Victim 14

by KJ Kalis

  Taking on a new case was something Emily wasn’t sure she was ready to do. She folded her arms across her chest and stared. All the people around her always seem so eager to have her take on a new case, but it wasn’t that simple. It might seem that way on the outside, but each and every time she went out to try to get justice for someone else, she was reminded she’d hardly gotten justice for herself.

  Unfolding her arms, she rubbed her wrists without thinking about it, the sting of the cold metal of the handcuffs somehow embedded in her skin. After her arrest, her husband left her, choosing drugs and other women over his wife. Emily hadn’t ever dated after that, the hurt and betrayal too deep. A couple of months later, mysterious envelopes filled with five thousand dollars in cash appeared on the first day of every month in her mailbox. Though she never confirmed it, Emily believed it was Luca’s father, Anthony Tizzano, who gave her the money. Emily figured it was Anthony’s way of apologizing for his son’s behavior. Anthony was well known in Chicago, but probably not for the best reasons. Nonetheless, he’d been helpful in her last case with his connections to the other crime families working in Chicago.

  Taking on another case meant taking on more risk. The odds of anyone helping her on the case — whether that was Mike or Alice or Anthony — getting arrested were slim. Even if they did, they’d only suffer minor charges. That wouldn’t be the case for Emily. She’d dropped enough bodies in the name of justice that the feeling of steel handcuffs could become a daily reality for her. A shiver ran up her spine. “I just don’t know if I want to take on any other cases. And, if these are happening every six months, then they aren’t exactly cold.” Emily only took on cold cases. It was what she was good at and how she made her name in the Chicago Police Department. It also helped her avoid any chance of bumping into local law enforcement while they were hot on the trail. The last thing she needed was to end up in jail.

  “That’s not exactly true,” Mike said, chewing his lip. He stared back at his computer for a moment and then brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Think about the families who lost loved ones at the beginning. It’s been seven years for those people. Whoever this serial killer is, he takes someone new every six months. To date, thirteen people have been killed in the same city, in the same way, every six months. No one has been able to solve it.”

  “You’re talking like I could make a name for myself if I figured it out.” Emily frowned. The last thing she wanted to do was make a name for herself. Anonymity was her friend.

  “You could, but I know that’s not what you want. I was just thinking more along the lines that you could help a lot of families all at one time.”

  To that point, Mike was right. There was a good side to what she did. Delivering justice wasn’t always easy, but if it allowed the people who’d lost someone to move on, then it couldn’t be all bad. Unless you got caught, of course.

  Before Emily could say anything more, Mike interjected again, “I was thinking about how it might be to live in that town. It’s called Tifton. I wonder if people have the months marked on their calendars so they know when to hide in their homes. It’s got to be terrifying.”

  Emily turned back to Mike and sat back down at the table. “Where did you find this case?”

  A couple of keystrokes later, Mike turned the computer towards her, showing her an online forum. “It’s called Unsolved.” He dragged the cursor down the left side of the page. “These are all cases that have gone unsolved for at least five years. I was bored one night and decided to take a look. That’s how I found the story of Cory Hawkins. Six months later, another guy from the same town disappeared. His name was Junior Owen. His family posted on here, too. Can you believe that’s how these families spend their time?”

  Emily almost laughed at the question given who it was coming from. Unlike most people, Mike spent an inordinate amount of time on conspiracy websites and the dark web. The fact that he’d even asked brought a chuckle up the back of her throat. “I suppose so. That’s part of the problem, though. These people haven’t asked for my help.”

  “They would if they knew you were out there. They would if they knew how good you are.”

  Before Emily could say anything else, there was a knock at the back door, the sound causing Miner to leap up and charge, barking, leaving his stuffed T-rex behind in the corner of the kitchen. A wave of concern washed over Emily. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the only person who went through the back door was Mike.

  “I’ll get it. I know who it is,” Mike said, unfolding himself from the chair.

  As Mike walked to the door, Emily noticed he’d put on a little weight. His normally skeletal frame didn’t look quite as thin as usual. That was good. Emily quickly chalked it up to Alice. She must be good for him, Emily thought, still wondering who was at the door. Taking a sip of coffee, she waited for a moment, knowing the drawer behind her had a loaded pistol in it. All she would need to do was twist and grab it if whoever at the door was a threat.

  Listening, she could tell by the low murmuring that Mike knew who it was. Emily relaxed. Mike walked back in the kitchen first, followed by another guy that could have been his brother, just a shorter version. He had wire-framed glasses and carried a backpack that looked a lot like Mike’s. He had the same brown hair, although it was cut a bit shorter, and was wearing beat-up jeans and a White Sox T-shirt. No one in the entire city of Chicago would give him a second look.

  “Emily, meet my buddy, Flynn Cunningham.”

  Inviting someone to her house guaranteed Emily had to say yes to meeting Flynn. Emily swallowed, trying to be as graceful as her personality would allow. “Nice to meet you. I’m Emily.” From behind her, Miner let out a bark, still trying to determine if Flynn was a friend or foe. “And this is a Miner. He’s very friendly but gets a little nervous around strangers. Just give him a couple of minutes before you reach out to him, so he doesn’t bite you, okay?”

  Flynn’s eyes widened, “Okay.” He gave Miner a sideways glance as he pulled up a chair at the table. “So, Mike said you’re interested in the Tifton killings?”

  Emily raised her eyebrows and glanced at Mike, whose cheeks reddened. “Mike was just telling me about them…”

  From his backpack, Flynn pulled a laptop and set it up next to Mike’s. Sitting next to each other, they looked like a couple of college kids trying to finish their homework. Staring at his computer screen, Flynn said, “It’s an interesting case. I’d be happy to share what I know.”

  Emily glanced back at Mike and raised her eyebrows again. “Sure. But how about if you start by telling me how the two of you know each other?”

  Flynn looked up, sighed, and then looked at Emily as if she was interrupting the information he was trying to access on his computer. “We met on a forum. I can’t remember which one…”

  “It was one of the firewall forums, where that guy blathers on about encryption every day,” Mike said.

  Flynn nodded. “Right. Anyway, we started chatting on the side and discovered we have some stuff in common.”

  “What do you do when you’re not busy researching firewalls and serial killers?” Emily asked, re-crossing her legs and running her fingers across the scar on her thigh.

  Flynn glanced at Emily’s leg and then rapidly looked away as if he was staring too long. “I’m a forensic accountant. People hire me to dig through their books or the books of people they don’t like,” he chuckled.

  “We could have used you on the last case,” Mike said. “Trying to figure out what happened with all that money for the Lakeview project was a pain.”

  “You guys helped out with that? That building is beautiful.”

  The last thing Emily wanted to happen was for the two guys to get off on some tangent. She didn’t want them sitting in her kitchen at all. Mike wasn’t any bother, but she didn’t want her house to end up being a hangout for any secret hacker society. They all had their own houses and apartments to hang out in. “So, let’s get back to the discussion at h
and,” she said, straightening in her chair. “The Tifton killings.”

  “Yes, yes,” Flynn said. “To give you the high-level view, seven years ago, someone started dumping parts of bodies into Little Bayou Pond just outside of Tifton, Louisiana. For some context, Tifton is a rural community. No real industry. Not big and fancy like Baton Rouge or New Orleans. Definitely rural. But the fact that torsos were being dropped in the water every six months garnered them national attention, and not in a good way.”

  “It’s only torsos?” Emily asked, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. The idea of chopping bodies up like a butcher at a meat shop twisted her stomach in knots.

  Flynn turned his computer towards Emily so she could see the screen. On it was the chest and waist of a person, cut off at the legs, the skin pale and shriveled, only covering the torso in part. “This is the torso of Joe Day. He’s body three-one.”

  “Three-one? What does that mean? Emily said, frowning.

  “Sorry. It’s how crime enthusiasts have organized the killings. Three stands for the third year. One stands for the first body killed that year. Whoever the killer is, he’s like clockwork. Every six months, someone disappears, and then a few days later the body pops up at Little Bayou Pond. Sadly, local law enforcement has gotten so used to the pattern they send the dogs and the flat-bottomed boats to the pond about a week after someone disappears to see if there’s anything in there. There usually is.”

  The nerves in the back of Emily’s neck tingled. That someone was killing that regularly disgusted her.

  “Do they have any leads on the killer?”

  “No. That’s the thing about it,” Flynn said, his eyes narrowing. “You’d think that after all of these years, the killer would make a mistake. He’d leave something behind on the body that would help identify him.” Flynn tilted his head to the side, “I am assuming it’s a male. It could be a female perp, though. Unfortunately, women as serial killers are becoming more common.”

  Emily blinked. What Flynn was saying was interesting, but she didn’t need him going off into conjecture. “This is fascinating, but what does it have to do with me?”

  Flynn’s head spun towards Mike, “I thought you said…”

  Mike interrupted him before Flynn had a chance to finish his sentence. “Emily, I know how much you don’t like to see people suffering. There are a whole lot of families in Tifton that are doing just that. I found another post from this guy named Bradley. His brother, Sean, was body five-one. He was taken a couple of years ago and then his body resurfaced six days later in the Little Bayou Pond. Bradley, his brother, seems to be pretty obsessed with the fact that Sean was taken and killed.” Mike glanced at Flynn. “Can you show her the picture of Sean?”

  Flynn twisted his computer towards Emily. It was virtually indistinguishable from the first image they’d shown her. Just a torso with no arms and legs, no distinguishing features, and the torso only partially covered by skin. “What happened to the skin?”

  Flynn tilted his head to the side and blinked, “Little Bayou Pond is filled with fish and other critters. I’m sure they make a nice meal out of the torsos that are dropped in there.”

  “Did they ever recover the rest of the body?”

  Flynn shook his head, looking at Emily. “No. The FBI has gotten involved in the cases, but no one has ever recovered the heads or limbs of anyone that the Tifton killer has taken. It’s always the same. Just the pale torso left over, like a chunk of meat.”

  The way Flynn said it made Emily swallow, hard. She stood up and walked to the sink, rinsing out her coffee mug and setting it inside the dishwasher. Wiping her hands on a towel, she said, “This is all very interesting, but I don’t know if Mike told you, but I’m not sure about taking any more cases.”

  Flynn shot a look at Mike. “That’s not what you told me. You said you thought this might be something Emily would be interested in.”

  “Well, that’s technically true. She might be interested in it.”

  Emily shook her head. What had been a serious discussion about a serial killer had now turned to the bickering of two boys. “One thing I always look for in my cases is someone who reaches out to me directly, so they know my story. I’m not sure that fits here.”

  For a second, Emily wondered why it was important to her that someone from the family reach out to her, but in her gut, she knew she wanted them to understand what she’d been through and what she’d been accused of. It was important to her they knew she was good at what she did, but that it didn’t come without baggage. It wasn’t her style to reach out to anyone to offer to help them. They needed to come to her.

  “I think if the families knew who you were, they’d want your help,” Mike said.

  “That might be true, but the reality is, they haven’t asked.”

  “What if I could make that happen?” Flynn said.

  Emily felt a flood of anger run through her body. What were these two guys trying to pull? It wouldn’t be their life on the line if they got caught. They wouldn’t be the ones in jail if they had to kill someone. It would be her. Her freedom would be taken away. She glanced towards Miner who was curled up on his dog bed, still chewing the T-Rex. What would she do with Miner if she got convicted or killed? A chill ran down her spine. She thought by now Mike would understand the risk that was involved. Maybe he didn’t.

  She said nothing for a minute, waiting for her anger to subside. “This is an ambush. That’s all this is,” she said, walking away. As she made her way through the house, the wood floors creaking under her feet, she remembered that it was the beginning of the month. She opened the front door, just in time to see a Chicago Police Department cruiser drive by. She felt prickles on her back. Even after all these long years away from the department, she felt she couldn’t get away from what happened the night she was arrested. She bent over, picking up the mail that had fallen on the front step and reached into the mailbox, finding the envelope with five thousand dollars in cash sitting in it.

  Emily took the steps two at a time to the second floor, going into her bedroom. On the wall, there was a photograph of Lake Michigan. She swung it to the side, revealing a wall safe. Punching in the code and putting her finger on the reader, the door popped open. She tossed the envelope inside on top of a pile of other envelopes she barely touched. “I’m going to have to do something about that,” she mumbled, realizing the safe was nearly full.

  Emily closed the safe door and pushed the picture back against the wall. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, Emily sighed. In a way, she felt bad telling Mike and Flynn they’d ambushed her. But they did. The cases she took should be her choice, not theirs. Was the story they were telling her important? It was. But was she ready to take another case? She didn’t know…

  Standing up fast enough that it startled Miner, Emily darted out of the bedroom and down the steps. Flynn and Mike were still huddled over their computers, leaning so close together that their hair was practically touching. Two steaming cups of coffee were in front of them. Mike must have gotten one for Flynn, Emily thought. She slumped down in the third of the four chairs at the kitchen table, leaning forward and staring at Flynn, “You said you might be able to make contact with one of the families?”

  Flynn’s eyes widened. He turned to look at Mike and then looked back at Emily, “I think so. I mean, some of these people post on the forums pretty often. This case is legendary.”

  Legendary. The idea that it was a famous case made it all that much more dangerous for Emily. The skin on the back of her legs crawled a little bit. Was she doing the right thing? Emily didn’t know. But something in her gut told her that if law enforcement hadn’t been able to solve the murders in seven years, someone needed a fresh look at the case. Someone who was outside of the local law enforcement and the FBI. That would be her.

  “Make contact. Let’s see where this goes.”

  3

  The musty smell of the cellar was what Ollie always remembered first about the
small storage space below his house. Most homes in Louisiana were built on a slab, or even better, on posts. Too much flooding. But, for some reason, the old house Ollie lived in had a small cellar. As he walked down the creaky planked wooden steps, he realized it probably wasn’t for storing much more than root vegetables someone wanted to hold on to over what winter Tifton had. But to him, it had become something more.

  There wasn’t a lot of light in the space. The little light there was came from a few dangling bulbs in the ceiling. Ollie pulled the chain on the first one that covered the path down the steps. There was a second bulb right at the bottom of the stairs and a third at the back of the small space. The uncovered bulbs cast sharp shadows in the space no matter the time of day. Ollie’s body ached with the long day he’d had working at the machine shop, his body hunched over a metal press, making fittings. It seemed like he was never able to straighten up anymore, a permanent ache between his shoulder blades. It just added to the pain he carried with him.

  Standing at the bottom of the steps, Ollie noticed the cellar seemed particularly dark. There was no reason why, except that it was nighttime and the small window that led outside wasn’t bringing in any daylight. During the daytime, it would let a tiny bit of light in the space, but now, at night, there was only darkness. Ollie blinked a couple of times and then looked at the chair that was bolted to the floor just opposite the window. The first time he brought someone into the cellar, it wasn’t bolted down. The whole scenario was completely unplanned. A rare opportunity, in his mind. Ollie had been at a bar and saw a man that looked an awful lot like his wife’s new husband, Ned, the man that had become a father to his girls and had taken them away from him. That same night, Ollie had too much to drink and found the man in the parking lot as he was trying to leave. The man that looked like Libby’s new husband never made it home.

  In the cellar off to the left, there was a workbench made of dry, dusty wood. It was nothing more than some scrap wood nailed together by whoever had owned the house before Ollie bought it. Ollie imagined the previous owners used it as a place to set their baskets of potatoes and onions so they were at least off the floor. For a moment, he wondered how that worked, given the fact that nothing in Louisiana ever really cooled off. Most root sellers needed to be chilly enough to preserve the food and prevent mold. He shook the thought away as he took the few steps to the workbench. Potatoes and onions were the least of his worries.