by Luke Murphy
It was her.
The woman from the photograph.
That’s where Charlene had first seen the woman’s face. It had been in the glove compartment of Darren’s car when they had been driving to Cooney’s camp.
Charlene pulled out the picture she’d found at Cooney’s and compared it to the woman on the screen. Although the picture on screen was taken in 1990, there was no mistaking the beauty of Deloris Wyatt.
Charlene opened a new tab and googled images of Candace Hayes and the pictures were identical. Now the question was why did Cooney have a picture of Darren’s mother?
This was another piece involving Darren, but what did she really have?
She had Darren’s phone, which she knew was in her father’s name. She had Darren’s mother’s photograph which she’d found at the crime scene. She had Darren’s history with the B-film industry.
She needed more and had come prepared.
She pulled out a piece of notepad paper where she’d jotted down a summary of details on each of the Celebrity Slayer’s murders, including dates and particulars. She searched the LAPD precinct database for the shift schedule and cross referenced the murder dates with Darren’s past schedule. She created a timeline of whether Darren was working, on call or off. The dates matched up pretty well. All of the victims had either disappeared or been killed on a night that Darren was off.
Then Charlene looked at the dates again and thought of her own interaction with Darren. She noticed there had been a lag in the murders, long spaces between a few, and Charlene realized this was when she and Darren had been working together and getting along well. The most gruesome had happened when she’d refused to take his calls and the last one, the probable setup of Cooney had come the same night Charlene had turned Darren down on his after work drink offer.
His invitation, combined with her refusal, had probably pushed him over the edge.
Did it make sense or was she grasping at straws?
She knew she was right, but didn’t have enough to prove it or to convince anyone else. She knew the Slayer, knew his inner, dark secrets. He wanted to be heard. He wanted his story told. She needed to confront Darren, or at least try to persuade him into talking. Charlene was sure that he would talk to her. She had felt a special connection with him on the phone that she was sure she hadn’t dreamed up. Charlene sensed that Darren felt it too.
That was her in.
Chapter 35
Two hours later, Charlene found herself at Darren’s doorstep, rapping on the front door of the low, prewar bungalow.
What are you doing here, Charlene thought to herself.
She looked around the neighborhood but saw no one. She rapped again.
Charlene had spent the last couple of hours going over her plan. She wasn’t sure how confident she was, but she was out of resources, and this was her last resort.
The first step was getting in the door.
She was about to knock a third time when the door opened and Darren stood in the doorway, his hair messed and his eyes squinting.
“Chip,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Charlene pulled the cell phone out of her pocket. “I forgot to give this back to you.” She handed the phone over to Darren.
“That’s where it is. I thought I had lost it. Thanks.” He took the phone and slipped it into his jeans pocket.
Charlene stood on her tiptoes trying to look around Darren and into the house. “Were you sleeping?” she asked.
Darren grinned. “Taking a nap. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was after that whole Cooney thing. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.” Darren smiled at her so she returned it.
Charlene wasn’t sure how to react. Here she was, eye to eye with possibly the most famous serial killer in the history of the city, and she didn’t feel one bit threatened. She could actually feel herself drawn to Darren.
Is this insane?
“Yeah,” she said. “Even standing for long periods of time is hard.”
Darren took the bait.
“Chip, I’m sorry. Would you like to come in and sit down?”
“Well, maybe for just a few minutes.” Charlene limped past Darren and into the front foyer, where the floor was covered in a vintage shaggy carpet.
“Here, let me take your coat.” Darren slipped Charlene’s coat off her shoulders gently while Charlene wiggled out of her boots. “Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.” He motioned towards the living room.
Charlene stepped inside and felt as if she’d entered a time machine. The inside of the house was outdated and in need of a makeover.
She examined an old-style upholstered sofa and found part of a cushion that wasn’t too littered with cat hair and sat down.
“Sorry about the mess,” Darren said when he joined her in the living room. “My mom went out for the afternoon and cleaning isn’t exactly her thing.”
Charlene licked her lips. “All of these pills the doctors have me on really dry out my mouth.”
Darren jumped to his feet. “Would you like a drink? I just bought beer.”
Charlene smiled. “That sounds nice, Darren. Thanks.”
He turned to leave but stopped. “Wait…can you drink alcohol while on those pills?”
Charlene winked. “It will be our little secret.”
Darren smiled. “Okay.”
When Darren left the room and entered the kitchen that was connected by a swinging door, Charlene got up and began searching the room for anything.
She checked the book shelves, drawers, end tables, piano bench seat and anywhere else that had a hidden storage compartment. The retro living room was littered with pictures of Candace Hayes in costume, on stage, behind the set, and some modeling poses.
“Man, this woman loves herself,” Charlene mumbled.
She could hear Darren fidgeting in the fridge, pulling out two bottles that clanked together. She heard them land on the counter and then the fizzled sound of the cap being twisted off.
Charlene looked around the dim-lighted room and felt that the only thing missing was a disco ball hanging in the center. She rushed back to her seat, but had a few extra seconds before Darren entered the living room carrying two sweating brown bottles. He handed her one and then took a seat opposite her.
Charlene took a long drink and let the cold, smooth liquid swish in her mouth and slipped down her throat. Then she chased it with another.
“So how long have you and your mother lived here?” she asked.
Darren looked around the room. “As long as I can remember. It’s not much, but it’s home.” He took a drink and so did Charlene.
“When was that picture taken?” Charlene motioned to a black and white photograph of Darren’s mother on a book shelf above the television.
Darren looked at the picture. “Oh, probably about twenty years ago. She hasn’t taken many recently, although I think she has aged very well compared to most women her age.”
Charlene nodded, looking around the room for any sign. A few minutes passed without a word exchanged. Charlene took another drink.
“So when are you coming back to work?” Darren asked, almost as if uncomfortable with the silence.
“As soon as I’m healed up.”
He smiled. “You love your job, don’t you?”
Charlene nodded. “I do. What about you?”
“I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.” He raised his glass in the air. “To the job!”
Charlene raised her glass and repeated, “To the job.”
They both drank.
“I never really got to thank you, Darren, for saving my life.”
Darren blushed, his cheeks reddening and a self-effacing smile curling on his thin lips.
“No need, Chip.”
“No, really. How you were able to find me and take down Cooney? That was real brave police work.” She took a drink.
He raised his glass. “You would have done the same thing. You’ve
had a tough time. First your dad, then the Anderson case, your run in with detective Jackson and now Cooney. I bet it hasn’t been easy following in your father’s footsteps. I’m sure everyone has been comparing the two Taylor detectives.”
Charlene brought her hand to her eyes, rubbed them, and shook her head. That sounded familiar. Had the Celebrity Slayer said that on the phone?
“Oops,” Darren said. “Did I say that out loud? You must be confused, Charlie.”
Charlene looked at the bottle in her hands, was having trouble focusing on the label, her vision going in and out, the letters on the bottle a blur of fuzz.
She squeezed her eyes shut, closing and opening them rapidly, but the visual disturbances continued to grow. She bent down to peer inside the bottle neck but the liquid looked normal. Confusion set in. Was she getting drunk on one beer?
She felt light-headed and a bit woozy. Her muscles began to relax involuntarily. She tried to grip the bottle, but it slipped from her hand and fell to the carpet. She could hear the liquid pouring out, but the muscles in her neck wouldn’t allow her head to bend and look down. She attempted to pick the bottle up before it made too big of a mess, but when her brain demanded her muscles to move, they ignored her and remained motionless.
“Are you alright?” Darren asked. “Let me get that bottle.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The bottle…” but her voice trailed off. She didn’t recognize it. In her mind her speech sounded slurred and slow.
She watched him get up, walk over, bend down and pick up the bottle, setting it on the coffee table that had two ashtrays with burning cigarettes.
Charlene felt lazy, relaxed and totally at ease. Almost sleepy. That’s when she realized it…Darren had drugged her.
He walked around behind her, and Charlene could feel him drop his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and she could smell his breath and feel it on her neck.
She tried to go for her gun but her reaction time was slow, as if moving on a film reel at a slowed-down pace. Darren already had her weapon. When had he taken it?
“You should have left it alone, Charlie,” he whispered in her ear. “Cooney could have been your man. The case would have been closed. We could have been together. But you’re too much like your dad.”
He walked back around and knelt in front of her. This time, when Darren looked into Charlene’s eyes, she saw something she had never seen before…pure evil.
She was paralyzed. She tried to scream but her vocal chords were useless.
He retook his seat across from her and sat back, steepling his fingers and bringing them to his face, perfectly relaxed. He smiled, pulling a tiny vial from his pocket and holding it up for her to see.
“How do you feel?”
She didn’t respond.
“It’s a chemical restraint concocted by a Colombian cocaine drug lord. The cartel gives it to people who steal from them, so the thieves can watch themselves being dismembered, limb by limb, by power tools. Colorless, odorless, tasteless and the best part, it escapes the body in twelve hours leaving no trace.”
So that’s why victims weren’t found until a day or two after they’d been killed, to give the drug time to wear off. There was never any sign of drugs in their urine or bloodstream.
Darren smiled. “A poison that will render the victim totally paralyzed, while still keeping them alive and aware, was never thought possible, biologically speaking. Muscles require nerve impulses, and we would suffocate if, say, the diaphragm was paralyzed.
“They call it El Insensible. The English translation is The Unfeeling. I know, not very creative, but blame the Colombians.”
With his left hand, he grabbed Charlene by the right wrist and pulled her towards him. He bent his knees and back and flung her over his shoulder, slid his right hand between her legs and straightened his knees in a squatting exercise to lift her off the ground—as if he’d done it many times before.
“Dead weight,” he grunted.
Charlene could do nothing but stare at the shaggy carpet. She tried again to cry out, to swing and flail her arms and legs, but her body was out of her control and was not cooperating with her brain signals.
She watched carpet change to linoleum tile as they moved through the swinging door and crossed the kitchen to the back of the house. She heard a door swing open and saw the tile being replaced by wooden steps as they descended into darkness.
As they reached the bottom, the dank, dark dampness and cold air hit her.
Darren flicked a light switch at the bottom of the staircase, and Charlene was gently laid onto the top of a steel, bloodstained table. She could smell stale urine and feces. Her limp body trembled.
“I had big plans for us, but when you looked me up this morning, I knew it wouldn’t work between us. I was very disappointed that it had to end like this.”
He must have seen surprise in her eyes. He pulled a small device from his pocket and held it up to her. It looked like a USB flash drive.
“You know, China has some of the most sophisticated hackers in the world. It’s amazing what you can acquire on the internet. The week you were promoted, I set up this redirecting hardware on your computer. I just accessed your account by decoding your password, ‘DADDYS GIRL’.” He smiled. “Then I installed this onto your computer, hoping you wouldn’t notice it and you didn’t.
“All of the activity from your computer was sent to my laptop here at home so I could track anything you searched. When I saw my name pop up during your internet trail, I figured you’d made the connection.” He shook his head and wagged his finger. “You shouldn’t have looked up my mother. Now look what you’ve made me do.”
He rounded the table and moved behind her. She was unable to turn or move her head to follow, but she heard what sounded like steel utensils being dropped on a metal tray. She could feel goose bumps jump on her bare arms.
Charlene felt like a newborn baby—helpless, out of control, unable to communicate or express herself. But, unlike a baby, she couldn’t move, not even squirm. Terror seized her chest and tore at her insides. She could hear her own heartbeat hammering her chest bone. Tears and perspiration ran down her cheek, splashing onto the stainless steel.
“How rude of me,” Darren said, taking her head in his hands and rotating her neck so she could now see on the other side of the table.
“Don’t cry,” he said, swiping away a tear on her cheek with his thumb. He had turned her head to the side so she could see him walk over to a tool bench that was strapped to a wall. He opened three drawers. “I just wonder how much you put together.” He looked back and smiled, removing some tools.
He held up a knife, a menacing looking jagged-edged blade that was at least ten inches in length. It was still stained. “I used this one on Sophia Harding.” He smiled proudly. “She was my first and a real screamer. I was sloppy, as most newbies are. But man, I was hooked.”
He dropped the weapon on the metal table and picked up another. This one was a smooth-edged blade, shorter and thinner, looked more like a knife used to skin wild game. He sighed. “Elizabeth Jenkins. A pretty little young thing. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to take on the world. It’s a shame she picked a profession that tore apart families.”
He set that weapon down and stared at the array of cutlery, shining in a row, placed neatly on the table. “You know, I could go on and on about each weapon, but that would bore you. I know what you really want to hear.”
He returned to the table and pulled a chair up to the edge, but didn’t sit down. He began to smooth out her matted hair, running his fingers gently through the strands and planting his face in her hair. He breathed in softly. With one hand, he massaged her scalp gently, twirling her hair, and he used the other to trace his fingertip over her face, gently running up and down and around, in a tickling fashion. He gently kissed the side of her neck, sucking and nibbling softly.
“I’m going to kiss every square inch of your body,” he whispered. “I’m
going to treat you like a princess, the way you should be treated.”
As valiantly as she tried, Charlene still couldn’t move. She tried to wiggle, tried to struggle, to scream, to claw, to bite, to scratch, but her body parts were immovable.
“But before I do that, I want you to know everything.”
He sat down, crossed his legs and clasped his hands together, resting them in his lap. “I guess I will begin with my mother.
“She was a beautiful woman, built to be a star. What she was never meant to be was a wife or mother. I believe she’d always been goal-oriented, and having children was probably seen as something that would only interfere with achieving success in film.”
He got up and went to the wall, pulling a dust-covered wine bottle from a rack-full that was attached to the wall. He blew on the cap, twisted off the outer tin layer, and using a cork screw, removed the cork. He poured himself a healthy portion and returned to his seat, sipping gently.
“Delores met my father in the summer of ’87. He was in LA on leave from his military duties. One unexpected pregnancy later, a shotgun wedding, and an unwelcomed bright-eyed baby boy joined the scene. But my birth never slowed down my mother.”
He took a sip and continued. “She continued to live the fast life, shooting movies all over California, drinking excessively, doing drugs, and being the life of parties. My father quit the army and became a stay-at-home dad. I remember as I got older, three and then four, hearing the shouting matches, living in a house full of hate and contempt. Delores would stay away for months at a time, only to return when it suited her, trying to be the wife and mother that she couldn’t be. My dad was soft, weak, and always took her back.”
Darren drained the remainder of the glass in one big slug and refilled.
“My father hung on for years, but it finally reached the boiling point in ’94. After years of unfaithfulness, Delores fell in love with one of her flings. My dad had had enough and kicked her out for good. But the deceit didn’t just break up our family, it broke my old man’s heart. He tried to carry on, start over, but less than a year later he died of a cardiac arrest. But the stupid, lonely old man either forgot to change the will, or had never gotten over my mother, because he left everything to her. She moved back in, this time bringing home her lover in the process, Mr. Sean Cooney.”