by Alex Segura
A few moments later, a nurse came in. She stepped in front of Pete and began to check Emily over.
“What’s wrong with her?”
The nurse gave Pete a look which seemed to say, “What’s not wrong with her?” before continuing her work. Finally, she stepped back and put her hands on her hips.
“She had some kind of episode,” the nurse said. Pete could see her nametag, ELISA AYALA. “Something made her anxious. She’s been floating in and out of consciousness for most of the night. The doctors are hoping she comes out of it soon, but the most we’ve seen from her is that: frightened noises and sudden movements.”
“How lucky was she?”
“Lucky?”
“I mean, to have been found when they found her,” Pete said, trying to clarify. “Do you think she was left for dead?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m trying to figure out why she was spared at all,” Pete said. He could see the confused look on nurse’s face. She thought he was some kind of freak. He was, he guessed. But a freak who had an idea.
“Whoever left her like this didn’t think she had much time to live,” Elisa said.
“So, they either think she’s dead or want her to be dead,” Pete said.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me,” she said, heading toward the door. “And I don’t like it.”
She stepped out of the room. The door closed with a firm click. Pete turned around to face Emily, who seemed to be sleeping. This wasn’t over. Despite what he’d told Aguilera, he had no intention of leaving things be. It was too late for that. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling that things were about to get much worse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The West-Dade Regional Library was a bit of a dump, Pete thought, as he took off his sunglasses and entered the large building off Coral Way, less than a ten-minute drive from where Pete’s house used to be. It was close to noon. He’d allowed himself to sleep in, for whatever that was worth, considering that he’d spent the evening curled up once again on the flimsy cot in Dave’s office. He felt rested but not completely back to normal. Maybe there was no such thing.
He walked up to the reference desk and was greeted by a tidy-looking librarian. He wondered what she made of him: unshaven, in a gray Rush T-shirt Dave had lent him and faded blue jeans, his eyes probably bloodshot; at the very least he looked worn-out and beaten.
“I need to do some research,” Pete said.
“Well, you came to the right place,” she responded, her voice cheery and almost melodic. Pete cringed inside. People actually talk like this?
She took Pete’s silence as a cue to continue. “What can I help you with on this lovely afternoon?”
“I’m trying to find all news articles pertaining to Rex Whitehurst,” Pete said. Her expression changed from perky to perturbed in a second. “I’ve done some basic research, but I need to go farther back into the archives to learn more about him.”
“Well, sure,” the librarian said. “I can set you up on one of those terminals which are connected to our microfiche databases. You can search via keyword. Not everything is digital, though, so I have to apologize. It will let you know where to go to pull the hard copies, though.”
She seemed to be in a hurry to leave the conversation. Funny how mentioning one of the state’s deadliest serial killers could sour an otherwise chirpy Tuesday afternoon exchange. “Not light reading, I know,” Pete said.
She nodded and led him to a computer terminal toward the back of the reference area of the library. As a kid, instead of making friends or playing sports, he’d spent most of his time at the other side of the building, devouring bad sci-fi and horror novels after school.
She showed him how to log into the library system and moved away.
“If you need anything, I’ll be over there,” she said, motioning to her desk, which was visible from Pete’s terminal.
Pete got to work. He pulled a tiny reporter’s notebook from his pocket and set it next to the keyboard. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for yet, but he knew where he wanted to start. After this, he’d swing by the hospital and see Emily again. He prayed she was doing better. After the visit, he’d only spoken to Kathy very generally. He could tell she was hesitant about continuing to work on the case. He didn’t blame her. He could use her help now, though, especially with research. He’d always been a decent reporter, but he’d never enjoyed being a library jockey.
He began with a basic search for Rex Whitehurst. He got hundreds of articles. Although much had been written about Whitehurst’s murders, Pete knew very little about his life before he’d been caught.
According to stories written soon after Whitehurst had been captured for what would be the final time, he had been working as a carpenter in South Miami, doing odd jobs on the side and splitting his time between his rented house and an unnamed girlfriend’s residence. The rental house had provided the most damning evidence that Whitehurst was a serial killer. Pete focused on the sentence. He’d never read or heard anything about Whitehurst having a girlfriend. Who was this woman? Could she still be alive? Probably, Pete thought.
He refined his search to “Rex Whitehurst, girlfriend” and saw the number of articles that matched his query was minor in comparison to the hundreds that appeared initially. There were only three. One was the original story Pete had seen, the first mention of this woman. Another was a quick recap story following Whitehurst’s execution a few years later, which noted that his now ex-girlfriend had not been in attendance. The last piece was more recent.
It was a local column by Alexandra Trelles. It had been written before the recent spate of murders, but after Pete and Kathy’s run-in with the Silent Death the year previous. Trelles was filling in before the paper would decide to hire Kathy to fill her father’s old job as The Miami Times local columnist. The piece was good—very emotional and colorful—and touched on the lives of the many people who had “survived” Rex Whitehurst’s murderous rampage on the anniversary of Whitehurst’s execution. One of them, Ana Gallegos, was revealed to have been Whitehurst’s girlfriend of many years. Trelles didn’t quote Gallegos directly—but to Pete’s journalistic eye, it was clear they’d at least spoken on background. For whatever reason, the story revealed her identity and even that she was now living in a Brickell high-rise, a ritzy area near downtown Miami.
That didn’t sound right, Pete thought. Why would the reporter screw over a source like that? It reeked of bad editing. The editor had probably requested Trelles’s notes and inserted facts that were not meant to go beyond her conversation with Gallegos. He allowed himself a judgmental moment at his former workplace’s expense. The once-proud newspaper of record had become a cheap, slapped-together rag with little regard for posterity or ethics. Pete also realized that the story hadn’t come up when Kathy searched The Miami Times archive. He could see it now because the microfiche terminals dealt with actual, hard copies. But someone had apparently tried their best to remove the story from the paper’s electronic files. Had Gallegos sued? Had someone at The Times gone back and erased the column?
Pete did another search, this time for Ana Gallegos specifically. Who was this woman? Why hadn’t anyone else researched her life? It was almost as if she had been purposely tucked away. Was someone trying to hide her? Or protect her? Too early to tell.
He didn’t realize what he was doing until he’d finished dialing Kathy’s number. Under normal circumstances, Pete would text—but this felt more urgent. The phone rang a few times before going to voice mail.
“Does the name Ana Gallegos mean anything to you? I think it’s important. Call me back. I’m on my own on this and I could use your help. Thanks.”
Pete hung up and slid the phone into his pocket. What now? He longed for the access that being a newspaper employee provided. If he was still at The Times, he could have accessed their database and figured out where Ana lived, and if she had any kind of record.
W
hy had the columnist mentioned Gallegos’s name in the story? Why hadn’t anyone else followed up on this person, especially when a string of mirror murders were happening? It was gnawing at Pete.
He almost didn’t feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. Kathy spoke before he could say anything.
“You rang?”
“Did you get my voice mail?”
“No, you know I hate voice mail,” Kathy said. “What are you up to?”
“I need to see you,” Pete said. The librarian was giving him disapproving looks. He had to get off the phone. He stood up, waved at the librarian and walked toward the library exit. He made it to a few steps outside the library before Kathy responded.
“Oh boy,” Kathy said. “What now?”
“Ana Gallegos.”
“Who?”
“What do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” Kathy said. “Should I know her? Is this some kind of trivia game?”
“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning that Rex Whitehurst had a girlfriend?” Pete said as he walked toward Dave’s car, which he’d let Pete borrow for the day.
There was a pause before she responded.
“I had no idea,” Kathy said. Pete believed her. “I know the paper had a column about Whitehurst a while back and the idiot editor let slip something that was supposed to be off the record, and that led to Alexandra Trelles—my predecessor—leaving, but I didn’t know what it was. This must have happened when I was off working on the Silent Death book, or during one of my many ‘probationary periods.’ When I pulled pretty much everything we ever printed on Whitehurst for our research slumber party a while back that column didn’t come up.”
“Where does Gallegos live?”
“How would I know? I’m in the same spot as you—a former staffer at The Miami Times.”
“Can you call Trelles? Do some research. Whatever you can,” Pete said, sliding into the car. “Whoever is behind these murders wanted Emily dead. They left her for dead. So, either they think she’s already dead or they’re going to try and finish the job. I have to stop it before it gets to that point.”
“Pete, you need to go to the police,” Kathy said. “This isn’t your job.”
“Tell me where she lives and meet me there in an hour,” Pete said. He wasn’t budging.
Kathy sighed. “Fine, let me call you back,” she said. Pete could hear her typing something on a computer before she hung up.
A few minutes passed. Pete watched the digital clock change numbers. He hadn’t started the engine. He waited. Kathy called back.
“Alex Trelles is a professional friend—I don’t want to screw her on this, OK? She got burned by this whole affair. Needless to say, she was extremely curious as to why I was calling her out of the blue,” she said.
“Did you get the address?”
“Patience is not your strong suit, I take it,” Kathy said. “Ana Gallegos lives on Brickell and Seventeenth. In a fancy complex, Brickell Bay. We’ll be lucky if she even lets us in. There’s a reason people live behind those kind of fences, you know. I’ll meet you across the street from the complex in half an hour.”
Pete hung up without responding and pulled the car out of the library parking lot.
***
If you lived in Brickell, you had money and weren’t afraid to flaunt your bank balance—whether it was in a one-bedroom apartment or a suite atop a luxury high-rise, nothing in the neighborhood was cheap. South of Miami’s downtown, Brickell had it all—close to the beach, great restaurants, and enough distance from the riffraff to make it appealing to the deep-pocketed.
Getting past the Brickell Bay security had been easy. It helped that Kathy had come along. Pete doubted he would have been able to smile his way past them alone. Her story—that she was invited to a surprise party but had forgotten her guest pass—seemed flimsy to Pete, but held enough water for the chubby security guard to smile and push a button allowing them both into the complex, which seemed more like a big, luxury hotel than an apartment building.
“Now we just need to figure out her apartment,” Pete said.
“One-one-six-seven, Tower D,” Kathy said, without looking at Pete. She was walking toward what Pete assumed was the elevator bay at an accelerated pace.
She punched in the floor button as they entered the elevator and leaned against the wall. She had barely spoken to Pete since they’d met outside the complex.
“Why are you here?”
She met his eyes with a “Did you really just ask me that?” look.
“I’m here because you, for once, made a logical argument,” she said. “Whoever did this to Emily is still out there. I’m also feeling a little protective of you. Don’t let it go to your head.”
The elevator doors opened and Pete let the conversation dangle as he followed Kathy down the hall. When they reached Ana Gallegos’s apartment, Kathy knocked. They heard someone shuffling around inside the luxury condo.
The door opened a few inches and Pete could see an older woman, probably in her sixties, peeking through the latch of a lock still linked in place.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Ana Gallegos?” Kathy stepped in front of Pete and took charge.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Kathy Bentley,” she said. “I’m a reporter for The Miami Times.”
The door closed with a slam, forcing Pete and Kathy to hop back.
“You have a lot of nerve coming here,” Gallegos said through the closed door. “I’m calling security.”
Kathy stepped closer to the door.
“Ms. Gallegos, before you do that, I wanted a few minutes of your time,” she said, her voice loud so she could be heard through the door. “We’re working on an apology in the paper and a retraction to make up for the mistake we made.”
Pete nodded his approval at the lie. Kathy scowled at him.
“The damage has already been done,” Gallegos said. “Your organization took what I said and violated it. I don’t want to speak to you.”
“Part of the apology, Ms. Gallegos, involves a monetary reward,” Kathy said. She was freestyling now, hoping that the growing lie would become more believable. Pete wasn’t sure, but he had little choice. “We’d like to make you an offer as a show of good faith.”
Pete rolled his eyes, but caught himself as the door opened again, this time without the latch holding it back. Behind the door stood Ana Gallegos, a small, waifish woman. She was wearing black slacks and a dark blue blouse, her hair made up as if she’d just stepped out of the beauty salon. She nodded and motioned for them to follow her into the apartment.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked, not bothering to turn around and look at Pete.
“He’s an editor at The Miami Times,” Kathy said, enjoying her fictional reality more than she probably should, Pete thought. “He’s representing the editorial board and our decision.”
Ana sat down on a dark brown recliner and pointed to a small gray couch across from her.
“Well, it’s about time,” Ana said. “What your paper did to me was terrible. I had to quit my job and I lost so many friends. All because I dated a man who I thought was a gentleman. How was I to know he was a murderer?”
Pete bit his tongue and let Kathy continue to take point.
“Yes, we’re very sorry about that,” Kathy said. “We’ll discuss the specifics of the monetary settlement shortly, but I’d like to ask a few background questions about your relationship with Rex, along with my colleague, for clarity’s sake.”
“Why is that necessary?” Ana asked, sensing the first chink in their story’s armor.
“It’s not for publication, ma’am,” Pete said. “We just need to make sure we covered the story with you and have all the information to relay it to the board.”
Ana nodded. She still seemed confused but had apparently learned enough to continue.
“First off, Ms. Gallegos, how long were you with Rex Whitehurst?” Pete asked. Kathy had pulled out
a notebook and pen.
“Well, Rex and I got together a few years after my first husband died,” Ana said, a hint of sadness in her voice. “I’d met him at the Publix near my house. I lived in South Miami at the time. I was shopping and so was he. We chatted about silly things. I kept running into him around the neighborhood—at the store, church, restaurants—and we just kind of hit it off. After a while, he asked me out to dinner.”
“How long were you together?” Kathy asked.
“It was a slow relationship,” Ana said, her voice thoughtful and methodical. “I had just lost my husband. I wasn’t in a hurry to meet anyone. But he wore me down. You know how men can be. After a year or so, he moved into my house, but kept his apartment. So, overall, we were together for over ten years, until he was…well, captured. Until the police found him.”
“Did you ever have any inkling about what he was doing?” Pete asked, trying to dance around the macabre reality of who Rex Whitehurst was. “Did you ever think he was acting strangely?”
“No, not really,” Ana said, a dry smile on her face, as if she realized how silly she sounded. “I mean, he was always distant and aloof, but I just thought that’s how men were. He spent a few days a week at his old place and he traveled a lot for work, but I didn’t leap from that to think he was killing children.”
“So, you were surprised when the cops arrested him?” Pete asked.
“I was,” Ana said. She didn’t sound convincing, Pete thought.
“Did you ever talk to him after he was arrested?” Pete continued.
“No, no, not at all,” Ana said. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was. He was a monster.”
“Did you write?” Kathy asked.
“Write? Letters? Oh, no,” Ana said, letting her voice trail off.
“Now, Ms. Gallegos, we need you to be fully honest with us,” Pete said. “Are you sure you had no contact with Rex Whitehurst after his arrest?”
