The Dark Places

by R. S. Whitfield

  “Of course, I went straight to the chief, and as predicted, he told me to go away until I had more proof. Screaming out “serial killer” isn’t exactly what any chief of police, in any town, wants to hear. So, I started working in my own time to try to find a connection, any connection, and that’s when the next body turned up.” She opened one of the files and passed it to Parker. “Eva Kerridy. Exactly the same MO as the previous girls, but just different enough that only I seemed to be making any connections.” She ran a hand through her long hair in frustration. Parker leaned forward and placed his mug down.

  “I just can’t find what’s tying them together. How is he picking them?” She looked down at the ground, lost in thought.

  “Elliott, show me what you have got, and we can go from there.”

  Surin looked up at him and smiled. She picked up the same file she had showed him in the car and tossed it gently onto his lap.

  “Here, start with this.” She sat back, hands behind her head. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  7

  Day two was always his favourite day, and Isabelle certainly wasn’t letting him down. Day one was all about confusion. Why me? Who are you? Et cetera, et cetera. Then there’s always the “I will escape this and survive” mentality, but that doesn’t last long. Once they have shared their first “special time” together, the crying begins. Not loud, desperate screams like when they are first taken, but quiet, shameful sobs. This is the evolution he loves to witness, like a wild animal being broken. The sheer repulsion when he first touches their skin, licks and nibbles at their breasts, reaches between their thighs. Then the ultimate panic when he finally sits astride them, their bodies bucking like rogue horses trying to free themselves from restraints, the wide-eyed looks of pure fear. Then, owning them, again, and again, and again.

  Day two is when the begging begins: “I’ll do anything, I won’t tell.” That is the exquisite moment he cherishes — total control, total ownership, absolute power.

  Day three is different again; it’s what he calls “The day of acceptance.” This is the day when they realise, with total certainty, that they are going to die, painfully. Their eyes begin to glaze over, the fight is gone, and it’s almost no fun at all. This is the day when he likes to play the most, endeavouring to obtain some meagre reaction, some fight! It’s almost, well, boring.

  Day four, that day is called “Taking out the trash”. He was always sad when it came to this day; it all ends too quickly, the fun, the pleasure, the control.

  But today, today was only day two, and he had so much time ahead of him with this one. He opens the door, which creaks loudly, alerting her to his presence; he sees her cringe as he enters the room.

  She tries to make herself small, invisible. He notices that her wrist and ankle binds have cut deep into her flesh and are oozing a small amount of blood and fluid. The air is frigid, and it is almost pitch black, but he can see her perfectly.

  “Isabelle,” he sings and bends down to brush a lock of damp hair off her forehead. “Did you miss me?” he whispers softly into her ear.

  “Please,” she sobs, “I’ll do anything you want, just let me go home.” The anguish takes over, and she begins to cry quietly.

  He smiles in the dark. “Oh, now, now, shhh,” he breathes as he runs his hand slowly down her neck and over her breasts, reaching between her tethered legs. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  8

  Madison stared at her computer’s blank screen, the glow from the flashing cursor taunting her for every second she failed to type.

  I have nothing, she thought. Six hours to publish, and I don’t have a single word.

  Right, pull yourself together, Maddy, look at your notes. OK, one winter-themed wedding at Owens Park? Ugh, boring! Surprise multiple birth in the back of a minivan? It’s been done. Murder at Serenity Towers? That’s the one I want, she thought. Damn Surin Elliott. Never had Madison regretted a one-night stand like she did the night she went home with Grayson Withers.

  It had been one of the most depressing days of her young life. She had just been turned down for a promotion at the paper; they opted instead for a fossil named Norman who had worked there for twelve years covering births and deaths. How he had managed to achieve anything short of feeding himself was a mystery to her. On the drive back to her empty, lonely apartment, her rust bucket of a vehicle ran out of petrol. After slamming her hands repeatedly on the steering wheel, begging her Pulsar to start up again, she finally decided to go for help. It was absolutely pelting down as she began the two-mile walk to get gas She was saturated, crying like a baby and ruining her only pair of Jimmy Choo’s when by chance she came across a quaint little tavern. Inside, the inn was warm and inviting. There were only a handful of patrons scattered around at the various mismatched wooden tables, the jukebox was playing an old David Bowie favourite, and chatter was barely a murmur. There were old license plates bolted to the walls from all over the country and large mason jars filled with tea candles lined the shelf behind a friendly-looking barman. She wiped her tears on her sleeve, removed her sodden shoes, and made her way to the bar. The barman smiled at her with pity, a look she truly hated and rarely received. At five-foot-eleven with long, straight blonde hair, blue eyes, and a body that modelled her way through college, looks of jealously were the only looks she was used to receiving.

  “You OK, sweetie?” The barman asked genuinely.

  “Fine,” she replied curtly. “Scotch and dry, please.”

  “Coming right up,” he said as he started preparing her drink.

  She turned from the bar and searched for a table in a dark corner where she could wallow in self-pity for a while, and that’s when she saw Grayson. Tall, dark-haired, obviously fit, wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck.

  “Fuck self-pity,” she murmured, paid for her drink and made her way over. “Can I sit here?” she asked innocently. He looked up from his drink.

  “Be my guest,” he stated gruffly.

  She sat down, placed her glass on the table and smiled. “You look like you’re having a rough night,” she stated.

  He looked up at her again, taking in her wet clothing, bare feet and the mascara running down her cheeks. “You don’t look like you’re having a lot of luck either,” he replied with a sad smile.

  “Oh, my story is simple. Work is screwing me, my car is screwing me, and now the weather is even screwing me, and you?” She gestured towards him.

  “Well, since you so kindly asked.” He shifted in his seat and looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot and bared large dark circles; he had the look of a man with a lot on his mind. “My fiancée isn’t screwing me,” and with that, he picked up his tumbler and drained it dry.

  “Well then, my name is Madison, and you are?”

  “Grayson,” he replied, taking her hand in a business-like shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Grayson. Now, we can sit in here, and you can tell me what your nasty girlfriend is doing to you, and I can sob over my career that’s going nowhere, or we can leave now and finally do some screwing of our own.” She watched as the reality of what she was offering finally registered on his shocked face.

  “My girlfriend isn’t nasty, and I love her, it’s just—” He ran his hands through his thick hair.

  “Save it, Grayson, honestly I’m not interested. This is called a one-night stand. I will never see you again, and she will never, ever know. Are you coming?” With that, she finished off her glass and placed it on the table. The remaining ice clinked together softly. Standing, she reached out her hand. “Well?”

  It only took three seconds for him to reach for her and follow her out of the bar.

  I don’t care who you are or who your future wife is, she thought. Tomorrow morning, it will be like tonight never, ever happened.

  God, how wrong she was. Head in her hands, Madison recalled the events that followed and ultimately ruined her budding career a
s a crime reporter: surprise, anger, regret, apologies, even begging and eventually being escorted out of Grayson’s house at gunpoint. Afterwards, the “one-night stand that she would never think about again” started haunting her every day of her life.

  Cops are like one big family, a very loyal, very protective family. The few detectives and uniforms she had worked on for months to be her source when cases broke, totally black-listed her once word got around. She couldn’t even get into the precinct’s main reception without dodging hostile looks and head shakes from every single person in the department. Even Nicole, the receptionist, who she used to have martinis with on a Thursday, wouldn’t answer her calls. She almost completely gave up on crime reporting until she heard about the Serenity Towers murder, situated in a completely different district from Detective Elliott’s. Finally, she might get a break. Driving her Pulsar at the speed of light, which was actually around fifty miles per hour, the car’s top speed, she made it to Brecken Ridge. It was ridiculously easy to talk her way into the lobby, and once there, she spotted the local cops. These two looked like they had never set eyes on a woman before, they had however seen their fair share of Krispy Kremes. This will be easy, she thought. Sure, Brecken Ridge was no metropolitan area, but crime was crime, right? Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Surin Elliott marching over from the elevators, the wrath of God burning in her eyes. Fuck, she had immediately thought and gathered herself for an onslaught of abuse that never came.

  Sighing, she closed over her laptop. Surin Elliott. The biggest mistake of Madison’s life was unknowingly crossing that woman. Standing, she held the chair and twisted from side to side, her back cracked delightfully, sending relief cascading down her limbs. She glanced out the window at the night sky. Come to think of it, what exactly was Detective Elliott doing there? From what she gathered before being interrupted, it was a plain garden-variety homicide. This might be an angle, she thought, and felt the rush of adrenalin begin to course through her veins like it always did when she had a hunch. She also mustn’t forget Surin’s new partner, the extremely attractive Detective Parker Rhodes. She grinned to herself. There might be a way back in after all.

  9

  Parker looked at the list they had made before them.

  Emma, Kara, Jessica and Eva. All beautiful young college girls. He had to admit that the resemblance between them was striking, but as far as connections went, it was flimsy at best.

  “Emma was found over seven years ago, Surin. Jessica was found less than twelve months ago in a completely different state. If it is the same killer, where has he been all this time? Why the wait?” He looked up at Surin, who was studying him intensely.

  Suddenly, self-conscious, he sat back. “What?” he asked.

  “You don’t believe me,” she stated.

  “It’s not that. I agree the MO is the same, the likeness of the girls is uncanny, but that’s all you have.”

  Surin leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “All four girls were raped, repeatedly, their bodies showed signs of restraints; they were all dehydrated, naked and suffering mild hypothermia. To top it off, he strangled them with his bare hands, not once, but multiple times. This means he actually had to revive them himself, whether due to feelings of remorse that they were gone or for the pure fun of it.” She stood up and began pacing the lounge. “Last week, the chief gave me permission to work this as a case. On the down-low, of course. That’s why we were called to Serenity Towers and why he was there. Young, pretty, dark-haired woman, strangled. He must have thought it could have been connected, but obviously, it isn’t.” She suddenly looked exhausted.

  “We need to head into the office soon anyway, did you want to freshen up here? Save you driving back to your apartment?” She gestured towards the guest bathroom. “I can wait.”

  “Yeah, that would be great actually. I keep an overnight bag in my car when I’m on call, so I’ll go grab it. Thanks.” Parker stood and walked into the kitchen, rinsed his coffee cup and placed it in the sink.

  Once he was out the front door, Surin sank back into the lounge chair. Any reason you felt you needed to share all that with him in your first week as partners, she chastised herself. “He’s going to think I’m cracked,” she said aloud to herself.

  Despite the reluctance she had initially felt at being assigned a partner, Surin found herself actually enjoying Parker’s company. She had done her research, of course, checking out his file from Miami, reading recommendations and commendations by superiors and reviewing his academy test scores. He was definitely a star on the rise. He had a degree in psychology, which nicely complemented her Masters in Criminology, a track star in high school, prom king, labelled “most likely to succeed,” he went to college on a full scholarship. His home life appeared to be the picture of perfection. Parents, Sandra and Ted, married for thirty years and an older brother who was a lawyer working in the big smoke. Parker joined the academy right out of college, excelled at marksmanship and worked his way to a detective badge in Miami in under two years on the job. That was quick, not as quick as her, but quick nonetheless.

  Information on his personal life was not so easy to come by, at best all she had been able to determine was he was single after ending a long-term relationship with Jolene McAllen, a school teacher from Miami. He lived alone with his cat in a studio apartment not far from her. The department had helped him secure a lease once his transfer was approved. On a personal note, Surin found him to be patient, a trait that was definitely required when working with her, smart but grounded, with not a hint of arrogance. She suddenly wondered if he would consider her research into him a breach of trust. In all seriousness, she was a detective, it had to be kind of expected.

  They entered the station together at around ten. The buzz of activity that occurs in a police department had a strange way of always making Surin feel calm and at ease. The phones were ringing continuously, Nicole was transferring calls at the speed of light. She looked up and smiled at them both as she continued to talk into her headset. Surin acknowledged her with a nod.

  “Sure, putting you through to a detective right now,” she stated and pressed a few buttons before answering another blinking light on her switchboard. Uniformed patrolmen were chatting by the vending machine; they waved as she passed with Parker.

  “Morning, Detectives,” one of them said.

  “Morning, boys,” she replied with a smile. “My new partner, Rhodes,” she stated, motioning to Parker. There were a few customary handshakes and general smirks about being partnered with Surin, but she laughed them off. “Safe shift today, lock up bad guys,” she countered and slapped one of the younger-looking rookies on the back.

  “Will do,” he replied with a shy grin.

  Surin walked past several detectives’ desks — each one was littered with empty coffee cups and photos of family. Surin’s own desk had no such personal items. The only family she needed was the boys in blue, and there was just no time for anything else. She thought she had once found someone who truly understood her until she found him in bed with another woman. She was done with all that now, all that mattered was her job. She glanced at Dennis’s desk, he hadn’t even had the chance to replace the photo of his ex-wife before he got married for the third time, and even that had only lasted six months, so he just hadn’t bothered to remove the frame.

  Speak of the devil — Dennis walked in with a young girl in tow, who had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was about fourteen and looked like a complete train wreck. Her straw-coloured blonde hair was wet and matted; several strands were sticking to her face, she had a busted lip and a bruise that was slowly but surely developing under her right eye.

  “Have a seat, Kealy,” he said gently and pulled out his chair. The girl lowered herself slowly and winced with pain when she finally made contact with the chair.

  “I’ll go get you a cup of tea, and we can start, OK?” The girl looked up at Dennis, her eyes brimming with tears and nodded. He
gently touched her shoulder, retracting his hand quickly as she flinched, then walked to the kitchen.

  Surin immediately followed him, noticing the tension in his stride. She entered the kitchen as he was trying, with shaky hands, to grab a teabag out of the cupboard. Several bags fell out of the packet and floated down onto the tiled floor. Surin ignored them.

  “Den, you all good with this one?” she asked, knowing he wouldn’t be offended by her offer of help. Sometimes female victims liked to deal with female cops — it was something most male detectives understood and occasionally used to their advantage. Dennis turned and looked at Surin. His eyes were wild with anger, and she could see his hands visibly shaking, and he clenched and unclenched his jaw as he stared at her face.

  “Dennis,” she cautioned, lowering the tone of her voice in a warning. She needed him to calm himself and not fly off the handle. He had, a few times of late, especially in cases involving children, and his conduct had been questioned.

  “This one, Surin, this one I just… I know we see some fucked up shit, and the worst part is that this isn’t even close to the most terrible case I have handled, but it’s getting to me, day by day it’s wearing me down.” He placed both of his hands on the kitchen bench and dropped his head. Surin stood next to him, not touching and not saying a word, just being there.

  They all have days like this, a lot of them. No one understood, no one but the person who was standing beside you when you watched a baby being pulled out of a washing machine or when a wife is killed after the tenth call out for domestic violence. That was why the family thing just didn’t work. You don’t want to go home and look at your children knowing that a ten-year-old was just raped by his mother’s boyfriend, and then your husband says, “How was your day, dear?” It’s the same reason doctors marry doctors, and cops stick to cops. No one else will ever truly understand. So, Surin just stood there listening as Dennis took some deep breaths and calmed himself down.