by P. D. Martin
“Same for me,” Darren says.
I get the feeling from Mrs. Raymond’s smile that I’ll be having whatever Darren normally has. Before she disappears into the kitchen she introduces me to her husband. “John, this is Agent Anderson. The FBI woman,” she says on her way through.
Mr. Raymond sits in a large armchair, but it can barely hold his frame. Even though he’s sitting down I can tell he’s about six-five. His height is matched by a broad, stocky physique that reminds me of a rugby player’s. No doubt here he played American football. He definitely would have been one of the guys that clears the way for the ball. Now his middle-age spread also adds to his sizable body. He has a full head of wavy, almost frizzy hair that needs a cut, and his facial features are as large as his body. A freshly folded newspaper lies beside him. He stands up, confirming my guess at his height.
I shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Raymond.”
“So, the FBI’s interested in my Sally-Anne again.”
I notice the extra emphasis on the word again. The Bureau had drafted a profile of the killer all those years ago, but it didn’t lead anywhere. We let him down. I pause for a moment, ignoring his dig. He needs someone to blame. I can understand that.
From the way he says his daughter’s name I can tell that Sally-Anne did have one person whose eyes she could pull the wool over.
“We believe Sally-Anne could have been the first of many, many victims, sir. We have a killer in Washington, D.C., at the moment, and we believe he’s the same person who killed your daughter,” I say, straight up. It’s been eleven years, and at this stage they probably appreciate straightforwardness rather than diplomacy. I also speak quite loudly, so Mrs. Raymond can hear me from the kitchen. “We’re getting closer.”
Mrs. Raymond bustles out of the kitchen and stands on the living room side of the swinging door. “You know who it is?”
“Not yet, no. But we’re following several leads, and we’ve been able to link several murders from different states, including Sally-Anne’s and another two murders in Arizona.”
“Oh,” she says, and disappears back into the kitchen. There have probably been many occasions when she thought the police were close to catching her daughter’s killer.
Mr. Raymond clears his throat. “So, what makes you think these murders are related?”
“There are lots of elements that are similar, and in particular the body positioning. It’s the killer’s signature.”
“Lying on her back, the arms slightly raised and her head turned. She looked peaceful, ’cept her eyes were open,” Mr. Raymond says.
“Yes, Mr. Raymond. That’s the positioning for them all,” I say.
“And our Sally-Anne was the first, you think?”
“Yes, Mr. Raymond. I do.”
“What makes you think that?”
“There are elements of her death, her murder, that are different from the others. The killer murdered her in the heat of the moment. But the others, after that, were planned.”
“How do you know?”
“Sally-Anne was murdered in the place she was found. The evidence tells us that. She wasn’t abducted first, and she wasn’t tied up. With his other victims, the killer stalked them, choosing the best time to abduct them. The fact that your daughter’s murder was unplanned indicates it was his first. The body positioning tells us it’s the same killer, though.”
Mrs. Raymond enters, carrying a tray with a plate of sweet biscuits, a pot of tea, four cups and saucers, a jug of milk and a matching sugar bowl. The tea set is white porcelain, with small roses tracing the rim. The cups are dainty and I wonder how Mr. Raymond will be able to hold the handle with his massive hands.
Mrs. Raymond places the tray on the table. “Here we go then,” she says with forced breeziness. “Cream? Sugar?” she asks me.
“Cream, no sugar, thanks.”
She pours the tea and hands it to me, before pouring out three others.
“We’re hoping to identify the killer within the next forty-eight hours. He’s just abducted another woman, in D.C., and now that we’ve linked all these crimes it will be much easier for us to cross-reference locations and other elements to find the killer.”
“So, why has it taken eleven years to link these murders?” Mr. Raymond asks.
I take a sip of my tea. “Some of them have been officially linked before, Mr. Raymond. In total there have been three murders here in Arizona, six murders in Michigan, one in Florida, two in Chicago and three in Washington. The ones in D.C. and Chicago had already been linked, so the D.C. force knew whoever they were looking for probably lived in Chicago for a few years. The current task force identified the Arizona, Michigan and the Florida murders as part of the killer’s handiwork. This recent link to Arizona is the most important. You see, the killer probably knew Sally-Anne…” I pause, noticing Mrs. Raymond’s discomfort. The thought of knowing the killer may be too much for her “—which means we’ve got the best chance of finding him right here. She’s also his youngest victim, at sixteen, which is more evidence that she was his first.”
“They’ve tried to find him for years. What’s different now?” Mrs. Raymond asks.
Fair question.
“It’s the movement we’ll be able to track, Mrs. Raymond. We believe the killer was between eighteen and twenty-five when he killed Sally-Anne. We’re pretty sure he went to college in Michigan, likely as a graduate student, and then worked in Chicago and now Washington. How many people who live in Washington would have lived here, studied in Michigan and then worked in Chicago? Then, of those people, who did Sally-Anne know?” I say. We are getting close. “There are other things we know about him too.”
Mr. Raymond takes a slurp of his tea. The cup does look ridiculously delicate in his large hands. “It seems you know everything but his name.”
Carter takes a biscuit. “That’s how profiling works, John. The FBI gives us a profile and we see who matches it. If one of our suspects fits the profile, we know we’re on the right track. Then we just have to get the evidence together.”
“But didn’t you have a profile in 1995?” Mrs. Raymond says.
Carter answers. “We got a profile drafted in 1996, after the third murder. That’s when we knew it was a serial.”
Police forces can request a profile at any time, but they often follow through other leads first. If they think they can find the guy in a couple of weeks through a witness or fingerprints, why wait for a profile? I’m also guessing that the second murder didn’t necessarily indicate a serial killer, given Rose’s presence at the first crime scene. It would be safe to assume that Sally-Anne was the primary victim and Rose was simply a clean-up murder.
“I’ve reviewed that profile, Mrs. Raymond. It was good, but we’ve got an awful lot more to go on now. We’re in a totally different position,” I say.
“Anyway, I expect you want to ask us about Sally-Anne,” Mrs. Raymond says, obviously not convinced that her daughter’s murderer is any closer to being apprehended. No doubt she likes talking about Sally-Anne, even in such morbid circumstances.
“Yes. I do have some questions. But first, I’ve got a photo of a necklace that was found at the latest victim’s residence, Mrs. Raymond.”
I’ve been dying to show them the photo since I walked in the door, but courtesy has been my restraint. I take out the photo.
“Is this your daughter’s necklace?”
She reacts immediately. “Yes. Yes. We gave it to her for her fifteenth birthday. It’s a Celtic symbol, the Holy Trinity. We thought it would protect her.” The eleven-year-old emotions come back for her and Mr. Raymond reaches out and holds her hand.
I hide my excitement. It’s inappropriate. “Thank you, Mrs. Raymond. This directly links your daughter’s murder to the recent abduction in D.C.” I really believe this symbol is going to lead me right to the killer. I think of the Raymonds’ need for closure. “If we get him on the D.C. killings, we’ll get him for your daughter’s murder.”
Neither of
them seems too hopeful.
“Go on, dear. Your other questions.” She has regained her composure and simply looks tired now.
I address both her and her husband. “I’m probably going to ask the same questions Detectives Carter and Watson asked you eleven years ago, but we have to look at Sally-Anne’s murder in a new light now, so please bear with me.”
They nod.
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
Mrs. Raymond responds. “We both saw her on the Saturday she was killed. She got up at about ten in the morning and I made her some breakfast. I wanted to go shopping with her for a dress, but she said she had plans with Marli. That we could go on Sunday instead. She left the house at about eleven-thirty. John was working outside, in the garage.”
Mr. Raymond takes over. “She came in to me on her way out. I remember thinking how beautiful and grownup she looked. She said goodbye and I gave her twenty dollars so she could get a coffee and go to the movies with Marli. She gave me a kiss and said, ‘See you tonight, Dad.’” He pauses. “That’s the last time I saw her.”
“But she didn’t meet Marli?”
“No,” Mrs. Raymond says, looking down at her lap.
“Did Sally-Anne have a boyfriend at the time?”
My question is answered by a look between the pair.
“She never brought a boy back to the house. Never introduced us to anyone. But I suspected she had someone in her life. And that it probably wasn’t her first,” Mrs. Raymond says.
Mr. Raymond winces.
“But no idea who it was?”
“I didn’t, but Marli told us later that Sally-Anne had just broken up with young Jamie Wheelan. So I guess it was him.”
“Do you mind me asking how you knew Sally-Anne was involved with someone, Mrs. Raymond?”
She looks at her husband, apologetic. “I found condoms in her drawer upstairs.”
Again, Mr. Raymond’s face reacts.
“When did you find these?” I ask.
“About six months before. I had a talk with her. Told her I thought she was too young. Asked her who she was with. She wouldn’t tell me.” She takes a sip of her tea and looks at one of the photos of Sally-Anne on the dresser. She daydreams for a few seconds, and I leave her be.
She comes back to the land of the living. “In the end, though, I knew nothing I said would stop her. So I told her to make sure she used the condoms. To protect herself and make sure the boy was, you know, worthy. She huffed and puffed at me, embarrassed and angry I had been in her room. But we never spoke of it again. And I never told John. Not till after. Not till the police became so interested in her actions.” She gives her husband another apologetic glance. “I knew then it was going to come out and better he hear it from me than someone down the street.” She squeezes his hand. “Sally-Anne was his little angel.”
“No father likes to think about it,” I say to Mr. Raymond.
He smiles but is still uncomfortable with the topic of conversation.
“So presumably whoever Sally-Anne had organized to meet was her killer,” I say.
I’ve got more questions, but they’re questions for Carter and his partner or even Marli. The Raymonds probably don’t have anything more to tell me. Obviously their daughter kept her sex life private, like most young girls.
“So neither of you ever saw her with a man?” I say.
They both shake their heads.
“Maybe Agent Anderson would like to see Sally-Anne’s room,” Carter says, looking to the Raymonds for permission.
“Sure. Sure.” Mrs. Raymond springs to her feet. She leads the way upstairs and we all follow, except for Mr. Raymond, who stays seated. At the top of the stairs Mrs. Raymond turns left and I see her take a key off a necklace that hangs around her neck. She unlocks a door directly in front of her.
Sally-Anne’s room hasn’t been touched. Like so many parents who lose a child, the room becomes a shrine, capturing the child’s personality and youth. The room is clean and dust free, so I assume the only time anyone enters it is when Mrs. Raymond cleans it. It looks like a typical sixteen-year-old’s room. There’s a TV and stereo on a desk, along with a rather large CD collection, notable for its obvious age. Sally-Anne’s dressing table has a jewelry box, makeup, nail polish and a few other knickknacks. On the walls are photos of her with her friends and some with her family. The room also has a few posters. Alanis Morissette, the Batman Forever movie poster, and one of George Michael, post-WHAM. It’s like a time warp.
I look closely at the photos. “You spoke to everyone in these?” I ask Carter.
“Yeah. That’s Marli.” He points to the girl who appears in most of the photos with Sally-Anne. “This is Jamie Wheelan. He was our number-one suspect for some time. But he didn’t match the profile at all. The original profile said we were looking for a loner, someone who wasn’t very socially adept. But Jamie was one of the most popular kids at school.” Darren leans in and whispers, “Cocky bastard, too.”
Darren crosses back to Mrs. Raymond, who’s still standing at the doorway of Sally-Anne’s room. “Janice, why don’t we go back downstairs and finish our tea. Agent Anderson won’t touch anything.” He turns to me. “Will you?”
“No, I just want to get a feel for Sally-Anne.”
Mrs. Raymond nods and lets Darren lead her downstairs. “I’ll come back up and lock the door when you’re finished,” she says, half to me and half to reassure herself that soon the shrine would be closed up once more. She walks and I mouth the word thanks to Darren.
As an afterthought he steps back up the stairs and says quietly, out of the Mrs. Raymond’s earshot, “My auntie used her breathing. Said it helped her. She said it was like meditating. Do you know how to meditate?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
And so I’m left alone with victim number one. I look at the photos again, looking into Sally-Anne’s eyes, just as the killer had. Now I know why his eyes were drawn to her throat. As he strangled her, the pendant captivated him. He was so enamoured of it that he took it and probably used it to relive the murder and sexual release hundreds of times…until a few days ago, when he decided he would leave it at Sam’s, presumably to mark his territory and increase the thrill. After all, I wouldn’t have noticed it except it was the symbol I’d seen on Jean’s thigh in my dream. It was a safe taunt as far as he was concerned. By itself the necklace would have gone unnoticed. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he went back to Sam’s to retrieve it. I’m sure he never expected to have to part with it forever. He must be mad as hell. I wonder if the guys are still keeping an eye on her apartment. I must ring and check… I take a deep breath and try to refocus. I’m in this room to see if I get another vision, not to think about what’s happening in D.C.
I sit down on the end of Sally-Anne’s bed and take deep, slow breaths, trying to induce something. With each breath, I clear my mind of all lingering thoughts, trying to think of nothing. Not the case, not Sam, not the killer. Just nothingness. But I’m not greeted with an image of Sally-Anne or her murderer. This time I’m with Sam, in that dark place he has her.
She’s tied to a gurney, with several gashes across her body. Some ooze red, while others have formed a scab. She’s perfectly still and, for a moment I fear the worst. Then I see her naked breasts move up as her lungs fill with oxygen. On her left arm is a pressure bandage, but it’s covered in blood. That’s one of the deep wounds he makes. I look around the room, trying to see something that will give away the location. But everything’s blurry. I try to move closer to Sam and I’m surprised that it’s as if my body’s there too. I can walk. I go over to her and try to stroke her hair. I see my hand but it goes through her, as if I’m a ghost. Sam flinches.
“Sam. It’s me, Sophie,” I try to say, but my voice sounds strange and garbled.
Sam opens her eyes and I see so much fear in them that I have to look away.
I look back at her. “I’m going to find you, Sam. I’m going to find you,
” I say, but again the words are garbled. Then her eyes show relief and for an instant comfort. So much so that I wonder if she’s seen me, or somehow knows I’m there with her. She wears a gag in her mouth, but she strains against it and tries to make sounds. The sounds are indecipherable, but I can’t help wondering if she is saying my name. Can she sense my presence? I reach my hand out once again, but this time my hand turns into a man’s hand and the fear comes back into Sam’s eyes. It’s him. I’m him.
“What’s that, my love?” I say and pull down her gag.
“Sophie?”
“No, it’s not Sophie.” I laugh. But then a cold shiver runs down my spine and I look around. It doesn’t feel as though we’re alone in the room.
I push the sensation away.
“Let’s see how you’re doing. Would you like something for the pain?”
Samantha nods her head and opens her mouth in what, I feel, is a somewhat suggestive manner. I smile. She is a loving girlfriend. It’ll be a shame to get rid of her, especially now that she knows who I am and loves me. But my plan must go on.
I take two Tylenol out of the cabinet and pop them in her sensuous mouth. She murmurs something through the tablets.
“What, my darling?”
Again, she murmurs something. I bend down closely to hear her submissive voice. So different than the voice I’m used to hearing from SamWright. I bend my head down to hers, but she raises hers quickly and violently, head-butting me.
“Bitch!” I scream, and slap her hard. I grab my knife from behind me and slice one of her superficial wounds so it’s deeper. She screams but I slam her gag down on her mouth again.
“Don’t you ever, ever try anything like that again!”
I kick my instruments across the room. That little bitch. I want to kill her now. I want to punish her for what she’s done.
But it’s not time.
I manage to control my temper…for the moment. I prefer my killing to be planned, controlled.
I control my anger, it does not control me.
CHAPTER 15
