Walking into her office, Cecelia was taken aback at the room’s neatness, it was well organized. No one messed with this savvy babe.
‘Sit down,’ Detective Travis pointed to the seat opposite the other side of the desk. ‘So, what is it that you think I can do for you?’
Now sitting, this officer leaned forward with interest. It was very flattering. A slight lilt of the Southern States added not only charm but a need to get down to the nitty-gritty. Even without any makeup, she was still pleasing, and she didn’t wear jewelry either. Perhaps late thirties or early forties, there was no wedding ring. Would she say this woman was feminine? Yes, she was a dash of hot pepper and not that cat on the hot tin roof. Already and without any real reason, Cecelia felt she liked this lady, and then again to be wary of her. A woman who was so different from herself.
‘I’ve come here on Miss Mary Ann Leigh’s behalf.’ Cecelia was more than a little nervous while Detective Travis’s gaze did not waver.
‘Ah yes, the woman who escaped the Slasher, or so she says. We have people like her who try to claim some of the attention; nevertheless, we have to deal with them. So, she’s been talking to you.’
‘Yes.’ Cecelia felt the awkward imposition of not having any real rights to be here. A trumped-up column writer.
This confident black woman stared at Cecelia with a disconcerting intelligence. She wanted facts, not fiction, and she worked hard and diligently to get results, she expected everyone else to do the same. Cecelia was impressed.
‘James Patts tells me he is a friend of yours and you are a journalist. You should know now that I disapprove of journalists. In my line of work, my worries are about people and how best to serve them. My time is valuable, and I am not here to either aid a story or spin any fabulous line for everyone else to make them a fortune. I want to serve people and I take great pride in it. I’m not saying news reporters are all bad, it’s just my experience of them.’
She certainly didn’t like news people.
‘I’m not a news reporter, I’m a journalist.’
‘Okay. Is there any difference between them?’
‘To me there is.’
‘Okay, what’s the difference?’
Detective Travis could be asking her about the nature of her conscience.
‘I consider myself to be a journalist because I write with respect. A news reporter writes to my mind with sensation. I tell people the truth as it is. I like to think I educate my readers, it’s something I am proud of which means I take myself seriously especially my words. You won’t get twisted, biased, and prejudicial words from me or slanting the truth to suit the newspaper. My words are written with thought and assessment, every word I write comes with judgment.’
Making no conclusions, Detective Travis listened seriously until she heard this woman out.
‘These days, reporters bastardize their work and sell themselves cheaply. It’s easy to deceive with words and deform the truth, to write history the way you want it to be written in an attempt to change the future. People find out in the end what the real truth is. Trying to conceal the truth is only temporary, it will out in the end, it always does. I hate these types of people which is why my old newspaper doesn’t want anything to do with me. Yes, I am being as honest as possible. I am a journalist, who is trying to write a story with caution and care. I put my interpretation on the facts and reality given everyone that choice on what to believe—because there will be other versions. But I believe in what I write.’
Goodness, did she really say that? Or more to the point, did she think that? Was this the person she had become full of high moral standings?
‘Interesting,’ nodded the detective, drawing her bottom lip in while reforming her opinion of Cecelia. ‘What did you think of her story about being raped? Did you ask her any questions…?’
‘The first thing I gathered about her was that she was afraid,’ stumbled Cecelia. As usual, after making her heartfelt speech, she was uncertain if she went over the top.
‘Okay. So, what did she tell you? Because she must have told you something.’
‘She had some difficulty talking about the rape; I felt like she didn’t want to face up to it. I managed to get a brief description of the assailant.’
‘Do you have it there?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Holding out her hand expecting Cecelia to automatically hand them across was annoying.
‘I can do the things which as members of the law, you can’t. I’m skilled at asking things in a more compassionate and sympathetic way because I am outside the circle of the law. I am the recording observer.’
‘Are you saying you want to be personally involved in police work?’
Cecelia nodded.
‘Now, why mam, as a friend of Detective James Patts, why didn’t you join the police force? Why report instead of becoming properly and professionally involved?’ In all her righteous glory, Detective Travis sat back in her chair and gloated as the jingle jangle of her answers sat tucked in her back pocket. By the grin on her face, she believed she had outwitted Cecelia.
Like a dagger, Cecelia’s insecurities returned finding their way into her side. How dare this woman attack her when she knew nothing of her life. The bile in her heart was now on her tongue and ready to be used.
‘You want to know the reason why I am not serving in the police force,’ began Cecelia with a sudden temper. ‘Because they didn’t want me. I applied and was not accepted; they rejected me on the grounds of ill-health, but my willingness to serve still remains. I am in the only role I can do, to find the truth and report it. Life doesn’t always do us favors. You might not approve of what I do, but I do my best. I report the truth as I see it. I show people about the wrongs in our society which I believe is as valuable as any other police or detective work.’
This spirit from a meek and uninspiring woman was impressive.
‘If I need to keep myself alive by selling these stories, I don’t see any wrong with it. I report well because I listen. Perhaps I don’t ask too many questions, and maybe that’s where I go wrong. But I’m willing to learn to get it right—you won’t find anyone more determined than me. And another thing, I am on your side, at least I was up until now.’
‘You hang on there, girl,’ interrupted Detective Travis undeterred by Cecelia’s outburst knowing she had upset her. ‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I’m a police officer first and a diplomat second. I’m not into the niceties of life. This is a murder investigation, and we need to catch this guy before he hurts any more young women. But it’s difficult and made tougher by women like Miss Leigh. She wants our help, but she doesn’t want what we’re offering. And besides, I’m not sure if she has got the full number. So, you talked to her. What did you think of her?’
‘I don’t have a view on whether or not I like her,’ Cecelia began with uncertainty as to what this police officer was asking. ‘I could see she was nervous.’
‘Did you believe her story about nearly being raped?’
‘I supposed I must have done because I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Why? Don’t you believe her?’
Pushing herself away from her desk, Detective Travis crossed to her filing cabinet.
‘I go by my gut feelings. You’ve got to have instincts when you’re in this line of work otherwise you’re struggling blind.’
The drawer rumbled open while agile fingers lightly ran over the top of the files as Detective Travis selected a slim buff blue file with noticeable short well-groomed nails. Returning to her desk, she placed the files with additional ceremony in front of Cecelia.
‘Since you have been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. These are my personal files on the victims, the ones where I put my own private thoughts. They may not be the correct views, but I work it from my angle. You see,’ said Detective Travis poking her fingernail on a large blown-up picture of Mary Ann Leigh in a glamor pose. ‘She does not fit the profile of the other victims. This woman says
smart, she’s got her act together and she knows where she’s going. I don’t see anything about her which says she is intimidated. She is not a victim; she is a user. She is so different from the other victims.’
There was no argument about this. Mary Ann stood out proud against the unassuming prey.
‘I’ve been studying the other victims, and they all have a certain personality,’ continued Travis shuffling through the photographs quickly in reference. ‘Look. They’re shy, gentle women beloved by their families—see their expressions. These women,’ Travis turned to point at three other faces now pinned on her crazy board behind her head. ‘Look at their eyes; they wouldn’t hurt a fly. Cruelty is not in their vocabulary. They don’t want to be known for anything special. They don’t want to join the police force, army, be film stars or models, or anything else which draws attention to themselves. They don’t even want to be lawyers or teachers. They just want to be wives and mothers like a large proportion of American women.’
She was right, Cecelia’s eyes flickered over each one’s portrait; what was pictured in their eyes was hope and trust.
‘These women want to please their men and stay home and have babies. They are the women these days that so-called feminists would be ashamed of. Good people, and if I say it, boring people. But this is the life they have chosen, and we have to respect them and take care of them. Yet these are the women this monster is killing.’ She poked the photograph again. ‘Miss Mary Ann Leigh is not one of these poor women.’
‘Perhaps, the Slasher got the wrong woman. He made a mistake,’ suggested Cecelia.
‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ she nodded. ‘I just don’t get a good feeling about her. I feel she is lying. And why do I think that.’ She came over to Mary Ann’s photograph still lying on the desk, there were some notes attached to her picture. ‘Because Miss Mary Ann Leigh is a failed actress,’ the detective read her notes. ‘She has been given several opportunities to make it big. Look here, she was a hostess in a game show, delivering numbers in a very tight pink dress. Hardly the most glamorous way to start your stardom. But now you are going to tell me there have been many actresses who have begun worse like Marilyn Monroe for example. She was in a toothpaste ad.’
‘But Mary Ann is still young. She’s only twenty-seven. Too young to be ascribed to the shelf.’
‘True. But she is pretty and blonde, she should have made it big by now with her opportunities. And I shall tell you why?’
‘Why?’
‘She has that goddam attitude like she thinks the world owes her something, and no matter what you do for her, it will never be good enough. Me, I never complain. I just keep my head down and get on with it. That sort of woman is a whiner in life, a cry baby. She’s always craving attention, and this is another one of those occasions—stealing the limelight of those dead women. I don’t think you can go much lower than that.’
3
Back home now with a cup of coffee, Cecelia went through the interview with a new set of references. Detective Travis had taken a great dislike to Mary Ann. A time waster and dishonest, and very, very vain. Perhaps she was right. But no one should judge a book by its cover. Tender in sentiment and ultra-feminine, the only consequence going against Mary Ann was that she was too tall. Like a child that had sprung up too quickly, she wasn’t cute anymore.
‘Well,’ said Travis with a sigh. ‘You want to be involved and you look trustworthy. I guess I can talk to you, but I don’t want what I tell you discussed across the media. I hope I’m all right there.’
Was this a girl thing? Had she been accepted? Whatever it was, it was fun. And a great honor which Cecelia was well aware of. It didn’t surprise Cecelia that Detective Travis liked to work on her own with her strong opinions and maverick attitudes.
To be included in police operations was something Cecelia had dreamed about. But now on to business. Clapping her hands quickly together, marking up a number one in space, she was being taken seriously. Cecelia couldn’t contain her excitement.
The first murder took place just over a year ago. A twenty-one-year-old, Marcia Davis had left her house for the church which she attended most days, and every Sunday, she was very pious. One of her pleasures was to decorate the church with flowers. People had described her as the angel of the church. She had served as an altar girl and a member of the choir. Never spoke ill of anyone, and best describe as a mortal saint. Why would anyone want to hunt and rape her? He was wicked.
‘Too good to be true,’ had muttered Detective Travis under her breath. ‘But these people do exist, poor child. She was found two days later, strangled, and dumped by Mundi lake. Raped brutally, although there wasn’t any semen or DNA, the Slasher had been scrupulously clean. Poor kid. She didn’t die straight away; the murderer didn’t want her to. Killed by a true sadist. He painted her lips with bright red lipstick while in her hands was a note saying, of all the weird things, she says she loves me.’
‘Poor child.’
‘Yes, you can say that again. It’s a wonder he left her dressed or partly. She was found by someone walking their dog in the early morning.
Writing these notes down, Cecelia recalled the interview. A thoughtful silence had fallen between these two. Detective Travis picked up the second picture with more of her detailed notes.
‘There was no evidence; the assailant just vanished. We hoped this murder was a one-off, but nearly a year to the day of Marcia Davis’s murder, another woman disappeared and two days later, reappeared at the other side of Mundi Lake. It was then we knew we had a serial killer. Same M.O. Jennifer Sawyer was discovered with red lips and with the same enigmatic note. She says she loves me. But this time he had completely undressed her. He had become more aggressive.’
‘You mean,’ questioned Cecelia, ‘the murderer told her to say she loved him before he killed her?’
‘Can’t rule that out. It might be vanity, or it might be pure torture, but I believe that he promised her she would live if she said she loved him.’
‘But that’s wicked.’
‘Yes. Every time I come across something like this, I look at my fellow man and think, am I really related to you? But then I remind myself that these are the dregs of society, crippled minds, with warped realities. These people get a kick out of killing. Quite honestly, I’m for the death penalty. We need it in this country and if you’ve been a police officer and seen what I have seen, you would ask for it too. But that’s my opinion. Some people take a more liberal stance and excuse the murderers saying they must have been mentally ill when they decided to take another’s life. Must have been mentally disturbed,’ Detective Travis shook her head. ‘I want to ask these do-gooders, what did the victims say when they were about to be murdered—please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die. Where is the murderer's mercy?’
An argument which Cecelia felt unable to join. To take a life with another life meant to Cecelia that this was being no better than the murderer because who has the right to take another’s life?
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Detective Travis, she could see Cecelia’s crisis. ‘You want to be thought of as kind and compassionate. And that’s exactly what these killers live on, your humanity. People like you are stupid and vain; you think that if you care about them, they will see the light and become like you, and say, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I did. I’ve changed, and it’s all because of people like you. No mam: these people never change. They’ve done what they’ve done, and they will say all the right words to you promising they will never do anything like that again. And you’re the type of person who wants to believe. But if they were to step back in time, they will do exactly the same things again.’
Cecelia shrugged, but could Detective Travis be right?
‘Look at this woman here. Go on, look at her first.’ She held Jennifer Sawyer’s picture up. ‘If you look closely, you will see in her eyes, you will see her dreams. Cut off before she began life while her murderer, a low, vile creeping mon
ster carries on living. And I hope when we find him, he gets the death penalty because, believe you me, he deserves it.’
Smiling out from the photograph a young face, warm and generous was anticipating a good future. She wasn’t asking for too much except to get married, have her children, and raise them in a good honest way.
‘She’s a simple young woman,’ said Detective Travis looking down at the picture. ‘Who belonged to a sewing group which incidentally was also linked to the church. And I know what you are going to say about that. That it must be someone who also belonged to the church. We spoke to everyone concerned with the church. But when the third murder happened two weeks later, it happened on the other side of town. A young sixteen-year-old, still at school was found, clothed and raped and dumped in Alandra park next to the pool.’
‘By water,’ suggested Cecelia.
‘Yes, by water. But I don’t know what the significance of that is. There must be a message somewhere on why he always leaves them by water.’
Was there something biblical about leaving the girls by water as if they were about to be baptized, but lacking confidence, Cecelia’s thoughts fell to the wayside. Such a pointless murder.
Summoned by a buzz, Detective Travis was then called away. Picking up the photographs and notes, Detective Travis put them away in her filing drawer.
Travis felt personally bad about what happened to those poor unfortunate young women. Who on the verge of life had been cruelly cut down. It was wicked. Cecelia didn’t dislike Detective Travis quite the opposite, she admired her, yet Travis didn’t allow herself to be too affected. If she did, she would be no good for the job.
Sixth Victim Page 4