by Terry Keys
I forced myself out of my squad car and headed across the street to MacGregor Park, where her body had been discovered. Boy was this becoming quite the mess. Little Emily was the second kid killed here this month. We definitely had a serial on our hands, or so it appeared. In a city the size of Houston, narrowing down a suspect was never easy. I had left Prodinov behind in Russia, so I was sure it wasn’t him, but that was all I was really sure about.
As I got close to the body I noticed fresh tire tracks. From their width and depth, the set of tire marks appeared to come from some sort of van. The tracks were a little wider than those left by your typical SUV.
“Cap, have someone run a report on rented vans and cross that with people with medical training. Start off with a hundred-mile radius and let’s see what we get,” I said as I walked up behind him.
“Good idea, David. Whoever did this has definitely had medical training. Those aren’t random cuts.”
I figured as much before I even saw her body. I was pretty sure the MO would be exactly the same as the first, which was good and bad. Maybe now we could take suspects in this case and compare them to the list created from the first killing. If we found a match—anything—we’d catch our first break. Lord knows we could use one.
“Porter, it’s bad. We gotta catch this son of a bitch,” a patrolman said as he passed.
As Captain Wilcrest and I strode closer to the vic, I smelled an unusual, putrid odor. The smell was so strong, it almost made my stomach heave, and I have a strong stomach. I tried to breathe through my mouth.
“It’s the body,” Wilcrest commented. “Whoever did this poured something all over her little body.”
“Has the lab finished taking photos?” I said. “If so, let’s get her covered up, please.”
This murder was horrific. Whoever did this didn’t need a trial, not in my book. Probably explained why I was a cop and not a judge. Criminals wouldn’t like me as a judge. They would be armless, handless, dead . . . or worse. This perp had spared nothing. He had even cut on her genitals. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, crouched down, and carefully turned her onto her side so I could see the back of her body. It also had been mutilated.
“What do we got?” I asked, glancing up at the captain. “You got anything I can use yet?”
“No, not much.” He shrugged. “A note was left for you—by the killer, I presume. It said, ‘More to come, Porter. Blame yourself.’ That was it.”
“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean,” I said, frustrated and angry.
“Well, hopefully you’ll figure it out, ’cause that’s our only chance here, I think. Someone’s calling you out. You get any serious threats lately? Prodinov, maybe?”
“No. He’s a killer, no doubt about that, but this isn’t his style. Something about this is different. It’s too complex for Prodinov.”
Maybe Prodinov was paying someone else, I thought. Maybe I had underestimated what he was capable of. That was the worst part of it all. People were dying for no apparent reason. It was a game to these sick assholes, and this was probably just another. So far, I was eighteen and zero. No serial had ever called me out and won. None. Prodinov was the only one I had yet to bag. Till now.
We kept a close eye on web traffic, because there was always lots of chatter there. Hell, Vegas even had a line going on whether anyone could elude me for more than five years. Prodinov was two years in so far. I had recently been exposed to recruitment efforts by the FBI and CIA, but staying home and around my girls was important to me—even more so than upping my arrest record or enhancing the prestige surrounding my name. I knew I could take some office job, do it well, and probably enjoy the hell out of it. But I also knew watching my girls grow up would only happen once. Maybe after it was just my wife and me, I would consider a change of scenery.
This was the only aspect of my job I hated. I didn’t want to be playing games with killers, but that’s exactly what everyone else had made it out to be. A cat and mouse game with people’s lives. At this point, I didn’t see a way out. Hell, deep down, maybe it was a game to me, too.
I looked at the note through the Ziploc evidence bag and tried to read it again. It may have been our best piece of evidence. I needed to run a handwriting analysis as soon as possible. I was grasping at straws but would take a break any way I could get it. If this killer was as good as I thought no way I was getting finger prints off this.
“Whoever did this went out of his way to make sure these two murders were different than anything I’ve ever seen,” I said. “He wanted my attention. He wanted me to know what he was capable of. I’m sure he knows I have a daughter around this age, too, and that probably influenced his choice of victims. The attention to detail, the precision of the cuts, the placement of the body . . . My mind was already churning.
“You leave for vacation tomorrow, right? Real vacation?” Wilcrest said with a smirk.
“Yeah I’m supposed to, but I think I’ll have to send the girls by themselves and stay here to work on this case. Not much else I can do here tonight, but we need to get a jump on it first thing in the morning.”
“I think you should go, David,” Wilcrest said. “Me and the boys will get started here. I’ll keep you updated to the minute. Besides, it’s only a week, and you owe it to your family. You’ve been putting in a lot of hours, kid. I don’t want to have to tell Miranda you aren’t going. I know how much your family means to you. They need this. You need this.”
Wilcrest was right. I had been working insane hours. Even more after the first kid was killed several weeks ago. Like him, I sure as hell didn’t want to tell Miranda I wasn’t going on vacation with them. I sighed, nodded, and left the crime scene. I took the long way home, feeling like I needed to stop in at Joe’s Diner, a small coffee shop on the outskirts of town. A few of my old friends owned the joint, and they always took good care of me.
They had the restaurant set up like an old sixties malt shoppe: black-and-white checkered floors, red plastic booths with chrome trim, and even an old juke box. The best part was they never made me pay. I would still come here if they did, but what the heck, I figured. Take advantage when you can. I walked in and Judy, Joe’s wife, nodded at me.
“Hey, David. I assume you just came from the park where that kid got killed, huh?” Judy said as she walked over with my usual cup of coffee.
“Yeah.”
“I heard they cut this kid all up, too?”
If anything went on in this town, Judy Ballatip, was all over it. I loved her to death, but nothing got past her well-tuned ears. Sometimes I wondered if we shouldn’t bring her on the force, as she always found out everything anyway.
Judy was a throwback from the sixties era the diner portrayed. She had long red hair, always wore a floral sundress and an apron. Hard to even imagine she and I were the same age. I loved her and Joe like family. Joe and I had played high school football together, and I’d probably kill a man for him without hesitation. Not probably, I would. He was the brother I’d never had. There were things about me that nobody knew but Joe. I’d gotten offers to play college ball, as did Joe, but he gave it all up and married Judy instead. I didn’t understand that until I met Miranda years later. I turned my attention back to Judy.
“Yeah, it was pretty bad. Can’t say too much else about it, though.”
“Well you’ve always caught them before.” She offered an encouraging smile. “I’m sure this will be over soon.”
“I sure hope so, Judy.”
Judy left to take care of other customers, and I drank my black coffee in silence. I looked around at all the Elvis photos in the shop. Guess I had never paid much attention before. I tried to think of anything about the crime scene I might have missed. There was one thing, one indisputable fact I believed about crime scenes: there was always evidence. Whether I found it or not, well, that was a different story, but there was always evidence.
After forty-five minutes of vegging, I figured I should
head home. “I’ll see you next time, Judy,” I said as I left.
I jumped on I-45 South and took the long way home. I tried to put myself in the shoes of the parents who lost their kids so suddenly and violently. The pain had to be unbearable. There was not much you could do for a grieving parent, either, especially if you hadn’t felt the pain firsthand. The parents I gave the “your kid is dead” speech to wouldn’t hear a thing past those four words. I could be singing the ABCs and they wouldn’t know the difference.
When I got home, I eased my keys onto the kitchen table. I found myself still wanting something to nibble on, even after my coffee stop. I opened the fridge but didn’t find much, and cereal didn’t sound too appealing at the moment. I gave up and closed the door.
I had a strong urge to check on my daughters, especially after the night I’d just had. I crept up the staircase, trying not to wake them. I cracked the door to Hilary’s room. She slept hard, not moving a muscle. I walked over to Karen’s room, opened the door, and stepped inside. I squeezed my body into one of her Dora chairs. I just wanted to watch her sleep. She was a perfect kid. For some reason, Karen and I bonded on more levels than I did with Hilary. People always said parents had favorites even if they didn’t tell anybody. I guess, in part, that was true for me also.
I sat in Karen’s room for two hours as my mind wandered back to what I’d seen earlier. If I ever caught the person who did this, someone better have a video camera out. It was the only thing that would prevent me from ripping his head off right there on the spot. And it wasn’t a guarantee. Finally, I sighed and rose. I needed sleep. I gave Karen a kiss on the forehead and headed for my room. Miranda was a beauty, even in her sleep. I cuddled up next to her and thanked God for how lucky I was to have her. Then, I tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep.
**
“David, honey, are you going to lay there and watch Sports Center all morning?”
“You got something better for me to watch? Are you suggesting that I watch you instead?”
“I think you can answer that for yourself.” She pointed down at her torso. “This is called my bra and panties outfit. You like it?”
“You are the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on,” I said, meaning every word. “Why did you stop modeling again? The world travel, the big pay checks, the lunch dates with celebs? All that too much for you?”
“Aww . . . you’re sweet. I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, huh? How many times have you used that line? I’ve told you before. I always wanted to be a news anchor, even as a little girl. All that other stuff is nice, but maybe I don’t want to rely on these to get what I want.” She gestured toward her breasts.
“Excuse me, but I kind of like those, personally,” I laughed. “Come over here and let me inspect them again for quality.”
My wife, Miranda, had the typical model body. She was tall—almost six foot —with long, toned legs and even longer blonde, silky hair. Miranda had graduated college with a BA in broadcasting and a minor in criminology. She was so humble that when she mentioned being a former runway model, most people couldn’t believe it.
“I do think you are amazingly gorgeous, and you know I’d do anything for you right? I would cut the heart right out of my body and give it to you. I only ask one thing.” I grinned. “Just stay away from those male models today. Can you do that for me?”
“I know you would, and that’s why I love you,” she said with a smile. “And FYI, all the traveling and stuff doesn’t compare to having a beautiful family. I love my family and being a mom. It’s the most wonderful, beautiful thing in the world.”
“Sometimes I like to put my hand on your chest while you’re sleeping, just to feel your heart beating. I know you like being a mom, and you’re the best. You certainly get my vote.”
Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was probably as close to fairytale as you could get in this crazy world. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had a fight or a disagreement. We’d been together so long, even our thoughts had begun to mesh.
“Hey, don’t act like you’re just a no-good couch potato, Mr. Big Time College Football Player,” she said as she slowly twirled her hair. Hmmm . . . now I’m certain you used the ‘you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, baby’ line before.”
“Nope. Never. I didn’t have the perks of being a superstar,” I said with a wink and a smile.
“Okay, superstar, I have to get ready for work. I’ll need you to remove your hands from my breasts now, officer.”
“Don’t remind me.” I laughed. “Speaking of which, I can’t believe we’ve been on vacation for a week, and they haven’t called one time. Wilcrest was supposed to keep me up-to-date.”
Miranda and I had met innocently enough. She was a grad student earning credits for her criminology degree, and I was a rookie cop fresh out of the police academy. Luckily for me, I was assigned a two-week stint with the “hot college chick” who later became my hot wife. When the assignment came from the chief, everyone ran from it. Since I was the new kid on the block, it was handed to me. About ten seconds after Miranda walked in, everyone knew they had made a mistake.
“Honey, you need to get up,” Miranda said. “The girls will be waiting on you.”
“I know, I know, but this is the last day of our vacation, and I don’t want it to end.”
“Vacation? For you, maybe. I have to do this photo shoot. That’s why we’re here, remember?”
Miranda had been chosen for a magazine spread featuring the most beautiful newscasters in the nation. The photo shoot was in Florida, where we had never been, so we were taking full advantage of it. Just as I was about to respond, the phone rang. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and glanced at the display.
“Are you kidding me? Captain Wilcrest?” I looked at my wife. “I think I just jinxed myself.”
“Be careful what you wish for, lover boy.”
“What’s up, Cap? Your ears must have been burning. I was just telling Miranda—”
“Hey, Porter, got some bad news. We got another one, third one in the last two months. People don’t even want to take their kids to school anymore. They don’t want to go outside. We’ve got to catch this bastard, and I mean fast!”
“That’s what this asshole wants,” I replied, sitting up in bed, my heart pounding. “He wants everyone to fear him. ‘Hey look at me; look what I can do!’ He wants to make the headlines. His fifteen minutes of fame.”
“He came to the right place to get his fifteen minutes and then some,” Wilcrest said. “Same MO too—severed body parts, possible . . . well, probable rape. I guess this is his version of ‘see no evil.’ This time he plucked the kid’s eyes out.”
I swore as Miranda looked at me with concern. “Just get as much forensic information as you can. I’ll be back in town late tomorrow afternoon.” I clicked off the phone.
“You think you guys are going to catch him?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted for the first time. “I try to say the right things, put on my mean-cop, tough-guy suit, but the thought of something like this happening to one of our girls scares me to no end.” I shook my head. “I don’t know if we’ll catch this one. So far, we’ve got nothing.”
“I have faith in you,” Miranda said. “If anyone can catch this maniac, you can. I believe that.”
“Thanks. I’ll do my best; that much is certain. The girls and I are going to the beach while you do your shoot. We can catch up after that. Sound good?”
“Sure. Wish me luck.” she said, turning to leave the room. “And I’ll try to stay away from the male models.”
I dressed and headed to the girls’ room next door. To my surprise, they were both up, in bathing suits, and ready to go.
“Took you long enough to get up, sleepy head,” Karen said.
“Hey, why is everyone rushing me this morning?” I griped playfully. “I’m on vacation. It’s our last day, and I’m trying to enjoy it.
Besides, you’re five years old. You don’t know what tired is yet.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Hilary broke in. “Let’s just get to the beach, can we? I‘m not five, and I’m not tired either, old man.”
“Yeah, you’re fifteen. You should be full of youthful energy too!”
“Really, Dad? Can we just go please?”
I grabbed a book, my keys, and my cell phone and locked the door. The three of us made our way over to the beach. As we walked, I swear, every male under the age of twenty eyed Hilary. Some even did a double take as we walked by. They apparently didn’t notice the glowers I sent their way.
“Did you see that? What’s the matter with these boys?” I said, shaking my head.
“Dad, I’m a beautiful young woman with curves in all the right places. What do you expect them to do? You were young once. Didn’t you do the same thing?”
“Give me your towel,” I said, only half joking. “I don’t understand that bathing suit anyway. And I’m still quite young, thank you very much.”
“You’re not supposed to understand it. It’s called a bikini, and you don’t wear them, thank God. And I hate to break it to you, but yeah, you are old.”
I found a spot with mostly older people and decided it worked for me. Maybe the old guys wouldn’t stare so hard at my adolescent daughter. Then again, maybe the old farts would prove to be worse. Hilary noticed my choice of beach.
“Dad, could you have found a place with any more old people?” Hilary whined.
Before I could answer, Karen darted for the water, bucket in hand. “Karen and I like it just fine,” I said with a smile.
“That’s because you’re over the hill and she’s five!” She shook her head, disgusted. “Whatever.”
