They had to know.
He scratched the false beard as he waited for her to show, his eyes flicking from the clock on the dash to the entrance to the restaurant where Diane Markland was dining.
Alone.
She did this every Friday, while her husband attended his lodge meeting. He and dozens of other rich and powerful men, slapping each other’s backs and congratulating themselves on making yet another pile of cash that week.
Benning’s focus wasn’t on them. It was Diane whom he wanted. She would be finished soon, and would drive home by the same route she always took. He would be right behind her until they got onto the winding road that led to her secluded mansion. Then he would overtake her, speed ahead and drop the tacks in the road. She’d run over them, burst her tires, and he’d come to the rescue. Only, he wouldn’t be saving her, he’d be killing her.
It was risky, but he hadn’t been able to spot a better opportunity in the weeks he’d been tailing her.
Diane emerged at five after nine, like always. Fifty-four, Gucci bag, Armani pants and blouse. She always dressed the same way. Benning watched her get into her Jaguar and set off. He gave her a small lead, then followed. He didn’t need to be too close. He knew where she was going.
He tailed her through the streets of LA, always six or seven vehicles behind her car. His hands were sweating at the thought of what he would soon do. Not what he wanted to do, but what he had to do.
As they traveled down Santa Monica Boulevard, he saw her car ease over into the turning lane. It was an unexpected move. Normally, she followed the road west and then took the 405 north to her home in Bel Air. Today, it looked like she was heading south. He got in the same lane as his target and followed her as she turned left onto Westwood Boulevard.
Where the hell are you going?
He’d never seen her enter this area of town. When she left her sprawling estate in Bel Air, it was usually to visit the luxury boutiques of Rodeo Drive or occasionally Melrose Avenue. Where they were heading offered nothing like that.
His initial anger at her deviating from her routine was tempered by a newfound curiosity. Perhaps this would lead to a better opportunity to snatch her, one that didn’t rely on the roads remaining traffic-free.
Diane drove for half a mile before turning off the road. As Benning passed, he saw her pulling around the back of a motel.
What are you doing here?
If she was looking for a place to sleep, Diane could easily afford a suite at any of the best hotels in the area. Benning sought another reason for her coming here but could think of only one.
She was having an affair.
He did a U-turn and drove into the motel’s forecourt. He traced her route around the back, arriving just in time to see her knock on the door to one of the ground-floor rooms. When it opened, she stepped inside. Benning tried to see who else was in the room, but the door closed before he could get a good enough angle.
Excitement coursed through him at the prospect of a new opportunity, one that would muddy the waters. First, though, he needed to make sure it was safe to proceed. He circled the lot, looking for CCTV cameras. Finding none, he found a parking spot opposite the room Diane had gone into and waited. If Diane came out alone and got into her car, he would follow her and stick to his original plan. If she came out with the other party, he would call it off and try again at a later date. The third option was for the other party to leave first, in which case he would try to grab her as she got into her car. He could storm the place and kill them both, hoping to put the blame on Diane’s husband, but that meant a quick death, and that wouldn’t do. Her husband would have an alibi, too, so he discounted that idea.
It was an hour before he saw any movement. The curtains twitched and he saw a face that didn’t belong to Diane Markland. Moments later, the door opened and a male emerged. He looked to be in his twenties or thirties, but from a distance it was hard for Benning to be sure. He watched the man quickly climb into a Volvo parked next to Diane’s Jaguar and drive away.
Benning started his engine but left the lights off. He moved his van so that it was in the spot the Volvo had just vacated, then killed the engine once more and got in the back, ready to strike.
Tension gripped him as he squatted by the door, as it always did just before he struck. The knowledge that one mistake, one chance encounter with an unexpected passerby, could bring a swift end to his crusade. So far, he’d been lucky, but everyone’s luck ran out at some point. That wasn’t something he dwelled on, though. He’d taught himself to focus on the mission and leave everything else to fate. What will be will be.
The light in Diane’s room flicked out, and Benning steeled himself for action. His heart rate was already soaring, his senses heightened, ready to pounce…and then she turned and walked in the opposite direction, away from her car.
What the…
Then he realized that she’d be returning the key to the front desk. Moments later, he saw he’d been right. She returned, her car keys in her hand and a smile spread across her face.
Seth Benning knew it wouldn’t last long.
As she got near the car, the hazards flicked on and off. She was reaching for the Jaguar’s door handle when Benning slid the door of the van to the side. Diane Markland turned, her mouth opening wide as he lurched toward her. A scream was etched on her lips, a heartbeat away from alerting the whole world to her plight.
But Benning was fast. A decade of practice enabled him to cover the few feet between them in less than a second. One hand clamped over her mouth while he spun and got behind her. He leaned into her, forcing her toward his van, and as she reached out to grab the sides of the open door, he let go and hit her with fifty thousand volts. She froze, like a statue, until Benning cut the juice and pushed her from behind. Her body pitched forward, her upper half in the van, her legs hanging out. Benning grabbed them and threw her inside, then jumped in and slammed the door closed. He gave her another burst with the stun gun, then looked out through his observation panels to see if anyone might have witnessed the snatch.
It appeared clear.
Diane Markland was lying on her front. Benning knelt on her back and slipped a gag over her mouth, then secured her hands and feet with handcuffs. These were linked together by a long chain, and he fed the slack through a clip on the side of the van. He then pumped her full of Ketamine, enough to knock her out for a few hours. The last thing he did was slip a cloth bag over her head, and after a final look around outside, he climbed out of the van and closed the door.
If Diane’s car was found here, the police would check the street cameras and see his van enter and leave the motel. From that they would get the license plate, but that wasn’t a problem. He’d cloned one from a vehicle of the same make and model that he’d seen passing through his neighborhood. The downside was that they’d know what he was driving and would be on the lookout for it. The smartest thing would be to dump the Jaguar somewhere else. Let them concentrate their search elsewhere, just like he’d done with Thomas Crane.
Diane’s keys were on the ground next to her car. Benning picked them up in his gloved hand and got into the luxury vehicle. It smelled brand new, with a hint of expensive perfume lingering above the leather aroma. He searched for a way to start it and realized it was keyless. He found the Start button on the center console. The engine purred into life when he pressed it, and Benning fleetingly thought how nice it would be to keep the new toy.
But this would be his first and last ride in one. His time was coming to an end, his job almost done. Diane was his twelfth kill. Just three more to go.
Benning checked his reflection in the mirror. The false beard was still in place, but he had to adjust the blond, straggly wig. They wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny up close, but they would be his standout features to anyone watching from a distance. They would also hide his true looks when he passed through any traffic cameras.
Something still troubled him. Even if he dumped her car on the other side of town, th
e police would be sure to track her movements that night. By working backwards, they would discover that she’d spent time at the motel, and that his van had been there at the same time. A check with the front desk would show that he wasn’t a resident, and the police would speak to the driver who owned the original plates. When they ruled him or her out of the investigation, they would concentrate on other van owners, especially males. Would it be enough for them to identify him?
He couldn’t have that. Not when he was so close to finishing his work.
Think. Think!
He could take the Jaguar out into the country and hide it, but then how would he get back to his own vehicle? Diane would wake up in the next few hours, and it would take longer than that to walk back. He’d have to get a cab, but that would still mean a long hike to the nearest civilization, then a wait for it to arrive. He could always call one on his burner cell, but would the driver be willing to make such a long journey into the middle of nowhere?
You should have stuck to the original plan.
The thought wasn’t helpful. He still had to find a way out of this mess.
There was no other option: he would have to take Diane in her own car, then come back for his van. Yes, that would work. In fact, it would take the spotlight off his vehicle. They would expect the killer to use it to transport Diane, and if they saw a stranger driving away in her car, they might assume he’d walked to the motel and his own vehicle would be dismissed.
Too late to do anything about it now, anyway.
Benning got out, popped the trunk, and sighed. The car was made for show, not practicality. He’d be lucky to get her torso in the small space, never mind her entire body. Even if he chopped her up and arranged the pieces neatly, it would be a challenge.
Another thought struck him. He got back in the Jaguar, backed it out of the parking space, then reversed back in so that the passenger seat was next to his van. After another look around, he opened both doors, freed Diane from her constraints, then pulled her into her own car. It was a struggle, but he eventually got her strapped in, her seatbelt across her chest, her head lolling to one side.
After removing her hood and securing his own vehicle, Benning got in the Jaguar and set off.
He started to feel better about the situation. If caught on camera, it would appear that Diane had met someone and had been driven away by him. Their focus would be to identify the mystery man with the blond hair and beard.
Happy that he’d covered all bases, Benning drove back onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed east to the coast road. He followed that past Topanga Beach and through Malibu, eventually turning off and heading north on Malibu Canyon Road. After four miles he took Piuma Road east, and the dirt track that led to his second home came into view minutes later.
Benning stopped around the back of the house and turned off the engine. Diane still looked out of it, but he slapped her a couple of times, just to be sure. When she didn’t react, he knew he had a few minutes at least to get her safely stowed in the basement. He fetched the trolley he’d made, a crude, low platform with a wheel in each corner, and placed it next to the open passenger door. Then he dragged Diane Markland onto it. He wheeled her to the basement doors, opened them, then tipped her down the concrete stairs. She landed in a heap, and it sounded like she’d broken at least one bone on the way down. That was gonna hurt when she woke.
Her car was a problem, but only if anyone came snooping around his property, and no one ever did. If the police turned up, it would be because they’d identified him as a serial killer, and having her Jaguar on his property would be the least of his worries. Benning got in and backed it into the garage, then locked the double doors.
All he had to do now was secure Diane in place, and he could go back and retrieve his van. It would be a long ride, at least three hours, but the night was cool, the roads dry.
It took ten minutes to strap his victim in place. As he’d suspected, her lower left arm had snapped during the fall, the bone protruding through the skin. He didn’t bother treating it. It would be her first taste of pain, but not the last. He checked the gag over her mouth, ensuring it was tight and that she could still breathe freely through her nose. Satisfied that she couldn’t escape and wouldn’t die, Benning went back outside, locked the storm doors and walked around to the front of the house.
The porch looked neglected, but there was no point painting it. No one was ever going to see it. He was never going to invite anyone around as he had no real friends to speak of. Not people he could confide in, that was for sure.
He unlocked the front door and went inside. There wasn’t much to the place, just a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom and the living area with small kitchen. He hadn’t even furnished it to any real extent. There were a TV and DVD player in front of an old sofa, a side table, and that was about it. One of the bedrooms was empty. The other had a single bed and a dresser. He didn’t need many luxuries, as most of his time was spent in his other home, the one he rented in Van Nuys. He only came here on weekends to ride.
And occasionally to kill his victims.
Benning abandoned his disguise and changed into his riding gear. He put a hoodie in his backpack along with the false beard and wig, then wheeled his bike out and locked up after himself. He reckoned three, maybe four hours to get to within a couple of blocks of the motel, lock the bicycle up, put on the hooded jersey and collect his van. He’d then pick up his bike and spend another hour driving home to Van Nuys. Once there, he’d have to put the seats back in the van. It was a tedious task, removing them and replacing them every time he snatched someone, but if the police ever came calling, he couldn’t let them see it in kidnap mode, complete with restraints. No, it had to look like any other passenger van, with trash on the floor and seats. He’d also swap out the fake plates.
After he’d finished, he’d have a long, deep sleep.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day.
Chapter 14
“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to put that away now. We’ll be landing soon.”
“One sec,” Jess told the stewardess, hoping she’d move on and check on the other passengers. It wasn’t to be.
“Miss, if you don’t put it away now, I’ll have to inform—”
Jess snapped the laptop shut and stuffed it angrily into her bag. She hated being interrupted when she was on a roll, and she usually found it difficult to pick up the thread again once she’d lost it.
That shouldn’t be a problem with this piece, though.
Her visit to Scranton had been well worth the time and money spent. Anthony Swanson had been a lot more receptive than she could ever have hoped for, but it had taken a lie to get him to open up. She’d claimed that she was doing a piece on the high volume of missing persons cases that the police had given up on. She’d told him that she hoped to get a few high-profile cases back into the spotlight in the hopes that the authorities might reopen the cases and conduct proper investigations. Swanson had been more than willing to help her cause.
She’d visited him at his factory outlet, explained her situation, and he’d promptly told the manager he was going home for the day. He’d driven to his home in the suburbs, a sprawling home big enough to comfortably house three families, never mind a single man. Jess had followed in her rental.
Swanson prepared cold drinks and they took them out into the back yard, a sea of green grass bordered by beds of flowers of every description.
“What made you choose Kerry for your story?” he asked, and sipped his iced tea. He didn’t appear skeptical, just…defeated. As if his daughter’s disappearance had been weighing on him every day for the last decade, and he could no longer stand the burden.
“Too many people think it’s the poor runaways that the police don’t care about. I wanted to point out that someone like yourself—” she waved at the garden and the house behind them “—can also be let down by the authorities.”
“She wasn’t a runaway,” Swanson said. There was a
hint of anger in his voice, as if he’d heard the same phrase from the police too many times for his liking.
“I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words. How was your relationship with your daughter? I assume you were close.”
Another sip of iced tea. “She was my everything. After her mother died, she was all I had. I spoiled her, I know I did, but that’s a father’s privilege.”
Jess nodded knowingly. “She disappeared in Las Vegas—”
“Kidnapped.” Swanson corrected her.
“Yes, of course. She was kidnapped in Las Vegas. How often have the police been in touch with you in recent years?”
“I haven’t heard anything since 2013. I used to call them at least once a week, but seven years ago they told me they’d exhausted every avenue and there was nothing further they could do. If any new evidence came to light, they’d let me know, but as far as they were concerned, the case was closed.”
“That’s terrible. It must be so hard, not knowing…”
“Kerry’s alive,” Swanson said. “If I started to think otherwise, I couldn’t go on. Everything I ever did was for my family. I was just beginning to make a success of my business when my wife died. Kerry was only sixteen at the time, and it hit me hard. I was just getting over her death when my daughter was taken from me…”
He tailed off, and Jess wondered if she’d pushed the wrong button. She wanted to get to know the people the killer had affected, but she might have gone too far with this one. Anthony Swanson looked on the verge of a full meltdown.
What stung Jess most was that she knew exactly what had happened to Kerry, but she couldn’t tell him. Even if she could, how to break the news that the person he lived for had been tortured for hours before being hacked to pieces and dumped in a grave by a monster?
Jess was glad she wouldn’t have to be there when the police informed him. He’d probably suffer more than Kerry had at the hands of the killer. She’d felt hours of agony, but the pain would stay with her father for the rest of his life.
Fifteen Times a Killer Page 10
