Dead Girls

by Russ Trautwig

  This was without a doubt, the strangest interview of her career, she had not said a word for the last forty minutes. In the beginning, she had interrupted his story frequently with questions, but as it progressed, she realized her questions were superfluous, he was leaving nothing out. As strange as her tactics seemed to her, however, they paled in comparison to the strangeness of the story’s content. Either this man was completely delusional and potentially psychotic, or this case had just taken on a whole new meaning.

  Throughout it all, beginning with the camping trip and the murders way back when and all the way up to the dead girl in the park and the death of his wife, she wondered two things: what was his legal culpability and what spin could she put on it all to Frank. If she believed what Chris was saying and if she led with the truth to Frank, he would think she was as crazy as she was now feeling. He would have to remove her from the case. For Chris, it would appear he had accessory status for at least one murder, conspiracy to conceal a crime, and if his story on the ten-year-old in the park checked out, a DA with half a brain could put him away for life. But the biggest question of all was what did any of this have to do with the girls on her list, other than the obvious two from 1989.

  Deep in thought of her own, she had not realized until that moment that Chris was no longer talking, another sound had broken her concentration and she spun her head around to see. He was sitting on her bed with his feet on the floor and his head in his hands, and he was sobbing, big cathartic sobs that took his breath away. She turned and walked toward him. He held a hand up to dissuade her from coming any closer, so she stopped.

  “Just… give me a moment… would you… please?” he said, trying desperately to catch his breath and enunciate each syllable.

  “Sure Chris,” she said softly and disappeared into the bathroom. She waited in there, not knowing what else to do or where else to go. She sat on the closed toilet and scrolled through the newsfeed on her phone. She stood and examined herself in the mirror. She did not look any crazier than she had yesterday and yet, she was feeling like the world had tilted just a little off balance. When she came out, five minutes later, he had composed himself and poured another glass of whiskey for each of them. She took hers and sipped, watching him over the top of his glass.

  “I’m gonna get it,” he finally said, with clear lucid certainty that chilled her.

  “How?” she asked, guessing she had fully embraced his story now, despite all the problems her 188 IQ had with it. She was emotionally invested if not intellectually convinced.

  “I’m keeping that to myself right now,” he said, “but I’ll let you know in time.”

  “Something imminent?” she asked, walking over, and sitting on the bed next to him. No answer. She propped up two of the pillows against the headboard and said, “here, rest, I am going to hit the shower.” He put his feet, minus his sandals up on the bed and leaned back against the soft feather pillows and crisp white cotton. She thought It must have been so long since he felt comfort like that. She got up and went into the bathroom.

  As she stood to let the hot, powerful shower pound water against her body, she found herself wishing the door would open, and Chris would come in. She wanted to comfort him, soothe him, pamper him. She wondered how he would react to her touch and began imagining him touching her in return. She lathered her body and allowed her hands to linger longer than necessary on her vagina, enjoying the power of the water as it stimulated her and the smooth wet sensation of her soapy hand as they massaged back and forth. How easy she could cum right now, she thought, but didn’t. She was feeling very aroused. She had brought pajamas in to put on, but scrapped them for the white terry robe hanging on the back of the door, knowing that he would know that she was naked beneath it. The words “conflict of interest,” careened back and forth inside her head, but she pushed them away and went into the room.

  A gentle rumble of a snore escaped with his exhale as Chris lay exhausted and sleeping on her bed. Kimberly walked to the closet and took out the spare blanket that was there, laid it on top of him and turned off the light. She went back into the bathroom and hung the robe back up. She stood naked at the mirror brushing her hair, she had left the door open, just in case. Kim put light makeup on: eyeliner, shadow, and lip gloss, and sprayed three shots of Chanel on her neck. She walked naked back into the room, watching the bed, daring him to wake up. Taking a black skirt and black silk blouse from the dresser, she put them on without bra or panties and placed her gun into her black bag. Picking up her iPhone, she Googled ‘sexiest nightclub in Manhattan’ and then put the address into her Uber App: Two minutes. The door made a quiet click as she closed it on the way out.

  Chapter XXIX

  Special Agent Watson was sitting mid-plane, a window seat on the red-eye to LA. On the aisle, an Indian man, turbaned and gray-bearded, snored loudly. His blue airline blanket was pulled up to his chin where it met a blow up blue pillow that was wedged around his neck. He had gold wire-rimmed glasses on and Gillian Flynn’s latest bestseller was open, face down on his tray table. She had considered waking him or vaulting over him but decided to do neither and wait a little longer to see if he woke up. She always could hold it longer than anyone, the bathroom could wait.

  Kim’s MacBook was open on her lap and white Air Pods were in her ears, her tray table was closed, and a diet Coke was sharing the clear plastic cup in her left hand with a couple of ice cubes. She was voraciously consuming everything Dave had sent her on Jimmy Vale. There was concert footage that would have rivaled PT Barnum, this guy was a showman. He played his audience like they were just another one of his instruments.

  There were interviews in Rolling Stone, The Guardian, and Pitchfork and while they flirted with hints of something that might be hiding underneath, they were cutting edge but tame. There were YouTube appearances on Jimmy Fallon, Ellen DeGeneres and even a cooking spot with Rachel Rae. Vale had been the musical guest on Saturday Night Live when Jennifer Lawrence was the guest host. He was handsome, charming, and intelligent; his private reputation was a far cry from his public persona, this guy had lots of faces.

  She read his lyrics as she listened to his songs. There was a great deal of conjecture about him to read as well, but very little to back it up. Gossip columnists loved dropping his name but where was the proof, she wondered, where was the smoking gun. He was single, with nary a relationship the press could find in fifteen years. Gay but in the closet? Probably not. Celibate and waiting for Miss Right? Equally unlikely. TMZ frequently had pieces on him but they were always inconclusive and never accompanied by photos. He was apparently famous for the size of the bulge in his pants when he performed, and countless close-up shots purported to show a giant erection beneath his jeans, on stage. He was reclusive and probably just very good at keeping his private life, private, a master of disguise perhaps, a beautiful lie.

  The one thing she could not find anywhere was someone who didn’t like him. People interviewed for comments about him, from other music stars to personal staff and all the way back to high school friends, gushed, except Chris of course, who thought he was Satan’s child or Rosemary’s baby or some other incarnation of evil. What was it about Chris that made her believe him, a down and out, homeless, ex-con, over everyone else on the planet. But, did she really believe him or was she just so sure that Jimmy Vale was a serial killer that she was willing to listen to anyone whose opinion endorsed that premise, regardless of how crazy the rest of their story sounded? Was her predilection for Chris, blinding her to the illogical possibility of his tales of ubiquitous evil? Sipping her soda, she stared out the window as if the answers to her questions were sitting on the plane’s wing. As if Chris was there and able to fill in all those little details that would stifle the doubt that gnawed at her brain from the inside. She looked away and closed her eyes, recalling the telling of the tale.

  After listening to his story for four hours, much of the discussion caused conflict in her and stirred confusion as she was
hearing it. Words like “paranoid schizophrenic” and “bipolar,” begged to be used in understanding the motivation and mindset of the storyteller. Contrasting that with the overall believability of the man telling the story, he seemed perfectly rational and lucid, had caused her brain to beg for more information; insufficient data, it screamed. She had spent another twenty hours reviewing her notes and causing some dramatic shifts in her core belief. The additional information was there, she just had to look deeper for it. Much of it was verifiable and all of it, in relation to his friend the rock star, filled in the gaps that TMZ, CNN, and even Dave, could not.

  The United jet touched down hard at LAX and jolted her out of her contemplative state, it also gave her bladder a shot it didn’t need which made her glance over at the blockage in her aisle. The man didn’t move, he went right on snoring.

  Thirty minutes and an emptied bladder later, Kim was behind the wheel of her Hertz rental and navigating the airport roads toward the exit. The Waze app on her iPhone indicated she had about an hour drive which would put her there mid-morning. She thought about the strategy and decided late afternoon was a better fit, so she headed for the Beverly Hills Marriott instead. She checked in and changed for a run, went outside but the heat and humidity chased her back into the gym and a treadmill.

  She was here without a solid plan, shooting from the hip once again so to speak, and would do her best not to let the fox know that the hounds were tightening the circle. She was playing a dangerous game but thought she knew the predator well enough to avoid becoming prey. Perhaps more importantly, she did not think her showing up at his door would drive him underground, he was too big to hide and too confident to recognize the danger. Part of her was looking forward to this like other people might eagerly await a trip to the amusement park or a Broadway show, she expected to have some fun.

  After the gym, she showered and got ready to go. Kimberly looked at herself in the mirror, dressed as professionally as possible, with just enough of the sex showing through. She smiled at the woman in the mirror and winked. Her white button-down blouse was sheer, showing off the lace bra beneath, and the three top buttons were undone. Her black linen slacks were tight and would leave little doubt to the body beneath. She had put a conservative amount of makeup on, but the red shimmery lipstick could never have been worn in the office. Lastly, the heels were designed to accentuate her walk, definitely not office wear either. She grabbed her black blazer and headed for the door.

  It had not taken much effort to find out the schedule of the man, locate his home, and confirm that he would indeed be there during his tour break, push a button here, cash in a favor owed there and the tongues wagged. Getting in the front door was a different story. Best as they could tell, he had limited domestic staff, if any, which would make it easier, some of those professional gatekeepers were impossible to penetrate. None-the-less, her ace in the hole was her sexuality, and although her brain was her number one asset, she usually knew when to use number two. It was a short twelve-minute drive to the house and she pulled up to the front gatehouse. There was no one there. What was there was an intercom, supported by a video camera, and it had a big red button that she leaned out the driver’s side window to push. There was a crackly sound followed by silence, then a man’s voice came on.

  Chapter XXX

  Six days off between Pittsburgh and Denver was awful planning, he’d bitched the booking company out and demanded they fire someone over this incompetence. Once Jimmy hit the road, there was a mindset that he needed to live in, a place he went in his head that allowed him to go hotel to hotel, day after day. But, once that chain was broken for a couple of days, he started to feel the strain and the pressure and the stress, it began to take its toll on his looks faster than normal. He sometimes aged a year in a week. That was with one or two days off, six was unprecedented.

  He had considered flying to his Villa in Tuscany for a few days, had even toyed with taking a lover there, but in the end, he decided to go home. He was beginning to have dangerous thoughts, thoughts that led him down a path of no return. It had been like that with the stewardess, but he was smart enough to realize that on a plane, there was no way out. If she had been here in his home, he was fairly certain that he would have carried it through to its inevitable conclusion. But would the Cleaner have come?

  Only once in twenty-five years had he strayed and tested the relationship. He was much younger, and he had been drunk, coked up and smoking weed. He tried saying no, tried holding back, he really believed he had but the crazy stoned bitch just wouldn’t stop. She did it all, she undressed him, got him hard, and then mounted him. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it, sex was a rarity for him so once he was in her, he went all out. He was feeling a little arousal down there now, just thinking about her and her aggression. It was a powerful turn on, he never got to be with strong women. That time, the Cleaner had come and taken care of everything. The One had seemed happy but the Cleaner, Jimmy’s father, had warned Jimmy not to let it happen again. “I don’t give a fuck about the circumstances. You’ve seen your last #1, Jimmy, your last sold-out house if you ever let this happen again,” It had said. While he was still not entirely convinced that his relationship with The One and The Cleaner had anything to do with his success, he didn’t test it, for the next twenty years.

  He was in the game room shooting pool with the groundskeeper, Peter, his one permanent employee. Peter had come from Poland as a young boy and worked hard with several different L.A. landscape companies until at the age of twenty-two, he started his own. When Jimmy bought this estate, Peter was the landscaper. They had hit it off and began spending time together, he was Jimmy’s one regular acquaintance, Jimmy had no friends. The rock star offered him the job of caretaker for his estate at a salary of a million dollars. Peter hired a manager to run his landscaping company and started working for Jimmy within the week. Jimmy trusted him. When he needed the place to himself, Peter would leave immediately and ask no questions.

  The pool table was the central focus of the room, mustard yellow felt on a mahogany table beneath an oversized banker’s lamp that hung from the ceiling. The walls around the room were lined with video games: mostly classics like Asteroids, Pac-Man, and Pong. On the table, Peter’s break had been strong, and he ran three more stripes before Jimmy even got to shoot. When he did, he missed an easy layup. He was feeling fatigued and his thoughts were wandering aimlessly around his life, the distraction clearly affecting his play. In reality, the biggest distraction was boredom. When he wasn’t performing, when he wasn’t on the road, his life sucked. He needed something more challenging than a pool game with his caretaker. He was aging by the minute.

  Peter was lining up his next shot when the buzzer sounded, indicating someone was at the front gate. Jimmy never got visitors. Peter walked into the hallway, where the closest monitor station was with Jimmy at his heels. They looked at the screen. A woman in a red convertible was staring into the camera through her mirrored Ray-Ban aviators. Both men looked hard to see if they recognized her but all they saw were their own reflections in the glass looking back.

  Chapter XXXI

  Peter looked at the grainy image on the screen, while Jimmy stood behind him looking over his shoulder. “She’s a looker,” he said, “Know her?” he asked his boss. Even in the gritty quality, her dark eyes drew Jimmy in. There was something in those eyes that he wanted to get lost in. He collected himself and shook his head from side to side, remembering he wasn’t alone. “Find out what she wants,” Jimmy whispered.

  “Can I help you?” Peter asked. Jimmy watched her lean forward, exposing the cleavage beneath her shirt, and push the button. In her other hand, she was holding an ID card that he could not quite make out and she showed it to the camera.

  “Hi, FBI, Special Agent Watson to see Mr. Vale.”

  “She is something special,” he whispered, making sure it was not audible to the woman on the other end. Pete nodded his head in affirmation.

  �
��Sorry, ma’am, Mr. Vale is not at home.” The woman tucked the hair on both sides of her head back behind her ears and pushed the button again. Jimmy watched her cleavage intently.

  “I don’t mind waiting, just buzz me in and I’ll wait for him to get back. Any idea how long that might be?” she ran her tongue back and forth across her lower lip and then bit it gently. Jimmy was sufficiently intrigued.

  “Let her in,” Jimmy whispered.

  “What? Are you sure? She’s a fed, man,” he said, cautioning but covering up the microphone.

  Jimmy nodded his head. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Sure,” Peter said, and the sound of the buzzer opening the gate came back through the monitor. “Front door’s open, come on in and have a seat in the alcove.”

  “Listen, let her wait about ten minutes, then tell her, on your way out, that she can come into the back of the house to meet me. You can leave.”