by A B Whelan
“Did you ever release the image of the footprint to the media?” Brestler asks this essential question that makes me gaze at him with adoration. I’ve come to hold Brestler in high regard. The confidence and professionalism radiating from him give him an air of authority. His age is difficult to estimate because clean living and exercise keep him energetic, agile, and in great shape, while the worn skin on his face gives away that he’s seen harsher days. Long scars and small blemishes give him a rough appearance that I found unattractive at first but that I’ve rather grown to like now.
“To the media? Of course not,” says the CSI, offended.
Brestler massages the spot on his nose between his eyes. “Let’s get back to the car. We need to talk.”
“I’d like to stay for a while and take some notes. I want to get a feel for the victim’s personality if you don’t mind.” I sound as if I’m asking permission to do my job. I should have constructed my sentence into a statement, not a request. I’m an FBI Special Agent. I’m here to investigate a serial murder case by any method necessary. No handholding needed.
Anaya opens the cover on her iPad. “I’m staying too. I need to take some pictures.”
Brestler zips down his coveralls and tucks a pen inside his jacket pocket. “I’m going to grab a coffee across the street. I’ll meet you two in the parking lot. Take your time.”
I turn my focus to the job at hand. I meticulously observe the contents of the refrigerator. On food-stained and scratched-up plexiglass shelves sits an array of uncovered leftover microwave dinners, Styrofoam takeout boxes, a few beers, a jug of lemonade, and a single Yoplait low-fat yogurt. No fruits or vegetables. No milk or juice for her kid. The cupboards contain a vague collection of canned soups, boxed macaroni and cheese, and an open bag of Goldfish. A guaranteed recipe for developing cancer over time. Unwashed plates and cups are piled up in the sink and flies circle in the air above. There is no dish soap on the countertop, and I can’t locate a dishwasher either.
A small round table and three chairs are nestled in the corner, laden with unopened mail and magazines. Blood drops are splattered on top of them, marked with forensics’ sticky-notes.
I stop for a moment to put myself in Meredith’s shoes. I try to determine what upbringing led her to this chaotic life. She may have been the youngest or the second to youngest in a line of siblings, likely growing up with few or no house rules and with the lack of parental supervision or guidance, leading to an early rebellious life, dating boys at a young age, and getting pregnant in her teens. Her dad may have been absent or broken down by life to care too much about yet another little girl. Many young girls who grow up with an alcoholic father who had a strained relationship with his children seek approval from other men.
I let my eyes linger on a photo of Meredith and her daughter on the mantel. It’s a double selfie taken at the park at what seems to be a birthday party for another kid. She was a beautiful woman: olive skin, dark curly hair, sparkling green eyes. She probably didn’t have a lot of close friends. Based on her career and the amount of clothing, shoes, and cosmetics I find in the apartment, I consider Meredith as someone who cared about how she looked; appearance seemed to be important to her. If friends did frequently visit her at home, I doubt she would have kept the place in such disarray.
The TV is missing from the stand, and the charging cables on the desk suggest her laptop was stolen, but there must have been little here worth taking. Why risk prison for a few bucks? Unless Meredith kept rolls of cash hidden somewhere, which would suggest her assailant knew her.
I jot down a note to myself about looking into her clientele at the gentleman’s club, anyone who might have harassed her or been obsessed with her.
I catch Anaya entering the bedroom from the corner of my eye. “I’m done taking pictures. You need more time?”
“Something is bothering me about this victim,” I say. “Look around! Why would anyone ever consider a home invasion in this low-rent, rundown apartment? There are no riches here worth stealing.”
“I thought the same. That’s why I asked you to come here and take a look. Meredith doesn’t fit the previous victims’ profile the guy’s been targeting.”
“Criminals can change their MOs. But to me, it seems, that here, Meredith was the primary target, and our guy opened a few drawers and took the TV to make it look like a robbery.”
“Let’s find Brestler, then we can head down to the PD. The homicide investigators from San Diego County will meet us there too.”
“All right,” I agree, closing up my notebook.
On my way out, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. It’s my mom. I hesitantly answer it.
“Victoria Emma Collins! I can’t believe you set your FBI friends on me!” Mom’s yelling hysterically on the other end. “Your fixation with finding something bad in your life has put our entire family in jeopardy!”
“What are you talking about, Mom? Why are you being so dramatic? I told you the FBI is investigating my background.”
“Why can’t you just be happy, Victoria? Please, tell me!”
“I am happy. This has nothing to do with me. I thought you knew about the phone interview with the Bureau.”
“Apparently, your father set it up, and he isn’t even here.”
“Where is he?”
“Up in Utah, as I told you. He won’t be back till tonight.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mom. This whole thing is out of my control. If you had told me the truth when I asked you, this whole situation could have been avoided, but you chose to keep secrets from me.”
“What secrets? Why can’t you let this go?”
“I have a brother I never knew. I don’t know who he is or where he lives. But I know he’s a criminal and had a hell of a tough time growing up. How could you throw him away, Mother?”
“I didn’t throw anybody away! You need to stop saying that!”
“Then how can you explain what’s going on?”
A long silence prompts me to call out to my mother three times before I hear her voice again.
“Well, I told everything I know to the FBI. The cat is out of the bag. Come and visit me when you can. I’ll tell you what you want to know, although, I’m sure you’ll find out the truth at work soon enough anyway. But Victoria, I must warn you. It will not be easy to hear the truth, let alone digest it.”
My legs begin shaking, and I hold up two fingers to Anaya, indicating that I’ll join her and Brestler in two minutes. Then I turn away, facing the apartment building. “I want to hear the truth now.”
“No, not on the phone. We need to talk about this in person. Your father and I will be here all weekend. Come by anytime.”
“You can count on it,” I promise and disconnect the line without saying goodbye. I don’t think I’ve ever hung up the phone on my mother. But I’m beyond angry now. I’m facing problems with Doug at home, my life is in shambles, and in the meantime, I’m chasing a copycat serial killer. The last thing I need is a gigantic family complication to add to the problems in my life.
I’m also disappointed in my father. After leaving three messages on his voicemail since my meeting with the chief, he hasn’t called me back. I understand he’s away for work, but there is no way he couldn’t spare a moment of his time to talk to me. This is so unlike him. I’m always worthy of his time.
I stare at the screen of my iPhone for a moment. Then I do something I’ve never had to do before. I use the find my phone option on my cell to locate my father.
What I see leaves me breathless.
19
It’s becoming impossible to do my job with my family sidetracking me with their dirty secrets and lies. I’ve been put on paid leave after being on the job for only three months because a long-lost brother of mine I’ve never met—never heard of—discredits me at work. Now my conscience is forcing me to leave a crime scene and my colleagues for a family emergency. I’ll end up driving to a nearby city to investigate why my
father’s phone is in California instead of Utah, where he is supposed to be. If I keep this up, I’ll go from the “new rising star” to a failed agent who never reached her potential.
I don’t mean to complain or pass the blame. I was the one who made the decision to check on my father; no one forced me. I could have ignored the fact that he wasn’t in Utah like he told my mother, and let my parents work out the problems in their marriage on their own, but digging for the truth is what I do, and that need drove me to follow my instincts.
Halfway to my destination, I comfort myself knowing that nobody has heard from my father for two days, and he may be in trouble, so I’m obliged to investigate. I use this excuse for abandoning my job as I pass along El Camino Real road, chasing my father’s phone GPS on my Find my Phone app.
Although I live forty miles from Oceanside and I’ve driven by this small beach city numerous times on Interstate 5, I’ve never actually had the pleasure of visiting the place. Ethan has a neighbor whose kid comes up here to play in prestigious soccer tournaments. A few years ago, the city transformed a former landfill into an impressive sports complex. At one of the realtor mixers I attended with Doug, I overheard Ethan criticizing his friend for allowing her young son to perform intense physical activity during the hottest part of the day while inhaling toxic vapors that still fumed from the trash buried deep under the soccer fields. I didn’t pay much attention to the woman’s response, because I know nothing about children or youth sports, but I do remember how intensely Ethan argued with the mother. During their conversation, he became a vivid advocate for children, though he hasn’t any of his own. He has never taken on the responsibility of being married either. But that’s Ethan—the crusader for lost causes.
My Uber driver turns onto Mesa drive, where a robust chemical odor floods the car. I pin my nose looking up at the small plateau along the road blocking my view. The man behind the wheel must have seen me in the rearview mirror because he answers my question before I ask it.
“The new SoCal soccer complex is on the other side of the street, and next to it is a compost treatment facility. Sorry about the foul smell.” My driver resembles a tech-savvy IT guru in Silicon Valley with a light gray V-neck cotton sweater, sleeves pulled up. The hair is completely gone from his egg-shaped head while dark stubble rises high on his cheeks and low on his neck, creating a collar for his long pointy nose that holds his black-rimmed glasses. He seems to be on edge, yet annoyingly friendly. He irritates me because it’s a charade; nothing about him seems to be genuine. I do understand his need to pretend. It can’t be easy to work for instant ratings that can make or break you.
“No worries,” I assure him. I look down and start ripping a broken piece of nail from my thumb, indicating that I’m not up for talking.
We roll into a 55+ community where every street is named after a spice. At first sight, I find the area quaint and neat—prepackaged wealth and happiness for the last hurrah.
We climb a small hill and turn left onto Sesame Way. The dot I’ve been following for two hours has been marking a house only a few yards up ahead on the street.
I reach over the driver’s shoulder. “Would you mind pulling over here?”
He follows my instruction without question.
“I’ll be only a few minutes, then we can head back to San Marcos.”
“That’s fine. It’s your money. I’ll be here.” He rewards me with a half-smile and releases the door lock.
I approach the house on the left with my iPhone in my hand. According to the app, my father is inside the single-story unit home.
The street is a canal of bare concrete with no trees or shrubs for cover. If my father steps out of the house, I’m a sitting duck.
A warm sweat is beginning to bead on my forehead from the combination of the sweltering heat and my nerves. I wipe it away as I casually walk by the target house and peek into the front yard. Behind a black wrought-iron gate, I see a paved sitting area decorated with an abundance of potted green plants and flowers. I hear water gurgling, but I’m too nervous to stop and look for the birdbath or fountain.
I hear laughter. The metal screen door is closed, but the entrance door behind it must be open. When I squint my eyes, I make out the shadows of people. There’s a backdoor that’s open on the other end of the hallway. The flooding sunlight turns the occupants into silhouettes.
I glance back at my Uber. The white Prius is silent by the curb.
I round the corner next to the last house on the dead-end street and find myself at the edge of a greenbelt shaded with tall, dense oak trees. This is more like it.
Using the foliage as cover, I make my way to the back patio of the house where I suspect my father is situated according to my app.
My heart nearly stops when the screen door flings open. I leap backward and press my back against the nearest tree trunk to stay out of sight. I see a plump woman with short blonde hair in a summer dress bursting out of the house, laughing and moving as if someone’s chasing her. Then my father rushes out of the door and envelops the woman in his arms from behind, kissing the side of her neck.
“Oh, Dickie, you’re such a bad boy,” the woman coos in a profoundly affectionate voice.
Dickie? My father's name is Robert. He is a fifty-nine years old businessman. How dare she call him Dickie?
What I’m witnessing crumbles my entire world. My father is my hero and my idol. He is an honest, hardworking man who lives for his family. He never laid a hand on my mother or any of his children. I can count on one hand how many times he raised his voice to us. He is a poster child, husband, and father. Yet I’m seeing him frolicking around with another woman like I’ve never seen him behave before. He seems so happy, free, and careless.
I feel as if I’m sinking into the earth. I can’t breathe, yet a sickening desire keeps my eyes on the couple. They touch and kiss, then my father slips his hand into the woman’s dress and gropes her right breast. That’s too much for my eyes to behold. I’ll be sick. I have to get out of here.
As I turn, I lock eyes with an elderly lady who is staring at me through a screened window in the house next to me.
“Who are you?” she shrieks, and her voice prompts me to run before I’m discovered. Retracing my steps, I sprint to the street and slam against the white Prius driving by slowly. I rip the door open and jump inside.
“Is everything okay?” The driver eyes me, bewildered. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, lock the door, and scoot to the middle of the back seat. “Everything is peachy. I need you to take me back to San Marcos, please.”
The guy sweeps his eyes over the street behind him, as if looking for a clue, then he turns forward and drives away.
I’m hot. I’m sweaty. I’m heartbroken. I take a bottled water from the cooler at my feet and drink it with gusto.
I always thought the reason I could never find a man I wanted to marry was because nobody could measure up to my father. But he is a cheat and a liar! Suddenly, having a bastard brother doesn’t seem so far-fetched. He was young when he married my mother, but I always thought he was content with his life. He never seemed regretful of missing out on the fun other young men had the privilege to enjoy. Was this woman his first mistress? Where there any others? How many more brothers and sisters do I have that I don’t know about? And the biggest question remains: Does my mother know about his infidelity?
A text comes in from Anaya. We are at the ME’s office. Meredith put up a hell of a fight. Has over half a dozen defensive wounds just like Linda. What time will you be back?
I take a moment to push my personal problems to the side and focus on the murder investigation. I close my eyes and take a few breaths.
In 10 min. I’ll see u in a bit, I text back.
After my Uber driver drops me off at the hospital, I vape for a few minutes to win time to organize my thoughts. If I tell my mother what I know, my parents might get divorced. If I d
on’t tell her, then I’m an accomplice to my father’s crimes. I try to figure out what I would want if I were in my mother’s shoes. But it’s hard to identify with her because I’ve never been married and never had children. I can’t even consider the situation unbiasedly because, at this moment, I condemn all men in the world to hell for one man’s crime.
20
Brestler and Reed have been waiting for me at the morgue, where a forensic medical examiner named Dr. Julia Kendrick did the autopsy on Meredith Falcone, and now she is running her preliminary findings by us. Blood, saliva, fiber, and hair samples found on the victim’s clothes and body were bagged and sent to the lab for analysis. I learned the doctor had also combed the deceased's hair and scrapped her fingernails for trace evidence, and swabbed for vaginal fluid, although Meredith wasn’t sexually assaulted.
The cause of death was severe blood loss and loss of function of several essential organs due to seventeen knife-inflicted stab wounds. The young mother was a fighter. She had tried to block the blade with her arms and sustained eight defensive wounds by doing so. Two of those cuts were long and deep gashes, and I could only imagine the pain and hopelessness she must have felt during the attack. As I look down at the dead girl’s body, a profound sadness comes over me. No young child should ever have to bury her mother.
Anaya is intensely studying the autopsy report of the former victim, Linda Osborne, as she stands next to me, holding a beige folder in her hand.
Brestler is on the phone with the chief a few feet away from us, facing the corner. I overhear statements like, “It seems like it, sir.” And “I’ll brief you soon.”
As part of a special operations team, we are not permitted to discuss details about our investigation in front of an unauthorized person, so we refrain from sharing theories for the time being. We are only here to collect as much information as possible for future analysis.