Claire’s home projected her enjoyment of life’s simple things. It was a small end-unit condo, all in white, offset by her bright and colorfully eccentric art. Art was her one extravagance, besides the plants which occupied any vacant spot in every room. She liked contemporary.
Coming from the CD player in the other room, Billie Holiday sang the blues as Claire developed her photos. The red light shone on the tray solution. There it was. Helena Shea, looking out the door of the limo just before it closed and right into the lens of her camera. Her eyes appeared sad, frightened and tired. Guilt swept through Claire as she strung the photos up to dry and stared at the picture of the beautiful woman who was obviously so worn and confused. This photo wasn’t just worth a million words; it was also worth a lot of money.
It was a living and it paid the bills. Her readers could come to their own conclusions.
I only write the stories
, she argued with her demons, as she looked at a broken-down Helena Shea. She’d seen the woman come through scandal after scandal: the loss of her dad, a life shattering bout with alcoholism and drug addiction, a very well publicized trip through rehab, and to top it all off, the public revelation about her daughter’s birth followed by a tabloid war with Leeza Kiley. Now, she’d lost her rehab center and was facing a possible conviction for murder and arson. Claire’s contribution to exploiting this woman’s life made her feel pretty damn miserable. How much more could Helena take? Claire was not accustomed to thinking of the people she wrote about like this; she hated the feeling.
She walked out of her darkroom, needing some air. She left the photos behind, wishing she’d become a doctor or something that benefited mankind. For the first time in her career, she struggled with her responsibilities as a journalist. Was she doing the ethical thing? She couldn’t help but wonder if, as her work hurt others, it could also be doing damage to her?
Tyler listened with interest to the update on the Leeza Kiley murder on his car radio. Something about the woman’s murder nagged at him. He felt sorry for Helena Shea and angry with Detective Collier, with whom he’d had the distinct pleasure of having a few run-ins with in the past. Collier seemed hell-bent on proving her guilty. But Tyler had far more important things to take care of. There was a dragon to slay. He was sure that Ms. Shea had a good lawyer who could get her off if she was innocent of the crimes she was charged with.
He made a right turn into suburbia and headed straight for his boss’s home. Loretta had called earlier to say she’d gathered some interesting information for him, and that he could stop by her place to pick it up.
As he pulled into Loretta’s circular driveway with his window cracked, he heard her Rottweiler barking in the backyard announcing his arrival. Her teenage son came out, a skateboard under his arm. He nodded to Tyler as he put the board down and skated away.
Tyler tapped lightly on the door, then let himself in. The house smelled of mothballs and fried chicken. Loretta was from the south, and though she was first and foremost a cop, she hadn’t forgotten her southern hospitality.
Loretta Frey was fiftyish, with a few grays peeking through her otherwise dark hair, which was cut in a severe bob. She was taller than he was, making her at least six-feet, with clear blue eyes framed by finely etched lines.
“Hi, Tyler. I thought I heard you pull in,” she sang out, peering around the entry from her kitchen. Her home felt like a Hansel-and-Gretel-cottage, with archways leading into various rooms. At a glance, one would never guess that Loretta Frey ran the Child Abduction, Serial Killer Unit, Los Angeles Division. Her charm as a hostess coupled with her perfectly kept home were deceiving, but after working several cases with her, Tyler knew that she, too, could be a hard-nosed agent who lived to put away the bad guys and did it very well. Though there were many in this male dominated profession who wished they could deny this fact, they simply couldn’t argue with a career filled with successful arrests, convictions, and closed cases. Loretta had earned her job running his division.
“How’s it going, Ms. Loretta? Something smells wonderful in here.” He rubbed his stomach.
“Good, good. I fried us up some of my mama’s famous chicken for lunch. She always made a fine fried chicken. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving. I’ve learned to bring an empty stomach when coming here.”
“You’ve learned well, then.” Loretta winked at him and put together a heaping plate of the chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, and biscuits. Tyler wouldn’t leave hungry. That was for sure.
She made herself a plate of food as Tyler started in on the feast. “I checked out your hunch,” she said, “and I came up with this.” She set down her plate and handed him two files:
Bridgett Simons a.k.a. Bridgett Core
, and
Trudy Giles
.
“What’s this?” He flipped one open.
“Vics showing trace elements of formaldehyde. The bodies were found partially decayed a couple hundred miles between one another. Bridgett, a former porn star, was found out in the Mojave just like your Jane Doe. Trudy Giles was found in a rural area outside of San Diego. UNSUB still out there on both cases, as far as we know.”
“I knew it! We’ve got a serial killer here.”
“Looks like a strong possibility.”
“What’s the time span? Why didn’t the computer catch this?”
“Good question. Trudy Giles was found in the late 80s. San Diego PD thought it was an isolated case and the national mainframe, as you know, wasn’t operating at that time. Bridgett was found in ’95. Her porn star status led police to believe she’d pissed the wrong guy off. No one gave any thought to a possible serial killer.”
“Any others across the board?”
“Well, haven’t found anything yet, but if our man is a serial killer, he’s been at this for at least fifteen years, maybe longer.”
“What about funeral homes? Mortuaries? Medical schools?”
“I’m on that, too. We’re looking for priors in that line of work and at the med schools. This could be some janitor who knew where the stuff was stored.”
“I don’t think he’s blue collar.”
“You have a profile going?” she asked.
“Working on it. I know this much: he’s organized, practiced, maybe a professional. He’s been at it for a while which means he can blend into society. If he’s been at it for that many years, he’s not in his twenties or even early thirties. He’s probably at least forty. If he’s preserving these women, then he’s got some twisted fantasy going on that’s most likely escalating.”
“What are you thinking?”
“My guess is they’re used as some sort of emotional or romantic partner, perhaps representing or tied to someone he’s lost. Someone close to him.”
“Maybe like a mother figure?” Loretta asked dipping her biscuit into the gravy.
“Could be. If he’s saving the bodies for a period of time, he needs physical companionship, but fears intimacy. He needs to be in control. I think he adapts very well to different locales, maybe takes on a variety of personalities. Is there anything in the computers about rape?”
“By the time they found the Giles girl it was too late to tell. Minimal remains. We had to go off dental. But there did appear to be signs of post-coital on the Simons girl. Too many years to get a semen sample. They tried to get the DNA, but couldn’t.”
“That’s what I’m saying! This guy’s good, knows exactly how to do it—a true psychopath. The problem with these bodies being so dated is figuring out if he’s still prowling, or maybe in jail for other crimes, or has changed his MO, or maybe he’s dead.”
“Like finding a needle in a haystack.” Loretta put down her fork.
“But something tells me he’s still at it. This needle’s gonna pierce again, and I’ve gotta blunt him before it happens. I don’t think he’s dead or moved on down the road. Okay by you if I talk to the detectives on these cases?”
“Sure. You might have a hard time tying down the guy on that Bridgett Simons case. It’s David Collier with LAPD.”
“No kidding? The one and only? What’s the deal with that jerk anyway—his career in so much trouble he’s got to go around charging innocents? You’ve heard he’s working that Leeza Kiley murder, haven’t you?”
“Be careful what you say, Ty. We’re not working his case. Messing with the local cops’ jurisdiction will get us both in hot water. It just isn’t considered politically correct. Don’t question him about the Shea case. Off the record, I agree. She probably didn’t do anything. Bad timing and the wrong enemy to have, maybe, but murder, I doubt it. But that’s his mess, not yours. When you reach him, stick with the topic at hand.”
“No problem. I can be politically correct, I suppose. It just doesn’t sit well with me when a cop does the bullshit things that Collier does to get a conviction.”
“It’s not our case.
Please
try not to cause me any grief on this one? The chief of police can be a real ass to deal with. They don’t like us treading. Oh, you might also want to talk to Claire Travers. She’s a tabloid journalist.”
“What would I need her for?”
Loretta took a drink, then wiped her mouth daintily with the napkin. “She writes a lot of that gossipy crap about the rich and famous. Apparently when this girl Bridgett went missing, Claire wrote an article about how the girl had been a small town girl with hopes and dreams, blah, blah, blah.” She waved her hand back and forth. “She even took a trip to Idaho to talk with her mother. The cops chalked it up to the porn industry lifestyle, like I said. Shit like this happens all the time in that line of work. Girl doesn’t show up for work one day and no one thinks too much about it. But apparently this girl had a spark, and after a few days, people noticed that she’d disappeared. No leads, nothing. But who knows, maybe this gossip columnist picked up something or will remember something that Collier won’t.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I think you’re on the right track, Ty. Stay with it.”
The two agents finished their lunch before Loretta got on the phone to track down David Collier. Three hours after Tyler arrived in Pasadena, he had a tentative meeting set up with Claire Travers.
Tyler knew he was getting closer to this freak, beginning to figure him out. He also knew that the boys who played in this bad guy’s league were very slick and dedicated killers. The only way he’d ever stop was when he wound up dead or behind bars. Either way, it had to be soon, before another girl became his trophy.
As nighttime rolled around, Frankie switched on the television, then quickly turned it off when she saw her parents and herself on the screen. She couldn’t go to school for a while or hang out with her friends. Her mother’s lawyer said that even having friends over could be a detriment, since visitors might be subpoenaed to testify against her mother. Outsiders were no longer welcome. The family had to band together. Oh, to be a normal teenager with a normal family. Was it too much to ask?
Frankie sat on her bed, trying to get into the latest Stephen King novel. There was a knock on her door, and Helena came in without waiting for Frankie’s permission. Frankie pulled her knees up to her face. Helena sat down beside her, not saying anything for a moment. Finally, Frankie said, “The reporters think you or Dad could’ve killed her, don’t they?”
“That’s one theory, but it’s not true.” Helena touched Frankie’s dark hair.
“I know it isn’t true, but they’ll talk like it is. It’s like before, but worse. I can’t even see my friends. The reporters and your lawyer are ruining my life.”
“We’ll just have to get used to it, ignore them, and put up with these inconveniences, but it’ll only be for a little while. Then they’ll go find some other tragedy to exploit.”
“Ignore them? Inconveniences? Are you kidding? There’s like a gazillion reporters out there, and we’re supposed to ignore them? I can’t go to school. I can’t even ride my horse, because the paparazzi might get a picture of me.” Hot tears burned her eyes. She quickly wiped them away. “God, Mom! I mean, I’m happy that you’re not in jail and I know you didn’t do it, but when do I get my life back? This is what I get for having a famous model for my real mom?” Frankie watched Helena flinch, wishing she could take back her harsh words. She hated hurting people, and things had been going so well between them.
“You have no idea how sorry I am for all of this. I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”
“Well, obviously you can’t.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way, young lady.” Frankie saw her father standing in the doorway. “This is difficult for all of us. We love you, honey, and we’re all going to get past this.” He walked over and handed a mug to Helena. “Here you go. Thought you might like some tea.”
“Thanks.”
“What about you, Frankie? Want me to make you a cup?”
“No thanks. I want to be left alone. Just when you think it’s all gonna be okay, boom!” She smacked her hands together. “It’s not. Those people out there don’t care what they say or do to us. They want to ruin you, Dad, me, everything. Exactly like before. It’ll never end, I just know it.”
“Listen sweetie, you’ve got a right to be angry, you really do. And we will get our lives back soon. Then we can go forward. But please know how much we both love you.” Helena and her dad left her room