by Luke Murphy
And what about the tattoo on her back? The Slayer had mentioned it, but Cooney had acted as if it was the first time he had seen it.
Then Charlene remembered the phone call at the bar the night before the whole Cooney incident went down. The call had come from an LA area code, the first time a phone number had ever appeared from the Celebrity Slayer’s calls. Was that a sign he was slipping up? Did he want to be caught? Why now?
She retrieved her phone from the kitchen island and clicked through the call log until finding the number. She wrote it down and called the phone company. After identifying herself and making a request, the operator went to search.
“Yes, I’ll hold,” Charlene said, her body vibrating with anticipation.
Five minutes turned to ten before the customer service rep. came back on the line.
“Detective Taylor?” she said.
“Yes?” Charlene bit down on her lip.
“The phone belongs to a Martin Taylor. It was registered and opened two days ago.” The operator read off Charlene’s parents’ address and details.
Charlene felt numb, her mouth too dry to speak.
“Detective Taylor?”
Charlene hung up, her nerves tingling, her body quivering. She felt suddenly cold and alone. Was this some sort of sick joke? Was that why he had used a phone number this time, rather than hiding it with a private caller message? Had he wanted Charlene to find that out, taunting her?
Charlene felt a sudden nausea and felt like vomiting. She rushed to the bathroom and brought up everything that she could.
She wiped the corners of her mouth, rinsed it out with tap water, and returned to the living room, thinking. He probably hadn’t planned on using the phone long, since bills would have started arriving at her parents’ house.
There had been no cell phone recovered on Cooney or from his cabin. And there were no other phones, except his landline, registered under his name. Was this Cooney’s sick joke or someone else’s? If it was someone else, did they still have the phone on?
There was only one way to find out.
She hit redial on her phone and watched the numbers pop up one by one, searching and dialing. As she pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the ringtone, she thought she could hear a ringing from somewhere in her apartment. She froze.
That was impossible. She hung up and the ringing stopped. She hit redial again and again the same ringing came from another room in the apartment. Her heart almost leapt out of her chest. Was he in her apartment?
She pulled her gun from the holster and kept the phone pressed tightly to her ear. She clicked off the safety and tried to follow the sound. She could hear it growing louder as she stepped out of the living room and into the short hallway. She headed towards the bathroom and could hear the ringing through the door.
She shut off the phone and clipped it to her belt. The ringing in the bathroom stopped. She held her weapon with both hands and gently pushed open the door. The bathroom was empty. She checked behind the shower curtain, nothing.
How could that be?
She removed her phone again and hit redial. This time the ringing was loud and she looked down at her feet to where her jacket was crumpled on the floor. She picked it up and chaotically went through the pockets, finding the phone. She pulled it out and felt it vibrating in her hand with each ring.
How had he slipped it in her pocket?
Then Charlene shivered and saw her reflection in the mirror, paling with each new understanding. She remembered who had put it in her coat.
She had.
~ * ~
Charlene moved to the bedroom and sat on the futon, staring at the phone in her hand. Her mind was swirling. She shook her head, trying to focus.
What was happening? How was this connecting? This was the phone she had borrowed from Darren.
Was Darren somehow involved? It didn’t make sense. Why had that call been connected to Darren’s phone?
She tried to recall everything she knew about him.
He’d transferred from the Hollywood division, where the Celebrity Slayer had started his rampage. He moved to the West LA branch, perhaps knowing that Martin Taylor was working the Slayer case. Charlene remembered how Darren had admired and looked up to her father.
Darren had spent many hours with her father, questioning him endlessly. Charlene just thought it was Darren’s way of becoming a better cop, preparing him to be a detective someday, and maybe, in the back of her mind, she thought it might also be Darren’s small way of getting closer to Charlene.
Darren had also been partnered with Charlene’s street partner when she’d been off for her father’s death. Is that how he, the Celebrity Slayer, knew so much about her personal life?
Had Darren killed Charlene’s father?
Was that how someone, Darren—a friend, a colleague—had gotten so close to her father in the alley without Martin Taylor’s cop instincts going off and survival mode clicking in?
Did this make sense at all? Or was the combination of booze and drugs playing with her mind?
She could picture Darren’s desk at the precinct—clean, in perfect order, and lined with textbooks on procedures and techniques. Charlene’s short time profiling suspects told her that murderers often read up on police procedures and crime scenes.
She’d known all along that Darren had a thing for her. Had that overlapped with her phone calls with the Slayer, who had an obvious attraction and desire for her?
Was that why Darren so readily and willingly asked to be a part of Charlene’s team on the Anderson case and then, later on, on the Jackson case? It wasn’t for personal reasons, to be close to Charlene, but to find out what she knew about the Celebrity Slayer case. Had Charlene mentioned to Darren that she was secretly working the Slayer case? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be certain. She had showed him her father’s list.
Charlene all of a sudden felt sad and alone.
Was she disheartened at the thought of Darren not actually being attracted to her physically? Surely she didn’t really need someone that badly, wasn’t so emotionally vulnerable that she had actually longed to be wanted by Darren. Maybe she did enjoy the attention that Darren was constantly giving her, watching her and wishing to be with her. She could always feel Darren’s wandering eyes on her in the precinct. Maybe she missed that.
What was wrong with her? She couldn’t be that fragile and filled with self-loathing.
Charlene opened another beer, disgusted with herself. But she had to forget about that and stay focused on this case. It wasn’t about her.
She recalled a conversation she’d had with Larry about how perfect the Slayer killings had been, which was very unusual for an amateur. The fact the killer had left behind nothing for the cops to work with was uncanny, especially for a newbie which the Slayer presumably was. A cop would know exactly what the crime scene teams would be looking for and how to avoid leaving any trace evidence.
The weapon that had killed her father had a silencer. Not many people owned silencers, but cops would have no problem accessing such items.
Martin Taylor thought it was a cop.
Cooney leaving a print was just too easy. Had Darren set Cooney up? How had Darren known Cooney was the perfect fall guy, unless he’d been following him? Perhaps they were working as partners?
Darren was also known to be good with computers. He could have easily hacked into her account at work, of that she had no doubt.
Charlene tried to bring up their phone conversations in her memory. Had the Slayer said something, maybe imperceptibly to indicate he was a cop or at least knew the law?
He always knew exactly what happened to her at work and knew it quickly. Like when she beat up the child abuser, made detective, saw the shrink and got cleared for duty. Darren would have the means to access that information.
Darren knew what bar she was going to the other night. He had wanted to come along but she’d turned him down. So he killed his next victim close
by.
What did she really know about Darren?
He was methodical, hard-working, and over-prepared. When Charlene had asked him for a brief description on the Philips’ rape, he’d handed in a twelve-page document.
Larry had described him as a young go getter who was crazy to have transferred from Hollywood. Everyone knew that the Hollywood detectives had it easy compared to a West LA cop. Why would someone move into the center of the crime universe?
He was shy, quiet, didn’t have many friends on the force, and still lived at home with his parents.
Charlene got up and went to the closet, retrieving the final document from her father’s notes. A man’s size eight shoeprint. Charlene didn’t know Darren’s shoe size, but she knew he was short and thin, and probably close to that size.
Darren was very self-conscious about the way he looked, carried a mirror, and his uniform was always freshly pressed. Mommy must be taking good care of him.
It was starting to make sense, the dots starting to connect. But why did Darren hate celebrities?
Chapter 34
Three hours of troubled sleep, her dreams haunted, interrupted by the nameless woman from the picture in Cooney’s cabin. Where had Charlene seen her before?
She had been given time off, but Charlene needed to go in to use the department computer terminal. There was too much to do. Too much at stake.
She wasn’t sure how she would react to seeing Darren.
Whom could she trust? She couldn’t take her ideas to the captain, especially only days after having accused, and ultimately, killing a fellow cop. Some of the guys on staff still weren’t over it, even if Jackson had been guilty. She couldn’t go after another cop already on hearsay and circumstantial evidence. On a Taylor gut feeling.
Before leaving the apartment, Charlene put together a folder of the key findings from her father’s files. She threw everything in a duffel bag and locked the door on her way out.
The precinct was unusually quiet, and few officers acknowledged her presence. The captain would be the only one to know that she had been given time off, but she doubted, with the captain knowing about her work ethic and insatiable desire to succeed amongst her male counterparts, that he would question her coming in on the day after she’d been released from the hospital.
She moved slowly to her desk, still stiff and tender from Cooney’s ambush. She threw her coat on the back of the chair and headed to the coffee room. She was thankful that she didn’t see her captain, and she was even more thankful that she hadn’t yet run into Darren. She still wasn’t sure what she would do.
The coffee room was empty, and she took a few moments to enjoy the silence before mixing herself a coffee and heading back to her desk. She sat down at her computer and booted it up.
Charlene wondered what detectives and crime scene teams were working the Cooney murder, and who would be in control of those files. Since she had been a major part of it, getting her hands on those notes wouldn’t be a problem.
She picked up the phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office. She knew that Lloyd Webster had been called in to work the scene, because she had remembered seeing him on site. She was quickly transferred to his office where she was told he was just getting ready to leave.
“Hi, Lloyd. It’s Charlene Taylor from RH.”
“Hi, Charlene, how are you feeling?”
Webster was in his sixties and loved his work so much that he would probably die before he’d retire. His wife had passed away ten years ago, he had no children, and the job was all he had.
“I’ve been better, but on the mend.”
“Good to hear.” Charlene could picture Webster smiling at the other end. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping to find out about the woman found in Sean Cooney’s basement two days ago.”
“I sent in my report last night,” he said, sounding surprised.
“I know, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I took a chance that you might be in and I’d get the information directly from the master.” Charlene grinned.
“Oh, you young ladies really know how to sweet talk us old guys. What specifically would you like to know?”
“What can you tell me?”
“Typical Slayer victim. Many cuts, deep and long strokes. We matched the wounds from her torso, back, and chest—because of depth, length, width, and serration—to the knife Cooney was about to use on you. You’re a very lucky girl, Charlene, lucky to be alive today. You’re lucky that Officer Brady found you when he did. Who knows what would have happened in another minute.”
She had spent so much time thanking Darren and owing her life to him, that she had not thought about how Darren had stumbled upon her. It was very convenient. He said he had followed her into the woods.
She thought about the bullet hole in Cooney, one to the throat and one between the eyes. Both kill shots, or at least deadly enough to immobilize Cooney and leave no doubt about the prospect of ever having Cooney talk to the cops.
Had Darren followed her into the woods because he knew Cooney would be there? Was Darren’s plan to save Charlene’s life in hopes she would be so grateful that she would fall in love with him?
“Detective, are you still there?”
Charlene was snapped to attention and realized she was still on the phone.
“Did you find anything different?” she asked. “Anything not corresponding with the other victims.”
“We did find evidence of sexual assault prior to death.”
Charlene was stunned. “Sexual assault, but there was no sign of forced penetration in any other victims, was there?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Either this girl was special to Cooney, or this piece of evidence bolstered Charlene’s theory that Cooney either wasn’t the Celebrity Slayer or was working with a partner.
The Celebrity Slayer was a known exhibitionist. He wanted his victims found. Cooney had brought this girl back to his camp with the idea of never having her found. She was like his prize. Charlene had to find out who this girl was and if she meant something more to Cooney.
“Thanks, Lloyd.” Charlene hung up and went to search for the case file.
She knew that a copy of the file would already be stored since the case was now considered closed even though loose ends would still have to be tied up. It was all a formality, and with Cooney dead, a case number would be given but it would be worked on at a leisurely pace.
She grabbed the thick stack of papers and took it to her desk to study.
The victim’s name was Courtney Benedict, thirty-four years old from Anaheim. She had started out as a “fluffer” in the porn industry in the late eighties before turning mainstream in the early nineties, appearing in minor roles for six low-budget films. She then vanished from the big screen.
There hadn’t been a thorough background check on her yet because there hadn’t been time, and Charlene wasn’t sure if there ever would be. Charlene was almost hoping that Benedict would have had no connection to celebrity status, strengthening her claim that Cooney was a separate case.
The victim and weapon matched, but the only anomaly was the sexual assault.
Cooney might be involved, but Charlene was sure that he wasn’t the voice on the other end of the line of their phone conversations. In most cases like this, detectives would look up a serial killer’s parents or children. Often these urges are DNA linked, and when children see a role model commit certain actions, they tend to follow. But Cooney’s parents were deceased, and he had no children.
There had been no weapons, other than the knife, found on Cooney. Darren had told Charlene that he had to wait for a perfect moment to take out Cooney before he pulled a gun on Charlene.
She paced across the room and ducked her head in her captain’s office. “Are the Feds still around?”
He looked up from an LA Times crossword. “They flew out this morning. What’s up?”
“Just some final touches on
the Slayer case.”
“It’s closed and it’s not your case. Anything you need, get from Berkley and Harris.”
“Right.”
Charlene went back to her desk and sat down. She looked around the room and saw no one paying attention. She then tilted her computer screen down and to the side, where no one would have a clear view of what she was working on.
She punched Darren Brady’s name into the computer.
Darren’s head shot, in police blues and his uniform hat, came onto the screen, as well as a short bio about when he’d joined the force, his transfer, and his credentials. Charlene scanned the short write up and scrolled down.
Then she saw it.
Darren’s mother was a former child movie star, B list. This was Darren’s connection to the victims.
Charlene did a search on Wikipedia and found a page dedicated to Darren’s mother. It was a very short page with very little information. Charlene wondered who had set it up.
Candace Hayes was born as Deloris Marie Wyatt on June 21, 1955 in St. Louis, Missouri.
There was very little on Hayes’ early life. A single child to immigrant parents, Hayes grew up in a poverty-stricken life before being discovered by a talent agent at a county talent show. She moved to LA at the age of seventeen to pursue a career as an actress/model.
The ‘Personal Life’ section told Charlene that Hayes was married in 1990, had a baby boy that same year—Darren—and divorced in 1994. Darren’s father died of natural causes three years later.
“Longer than most celebrity marriages,” Charlene muttered.
There was nothing in the ‘Current Projects’ section. Candace Hayes seemed to have vanished from the spotlight and made a quiet, secluded life for herself. She sounded like the perfect candidate for a Celebrity Slayer victim.
Charlene scanned the filmography but didn’t recognize any of the over twenty movies Hayes had played in. Her last movie was in 2003. She hadn’t been in anything in over ten years.
When Charlene scrolled down to find a picture of Candace Hayes, her breath caught in her throat and she started to hyperventilate.