The Serial Killer's Wife

by Robert Swartwood

  Suddenly gunfire erupted on the other side of the storage facility. At least a half dozen rounds from two different guns.

  Elizabeth went to stand back up, but Julia grabbed her arm. “Don’t.”

  She pried Julia Hogan’s fingers off her arm and rested them on the woman’s chest. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t,” Julia Hogan said again.

  Elizabeth considered taking the woman’s weapon but didn’t want to leave her without one. She went to Frank, took the gun away from him, checked the magazine. Only two rounds left. Not a lot, but still two was better than none.

  Jamming the magazine back into the gun, she glanced at Julia Hogan one last time before hurrying toward the opposite end of the facility, where the gunfire had gone silent and where she hoped her son was still alive.

  • • •

  SPECIAL AGENT DAVID Bradford was dead, or at least he looked dead, lying on the pavement, his arms and legs splayed, his eyes closed. Most of his body was covered in blood.

  Elizabeth paused long enough to crouch and press her fingers to his neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak.

  Bradford’s eyes fluttered open. He opened his mouth like a fish, attempting to find speech, but no words came out.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t talk.”

  “Leg,” he managed in a voice that barely sounded human.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what he meant at first but then she realized his left leg was twitching. She noticed something near the cuff, a slight bulge, and immediately reached out and pulled back the cuff to reveal the ankle holster. A revolver was nestled there, a Ruger .38 Special, and as gently as she could she slipped it free from its holster.

  “Go,” David Bradford managed.

  Elizabeth set Frank’s gun aside, stood with the Ruger, and checked the chambers. They were all full. Five shots, five chances. Five ways this could all go from bad to worse.

  She closed the cylinder, started to hurry forward ... but then stopped and stared back down at the gun and the faint glimmer of moonlight reflected off its barrel.

  • • •

  A CHAIN-LINK FENCE ran along the back of the facility. She could hear the traffic on the highway, she could hear the leaves skittering across the pavement in the wind, and as she came around the corner she could hear her son sobbing and her brother cursing at him to shut up.

  They were at the utility van, a black nondescript thing, and the side door was open and Jim was trying to hustle Matthew inside. The van was maybe thirty yards away. Elizabeth stopped at the rear corner of the unit, raised the revolver, and fired two shots at the van’s windshield. The glass spider-webbed and Matthew screamed and Jim went suddenly still. Then, when nothing else happened, he slowly glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth knew what he saw: his sister standing there with a gun shaking in her hands.

  “Let him go,” Elizabeth said, her voice hoarse with fear.

  Jim just stared back at her. “No.”

  She closed her eyes and raised her shoulders and pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Just a dry click. She tried it a second time but still nothing happened.

  Jim grinned and started to laugh. “You want me to let him go? Fine, here he is.”

  The moment Jim released his grip on Matthew her son went scrambling toward her. She could see her brother reaching into his pocket when Matthew was twenty-five yards away. She could see her brother bringing out the cell phone when Matthew was twenty yards away. She could see her brother standing there, holding the cell phone up, his thumb on the SEND button, waiting until Matthew had reached her. She could see her brother watching her, and as Matthew neared, she saw something change in Jim’s eyes. The smugness had started to fade. A realization had begun to creep in. She watched her brother watch her, as the gun in her hands had suddenly stopped shaking. As her shoulders went back. As the fear in her face disappeared. As she tilted her head slightly to the side.

  “No,” he whispered.

  Elizabeth pulled the trigger one last time and the bullet inside—the bullet she had purposely saved for last, the other two safe in her pocket—exited the Ruger’s snub-nosed barrel and a moment later entered Jim’s throat.

  Before she knew it she was running forward, dropping the revolver and scooping Matthew up as she hurried toward Jim. He had fallen to his knees, his face pale, both hands trying to hold in the blood. He’d dropped the cell phone and it lay beside him, within easy reaching distance. She kicked it away just as Jim made one last futile attempt to grab it. Then he lay there on his side, staring up at her with dying eyes, and Elizabeth, holding her son, turned away.

  CHAPTER 63

  THE NEXT SEVERAL hours were a blurring parade of state police, federal agents, emergency personnel, and bomb squad technicians.

  Elizabeth had already taken the explosive collar off her son’s neck, placed it in the black utility van—she’d gotten a glimpse of the bed inside, the digital clock behind it, the camera set up on a bolted-down tripod—and she had taken Matthew back to Julia who was severely injured. By that point David Bradford was dead.

  The first thing Elizabeth told the authorities when they arrived was about how David Bradford’s son had been abducted three days prior. Immediately agents began making calls, attempting to track Jim’s movements over the past several days.

  She refused to be separated from Matthew. Even after hours of questioning, after telling the same story again and again, after being transported to the nearest hospital for more examinations, Elizabeth demanded she always be in the same room as her son.

  As far as Elizabeth knew, she was not under arrest. She and Matthew were put in a room together and a nurse or doctor would come in and check on them regularly, always accompanied by an officer, but so far she had not been read her rights. She wondered if she would need an attorney, and that made her think of Foreman and Mark Webster, and she spent several minutes crying for everyone she knew who had been killed, even Reginald Moore, until Matthew awoke from his doze and touched her arm and asked her what was wrong.

  “Nothing, honey.” She forced a smile, wiped at her eyes. “Nothing at all.”

  Her current location had been leaked to the press. She turned on the TV hanging from the wall and saw a CNN reporter standing outside the hospital. All they had now was speculation but the main story seemed to be that authorities had finally apprehended Elizabeth Piccioni.

  Just hearing that phrase made Elizabeth’s hands tremble. She ended up turning off the television and holding her son until they both fell asleep.

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING Julia Hogan came to see her. Her left arm was in a sling and her leg was bandaged. She limped as she moved about the room.

  “They found Dave’s son,” Julia said.

  Elizabeth sat up straight in the bed. “Is he okay?”

  “He should be. He’s scared and dehydrated and exhausted but they have him in the hospital hooked up to IVs and, from what I hear, he should be fine.”

  “How did they find him?”

  “Traced your brother’s credit cards. He’d flown out to Oregon two weeks before. He’d been keeping a close eye on Dave and his son.”

  “Jim used a credit card for the room he kept the boy in? I would have thought he was smarter than that.”

  “Oh, he was. For that room he’d paid with a stolen credit card. But the camera he’d set up to take a picture every hour and then send to David’s phone, that signal bounced off a local cell tower. They managed to locate that and search all motels in a five mile radius.”

  The hospital room had that sterile unwelcoming feel to it. It was not a place to be comfortable or even feel relaxed. Beside her in the bed Matthew continued to sleep.

  Elizabeth asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  “No. At least not yet. You have broken several laws in different states, so that puts you under federal jurisdiction. However, you are now being credited with revealing the true killers behind the Widower Maker Murders.”

&n
bsp; There was another silence. Elizabeth asked about David Bradford.

  “What about him?”

  “The relationship you two had wasn’t strictly professional, was it?”

  Julia Hogan’s face flushed. She looked away for a long time before speaking.

  “I first met him five years ago when he came to arrest your husband. He was ambitious and brilliant and it looked like he was going to advance in the Bureau. But then you disappeared and his superiors blamed him. It didn’t help that he and his wife were having issues, either. One night before he ended up going home we got together at a bar and got drunk and went back to his hotel room. That ... that was pretty much it. Just a one time thing, I thought. Then he’d gotten transferred and his wife left him and he started sending me emails. We’d talk on the phone every night. Sometimes he’d fly out and see me or I’d fly out and see him. We never said it to each other, but we ... we were in love.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Julia wiped at her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

  Elizabeth didn’t want to dispute this claim, though she knew it wasn’t true. Everything that had happened was her fault.

  “What about my husband?”

  “That’s another issue completely.”

  “How so?”

  “Does the name Alex Scott mean anything to you?”

  Elizabeth thought about it, frowned. “No,” she said, then glanced down at Matthew sleeping beside her and paused. “Actually, yes. Before we named our son Thomas, Eddie and I had talked about two other names. Alex and Scott. Why?”

  “Alex Scott is the name of the person leasing that storage unit where the fingers were kept. We were able to figure that out pretty quickly—the owner of the place gave us all the information—but the ID Alex Scott had given him was a fake.”

  “Eddie had a fake ID?”

  “Right after he had told your brother about the fingers, he knew he needed to hide them. He knew there was a chance your brother and his partner might come after him, so he managed to get a fake ID, secure a ten-year lease at the storage unit for a fixed rate, and then created a bank account with enough money to pay it off. He set it up so every month the exact amount would be transferred over. He assumed if it came to it, he would go to jail and you would be protected as long as those fingers were safe.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Two agents went to speak with your husband first thing this morning. They told him what happened and how you and your son are safe and he confessed everything.” Julia paused. “He did all this for you and your son, you realize. He loves you both that much.”

  Before Elizabeth could respond, there was a knock at the door and one of the FBI agents stuck his head in and gave Julia a look. Julia signaled to him that she would be right out, and his head disappeared and the door closed.

  “How much trouble are you in?” Elizabeth asked.

  “A lot.”

  “Will you be fired?”

  Julia Hogan ignored the question. She said, “The reason I came in here to begin with was to tell you that the press is outside. They would like you to give a statement. You don’t have to, but—”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, swinging her feet off the bed. “I want to. Now what do you think I should wear?”

  • • •

  HER STATEMENT TO the press was, she liked to think, short and sweet. She went to stand behind the mini-lectern that had been set up with microphones sticking out like a bizarre bouquet, each with the call letters of the affiliates. She had not changed out of her jeans and wore one of the shirts the hospital had provided. She hadn’t taken a shower and she knew her hair was a mess but she didn’t care. She felt that her harried look would give her words more impact.

  “Right now I don’t have much to say about this matter,” she told the cameras and the men and women standing behind those cameras and everyone else who was watching what was transmitted through those cameras. “In the next day or so I’m sure the FBI will release their official statement. All I can say right now is that it appears my husband, Edward Piccioni, did not murder any of the women he was convicted of murdering five years ago.”

  This started a rumble among the reporters, and she raised a hand for silence.

  “The real killers were identified late last night. They are now both dead. There were two of them. It’s a long story and I’m sure the FBI will tell you everything. Actually, speaking of the FBI, I would not be standing here now if it were not for two special agents. These agents both went above and beyond to protect my son and me and help bring these men to justice. Unfortunately, one of the agents was killed in the line of duty. He was a brave man. The other agent was injured. She seems to be okay now and hopefully soon she will be back on her feet and back on the job that she does so well. They are both your heroes. Thank you for your time. That is all.”

  • • •

  BACK IN THE hospital room, Matthew was awake and eating breakfast, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and milk and a plastic cup of apple juice. Julia Hogan sat in the chair next to the bed.

  “What did you think about that?” Elizabeth asked.

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That should guarantee you at least keep your job. From what I understand, public opinion is a very strong thing.” She stared down at her son, then glanced at Julia again. “Now what about my husband?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “If what Jim said was true, and I now believe it is, then Eddie had nothing to do with those murders.”

  “He was still an accomplice.”

  “By force.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything and you know it. Look, the matter is being investigated as we speak.”

  “Do you trust there will be a fair outcome?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Elizabeth stared down at her son again. Matthew chewed his cereal, his gaze directed up at the TV that Julia had now changed to cartoons. He noticed her watching him and smiled at her.

  “So you’re still an agent, right?”

  “Nobody has told me differently.”

  “I need you to do me two favors. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “That depends. What are they?”

  Elizabeth told her.

  Julia Hogan said, “The second one makes sense, but are you positive about the first?”

  Elizabeth thought about it for a moment. “I guess I won’t know until I confront her about it, will I?”

  • • •

  LEAVING THE HOSPITAL was easier than Elizabeth had thought it would be. Julia Hogan made some calls and then told Elizabeth they had the okay. Elizabeth didn’t want to leave Matthew alone but didn’t want to take him either. Not to the first place she needed to go, and certainly not to the second place. The nurse who had been checking on them since they first arrived agreed to keep an eye on Matthew. Julia talked to one of the cops in the building and asked him to stand guard outside the door.

  Despite the bandage on her leg, Julia drove. Neither woman spoke the entire way except when Elizabeth told her to turn here or there. Finally they came to the townhouses. Elizabeth directed Julia to which townhouse and then they were parked and Elizabeth went up the steps and knocked on the door.

  Baldy did not answer the door this time. Now it was Sheila, still dressed in her school outfit, the nice slacks and shirt. When she saw Elizabeth her hand went to her mouth.

  “Oh my God. I saw the news. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s awful.”

  Elizabeth only nodded.

  Sheila’s gaze momentarily slid past Elizabeth to Julia Hogan in the parked car. “What are you doing here?”

  “Michael’s dead.”

  “I know. You told me last night.”

  “He was murdered.”

  “I—” Sheila cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “A lot of people were murdered because of what my brother wan
ted.”

  “Wait.” Frowning now. “Your brother?”

  “If they never would have been able to track me down, none of this would have ever happened. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

  Sheila’s gaze shifted past her again for a second before shifting back. “I don’t think I’m following.”

  “I never told anybody where I ended up. Nobody knew.”

  “Okay,” Sheila said slowly. “Liz, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Nobody knew where I was. I never told anyone. Not even you.”

  “I know. You had just sent me a message. You never said where you were.”

  “Right,” Elizabeth said, nodding slowly, watching Sheila’s eyes, this woman who had once been her very best friend, who with Foreman had helped her escape her old life and start a new one. “I never did say where I was. But you figured it out easily enough, didn’t you?”

  Sheila opened her mouth but that was it. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even frown or make any kind of face. After a very long moment, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You knew exactly where I was, or at least the general vicinity, and you posted my location on Clarence Applegate’s message board.”

  Sheila pushed her lips together so tight they almost disappeared. The uncertain look she’d been giving Elizabeth had turned into a glare.

  “You don’t have any proof,” she said in a soft voice. “You can’t have me arrested.”

  “Who said I was going to have you arrested? You committed no crime. You simply betrayed me.”

  “Betrayed you,” Sheila snorted. “If anything, you were the one who betrayed me. We were best friends. We trusted each other. And you ... you got to do something people only dream about. You got to start a new life. But what about me? I’ve lived in the same town my entire life. I’ve been teaching at the same goddamn school for fifteen years. My life is going nowhere.”