by Chris Carter
OK, Cassandra thought, her eyes going back to the note in her hand, now this has gone too far.
Whoever this person was, he or she had come to her home to place the note on her car, and she wasn’t about to just let that one slide.
Cassandra thought about tearing up the whole thing right there and throwing it all in the trash, but, in a burst of anger, she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper from inside it. It looked just like the previous two notes – a white, eight-by-five sheet of paper, where someone had glued together letters and words that had been cut out from a magazine to create a message.
Her eyes scanned the short note and she paused. This time the message didn’t make her chuckle. It didn’t make her angry either. It finally made her scared.
Twenty-One
The cut-out letters and words that formed the note Garcia had found in Karen Ward’s bedroom had all come from article and advertisement headlines, varying in color, size, and shape.
Captain Blake repositioned herself by Garcia’s side and silently read the short note on his desk twice over:
A friend once told me that to really know what it’s like to be someone else, one has to step into that someone else’s shoes. Maybe walk in them a little. Well, I’ve just stepped into yours, Karen.
Captain Blake’s gaze ping-ponged from Garcia, to Hunter, and then back to Garcia. ‘This slipped out from inside one of her shoes?’
Garcia nodded and reached for a second evidence bag, which was on the floor by his chair.
‘This one,’ he said, placing the bag on his desk, next to the note. It contained a pair of shiny, black and red, five-inch-stiletto shoes. ‘I was just about to take it all to forensics for analysis.’
The captain tilted her head slightly to the right as she studied the shoes.
‘OK,’ she said at last, indicating the items on Garcia’s desk. ‘So what the hell does this all mean? That the killer tried on her shoes?’
‘Right now we’re not discarding any possibilities, Captain,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’ll ask forensics to check the insoles and the inside of the shoes for DNA or what-have-you, but if that’s the case, the killer is either a woman posing as a man, or he’s got tiny, tiny feet. Those are four and a half sized shoes.’
‘What it does mean, Captain,’ Hunter offered, ‘is that it confirms what Tanya Kaitlin had told us earlier today – that whoever put that note together, whoever was stalking Karen Ward, had once again gained access to her apartment without her knowledge.’
‘Have you found any other notes?’
‘No, and we checked everywhere,’ Garcia replied. ‘Inside every shoe, pocket, drawer, cupboard, under the furniture – you name it, it’s been checked.’
‘But her friend told you that she had received more than one note, right?’
Both detectives nodded.
‘So where are the others?’
Garcia shrugged. ‘We don’t know; chances are, she threw them away.’
A moment of surprised silence.
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because they scared her, Captain,’ Hunter responded. ‘Why would she keep something that scared her in her house? Most people wouldn’t.’
‘Because they constituted physical proof, Robert, and they could’ve carried forensic evidence. Didn’t she take them to TMU? Register a complaint? Start a process?’
‘I understand, but according to her best friend, that’s not how she saw it,’ Hunter clarified. ‘What she believed was that because the notes were completely anonymous, the police wouldn’t be able to do much for her. She was afraid that they would just ask her some routine questions and push her case to the back of the queue. She was scared. She wasn’t sleeping well and all she wanted was for the notes to stop. The solution she came up with was to move.’
Captain Blake chewed on that thought for a moment. ‘OK, so why do you think she kept this particular one?’ She nodded at the note on Garcia’s desk.
‘That is the problem, Captain,’ Hunter said. ‘We don’t think she did.’
It took the captain just a second to pick up on what Hunter was suggesting. ‘She never actually found it.’
‘That’s what we think,’ Garcia agreed. ‘Which, to be honest, isn’t that surprising.’
Captain Blake injected a little inquisition into the look she gave him.
‘I’m telling you, Captain,’ he said in reply, ‘there were over sixty pairs of shoes on that rack. If she was anything like Anna, it doesn’t matter how many pairs of shoes she had, she’d mainly stick to wearing three, maybe four pairs. The comfortable ones. The rest are just the consequence of some innate female obsession with shoes. It doesn’t matter that they’ll only wear them once, if that. They just have to have them.’
Captain Blake couldn’t argue with Garcia’s logic. Despite owning a staggering number of pairs of shoes herself, she did mainly stick to a handful of them. The rest she would wear sporadically, maybe once or twice a year, depending on the occasion. She took a step back from Garcia’s desk, while mulling over a couple of thoughts.
‘So do you think this means that the perp wasn’t that familiar with the victim after all?’ she asked both detectives.
‘Because he placed the note inside a shoe which she didn’t wear very often? It could,’ Hunter agreed with a nod, then followed it with a sideways head-tilt. ‘But not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean, Robert? A stalker would’ve noticed her shoes. He would’ve noticed her earrings, her handbag, her lipstick . . . everything about her. Isn’t stalking the product of an unwanted and obsessive attention from one person to another?’
Hunter nodded once.
‘So if he was obsessed with her, he would’ve noticed her shoes. He would’ve known which ones she wore more often.’
Hunter agreed again, then explained. ‘The problem we have is that people driven by uncontrollable obsessions can very easily become delusional, Captain, and stalkers are very high on that list. They desperately want to be part of their “victims’ ” world.’ He used his fingers to draw quotation marks in the air because he knew that most stalkers didn’t see the source of their obsession as victims. ‘To achieve that, many will break into their victims’ homes while they are gone and sleep in their beds, eat their food, watch their TVs, wear their clothes, their shoes, anything, just to make them feel like they belong. Like they have a connection. Some, and Karen Ward’s stalker seems to fall into this category, like to push the boundaries and leave little clues behind so their victims would know that they’d been in their home. Sometimes those clues come in the shape of notes.’ Hunter once again indicated the note on Garcia’s desk. ‘But it could be something a lot more subtle. Something that would fill the victim’s head with doubts, like an object out of place, a door left ajar, or a light left on.’
Captain Blake considered the scenario. Nothing would scare a single woman living alone more than knowing that someone had been in her house, because if he got in when she was out, he could get in when she was in, or even worse – he could still be in there.
‘So the reason why they would leave any of these sort of clues behind,’ she said, ‘is scaremongering – to simply bring fear to the victim.’
‘For some of them, yes,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But not all, and here’s where the delusional part kicks in. It’s called erotomania, a fairly common trait in stalkers. It’s a type of delusion where they believe that the object of their affection, usually a total stranger or somebody famous, is in love with them.’
‘Well, this is the perfect city for that, isn’t it?’ Captain Blake commented.
‘So,’ Hunter continued, ‘breaking into their victim’s home, sleeping in their bed, using their toothbrush, or whatever it is that they do while they’re in there, makes them believe that they are indeed part of their victim’s world. It makes them believe that they belong. In their fantasy the hiding of notes is nothing more than a fun game that two people in love would play.
’ Hunter paused, giving Captain Blake a moment to absorb his words.
‘Because if he believes that she’s in love with him,’ she said in conclusion, ‘then he’d also believe that she enjoys playing the game just as much as he does.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So you’re saying that he could’ve placed the note inside a shoe she didn’t wear very often on purpose, just to make the Easter egg hunt a little more fun.’
‘It’s possible,’ Hunter admitted.
Captain Blake walked back to the center of the room; as she did, she noticed the look on Hunter’s face. A concerned look that she’d seen many times before. ‘OK, what is it, Robert?’
Hunter looked back at her and his eyebrows arched.
‘C’mon, don’t give me that “what are you talking about?” look. Something is clearly bothering you. What is it?’
‘Everything about this case bothers me, Captain.’
‘Well, it bothers me too, but I know you well enough to see that there’s something that’s already frying your egg, so what is it?’
Hunter walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself a large cup. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.
Captain Blake declined with a hand signal.
‘This stalker business,’ he finally said. ‘The way I see it, it blows hot and cold.’
‘How so?’
Hunter returned to his desk but didn’t take a seat, instead he leaned against its edge. ‘His actions. From the little we have so far, some of them are very consistent with the behavior pattern of a stalker, but some don’t come even close.’
‘Could you clarify, please?’ the captain asked.
Hunter sipped his coffee. ‘As we’ve just discussed, breaking into the victim’s house when she wasn’t there, leaving clues or notes behind, even murder as a consequence, all of that can easily be associated with stalking. The fact that all of the killer’s rage was directed exclusively towards Karen Ward’s face – its injuries, its complete disfiguration – indicates a fixation with the way she looked, which again is very consistent with the behavior of someone who was obsessed with her beauty. Someone who could very easily become delusional. But the phone call to Tanya Kaitlin, the question game he made her play, the way he forced her to watch her best friend being murdered, and the brutality and the self-indulgence of the whole act, all of that falls way beyond the realm of stalking, Captain.’
Captain Blake’s eyes narrowed as she clearly began pondering something else.
‘Let me ask you something,’ she said. Her gaze slowly moved from Garcia to Hunter. ‘Do you think he was bluffing? If Tanya Kaitlin had answered both questions correctly, do you think that he would’ve allowed Karen Ward to live?’
Silence ruled the room for several seconds, and as Hunter considered the captain’s question, something new suddenly fired inside his head and he paused. His eyes moved down to the floor while he tried to organize his thoughts.
‘Clever sonofabitch,’ he finally whispered to himself, but not soft enough to escape Garcia and Captain Blake’s ears. ‘He knew she wouldn’t.’
‘He knew she wouldn’t what, Robert?’ the captain asked.
Hunter’s stare moved to her.
‘He knew she wouldn’t get it right,’ Hunter replied. ‘That’s the only reason why he forced Tanya to play the game.’
Intrigued looks from both, Captain Blake and Garcia.
‘Think about it, Captain,’ Hunter said. ‘Who would’ve gone through that much trouble, that much preparation, that much risk, to play a simple game where he could’ve lost?’
No replies, but the intrigued looks mutated to thoughtful ones.
‘What would he have done if Tanya had given him a second correct answer?’ Hunter continued. ‘ “OK, you win. Well played. Give me a minute to untie your friend and I’ll be out of here in no time. By the way, sorry about the wall mirror in the bathroom, I’ll send you a check in the post.” ’
Several more silent seconds went by while Captain Blake and Garcia chewed on Hunter’s words.
‘But you said that both questions the killer asked her,’ Captain Blake said, ‘were directly linked to her.’
‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘He first asked her for the correct number of friends she had on Facebook then for Karen Ward’s cellphone number. Very simple questions, designed to make the game seem fair.’ Hunter paused, lifting a finger. ‘Actually, more than fair. Designed to make the game seem easy, winnable, but most of all, to inflict a tremendous sense of guilt.’ He looked at his partner. ‘Carlos, how many times in this morning’s interview did Tanya bury her face in her hands, crying and saying that it was all her fault, that she should’ve known Karen’s number by heart?’
Garcia made a face. ‘Pff, countless.’
‘Exactly. And that’s the clever part. The illusion. A simple, easy question, but one he knew for sure she wouldn’t get right.’
‘How could the killer have known that, Robert?’ Captain Blake asked.
Hunter reached for his cellphone. ‘Because he asked her before.’
Twenty-Two
Once Hunter and Garcia left her apartment, Tanya Kaitlin returned to the sofa in her living room. As she sat down, she once again pulled her bathrobe tightly around her, crossing her arms over her stomach. Her eyes aimlessly circled the room a couple of times before, for no specific reason, focusing on the tip of her toes. Right then nothing made sense and something inside her head was telling her that it probably never would.
‘Why couldn’t I know her number?’ she whispered softly to herself. Her body began rocking back and forth ever so slightly, but her eyes never left her toes. ‘I should’ve known her number.’
There was a long, shivering pause before her voice was reduced to a whispering breath.
‘Three, two, three, nine, five . . . no. That’s not it.’
The body-rocking stepped up a notch.
‘Three, two, three, five, five . . . no. That’s not it either.’
Tanya had thought that she had cried all the tears she had to cry, but she was wrong. Without even noticing them, new tears glassed over her eyes and began zigzagging their way down her cheeks.
‘Three, two, three, five, nine, four . . . no. That’s wrong too.’ The rocking, the shivering, her breathing, all of it were becoming a lot more emphatic.
‘I . . .’ Her voice caught on her throat. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I should remember, but I can’t.’ Her quivering hands jetted to her face and she began sobbing again. ‘Karen . . . It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry.’
Tanya had no idea how long she kept her face buried in her hands for, but by the time she lifted her head up again, her fingertips were starting to prune up. Her eyes found the empty pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and reflexes made her reach for them.
‘Fuck,’ she said, full of disappointment.
She had, understandably, forgotten that she had run out of cigarettes.
‘I need a smoke. I need a cigarette.’ The fact that she had given up a few years back didn’t seem to bother her anymore. She dropped the pack back on the coffee table and got to her feet. ‘I really need a smoke.’
Tanya began searching the living room, the words ‘I need a cigarette’ spilling out of her lips every time she opened a new drawer. A new cupboard. A new box.
Nothing.
‘Goddamn it.’ She slammed another drawer shut. ‘I need to go get some more cigarettes.’ She looked around for her purse. Found it on top of the dining table.
In normal circumstances, Tanya would never leave her apartment without having put on at least a touch of foundation, a little eyeliner, and some lipstick; after all, makeup was what she did for a living. She would also never dream of stepping outside her front door in her bathrobe, or with her hair in the state it was in, but these were far from normal circumstances.
If people can go to Walmart in bikinis and underwear, she thought. I can run across the road to the nearest grocery
store in my bathrobe.
Maybe people around her neighborhood were more used to Walmart oddities than what she thought, because no one, not even the cashier, gave her a second look.
By the time she made it back to her apartment, Tanya was already lighting up her second cigarette. Her tears had ceased and the shivering had subsided considerably. She returned to the sofa and this time she was even able to lie down. It didn’t matter that she felt so exhausted, or that she hadn’t slept a wink overnight, because she was sure that she still wouldn’t be able to fall asleep then, not without the help of some sleeping pills.
Tanya considered that thought.
She knew that she still had a box of Aventyl at the bottom of her medicine drawer, but she had already gone back to one bad habit in the last few hours, she didn’t really want to go back to a second one.
Tanya dismissed the idea and rested her head against a couple of cushions. Seconds later, her eyelids fluttered heavily and she found it impossible to keep them open.
The calming effect of her menthol cigarettes was a lot stronger than what she had anticipated, because almost as soon as she shut out the light, she was transported into a half-awake, half-asleep world. Dream and reality danced in front of her in a carnival of images that caressed and slapped her face at the same time, but what really bothered her was the noise. Piercing. Disturbing. Irritating. And it was getting louder.
What the hell was it?
It sounded like an electric knife.
Louder still.
No. A chainsaw.
Where is it coming from?
Too loud.
Finally, Tanya opened her eyes.
The room was silent.
‘What a fucking crazy dream,’ she said in a half-chuckle, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands.
Then she heard it again. Or at least she thought she did.
‘What?’ She pulled herself up into a sitting position quick enough to cause blood to rush to her head too fast. The effort made the room spin around her.
Tanya took a deep breath and grabbed on to the sofa to steady herself. She still wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her or not.
