She wondered with dread if the jury would buy it. Or would they see through the subterfuge as if a soiled window to his evil soul?
The prosecutor glared at the twelve jurors as though they were the enemy, then just as easily left them hanging with a flawless flip of her head, causing the trendy locks dancing on her shoulders to change direction in midair. In what had become a well-practiced move, she took three measured steps with the grace of a ballerina so that she now stood before the defense table. She looked into the chilling coal-black eyes of the smug-faced defendant with her own ferocious gaze as she said to the jury: "This man—if you can call him that—deserves about as much sympathy from you as he gave to his victims. If you allow what he has done to go unpunished adequately, then you'll be sending a message to every sexual serial murderer who comes along that it's perfectly okay to hand pick your victims, rape them, and do whatever the hell else you want to them, and then cry, But it ain't my fault. It's everybody else's."
She snarled at the accused, then risked a furtive peek at his attorney, whose fierce competitiveness matched hers. Once again, the prosecutor, always in control, smoothly made her way back before her main audience. She planted her hands firmly on the wooden railing of the jury box, leaned forward, swallowed a quiet sigh, and said demandingly: "There can be only one justice in this trial. You must find the defendant guilty as charged and sentence him to death. Anything else would be a travesty and a victory for the defense—and defendant. Thank you."
Only then did she allow herself to offer a sanguine smile to the jurors. It was not a real smile but a thank-you-for-all-your-trouble smile, now do your job right and let's get on with our lives.
* * *
It took the jury exactly thirty-five minutes to deliberate, before returning a verdict of guilty on all counts.
A week later, during the penalty phase, Raymond Allen Wilson was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Feeling somewhat less than victorious that the killer's life had been spared, Deputy District Attorney Jordan La Fontaine left the courtroom, briefcase in hand. Alongside her was co-counsel in the trial, Assistant D.A. Andrew Lombard. Six feet tall and naturally trim, the thirty-year-old looked dapper in a crisp navy suit. Dark curly hair lapped at his forehead, and his close-set blue eyes seemed to sparkle when you looked at them. Which was what Jordan found herself doing at the moment, even though she felt he was a bit too young for her. Her mind returned to the trial.
A couple of minutes earlier, Raymond Allen Wilson's attorney, Simon McNeil, had stormed out of the courtroom without comment. Jordan could almost read his unprintable thoughts, knowing how he hated to lose almost as much as she did. But he would at least be able to go to sleep tonight knowing that his client did not have a date with death—unlike those whose lives Wilson had taken.
"If you ask me," Andrew said with a Brooklyn accent, "I'd say we got the best we could from that jury. I mean, hell, at least that bastard's off the streets for good."
"Try telling that to the families of the victims," Jordan said almost apologetically. "We promised them true justice would be served—meaning an eye for an eye. Make that two eyes for the fourteen he shut permanently. You know as well as I do that Wilson could live at least another fifty years in prison. That's not exactly the Christmas gift the families were hoping for."
"Maybe not, but I'll guarantee it won't be a picnic for Wilson in his new home," Andrew said. "Do you know what they do to baby-faced, men like him on the inside? The asshole may end up wishing the State had given him a lethal dose of poison when all is said and done."
Jordan had her doubts about that. In her thirteen years with the Multnomah County D.A.'s office, she found it ironic that the one thing killers seemed to fear more than anything else was dying. It was an odd case of jitters under the circumstances.
They rounded the corner in the wide corridors of the Criminal Justice Center. The marble flooring shone as if it had been polished, in spite of the fact that traffic in and out of the building seemed nonstop. There were several trials in various stages, as judges and lawyers scurried to wrap up the better part of cases before the year 1995 came to an end.
Andrew eyed Jordan. "There's a rumor floating around that you and Jerrod Wresler are right at the top of the list for the Homicide Division Bureau Chief opening..."
I've heard it too. Jordan tightened her fingers around the handle of her black leather briefcase. But then she had heard it all before. Only to see herself passed up by someone else—usually a man—less experienced or qualified. Although she and Wresler were roughly equals in terms of time served, being a woman of color would likely work against her once more, even though she had proven herself time and time again. She had learned long ago not to get her hopes up too high.
"If I were you," she said, "I wouldn't pay much attention to rumors."
Andrew laughed uneasily. "That means it's probably true. And, lady, like it or not, you're the hottest thing the D.A.'s office has going for it right now. They need this more than you do. I'd say you're a cinch for the job."
Wishing she could be just as optimistic, Jordan put on her best face. "Only time will tell."
Speaking of which, she glanced at her watch. Damn! It was almost five-thirty. It was Christmas Eve and she still hadn't bought gifts for her kids.
"I have to go," she said abruptly, while stopping in her tracks as if lost. The reality was that she wasn't really sure where to get started in her search for the right presents.
Andrew frowned. "A few of us are heading over to The Ranch for a little Christmas Eve celebrating. You're coming, aren't you?"
Jordan gave him a well-meaning smile. "I'll try," she promised, doubting she'd be missed too much if she didn't show. "But first I have some unfinished business." She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. "If I don't see you before then, have a Merry Christmas. And tell everyone else the same!"
She darted off, her mind swirling. What the hell does one buy for a precocious fourteen-year-old and mature nineteen-year-old these days?
Buying gifts was especially important to Jordan this year. It was a good way to bring the family together when they needed it most. This was the first Christmas her late husband, Eric, would not be sharing with them.
CHAPTER TWO
He watched and waited tolerantly to make his move.
The townhouse was almost pitch dark inside. Only the soft, muted light filtering through the partially closed blinds from the lamp in the courtyard penetrated the darkness. Like a cat, he moved stealthily from room to room, using his instincts more than sight to make his way around, learning all he needed to.
In the bedroom, he opened a dresser drawer and removed some panties. He put them up to his nostrils and breathed in. Though they were lightly scented with detergent, he could still smell her. It was an undeniable turn on and he felt aroused.
He drank in the smell for another moment or two, then forced himself to put the panties back in the drawer. He had planned this too carefully. There was no room for slip-ups.
Moving without sound, he retraced his steps and peeked out the window overlooking the courtyard. Christmas lights blinked on and off outside various townhouses. Light snowflakes had begun to fall and melt upon contact with the grass.
He heard—or thought he did—a noise and jumped practically out of his skin, but just as quickly regained his composure. Now was not the time to panic, he told himself. If anyone had reason to be frightened, it was her!
He took his place and waited patiently even as he heard the key in the front door.
* * *
She held her wrapped packages between her and the door while fumbling with the key in the lock. The lock had a tendency to freeze up when it was really cold outside. It didn’t help that she was trying to hold onto several boxes at the same time. Finally, with a bit of elbow grease and determination, she managed to turn the lock and open the door.
She put the gifts on the floor, turned on the foyer l
ight, and kicked the door shut. The warmth inside instantly hit her, making her tingle with satisfaction. She removed her coat and hung it on the coat rack.
It had been a long day and even longer night. What she needed right now was a nice hot bath and a glass of wine. Not necessarily in that order.
In the kitchen, she grabbed an apple from the fridge, took a big bite out of it, and poured herself a generous glass of Chardonnay. She heard a noise and cautiously looked around. Nothing. It was probably just the wind. Or maybe it was her next-door neighbors making love, which they did often and loudly. The thought amused her.
She went to the living room, kicking her high heels off along the way. She reached behind the end table and plugged in the tree lights. It was one of those small artificial trees used more for effect than anything. But at least it helped keep her in the holiday spirit. She took a moment to admire the tree and its flashing lights in the corner of the room.
She sipped her wine en route to the bathroom, where she turned on the water in the tub.
In the bedroom, she took off her dress, stockings, bra, and panties. She removed the clips that held her long, blonde hair in place, followed by a choker and earrings. She strode naked to the closet for her robe, which was hanging on a hook behind the door. A slight movement caught her eye. Her first thought was that it had come from the closet. Perhaps a reflection of some sort. Then she realized it had come from the room.
There was someone else in the room!
Before she could act or react, someone grabbed her from behind.
She struggled as the robe fell to the floor, determined to fight him. She tried her best to free herself from his hold.
But he was too strong. He had his hand clasped tightly over her mouth, muffling her scream almost to the point of silence. Her legs flailed at thin air as he lifted her off the floor, holding her tightly against his body. She could feel his erection rubbing against her buttocks through his clothing.
The terror she felt was unimaginable. I don’t want my life to end like this.
Yet there was no escape. Every part of her felt paralyzed. She was at his mercy.
The blade seemed to come out of nowhere, shining in the low light as if to further terrorize her before the fact. It was at least twelve inches long and sharp enough to cut into flesh and bone with the simplicity and viciousness of a man possessed.
She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer, hoping there was a God to have mercy on her soul.
With lightning quickness, he sliced evenly and deeply across her throat. Blood gushed out. She began to choke on her own vomit. And that was just for starters. When he got through with her, she would be a sorry sight for the person unlucky enough to find what he left behind.
* * *
It overlooked the Columbia River in Portland, Oregon, where the moonlight floated on the surface, and colorful Christmas lights decorated nearby houses up and down the river. Beyond that was the Columbia River Gorge with its magnificent forests and waterfalls—including the 620-foot Multnomah Falls. Devil’s Edge, as it was known because of the almost sinfully exquisite vantage point it offered, was a place where young lovers nestled in cars and made out away from inquiring eyes.
This was likely what the young African American couple had in mind as they steamed up the windows of the ‘93 Chevy and lustfully closed themselves off from the rest of the world. It was the lone car in the parking lot when they arrived this night.
Only now were they joined by another vehicle that had moved in so quietly it did nothing to disturb the young couple’s preoccupation with one another. Its single occupant studied the Chevy parked several spots over, while deeply inhaling a cigarette’s nicotine into his lungs, then exhaling plumes of smoke from his nostrils. Finally, as though bored or perhaps anxious to get it over with, he reached into the glove compartment and took out a .25 caliber automatic weapon.
He took one final drag of the cigarette before he squashed it in the ashtray and left the vehicle quietly with the gun held firmly by his side.
Disregarding the rare sight of snow mixed with rain in the Portland area, he approached the Chevy slowly and deliberately. His boots picked up moisture with each step. He came up on the passenger side of the Chevy and, for a moment, watched the goings-on inside with interest.
The female was on top of the male in the back seat, her skirt spread across his lap like a blanket as she moved up and down on him. Their mouths were locked like two love-starved mammals in heat. The trance was broken when she heard something outside. Abruptly, she withdrew her lips against her lover’s protestation and looked towards the passenger window. She saw what appeared to be a man with a maniacal look in his face. Only then did she notice the gun pointed directly at her.
An almost suffocating scream left her mouth as the window was shattered by gunfire. She was struck in the face, killing her instantly.
Her young lover, still caught up in the throes of passion, barely had time to size up the situation. But he needed no time to know that danger lurked and he was the next target. Gripped with a thirst for survival, he pushed his lover’s corpse off him in one fluid motion, and made for the back door on the driver’s side. In his panic and desperation, he had failed to notice that the assailant had anticipated his move and was waiting for him. He found himself staring into the barrel of a gun, and instinctively tried in vain to lunge for it.
The first bullet only grazed his left cheek, but the force of it violently propelled the victim onto his girlfriend’s lifeless body. The second bullet struck him in the back, severing his spine. A third bullet lodged somewhere between his brain and cranium. But by then he was already dead.
The killer regarded the dead couple amidst the shattered glass with a sense of self-satisfaction, and then briskly walked away. Back in his vehicle, he calmly lit another cigarette, drew deeply on it, and drove off, singing, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus...”
* * *
Read the entire PERSUASIVE EVIDENCE novel, available in print, eBook, and audio.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R. Barri Flowers is an award winning criminologist and bestselling author of more than sixty books, including thriller fiction, young adult mysteries, true crime, and criminology titles.
Bestselling mystery and thriller fiction, including Before He Kills Again, Seduced to Kill in Kauai, Murder in Maui, Murder in Honolulu, Killer in The Woods, Dark Streets of Whitechapel, State's Evidence, and Justice Served. Other novels by the author include the bestselling romance, Forever Sweethearts, and the young adult novels, Count Dracula's Teenage Daughter, Ghost Girl in Shadow Bay, and Danger in Time.
Flowers has also written a number of bestselling true crime books, including The Sex Slave Murders, The Sex Slave Murders 2, The Pickaxe Killers, Serial Killer Couples, and Mass Murder in the Sky. He was also editor of the bestselling anthology, Masters of True Crime.
The author has been interviewed on the Biography Channel and Investigation Discovery.
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Target of a Killer (A Crime Thriller Short) Page 4
