He's not like the rest, Gary thought. He's got something hidden up his sleeve right now. He's waiting for us to screw up so he can rub his crimes in our faces.
The arrogance of it made Gary want to march back and punch Randy right between the eyes, but that would ruin any chance he had of still trying to pull off a big weeping confession. They were just getting started here and he wasn't ready to show all his cards. Not yet anyway. The Big Reveal was part of his plan all along.
By the time I start laying all the cards down he'll be begging to make a deal, Gary told himself, trying to build up his own confidence. All I have to do is get him talking about the crimes. His own arrogance will do the rest.
He'd seen it many times since he'd started with the unit. The situations varied slightly but the end result was always the same. Often a suspect would be called in under the guise of answering some routine questions, as if they were still just a witness who needed to give an official statement. They'd quickly figure out that they were being looked at as more than a Good Samaritan after being put in one of these rooms, even for a short period of time. There was never a point where a detective would let his suspect get comfortable during an interrogation. Everything from the hard metal chair to the lack of windows to the intimidating two-way mirrors was designed with one thought in mind – to make your suspect feel trapped and anxious. The dimensions of the room itself left you feeling claustrophobic, especially if you weren't used to being in small spaces with no ventilation. Cranking up the heat made things exponentially worse.
At that point the suspect would be hit with a series of hard allegations, depending on how strong the evidence was against them, and told they would only get one shot at leniency for their crimes. That single 'Hail Mary' was always contingent on how willing they were to cooperate. Detectives would talk about how they'd rot in jail for the maximum number of years the crime allowed if they didn't want to play ball – and then told them it was their choice. They'd give them a moment to think about it, excusing themselves and promising to bring back something for them, like coffee or water or a sandwich. The cameras would be turned on the whole time, but the AC would be shut off. The hope was that the suspect would feel uncomfortable and make a mistake. After no less than thirty minutes, the detective would return and start over again with the hard line. If the suspect began to cooperate they would be rewarded with food and beverages, along with air conditioning – after they'd signed away their rights, of course. If they didn't cooperate, they'd be held in the hot box for countless hours before being booked and allowed to call a lawyer. They'd be subjected to threats, both verbal and physical. They'd be bullied and pushed to the absolute legal limit. It was the oldest trick in the book and the one that still worked the best – the old Carrot and Stick Routine.
Over the years, Gary had seen guys come apart at the seams in these rooms. He'd seen guys that were tough broken down to teary-eyed confessions in as little as thirty minutes – and had seen guys that looked like pushovers refuse to speak a word for over twelve hours. The guy waiting in the room now was going to be the latter type. He could just tell. It was instinct twisting in his guts. This guy's masterpiece wasn't nearly done. He hadn't found his Opus, not yet.
He doesn't take big risks and he doesn't make dumb mistakes, Gary thought. At least not anymore.
Randy Alan Whitmore had been in trouble enough times to know his way around an interview room. He sat passively, his shoulders slumped, head leaned forward and down, the hint of a smirk on his otherwise expressionless face. Gary had done his homework. He'd worked up a full profile of his suspect. He'd been watching Randy now for weeks, waiting patiently for anything that would give him away. Deep down, he'd known he had the right guy from the very start. It was in his eyes, but that kind of hunch didn't hold up in court.
He has the eyes of an animal, Gary thought. One that stalks its victims for weeks on end before devouring it.
But this was like no animal the world had seen before. This man was acting out gruesome sex crimes on young girls. Innocent victims who couldn't defend themselves – girls with mental disabilities, girls with slight retardation or Down Syndrome. He'd already succeeded in killing six times, each more gruesome and cruel than the last. Gary was sure there were others they didn't know about as well. He knew from years of experience, years of investigating crimes just as evil and twisted and sick as this string of murders, that killers started smaller, closer to home, then worked their way up to bigger and more advanced displays. This allowed successful killers to learn from their own mistakes and perfect their craft – an eerie realization that often sent shivers down Gary's spine even after all these years.
Gary had been living in a world of unlovable sociopaths for over a decade. Every killing seemed as senseless when it began, birthed in murky confusion like muddy water mixed with blood and feces, as when it ended. Even if the case was tied up with a big red bow after a remorseful killer's tear-stained confession, it still kicked a wide hole into Gary’s soul – and the darkness inside began taking on a life of its own. He could not forget the victim’s faces, their names, the horrible ways that they died, or the abysmal ways they suffered. Stabbed. Shot. Mutilated. Choked. Bludgeoned. Strangled. Throats slit. Sex organs violated. The images appeared over and over when he closed his eyes, a terrifying nightmare of dissatisfied victims and overweening, unctuous killers all inseparably bound together. Wave after wave visited him like a parade, monsters and demons right there with their restless victims, endlessly being killed again and again until he would wake in fear and panic, his heart beating wildly in his chest at the memory of it all.
He's like a new kind of monster, a mutant even among his own kind; one that feeds on his victims’ trust, weakness, and fear the way an animal might feed on flesh and blood.
Gary closed his eyes once more and tried to remember everything about this guy, starting with their very first encounter. It had been at the last crime scene a month before. Randy had been watching Gary work. The victim, Bonnie Lou Simmons, had been beautiful, even with the obvious facial indicators that she had Down Syndrome. Her big, blue, almond-shaped eyes with the light-colored spots in them were left wide open, as was her small, innocuous mouth. She had a small chin, a flat nose, and small ears. Her blonde hair was thin and straight and looked like it had been recently brushed. She was left on display with her panties pulled down and her cheap, homemade-looking dress pulled up, leaving her exposed for the world to see. She was wearing only one shoe – a kids sneaker on her right foot, with stars and lights in bright colors that fastened on with a Velcro strip, making it easy for her to slip on and off. She'd been placed at the bottom of a playground slide as if she were a mannequin on display, just another big kid trying to recapture her innocent childhood days. Her right hand was clasped around a single bright red rose, obviously placed there by the killer. It was a dark message that couldn't be missed, but as far as Gary knew all it told him was that he was dealing with one sick puppy.
Gary had been leaning over the body of the sixteen-year-old girl, examining the ligature marks on her throat, when he felt the eyes of her killer on him. He glanced up and casually looked around the crime scene, seeing only the faces of concerned neighbors and scared parents looking beyond the police tape. He leisurely turned and looked past the trees toward the houses that overlooked the park. The gate was locked at night to prevent vagrants from sleeping in the park, and dopers from shooting up and leaving their needles in the sand box. Moving the body to the park would invite a risk of being spotted, especially since it would mean taking it over the top of the gates. That kind of thing would definitely be hard to explain to a curious stranger. Still Gary was certain the victim had been moved. Postmortem lividity suggested she'd been killed while in a vertical position – like standing or hanging – then laid down supine for a while before being transported and posed in the park. The whole process had taken less than thirty minutes from start to finish; rose in hand.
This happened here
, Gary thought. Or very close to here.
The girl had only gone missing the evening before. She'd been out playing near the park when she was last seen alive. No one remembered seeing her go missing. No one could recall seeing her leave at all. She could just as easily have gotten into a car that approached her, as simply walked off on her own. She had gone missing before and turned up at McDonald’s. It wasn't unheard of. Her parents didn't start to panic until it had been dark for a few hours. Then, trying to find her, they called everyone they knew – and eventually filed a report at Wilcox Station.
Then again maybe she was just within earshot of the park, Gary mused, looking around at the houses a second time. Maybe she was incapacitated in some way before she was kidnapped.
There were no marks on the back of the skull, so maybe she was drugged. That would make sense. The killer could still move her without her causing a scene during the abduction. He'd have to wait for the toxicology report to know for sure. None of the other victims had been drugged, so it would be a new twist if she had. One thing was for sure in his mind – Gary was certain that it was someone she had known. That's why she didn't bother to tell anyone. She thought she was safe. The killer knew that she would trust him. He took full advantage of that knowledge and he used it against her. There was only one other possibility as far as Gary was concerned, but it seemed more and more far-fetched as his original idea began to take root. If one of the neighbors hadn't done this heinous act, they might very well have witnessed the killer carefully positioning her.
Gary didn't see any faces looking out from the houses. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Someone was definitely watching him, but whom? He turned back again to the line of people standing near the yellow police tape by the gate and caught a glimpse of Randy slinking around in the crowd, observing him work. He looked like he was taking it all in at once, relishing the moment the way a musician savors a beautifully held note during a live performance. Gary looked down at his hands to see that they were balling and unballing into fists. He looked back up and Randy's eyes immediately shifted away. He seemed to effortlessly sink back into the growing crowd.
That guy looks like a creep.
There was no doubt Randy was a creepy-looking guy, by just about anyone’s standards. At thirty-eight years old he had the small wisps of a mustache coming in on his clammy upper lip that you'd expect to see on a pimple-faced teen. He was skinny with a slightly larger than average head, and wore thick glasses. He suffered from male pattern baldness, but kept his head shaved to hide the signs. It was a trend a lot of men were taking advantage of these days, especially in Los Angeles where physical appearance was assigned such a high value and importance. The problem was that in order to pull that look off you'd have to shave nearly every day, and Randy had slacked on keeping it clean. The inevitable signs of his age were poking through as the hair began to grow back in patches, giving him an unkempt look. If he'd been a hipster he might have hidden his sloth with a colorful ski cap, but he was far too well dressed to be mistaken for a pursuer of cultural trends and fashions. The idea of him wearing faddish skinny jeans and an ironic t-shirt seemed laughable. There was something much more formal, much more controlled about him than that. He was wearing a white dress shirt, flawlessly pressed, and jeans so creased and crisp looking he'd have to have ironed them to get that effect. He had on a designer Gucci belt and matching white shoes with no socks.
Like something you'd see down on the beach in Miami, Gary thought. What kind of a douchebag doesn't wear socks?
He was also short for his age, reaching just less than five foot, five inches. Something about him just looked stunted, as if both his physical and emotional development had been arrested during some unseen childhood tragedy.
He was now cloaked behind a fat neighbor with wild, frizzy, orange hair wearing an oversized see-through flowered blouse and tight green yoga pants. Gary fixed a hard stare at him and to his surprise Randy stared back this time, his eyes belying the truth his body attempted to cover up; that he was a predator with a savage appetite who lived for the kill, a mutant hiding among his neighbors like a wolf in sheep's clothing and yes, by-fucking-God was he hungry for more.
He's letting me know that he's just getting started.
Randy broke his stare first and turned to saunter off. That's when Gary noticed he had a metal case under his arm, the kind used to transport some kind of musical instrument. It couldn't have been anything bigger than a trumpet judging by the size of it.
Gary had the sudden urge to leap to his feet and chase the guy down, even tackle him if need be. The urge was nearly overwhelming and he guessed his suspicious new friend felt it too, because he picked up his pace as he moved down Van Ness heading away from the crime scene. He waved over an officer on scene.
“Yes, Detective,” the officer said at once.
“There was a short guy with a shiny silver case under his arm watching from behind the tape a minute ago. He just took off down Van Ness. Have someone pick him up for questioning.”
“Yes sir.”
The officer set off right away, pulling his radio and giving his fellow cops the description and location Gary had passed on to him. A little voice in the back of his head told Gary that the guy was long gone already, but that he would see him again soon.
You can count on that. For now the best thing you can do is work the crime scene and don't fuck up.
Gary had turned his attention back to the girl's body, focusing once more on her neck. He speculated that the murder weapon was most likely made from strong clothing, like panty hose or even a tube top made from mixed fibers. Over the years he'd become familiar with every means of strangling a victim and began to see tale-tell signs upon arrival that were generally proven correct later on, for the most part anyway. A shocking number of these types of crimes involved a man using his own belt to choke the victim out while he raped her, allowing the killer to sexually arouse himself from the victims panic and fear. When he was ready to climax the killer would then complete the act of strangulation in order to reach satisfaction. Afterward the killer would put the belt back on and leave. These cases were so common in most major cities that they came with their own checklist.
First the body would be inspected for seminal fluid, which was rarely found. Instead, they'd determine that the young victims had been raped by men who knew enough about their crime to wear a condom. Different brands of prophylactics relied on different combinations of lubrication, which would help narrow down the type used.
Then they'd search the body for hair and fiber samples, which usually yielded some results. It was almost impossible to engage in non-consensual intercourse and not leave behind pubic hair. Experienced rapists knew this so they shaved but many first time offenders didn't, particularly the ones hooked on dope. Their crimes were often drug fueled. Smoking crack wasn't the kind of recreational habit that led to good decision-making. They'd check under the girls fingernails as well, always hoping to discover that in the struggle these predators so craved in order to get off, they'd find they’d been scratched, leaving behind a flashing neon sign pointing right to them. Most of these guys had a record of some kind by the time they finally worked their way up to murder. Any DNA was bound to bring a match from the national database, which meant putting a picture to the killer. Meticulously combing over a crime scene and doing everything by the book was the bread and butter of his department.
If he's left a single strand of DNA on her body we're going to find it, and then use it to crucify the sick bastard.
The last thing on the checklist was to photograph the neck and make note of any bruising patterns. Since the killer usually wore the evidence on them it was a cinch later on to match the weapon to the wound. This case was different though, and Gary knew it. In the vast majority of sexually motivated murders, the killer chose the victim because they fit a certain type. The relationship between the two generally ended there. Hookers. Cheerleaders. Runaways. Girls
that reminded them of their absent mothers. There was always a pattern.
Often, even if the killer had been stalking the victim in advance, he did not interact with her until the final fatal moments of her life. Gary knew just by looking at the body that the killer had personally known her, and that he had developed an attachment to her. The first thing that stood out was the girl’s neck. There was no belt buckle bruise, no indention from the notches, no hard edges from the sides as they tightened in. Instead there were several different small bruise lines ringing her neck, as if she was choked out and revived over a period of hours before being killed. Gary had made the forensics team bag her hands when they arrived on the scene, but he had little hope of getting genetic material from his killer. The girl’s fingernails were covered in blood but it was her own as far as Gary could tell, as she had curled them tight into the palms of her hands until the skin broke and fluid was drawn out.
Who knows how long the torture went on? All I know for sure is that he made her suffer as much as he could, psychologically speaking. He made her face her own death before he released her from this life.
Gary suspected that she had been tied up and tortured all night long before being killed, and before being brought out to be put on display in the kids’ playground at Robert Burns Park. This recreational facility was located in a part of Los Angeles known as Larchmont. Even though it wasn't much more than an insignificant square of grass, the park was popular with parents and kids alike, owing not just to a shaded area, but also to brand new playground equipment. There was no permit required to use the facilities, just first come first served. On weekends the park was crowded with kids birthday parties, but during the week it was generally quiet. A morning jogger had discovered the body as he passed by, and called it in. Cops were sent to canvass the street behind the park, hoping someone on North Norton Avenue had seen something in the early morning hours from one of their second story homes, but turned up nothing.
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