No! That’s ridiculous. He’s one of the sweetest people I know. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s me. I’m sure I misinterpreted things. I’m seeing ghosts and shadows wherever I turn these days. I’m a nervous wreck. Listening to that psychologist on television tonight sure didn’t help my frame of mind. First, I think my own husband is the Westwood Strangler and now I think Lawrence is? I’m the one who’s losing it! I’m letting my imagination run away with me. I need to get a grip and I need to get some sleep.
She went through the living room and kitchen, turning off the lights. She checked the burners on the stove and the lock on the kitchen door and walked down the hallway to peek in on each of her sleeping children. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, she went down the hall to her own bedroom and got into bed. She pulled the soft, down quilt around her, turned to lay on her left side and tucked her feet and arms in, creating her own cocoon. She pulled the comforter up to her chin and curled up into a fetal position, the only way she could ever fall asleep.
But, tired as she was, a sound sleep evaded her. For hours, she would doze off and then wake up a couple of minutes later, each time, glancing at the clock. When she finally did fall into a solid sleep, she had a nightmare. When she woke up, she saw that she’d flung her covers off. Her heart was beating fast and the images were so vivid in her mind that the dream seemed real.
In the dream, she was running from someone – she couldn’t see his face – through the rooms in the dark, damp basement. No matter how fast she ran, her pursuer was always right behind her, reaching out, trying to grab her, missing her by only inches. Her heart was racing and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Twice, she stumbled and started to fall but quickly regained her balance. She knew that, if he caught her, he would kill her. I felt like a rat in a maze, she thought, running from room to room, unable to find my way out. I was terrified and I felt so helpless and alone. That’s how the Strangler’s victims must feel right before he kills them, she thought.
She shivered. She readjusted her covers and pulled the comforter back up to her chin. Oh, my God. What’s wrong with me lately? she wondered. I feel like I’m losing my grip. And where is David? Is he staying out all night again?
Chapter 29
LAWRENCE STAYED IN THE BASEMENT for a long time after Ann had gone upstairs. He sat down on an old crate in a corner and rested his back against the cool, damp wall. He watched, fascinated, as a large brown spider closed in on a fly, which had gotten caught in its web. The spider was taking its time, teasing and torturing the fly, before it began to devour it.
As a child, he’d spent a lot of time in the damp, musty basement. On sunny days, when all the other kids were out playing ball or going swimming, he had used old cardboard boxes and crates to set up a fort like the ones he saw on the television shows he watched. Other times, he pretended that the boxes and crates were wagons and he’d line them up to play cowboys and indians all by himself. He kept himself entertained for hours, letting his vivid imagination run wild as he played the roles of his heroes: the Lone Ranger, Matt Dillon, the Rifleman and others.
I’ve always been alone, he thought, remembering the hot summer days of his youth. If I close my eyes and listen, I can almost hear the squeals of delight and the laughter of the other neighborhood kids, swimming in the Wagner’s pool in the backyard of their house next door.
“Marco!”
“Polo!”
Giggles, followed by splashing water and more giggles. They were having so much fun! He remembered peeping out of the small basement window that faced their house and watching all the tanned, happy children, diving into the pool and tossing a beach ball. I felt like the words in that old song, “I’m on the outside, looking in. I don’t wanna be, I don’t wanna be stuck on the outside,” he thought. But I was stuck on the inside, looking out. I wanted to be a part of that so badly but I couldn’t.
A brief smile crossed his face as he recalled how he used to sneak out of one of the basement windows and go to the pool, after his mother went to bed at night and all the lights in th
e Wagner house were turned off. He remembered how cool and soft the water felt on his skin, like satin, as he swam all alone in the dark.
Until the night he got caught. He cringed. The memory was still too painful. In his mind, he could hear the dog in a neighboring yard barking and he could see the Wagner’s backyard suddenly go from pitch blackness to bright light. Mr. Wagner was coming toward him with a baseball bat in his hand, evidently suspecting a prowler.
“Lawrence! What are you doing out here all alone?” the man asked.
Lawrence quickly got out of the pool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wagner. I shouldn’t be here. It won’t happen again.” And, it never had. That night had put an end to his solitary nocturnal swims, one of the few, secret pleasures he’d had.
So much had changed since then. The Wagners moved away years ago and the people who bought their house didn’t want the pool so they had it filled in with topsoil and planted grass seed. When he looked out at their backyard now, it was as if the pool had never existed. The only thing that hasn’t changed, he thought, is me; I’m still sitting in the basement, all alone.
Alone, he thought. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to be with Annie. He closed his eyes, picturing the two of them as, just a few minutes ago, they’d stood only inches apart. That’s the closest I’ve ever been to her, except in my dreams, he thought. I wanted to kiss her so badly. Maybe I should have. What would she have done if I had? Then he remembered the look in her eyes, when, for a few seconds, he’d stood, blocking her way, deciding whether or not to kiss her. She was afraid of me, he realized. My Annie was afraid of me.
Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery) Page 15
