by J K Nen
Shepherd recounted serial killer’s brazen action.
“Adele Rose was an overachieving, biracial single mother,” Shepherd began. “Incidentally, today is her birthday and we’re suspecting Z sent her flowers with the same note he left at the crime scene.”
“He’s a narcissist,” French surmised. “The pain of the family of his victims gives him some kind of pleasure.”
Shepherd and Chee gave the team the details of their investigation.
“How about her personality?” French prompted.
“Well, as a mum, she was very matter-of-fact with her children,” Chee informed them. “She treated them like little adults but still made them her priority.”
“It’s interesting that her mother said she had a freezing effect on people who tried to cross her,” Shepherd added. “Although she was super intelligent, she could be an ice queen.”
“Sedgie, were you able to get anything out of her Facebook account?” Logan queried.
“She didn’t do selfies much, she mostly posted pictures or shared articles related to work and her art,” Sedgewick answered. “I’ve asked Facebook to send me information on delated messages from her Facebook account. It may take a week tops, maybe less.”
“Speaking of Facebook, her PA mentioned that she was caught up in some project and was not using social media much,” Chee recalled. “That’s when she started getting breather calls, as if someone wanted to verify she was around.”
“Great, get a court order and let’s get her phone records,” Logan instructed, eyes locked on the screens as new lines of information appeared. “Burns, Spiteri, what did you guys make of the Joan Stacks case?
“She also got breather calls, he’d hang up when she answered,” Spiteri replied. “Especially after she went offline for long stretches.”
“That’s another similarity,” Logan observed. “Maybe to be on the safe side we could get all the women’s phone records, both landline and mobile.”
“What about her character?” French pressed.
“Biracial, domestic goddess addicted to homemaking and made a successful online business out of it too,” Burns provided.
“I meant her personality traits,” French clarified.
“She was very spiritual, orderly, centred, taught yoga, and loved her husband so much but chose to divorce him for her peace of mind,” Burns declared.
“Say what?” Naidu exclaimed, breaking the shocked silence.
“She loved her husband, but she could not live with him,” Burns explained. “She preferred seclusion, a solitary lifestyle if you will, and divorced him. He had no choice but to move on.”
“But why?” Chee asked, bewildered.
“Because she craved solitude for her spirituality,” Burns explained. “The only human contract she had in her home was her PA. Outside the home, she taught yoga to select students, her only other human contact. Other students signed up online for her classes.”
“What about her children? “ Logan asked.
“Her ex-husband got custody and she only saw them every once in a while,” Spiteri answered.
“That’s weird,” Naidu exclaimed.
“It is, when you consider that the children messed up the house and she did not want them there,” Burns told them. “And get this, every evening she set the table with candles, flowers and the whole shebang, even when she was home alone.”
“Then the crime scene makes sense,” French declared. “The suspect knew what she did in private and re-enacted that at the crime scene.”
“She was a Stepford Wife, if I may add,” Burns continued. “Brilliant home making skills too.”
“So she was a domestic diva,” Steele spoke up for the first time. “I didn’t know they were still around.”
“You obviously haven’t heard of Martha Stewart,” Naidu laughed.
“Actually she was serene,” Burns specified. “She thrived in calm environs and inspired others to do the same.”
“What was she like as a mother?” French asked.
“Though she loved her children, she wasn’t demonstrative,” Burns answered. “She planned her buying trips overseas around her children’s holidays so they could travel together.”
“An expensive way to keep the kids from messing up the show home,” Naidu quipped.
“It seems the kids loved it,” Burns shrugged.
“Sounds like my dream woman,” Steele remarked.
“No domestic diva would have your sorry hide,” Naidu teased.
“Nah, I need a diva to domesticate me first,” Steele chuckled. “Then she can pass me to the domestic goddess.”
“And back at the farmyard, she and her husband didn’t argue or fight,” Spiteri continued.
“Her friends say she did the whole ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ thing after the divorce, went off to India to study under a yogi, came back and cut off emotional ties to her ex and the children because she was no longer attached to them,” Burns rejoined.
Logan then asked Steele to bring everyone up to speed with the Evelyn Winters investigation. The team was awed by the details of the Winters’ marriage.
“You mean she was bashing his floozies with life-threatening injuries and nothing was reported?” Naidu’s incredulous tone spoke volumes.
“The privilege of wealth,” Spiteri quipped.
“Doctors are obliged to report incidences of violence,” Logan stated thoughtfully. “I suspect the women were either treated off the books or flown out via private plane to be treated overseas.”
“Evelyn Winters was a Muslim of Maldivian origin but converted to Catholicism after her marriage,” Steele added. “But she still supported Muslim causes.”
“If the crime scene said differently, we might actually be looking at a Middle Eastern terrorist plot,” Naidu said.
The meeting ended at midnight, Sedgewick offered to hold the forte overnight. As the team returned to their cars, Theresa Burns could not help looking over her shoulder at the rear view mirror. She breathed a sigh of relief that no one followed her. She patted the loaded Magnum pistol she stowed in her bag on the passenger seat. The metallic feel gave her a strange sense of comfort. She cast her mind to the serial killer everyone wanted to catch so badly. Growing up, the significant men in her life had been overbearing, domineering men who hurt and violated women.
When she met military academy graduate Harry Burns, it took him two years to get her to go on a date with him. He was the antithesis of the men she had known all her life. He had grown up in a happy, close-knit family, with two sisters and a brother. He later confessed that, for him, it was love at first sight. They married after a two year courtship and had the girls soon after. Harry’s death had hit her hard, and even today, she could not bring herself to look at another man. Her pre-teen daughters thought it was hilarious when men checked their mother out and she remained oblivious. Fiona, at twelve, had inherited her father’s cheeky sense of humour. Elsa, at ten, was quieter but had her moments of brilliance. Burns felt she was a unique single mum. She was neither interested in dating nor replacing Harry. She enjoyed working at her part-time business, helped by her sister-in-law who happened to live next door. Ida was a rock she leaned on, especially when she had to work long hours. At least the girls did homework and ate dinner at their aunt’s house. In return, they babysat their boisterous two-year-old twin cousin brothers. Fiona had once threatened feed them to her gold fish. Angus, the noisier twin, burst into a traumatised wail.
Fiona responded with,” Oh shut up, you little tyke. You sound like an ambulance siren.”
He stopped crying and clapped his hands, whooping like an ambulance.
As Burns entered the M5, she glanced in the rear view mirror again. There were so many cars even at this late hour. It would be difficult to tell if anyone was following her. Like her, the victims had been single mothers of two children. Even though she shared no other traits with them, it failed to stop sliver of fear trickling down her spine. The welcoming sign of
her exit soon appeared. She drove through the quiet streets to her house.
Relief coursed through her as she locked the door behind her. The girls would already be asleep but that would not stop her looking in on her girls. Maybe a kiss on the forehead, brushing a tendril of red hair off a cheek, maybe watching the rise and fall of young chests as they slept in the safety and security of the home their grandfather had built and gifted to his son, their father. First things first, with gun drawn, she checked the entire house, armed the alarm, then looked in on her girls.
Z was not only affecting those whose lives he had ended. His dark web of fear was even touching the very people chasing him. Burns knew it would be a long time before she would truly feel safe again.
CHAPTER 10
The strangled screams woke Chuck up. Beside him, Logan struggled, as horror-induced paralysis rooted her to the bed. As she thrashed about, for a moment, he contemplated letting her face off with the hidden childhood trauma she battled in her nightmare. Instead, he reached for her and shook her gently.
“Babe, wake up,” he repeated several times before she sat up in bed with a loud gasp.
Her shoulders heaved as tears streamed down her face. Sweat poured off her forehead and neck. He knew better than to reach for her, although he ached to take her in his arms. She would rebuff him to kingdom come. When she had calmed down sufficiently, he asked if she wanted coffee. She nodded.
Logan watched Chuck go with a heavy heart. She knew he wanted to help her but she would not let him. She herself had no idea what was wrong with her, and if she did not know, neither would he. Besides what she saw in her nightmares were frighteningly real, there was no way she could describe the horror. She peered at her mobile phone for the time. 3 AM. Only two hours of sleep. Her head throbbed. This was not good.
She got out of bed and peeled her damp clothing off. Wrapping herself in a large, fluffy bath towel, she crossed gingerly into the bathroom to blast herself with cold water on herself until her teeth chattered. Then she turned on the hot water, before towelling off. She changed into a pair of cotton undies and crop top.
Chuck was sitting up in bed, watching TV. She got in beside him, and he pulled her into his arms. She did not resist. Resting her head on his shoulder, she settled back to watch Tyler Perry’s crossdressing character Madea break up an old people’s party in her house with a pistol. She smiled. She could not help it. Madea was funny. Forgetting the coffee, she dozed off.
“Fudge!”
Chuck was rudely jolted from sleep by Logan’s exclamation. She rushed around the room, throwing clothes on. Bewildered and exhausted, Chuck could only watch her. Logan abruptly pulled the window blinds. Sunlight flooded the room. Chuck moaned, too tired to protest. He pulled the covers over his head and burrowed deeper under the duvet.
Logan chose a white dress shirt, beige pants and soft tan boots. Catching up her hair in a bob, she applied tinted moisturizer, eyeliner, mascara, a sweep of eye shadow and a coral-pink lip-gloss. A quick glance in the mirror told her she was not Veronica-Castle perfect but at least she looked like she had made the effort. She quickly checked her phone. Five missed calls from Steele. Several from various journalists. A dozen voice messages. Her heart raced. Had there been a killing again? She called Steele.
“And a good morning to you. You might want to take the alley behind your house to come to work,” Steele’s tone was sombre.
“Why? What happened?”
“Just log on the news if you haven’t seen it yet,” he advised. “I’ll wait out back. Just make sure your neighbour’s dogs are locked up.”
Logan peeked out the window. News crews waited outside her home. She quickly logged onto her tablet. Her face splashed across the front pages. The headline screamed, “IS THIS THE WOMAN WE TRUST TO CATCH Z?” The article itself was cruel, dissecting Logan’s personal and professional life. Even more compelling was a note supposedly sent by Z to the newspaper.
“COME ON SYDNEY POLICE! IS LISA LOGAN THE BEST YOU GOT? WHY ARE YOU SENDING AMATEURS AFTER ME? I AM OFFENDED. LOGAN, I GOT SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR YOU COME AND GET IT, (IF YOU CAN).”
“Babe, what’s wrong?” Chuck stared at her ashen face.
She thrust the tablet at him wordlessly. As he read the article, she checked the street again, taking in the media circus out front. She hurried to the windows out back. At least it was clear.
Hoisting her laptop bag over her shoulder, she pulled on a hoodie and prepared to run out.
“Babe, I think we should talk about this,” Chuck suggested, handing her the tablet.
“Not now, Chuck,” she said tartly.
Hurt spread across his face. She winced, torn between the need to run to the safety of her workplace or to explain what was happening. She chose the former.
“We’ll talk tonight,” she promised over her shoulder and walked out.
As promised, Steele waited at the end of the alley. She got in.
“Has anyone ever told you a hoodie becomes you?” his attempt at humour elicited a weak smile.
“Yes, George Clooney did this morning,” she returned wryly.
Steele sped past reporters waiting in front of the office and straight into the basement carpark. They raced from the car to the lift in case a journalist had the presence of mind to sneak into the basement.
The Command Centre was in an uproar. Logan was surprised to learn that she was the last one in. Steele had picked her up after checking in at work. From the meeting, she discovered that the day before someone had slipped an envelope addressed to Allen Boyd, editor-in-chief of The Herald, in the mailbox of the janitor’s home. The janitor, Manuel Estes, worked the night shift. As Boyle worked late most nights, Estes gave it to him. Police searched Estes’ home. He told them he had slept most of the day. Other blue-collar homeowners were away at work during the day.
“We’ve got uniforms door knocking right now,” Davidson informed her.
“The news articles show that this guy even knows where you live,” Sedgewick added.
Logan’s phone buzzed. Commissioner Castle wanted to see her. Anxiety turned her stomach.
Castle sipped latte from a takeaway cup. Even in uniform, her makeup was perfect.
“You saw the news?” she asked, by way of greeting.
“Yes,” Logan replied, bracing herself for the blow.
“Did you read it?” she asked.
“Not really, I’m not sure I can stomach what they wrote,” Logan replied.
“Big mistake,” Castle told her. “That is your way of gauging what Z thinks of you and your ability to catch him.”
Logan was uncertain.
“He is accusing us of sending amateurs after him,” Castle studied her, her demeanour calm. “So Logan, are you an amateur?”
“I am inexperienced…”
“No, I asked you, are you an amateur?” Castled interrupted her. “Forget inexperience in leading a taskforce, damn all of that.”
“I’m a professional police officer, with ten years of experience working murder cases,” Logan conceded.
“Exactly,” Castle replied forcefully. “You’ve been lead detective in many other cases. What you are doing now is the same thing. Only the title of the team has changed.”
Like pebbles dropping in a still pond, those words hit Logan’s consciousness. The mind shift was almost immediate. Castle was right. She was doing what she had been doing all along. This case was only different because it garnered national and international attention, had more police resources invested and required a wider range of investigative skills.
“It’s just psychological warfare,” Castle explained. “You must be pretty close and you’re making him uncomfortable. He’s just trying to throw you off his scent.”
When the meeting ended, an emboldened Logan returned to the Command Centre, bristling with indignation. All her qualms about her lack of leadership experience evaporated. She would get Z, even if it was the last thing she did.
CHAPTER 11
Jamie Bambi Maddox is feeling accomplished ~ ~in Sydney, Australia:
Pre-loved retail therapy with crazy prices. ILY Vinnie’s Boutique for the rug. Thomas the Tank Engine looks mighty fine in the kids’ room than any train track bought brand new from Toys R Us.
As a rule, Jamila Maddox posted updates of significance a day after. She checked her Facebook status as the train pulled out of Circular Quay train station. Thirty “likes” but no comments yet. Hardly surprising, she had posted just twenty minutes ago. Samantha “Sam” Mauwe, her best friend, was probably busy. She usually reacted and commented on every single status update Jamie posted. Jamie returned the favour. Sam owned a successful catering company. She had posted one hour earlier about a wedding reception she was catering for.
Jamie craved news from home, and it seemed nearly everyone was on Facebook these days. Even her family in her remote island village in Papua New Guinea kept her abreast of events at home.
Her children watched Maleficent on their portable DVD player, oblivious to her. Although she hated the movie, her kids loved it. Why Hollywood deified evil fairy tale characters was beyond her comprehension. Shrek made ogres lovable. In Frozen, the Ice Queen became Queen Elsa, the character little girls wanted to be. Sterilising evil characters in fairy tales did little to reduce the grim reality that evil existed.