She sat in her car for several minutes, thinking about where she could find a quiet, remote setting. After careful thought, she decided that Presidio Park, a fifty-acre haven of lush greenery overlooking Mission Bay and the Pacific Ocean, would work perfectly.
When she exited Freeway 8 and pulled into the unpaved parking lot, Sami let out a sigh of relief when she saw only three cars. “Terrific.” Considering the size of the park, she felt confident she’d find a secluded spot where she could be alone with her thoughts.
As she laced her Timberland hiking boots, she glanced at her watch: 11:30. In thirty minutes, Simon Kwosokowski had a long-overdue appointment with his God.
Sami found a trail leading up a steep hill, snaking through a dense patch of trees. Near the top of the hill, she discovered an open area covered with a bed of dried leaves, pinecones, and green moss. She picked a spot that looked most comfortable and sat on the dirt.
Again she glanced at her watch: 11:53.
She closed her eyes and wondered if Simon had read the letter she’d mailed him. She’d sent it FedEx overnight, and even called Warden Marshall and asked him to personally see to it that Simon got the letter. But even if he had gotten it, how could she be sure he read it? She didn’t feel any different, except that the rage in her belly had calmed down a bit. Perhaps, she thought, at twelve noon, when lethal poison coursed through Simon’s veins and life drained from his body, and he could never hurt Angelina or her again, maybe she’d feel the sense of relief she’d been longing for.
The sun, shaded by the thick of trees, could not warm the uncharacteristically chilly air. Usually, June brought with it warmer air from the deserts and cool ocean breezes. But today, Sami felt as if it were February. Her mind, a kaleidoscope of colorful thoughts, raced out of control. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged her legs, trying to force herself to focus on Simon.
As she watched the minute hand on her Seiko moving closer to noon, she tried to piece together all the components of her harrowing experience with Simon, hoping to find some grain of comfort. His execution would of course end his physical existence. But how could she get his emotional presence lifted from her mind?
Just before noon, Simon Kwosokowski stands next to a padded table, facing an anxious group of onlookers ready to witness his execution. The warden stands to his side.
“Any last words?” the warden asks.
“I deeply regret not being able to fulfill my promise to the Almighty. I can only hope and pray that another true believer walks in my shoes and carries on with God’s work.”
A crowd of restless onlookers sits silently and observes. As death draws near, Simon smiles at them, hoping they understand that he doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of remorse. Two prison guards strap Simon to a padded table—arms, legs, and torso. The technician places an IV drip in Simon’s arm. He can see the three glass cylinders sitting adjacent to the table, each filled with a lethal drug that will end his life. He glances at the warden and sees the smug look of victory in his eyes. Simon can’t see the witnesses on the other side of the one-way glass, but wonders if Sami Rizzo sits among the crowd. He has read her letter three times, each time feeling more perplexed. That she could forgive him was beyond anything he could imagine. For the first time since meeting Sami, he admires her. For he could never be so forgiving. And in a sense, she has defeated him.
At exactly twelve noon, Warden Marshall gives the technician a nod and he pushes a red button marked number one. Slowly, a plunger in one of the three glass cylinders compresses the first drug, and forces the sodium thiopental, a powerful anesthetic, into Simon’s IV. Making his eyes heavy, and his body feeling like he just drank a bottle of bourbon, the strong sedative takes hold almost immediately. Moments before the drug renders him unconsciousness, he thinks of his mother.
After four minutes, the technician pushes button number two, and a heavy dose of pancuronium bromide is pushed into Simon’s vein. The drug causes complete muscle paralysis. He is not only unconscious, he can’t even breathe. Last, the technician administers a lethal dose of a barbiturate and potassium chloride solution that permanently stops his heart. The entire process is over in less than eight minutes.
I’m coming, Mother. In a few minutes, we will be reunited.
Foolish boy. In a few minutes, the Lord will pass judgment on you and sentence you to spend eternity in the fires of hell.
Simon Kwosokowski’s last earthy thought grips his heart and crushes it. He now realizes that his beloved mother had betrayed him and led him down a path to eternal condemnation. What was once righteous was now a disgrace.
A doctor presses a stethoscope to his chest and gives the warden a quick nod. The doctor pronounces Simon Kwosokowski dead at 12:10 p.m.
Andrew McDonald, husband of Peggy McDonald, Simon’s fourth victim, sits among the onlookers. Before he leaves the room, he looks at Simon for the first and last time. “Rot in hell, you son of a bitch.”
Sitting on the leaves, Sami looked at her watch. It was now twelve fifteen. Unless the governor issued a stay of execution, Sami felt certain that Simon Kwosokowski no longer breathed earthly air. She had hoped to feel significant relief from his grip, but she felt no different than she did last week or last year for that matter. She had no lofty expectations that her experience with him would be erased completely from her mind, but she did think she’d feel some relief.
Disappointed that such a significant event had little effect on her, she brushed herself off and made her way to her car. Once inside she changed her shoes and sat quietly for a moment with her eyes closed. Like so many times when she’d made a significant decision, Sami felt the angst of buyer’s remorse. She had little doubt that police work was her calling. But she didn’t feel prepared to lead the serial killer investigation. Enthusiasm was not the problem. But a lack of confidence was. All eyes were on her. Most people, her supporters. But some, male chauvinists like D’Angelo, licked their chops waiting for her to fail. Many social and cultural issues regarding equality had evolved, but female cops still rode in the back of the bus.
Never in her wildest dreams did she believe that her return to police work would instantly place her in a pressure cooker. Sami shouldered tremendous stress right now—not only as a homicide investigator, but also in her personal life. Aleta was on her mind constantly, and she was deeply concerned for her mother’s well-being. And of course, she missed having Al next to her at night when she crawled into bed.
She started her car, ready to head back to the precinct.
Time to be a cop again.
Just as she grasped the shift lever, her cell phone rang.
“Hi, Detective Rizzo. This is Maggie Fox. Doctor Templeton just left the lab. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Absolutely. Did he offer any insights about the surgical procedures?”
“Only that there is a technique called the Maze Procedure to treat an ailment called atrial fibrillation—A-Fib for short. And the incisions are in the same area of the heart where this procedure is usually performed.”
“What exactly is A-Fib?”
“It’s a particular type of arrhythmia. It’s generally associated with a rapid heartbeat or a quivering of the upper chambers of the heart. It’s a malfunction in the heart’s electrical system. The Maze Procedure is about eighty percent effective in curing this condition.”
“I don’t get it,” Sami said. “Did all of the victims have this A-Fib condition?”
“That’s highly unlikely. We can get a court order to obtain the medical records to see if there is any history of A-Fib in any of the four victims. But I seriously doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because typically, this condition occurs in people fifty years and older. That’s not carved in granite, but that’s the norm.”
“What did Doctor Templeton have to say about the procedures our perp performed on the victims’ other organs?”
“No logical explanation.”
“Is th
ere anything logical about this guy?”
“Here’s what really puzzles me,” Maggie said. “It seems obvious to me that the killer performed CPR and also used a defibrillator to resuscitate each victim. So, whatever his motive, it appears that he tried to keep them alive as long as possible.”
“But why?”
“That, Detective, is the million-dollar question.”
Peter Spencer, Private Investigator, a man who specialized in shady surveillances and questionable background checks, sat in his twelve-by-twelve office, chewing on an unlit Dutch Masters cigar. He pulled the envelope out of his inside pocket, tore it open, and poured the stack of hundred-dollar bills on his desk. Oh, how he loved Ben Franklin.
There was a time when Peter J. Spencer III occupied a plush suite atop an executive office building and employed a staff of ten. That was before his wife filed for divorce and took nearly everything but his underwear. California, at least in theory, was supposed to be a community-property state, unless you hired the right attorney. And that’s exactly what Helen had done. She had brought new meaning to the cliché, “Took him to the cleaners.”
When his business collapsed, he decided that he could make more money catering to clients with a shady agenda. Why? Because he could pretty much set his fees ridiculously high. And most clients would pay anything to get what they wanted. What he found most curious was the fact that nearly all of his clients were wealthy. Not six-figure wealthy, obscenely wealthy. This peculiar fact lead Spencer to believe that the super-rich were all dubious characters.
He fired up his desktop computer and waited patiently for the system to boot up. PI work had really evolved over the last decade. He remembered the days when it would take weeks, if not months to gather background and family-related information. Back then, a PI really earned his money. The Internet had opened up a whole new world. In this day and age, no identity was safe, nor could a person manage their affairs privately. The world had become a melting pot of names, dates, places, and people, each and every one of them as transparent as Saran wrap—if you knew where to look. The information he had uncovered with just a few clicks of his mouse and a valid credit card could make the CIA jealous.
Staring at the computer screen, Spencer felt overwhelmed with curiosity. Why was his new client, “Mr. John Smith,” so afraid to divulge his identity? Why did he want so much information on a homicide detective? Spencer had promised the mysterious client total discretion, but who would find out if the PI conducted his own little covert operation?
Spencer went into his favorites menu and clicked on www.anyfamilyhistory.com. He typed “Samantha Rizzo” in the first field, added the city and state, then waited for the Web site to perform its magic.
Sami pulled into the precinct parking lot and sat in her car for a few minutes. She expected that Captain Davidson and Police Chief Larson would bushwhack her the moment she walked in the door, demanding to know what progress she’d made in the investigation. Thus far, she had little to share with them. Soon the pressure would be unbearable.
All serial killers shared certain characteristics. Sami searched her brain, trying to remember everything she could about Simon, hoping that it might trigger something she’d overlooked. She remembered their dinner, the time she’d spent locked in his Room of Redemption, how he’d kidnapped Angelina, the long conversations they’d had trying to outwit each other, his deceptive charm.
She was just about to step out of the car when it hit her like a Louisville Slugger. In one clarifying moment, two years of confusion, countless sleepless nights, overwhelming fear, and an inability to end this dark chapter in her life came into full focus. She now understood why she couldn’t let go. Why Simon had such a firm grip on her. Why she couldn’t purge the haunting memory from her thoughts. Why forgiving him fell short. Simon hadn’t abducted Angelina and Sami the way he had the other four women. Sami’s reckless heroics, her ego-driven desire to solve this case completely on her own, with no backup and no viable plan, had placed Angelina and her in a life-threatening situation. It was not Simon who had placed her in harm’s way. She had been the architect of her own near-demise.
For over two years, she’d misunderstood her emotions and it had quietly tortured her. Her guilt, hidden to the point that she lived in denial, never allowed her to take responsibility for her reckless actions. And the one factor that made the situation so utterly unbearable was the painful fact that Sami had not only placed herself in a dangerous situation, she had also jeopardized Angelina’s life, the one person she loved and cherished more than anyone else. Sami now understood that her inability to confront this issue head-on served as a roadblock to her recovery.
It all made sense.
She had learned through a year of intense therapy that the first step toward healing an open wound was to first acknowledge that you actually have one, and step two was to take responsibility, something she hadn’t done. For over two years, she had pointed an accusing finger at Simon, when she should have pointed it at her reflection in the mirror.
She stepped out of the car and felt light on her feet, as if a yoke had been removed from her shoulders and neck. She didn’t expect that this sudden revelation in and of itself would close the chapter. She had lots of work to do. More sessions with Doctor J. But for the first time since her ordeal, she eagerly welcomed a modest sense of peace.
“I think it’s time for us to kiss and make up. Don’t you?” Nicole said.
Julian had just stepped out of the shower. He stood in the bathroom doorway, toweling off his body, his hair dripping on the travertine floor. Nicole lay on the bed, just awake from a short nap. This was the kind of workday Julian loved. Two early-morning surgeries and home by noon. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he took advantage of it.
Nicole sat up and let her robe fall off her shoulders, exposing a completely tanned, golden bronze body with not one bikini line. Julian studied her carefully, pleased that her personal trainer had earned his hefty fee.
“Come over here,” Nicole ordered.
A bit skeptical, Julian sauntered toward the bed, bath towel wrapped around his waist and legs. At first, he assumed that for whatever reason, Nicole was uncharacteristically horny today, but even so, he had no hope for more than another hundred-yard dash. He did, however, see an unusually playful look in Nicole’s eyes.
When she sat on the side of the bed, he noticed that her Brazilian bikini wax was gone and she was now cleanly-shaved. How many times had he tried unsuccessfully to convince her to completely shave? Why now? Was she extending a rare invitation to make love without the hang-ups and inhibitions, or was it business as usual with a little twist?
Nicole slid her hand inside the towel and gently stroked him. His body responded immediately. Still uncertain of her intentions, Julian stood frozen.
“I’ve been such a bitch lately,” she admitted. “It’s as if I’ve had my period for six months. I think it’s time I make it up to you.”
He had no expectations. Based on past experiences, how could he? She had trained him well, and he’d been down this path before. He guessed that she would lie on her back like a corpse, let him have his way with her, and like a well-practiced routine, the encounter would be over with no fanfare and no surprises. He believed hookers called it a “straight lay.”
“Would you like to try something different?” she offered.
This heightened his curiosity.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked, an air of reservation in his voice.
“How do you want me?”
A loaded question, he thought. If he told her the truth, surely she’d think her husband was a depraved pervert. “What are my options?”
Nicole smiled a mischievous smile he had never seen before. She stroked him with more resolve. “I’m feeling a bit naughty today. In fact, I’m feeling wicked. You can fuck me any way your little heart desires.”
Her comment caught him totally off guard. Rachael, formerly referred to as Redhead,
had said something similar to him, and he had given her everything. He didn’t want to question Nicole’s supposed willingness to accommodate him in any way he desired, but he guessed there would be limits to her naughtiness. “Are you serious?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“I want to tie your wrists to the bed and take you from behind.” An image of his cousins, Rebecca and Marianne, flashed through his mind. He waited for a harsh response.
“Sounds interesting. One question though. When you say ‘behind,’ are you talking—”
“Yes.” He didn’t let her finish.
“Will it hurt?”
He shrugged. “Never done it.”
There was a long silence.
“Go get two of your neckties.”
Totally aware that Nicole had never done this before, Julian’s rhythm was slow and gentle at first and he proceeded cautiously. But as his excitement heightened, as memories of his cousins’ abuse illuminated in his mind, his actions were more forceful.
“That hurts,” Nicole almost yelled.
He ignored her and continued thrusting without restraint or concern for her comfort.
“Stop!” she yelled. “You’re fucking hurting me.”
Without awareness or forethought, totally involuntary, Julian grasped Nicole’s shoulders and lost all control. Now his actions were borderline violent. His excitement grew to a wildly familiar level. He could see the shadowy shed and hear his cousins moaning.
This is for you, Marianne.
This is for you, Rebecca.
Crying uncontrollably now, helplessly trying to stop Julian, Nicole frantically struggled to free her wrists from the headboard. “Please, Julian.” Her voice was barely audible.
Suddenly, the moment Julian climaxed, reality returned. Nicole collapsed on the bed and began to cry hysterically.
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