Of Truth and Lies: Hollingsworth Copycat Killer (Virgil McLendon Thrillers Book 5)

by catt dahman

  “I see, well, since you wish to help with two cases, I can expect to have easy, quick solves, correct?” Virgil refused to step back on his responses.

  Hollingsworth smiled a little, “Not necessarily. I don’t know so much about the…shall we call it Child Slaughter Case and know very little about the Copycat Family Killer Case.” When he lied, his eyes narrowed, and he knew it, not really caring.

  Virgil slid a few files to the doctor and nodded, “You have them now. I’m sure you know more than you’re letting on. I also have added a slim file on your own crimes so you know what the police saw as they worked. I’m sure you recall your crimes, but you may need a few photos as reference material. I have included a notepad and pencil and hope you will follow the rules, Doctor, or we will no longer need your advice.” Virgil was able to read some of the doctor’s behavior quickly.

  “Warning noted, Sheriff.”

  “I assume you are bored and wish to exercise your brain or maybe are flattered with a Copy Cat or are enjoying talking to people again. Be warned that I don’t need you and will solve this alone but am appreciative of any learning experience. To me, you are a means to an end. If you can’t help me, then I will allow you to go back to solitary confinement on death row.”

  Hollingsworth allowed his eyes to glitter dangerously for a few seconds. Then, as quickly as he reacted, he shut away his emotions and savored matching wits with such an adversary.

  Virgil felt he had won that round.

  Tina removed a pad and pen and asked, “Doctor, would you describe your first crime, please?” She had enjoyed Virgil’s response.

  “You haven’t read my file?”

  No sir, not yet. I’ve glanced at it. When you were a young man, I remember reading about it in the papers a little, but it was slightly before my time. I did glance over your information. We prefer to begin with an unbiased version from the offender, when possible. It’s important not to add our own opinions as we compare the Copy Cat Case.”

  Hollingsworth frowned, not with unhappiness, but in feigned respect and interest. He was aware that Sheriff McLendon not only used his techniques, but taught his deputies, as well. Had this sheriff been on the Hollingsworth’s case, he would have likely been caught much sooner, before he grew bored with the game. With the faintest feeling of jealousy, Hollingsworth recognized that the young sheriff used a close technique in profiling.

  “As you wish, I will begin years ago,” the doctor said. His game was now beginning.

  Chapter Four: Doctor Walter Hollingsworth

  He graduated with his PhD in criminology and a minor in psychology at the top of his class with a perfect grade point average, admiration of his professors, and the envy of his fellow students. In classes, he frequently argued strange ideas that cases could be solved in new ways. He led debates and helped other students.

  He was the first one who said that by looking at the crime, one could evaluate the psychological nature of the offender by looking at the offense, the behavior before, during, and after the crime, and the results. He felt a strong connection between behavior and the psyche. Such ideas had been tested and tossed away in several cases in the past.

  He claimed that careful evaluations could determine other details about the criminal such as education, type of employment, and life style. There was always a motive of operation, which could often point to the guilty party, and there was always a signature, which were the common factors in a series of crimes. Some outright laughed at the idea.

  For a while, he worked as a police officer. Later, he wanted to teach. As Hollingsworth taught at a university, he impressed upon the students to ask why an offender acted on some days but not on others, always to wonder why a killer used a particular means of killing, and to question why specific victims were chosen. He stressed that the victims always told stories if only someone would listen. Several students asked if there were a reason for a body dump and if the offender sent letters to the press or taunted the police. Offenders had predictable patterns, Hollingsworth thought.

  He suggested motives of operation and signatures and reminded them that victimology was what an investigator should depend on while being extremely careful not to make a false profile and center on that. He suggested a crime scene be read in detail each time and should be determined as real or staged. Staged scenes were important because a message would be there as well as the vital reason for the staging. Sometimes a criminal staged a scene to cover up evidence, and sometimes it was to say something else entirely.

  Naysayers argued that such techniques failed in many situations; Hollingsworth agreed.

  Witnesses were always undependable. The more he tried to develop his theories and have them validated, the more frustrated he became with law enforcement and their dependency on physical evidence as a full picture; crimes were often personal, at least to the perpetrator. He had told people later, “I wasn’t insane, and I wasn’t a sexual predator. I didn’t act for control and power as much as for enlightenment and maybe a snide poke at law enforcement. I wanted to prove that I was far superior intellectually and to show that my own method could catch me.”

  The first crime Hollingsworth explained was committed on the family of Green. He related it as if he had read it in a storybook or seen it in a movie. Each Saturday, the family went to the grocery store together as a family activity: the parents, Trevor and Gloria and two children, Eddie, age five and Anita, age two. Church and family dinners were on Sundays, and playdates for the children, outings at the park, and fun picnics and quiet evenings were during the weekdays.

  The parents didn’t drink, didn’t go to parties, didn’t attend events without their spouse, and didn’t engage in anything but wholesome activities; they were the conservatives of that era and determined to stay focused on God, country, family, and community.

  On Sunday night, Dr. Hollingsworth drove within a block of the house, having watched the family carefully the past week. Silently, he crept along the shadows and slipped into the backyard where, from observation, he was sure there was no dog. It wasn’t difficult to poison a dog or otherwise deal with one, but it was an unneeded detail that he didn’t wish to muddy his intentions.

  With a few twists of a common tool used for picking locks, he entered the house. At midnight, the house was quiet, as expected. He made a quick trip through the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the butcher block, traded it for a smaller, sharper knife, and opened the cabinet. After taking out a glass and with his prints covered by gloves, he added some tap water and set the glass down. He liked adding this element to the case: a simple glass of water.

  The kitchen was clean and tidy and the counters all bare because of the little ones who were prone to grabbing at things. The sink, before he used it, was dry and spotless; all the dishes were washed, dried, and put away. A lone note was left to remind Gloria to call and have the roof checked for leaks so they wouldn’t be caught unaware in the autumn. Such a pristine room just cried out to be defiled.

  The ranch style house was roomy but not huge and contained a formal living and dining area, a breakfast room, a family room with a television, and a small office on one side. Four bedrooms and two bathrooms were on the other side; one bedroom was an empty guest room, beautifully made up and decorated. A pretty handmade quilt in shades of lavender lay at the foot of the bed. It was a house that had cost a lot but was expected to be the family home forever, big enough to expand the family, but not so big as to be a burden.

  The doctor had no malice towards the family, nor did he dislike children, but he did want to handle those who might make noise and awaken the parents. He also had a particular plan in mind, so he went to the baby’s room first. Anita slept on her back with a pink blanket snuggled around her small form and a teddy bear that guarded her safety.

  Resolutely, he leaned over and slid the knife across the baby’s tender throat, applying a lot of pressure so the wound went deep, making her unable to cry out. Because it was a deep slashing wound, it ble
d copiously, soaking her blanket and bed immediately. Although she was a pretty baby and was dying, Hollingsworth felt nothing, just as he never truly had felt any emotion strongly. Those who were insipid emotional beings were weak in his view.

  “You felt nothing?” asked Tina as she broke in.

  “Not really. I didn’t know the child or have a sentimental attachment.”

  “That’s….”

  “Sociopathic? Crime with no conscience? I don’t know if I envy or pity those born with one. Or are they learned?” Hollingsworth waved at the air. It was of no consequence.

  In the next room slept the five-year-old Eddie. Hollingsworth noted that the boy recently had wet the bed since the stain was still warm. He had a slight dislike for bed wetters although he wasn’t sure why. The scent of urine repulsed him only a little. Once the boy’s throat was slashed and he was dead, Hollingsworth stabbed the boy in the chest, deep wounds that would bruise badly around the force of the knife’s hilt but would not have bled as much. That action was as much for the urine issue as for the scene he was staging. He removed the child’s big toe on the left foot, being careful to make the wound precise and neat.

  The toe went into his pocket.

  Virgil made a small sound in his throat.

  “Sheriff, honestly, the child didn’t feel the pain. You are so emotional,” Hollingsworth said as he smiled like a favorite uncle might.

  Because of the children, Hollingsworth felt the parents didn’t sleep heavily, especially the mothers didn’t as studies showed. It was to her, Gloria, that he went first. He slapped a hand over her mouth, and as her eyes flew open, he hissed, “If you make a sound, I will hurt your children. Do you understand?”

  In the moonlit room, she read his lips as much as heard him because he was so very quiet. Terrified, she nodded. She knew what he wanted before he asked. Her eyes were large pools of fear, and he could see that she would obey him. Mothers obeyed anything to protect their children even if they didn’t believe what was said.

  He motioned for her to get up and follow him, showing her the knife as a threat. Knives and guns always evoked a helplessness. In distress, she submitted, trailing him out of the bedroom and to the hall. He whispered, “Go to your kitchen, and remain silent, or I will kill the children, and then kill you as well.”

  “Please don’t hurt us,” she begged. She begged for the children.

  “Not a word,” he warned her, waving the knife, threateningly. He made no promises and wouldn’t hesitate to lie, anyway. It was all about the results. People were so predictable. Cooperation with a killer produced far worse situations than fighting back, but they never learned; they clung to a hope they could beg or barter their way out, or maybe outwit a killer at some point. Hollingsworth had given many lectures, warning people never to go with a kidnapper even if the kidnapper had a weapon. They might be shot or stabbed and killed, but when taken, they might be tortured.

  In the kitchen, she shivered with a chill and the terror she felt. Biting her lips, she wanted to beg and ask questions but remained silent except for some whimpering and moans deep in her throat. Her eyes darted about, seeing if they were alone. Victims always did that.

  “Be very quiet while I cover your mouth, and then we can get this over with, okay? I merely wish to incapacitate you for a while.”

  She nodded, ready to agree to anything. She wanted the man to steal from them and go away. That he allowed her to see his face was worrisome. If he raped her, so be it, as long as he left her children alone. She could stand that. She could stand anything to save the babies. Her pathetic willingness to cooperate made the doctor angry.

  Then, he took a dishrag and told her to put it into her mouth. After she complied, he took a pair of unused, new hosiery from his other pocket and bound the washcloth to her face. She could make sounds but not scream. He cautioned her again to be quiet.

  Next, he made her sit down on the linoleum floor next to the pantry and tied her feet with the other stocking; she groaned as he tightened the hosiery on her bare ankles. He looked at her for a few seconds and evaluated her, making sure everything was perfect. He had taken the child’s toe; he had left the hosiery. Give and take.

  Criminals always left things: oddities, blood, finger prints; they removed things such as lives, valuables, or mementoes. Perpetrators left parts of themselves, and they took parts of victims. Sometimes it was as simple as carpet fibers or small hairs.

  It was no great thrill, just a chore as he raised the knife. Her eyes begged him for mercy, but he was clinically calm. As he lunged at her, she raised her hands, and the blade punctured a palm and cut the fingers of her other hand, making her bleed. She moaned loudly. As she recoiled from the pain, he swiftly stabbed again, managing several deep wounds to her chest and heart.

  It was for her mercifully quick as she bled out. He had the bloodshed and wounds that he desired. A lot of blood was kind of a major detail for a proper crime scene. Shock and awe. Make the first responders gag and recoil.

  Although she was almost dead, he ran the knife in a slashing motion so that he cut her left cheek. It was for no reason at all but would be debated endlessly. After checking her pulse, he was finished with her. The area was covered in a pool of blood beneath her and in specific splatter formations that followed her thrashing and his raising and lowering of the knife. He left footprints, but he would destroy his shoes afterwards.

  He tossed the toe into the blood pool. That would horrify first responders. They would flinch, vomit, and be traumatized, just as the doctor wanted. That was true power. Anyone could control victims; a master controlled the living.

  With another washcloth, he wiped up some of the blood and carried it and the knife as he walked down the hall, randomly allowing the cloth to touch the white walls. He made lackadaisical patterns. Let them try to figure out why he did that and what it meant; it meant nothing at all.

  Walking back in the bedroom, Hollingsworth saw Mr. Trevor Green lying on his back sound asleep, making this easy. Green had kicked covers down to his waist and was bare-chested, dressed in only his boxer underwear. Hollingsworth slammed the bloody cloth down into and over Trevor’s mouth as he used the other hand to stab him in his heart. It wasn’t a clean kill, and the man came awake, howling against the rag, but Hollingsworth ran the knife across Green’s neck in a slashing motion, opening the carotid artery. It was harder to get a good stab to the heart than people imagined. That was fine. A fight was no big deal.

  Sometimes at this point, a victim will fight, but other than a quick grab for the blade that cut his fingers deeply, Trevor didn’t really fight, but instead he felt the neck wound and reached for it. It was painful and gushed blood; blood scares victims. When Trevor decided to really fight back, Hollingsworth slashed back with the knife and continued to push Trevor back to the mattress. As he fought, Trevor fell to the floor and crawled, trying to yell for his wife. He was a fighter, as most men were, but he was a dollar short and a day late, as the saying went.

  In a few minutes, Trevor collapsed to his stomach and was only able to weakly stare upwards and sideways to see Dr. Walter Hollingsworth, standing over him. They didn’t know one another; they were strangers caught together at an intimate moment. At just the right time, Hollingsworth used the knife to stab deeply into the man’s kidneys, slash his back, and cut the back of his victim’s legs.

  Trevor went ridged with sudden white, hot pain. In minutes, the man was dead; the doctor didn’t torture people needlessly. The bedroom was covered in gouts of blood that pooled and splattered on the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. The bed was red with gore.

  Hollingsworth went back through the house, tracking blood onto the carpet.

  Finished, except for details, Hollingsworth took a second glass, filled it with water, allowing blood from his gloves to cover the glass, and tipped the glass over so water ran, turned pink, and dripped to the floor. The last detail was that he took a new package of paper towels from the pantry and tossed the u
nopened cylinder to the floor beside Gloria’s body. He threw the knife into the sink.

  Hollingsworth escaped into the night.

  As the doctor finished giving Sheriff McLendon and Deputy Rant his story, he sat back, sipping from a cup of water.

  “Interesting.”

  “I tried,” Hollingsworth said, “and how would you view this case if you saw it all?”

  Virgil McLendon was silent only for a few seconds before he said, “It should be obvious the order in which the victims were killed. You didn’t take out the biggest threat first because if he fought hard and you had to run, you wouldn’t have your crime scene. You couldn’t chance dealing with Mr. Green first. The scene was critical. You engineered it perfectly to leave false leads everywhere. I suspect the water glasses were a big mystery.”

  “They were.”

  The last victim was handy but not crucial. You focused on the first three murders. The order matters because you took the first victims out to promote the most horror and agony, not from the parents who didn’t know and see it all, but from the police and the community. You wanted the first people on the sight to be shocked. You showed a relaxed, organized demeanor. The murder of children was heinous and caused misery.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You brought your own weapon. That was so it couldn’t be traced. It might seem a burglary gone wrong, but you left no indicators for that. You behaved unlike a burglar. Every kitchen has a knife, so you didn’t concern yourself with that. You used what was there. You also didn’t bring a weapon in order to show some uncertainty, but you were very sure what you wanted to do.”

  “That’s too easy, Sheriff. Reach a little.”

  Virgil unconsciously played music with his left hand as he thought, unconsciously drifting into a soothing action as he delved into the scene, mentally.

  “The children were collateral. You wanted to focus on the deaths of the female parent. The first murders were simply to do the job and to set up the scene. With Gloria Green, you wanted blood as well as for her to be disabled. The same for Trevor Green, but the main event was Gloria. She was all that mattered. She was the key, actually. How you handled her was your true identity.”