by Elle Gray
“Right on time,” I mutter.
Just before she draws even with the bush I’m sheltering behind; I stand up. She’s startled and staggers to the side, completely off balance. Bethany opens her mouth, ready to scream, so I drive my fist straight into her face. Her head snaps backward. I feel the satisfying crunch as her nose gives way beneath my hand. Moving quickly, I grab her by the neck and drag her into the clearing among the trees and throw her to the ground.
Bethany lays there for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the darkened sky above, but her gaze unfocused. The moonlight sparkles on the beads of sweat upon her brow, illuminating her skin as if dotted with small chips of silver. She is dazed, blood flowing from her nose, but she gives herself a shake and tries to be present and in the moment. She attempts to rise, but I put my foot in the middle of her chest and push her back down, holding her in place.
At that, her eyes come more into focus, and she finally seems to see me. I watch as the panic flashes through her features. Everything she’s been taught about surviving an attack flows through her mind. Unable to see my face, she focuses instead on my eyes. As if trying to remember every last detail. As if she’s getting out of this alive.
Yeah, good luck with that.
“Hello Bethany,” I say.
I didn’t think it possible for her skin to turn paler, but her face blanches, and she turns an unearthly shade of white. She opens her mouth and looks ready to scream again, but perhaps remembering what happened the last time she tried, she closes her mouth again. Good girl.
Slowly, I sit down on her, straddling her hips. I sit astride her body, pinning her hands beneath my knees, and stare at her for a long moment. Bethany’s lips tremble, and her eyes glitter with tears as her entire body quivers beneath me.
“H—how do you know me?” she gasps.
“I know everything there is to know about you,” I tell her. “In fact, I probably know you better than you even know yourself.”
I roll the balaclava up and let her see my face, expecting to see the light of recognition in her eyes. Expecting to hear the stream of profuse apologies for what she did to me. For how she tried to use and deceive me. But there’s nothing. She looks at me like I’m a total stranger to her. All I can do is shake my head.
“Wow,” I note. “Clearly, you lie to and screw over so many men; you can’t even remember us all.”
“Please,” she whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please just don’t hurt me.”
I lean down, putting my face inches from hers and inhale deeply, savoring the rich, citrusy aroma of her shampoo… and her fear. A low whimper passes her lips. Tears spill from the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t— don’t know what you w-want,” she stammers. “Please, just— I won’t— tell anybody about—”
I cut her off with a backhand that snaps her head to the side. She lets out a choked sob as a thin crimson rivulet spills from the corner of her mouth. I slip the backpack off my shoulders and set it down beside me, then unzip it and pull the knife out.
Bethany’s eyes are wide, and her mouth falls open as she gapes at the long, serrated blade in my hand. A cruel grin on my lips, I slide the very tip of the blade along her cheek, making her flinch away.
“Please tell me what I did to you,” she says, sniffing back her tears. “You said I screwed you over, so please just tell me what I did. Let me make it right.”
I slide the point of my blade down her neck, slipping it down between her breasts, caressing her with it. I give her a grin.
“Oh, I think we’re way past that,” I tell her. “It’s time you learn a lesson, you manipulative whore— and for others to learn a lesson from you.”
A low, deep chuckle spills from my mouth. Bethany’s eyes grow wide, and she opens her mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a ragged, hoarse croak.
Nineteen
Haversham Park, West Seattle
Paxton
I lean against a tree in the park with my Bluetooth earpiece in my ear. The clouds above are a mottled gray and black, making the sky looks battered and bruised. There’s a storm moving in, and already a light drizzle is starting to fall. Which seems appropriate, given the circumstances in which I find myself in the park this morning.
Yellow crime scene tape has been strung up, cordoning off a section of the park, and a few uniforms are milling about, keeping all of the looky-loos out. It makes me recall my days walking the tape less than fondly.
I see a couple of print reporters I recognize among the crowd. They’ve got photographers with them, but I don’t see any camera crews. I find it kind of sad that the death of a young woman doesn’t seem to be worth much more than a two-hundred-word blurb in the local crime beat to our local media. But if they knew this was the fifth in a string of killings by the same man, you can guarantee there would be news trucks setting up live feeds, interviewing the crowd, and clamoring for shots of the body being taken out of the trees.
How cynical, jaded, and screwed up is our world?
“Yeah, looks like something’s up out here,” I say into the phone.
With some free time now that he’s got a new tech to help thin the workload, Brody has been expanding his reach. One of his new hobbies has been monitoring the police frequencies. I’d tell him to get a new hobby, perhaps something a little healthier, but once he gets into something, there’s no dissuading him. And in this case, his obsessive nature worked to my benefit.
He likes to razz me about my obsessive “dog with a bone” nature, but Brody is exactly the same way. He’s just a bit more casual about it. When something catches his interest, he dives deep into it, learning everything he can. And I mean everything. He’s been this way since I’ve known him. And I guess, given the parade of women I’ve seen pass in and out of his life on a regular basis, his hobbies aren’t impacting his social life all that much.
He certainly balances his obsessions and a social life better than I do. If I were interested in putting myself out there and dating again, I’d probably be wise to take some tips from him.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“Looks like a fresh crime scene,” I tell him.
“Obviously,” he shoots back. “Is it one of… his?”
“Not sure,” I reply. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“We should probably know if it is.”
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him. “Stand by.”
I move closer to the tape, sticking to the fringes of the crowd that’s gathered. Something that has never failed to amaze me— or perhaps disgust me— is no matter what time of the day or night, it always seems like a crowd is there. It’s like people have a sixth sense for death and need to be there to see the gore. Or maybe there are more people who share Brody’s newfound obsession with monitoring police frequencies than I thought.
Hanging at the edge of the crowd, I immediately see the similarities to Stella’s crime scene. The body is in a small copse of trees, and I can see some of the suits already gathered around it, taking notes, discussing the situation. Or maybe they’re discussing last night’s ballgame and cracking jokes over the body. Honestly, given what I know of the SPD, it’s probably the latter.
I look around at the surrounding neighborhood. The street is lined with nice, but not extravagant homes. A typical middle-class neighborhood. The copse itself offers a bit of privacy, while still ensuring the body will be found quickly, probably by early morning joggers.
“I think our guy knows the area. Knows all the areas he’s killed in,” I note to Brody, drawing a quizzical look from a young woman next to me.
I give her a nod, compress my lips into a tight line, and move away from the tape a bit. Her eyes remain on me though, and I can see her brain working. Probably trying to figure out where she knows me from, and the answer to that is probably from the media coverage in the wake of the Alvin Perry case.
Although it’s nice to be known as something other than being the one-time presumptiv
e heir to the Archton Media empire, I’m getting a little tired of reliving past glories. At this point, I kind of feel like a thirty-four-year-old man still wearing my varsity letterman’s jacket from high school.
“What makes you think that?” Brody asks.
“Gut feel. He knew enough about the area to know the park would be empty last night, making it safe for him to work,” I explain. “And I get a sense he knew the body would be found first thing this morning. He wants his victims found. It’s why he stages them the way he does.”
“The fact that he’s not getting any media runs has gotta be pissing him off,” Brody muses. “Could be why there was less of a cooling-off period between this vic and Stel— the last vic.”
I can hear the pain in his voice. Not that I don’t still feel the lance of pain pierce my heart at the mention of Stella. But he’s trying to keep his emotions under wraps. By calling her “the last vic”, he’s depersonalizing her, and if that’s what he needs to do to get through this, so be it. We all have ways we cope with our grief.
“Yeah, there was what, three weeks between the murders?” I ask.
I hear the clacking of keys as Brody verifies the information. “Yeah, about that.”
“And how long between Stella and Dana?” I ask, referencing the victim prior to Stella.
In contrast to Brody, I make a point of using their names. I don’t want them to be depersonalized. I need names and faces. For me, keeping this case personal— so long as I can keep my emotions in a locked box inside of me— is essential. Because of the view I take of the world around me and my natural cynicism, I need to be reminded of the real-world stakes of these sorts of cases. These aren’t just faceless victims. I need to remember these were young, beautiful women with whole lives of dreams, ambitions, and goals ahead of them.
But that’s just me. I know my way of approaching this case isn’t the same as Brody’s. I’m not going to berate him or try to batter him into conforming to my way of doing things. I can be a jerk sometimes, but not like that.
“Looks like a little more than five weeks,” Brody says.
“Significantly reduced cooling off period.”
“That can’t be a good sign.”
“It’s usually not,” I reply. “It could potentially be a sign that he’s unraveling and may go off on a spree. There could be a lot more bodies dropping soon if we don’t catch the guy.”
“Could also be that he’s trying to get on the media’s radar, couldn’t it?” Brody asks. “I mean since there’s been a total media blackout by SPD.”
“Yeah, it could be that too,” I confirm. “But that again could lead to him dropping a lot more bodies just to get some attention.”
Brody says something I don’t catch because I see a cop I’m familiar with walking the tape— one who doesn’t turn and walk away the moment he spots me.
“Let me call you back.” I disconnect the call without waiting for him to reply and walk over to the tape.
“Chris,” I say. “Nice morning to be walking the tape.”
“Is there ever a good time to be doin’ it?”
We share a pained, forced half-laugh. Chris is a good guy. We partnered together a few times. He works hard, is good at his job, and is one of the cops who do things the right way for the right reasons. He and I always got on well. He’s not an exceptionally big guy, standing only about five-nine, but he’s all lean muscle body. He was a sprinter back in high school and had his sights set on the Olympics, but a ruptured Achilles cut that short. The man is tough. He knows how to handle his business if push comes to shove. If I were to ever find myself in a bar fight, I’d want him on my side.
“How you been, Pax?” he asks. “How are things in the private sector?”
“I’ve been good,” I tell him with a nod. “And the private sector’s busy. Keeps me jumping. There’s a never-ending supply of cheating spouses and runaway kids.”
“So, what brings you out here?”
“Your body out there, actually,” I tell him.
“Yeah, you know I can’t let you under the wire. They’d have my ass… and then my badge.”
I look around and see the rest of the people jockeying for position at the tape fixated on the scene playing out in the trees. There’s a muted buzz of conversation as gossip and wild speculation spread through the crowd like wildfire.
“I don’t need you to let me under the wire,” I tell him, my voice low. “I just need to ask a few questions.”
“I honestly don’t know much, man,” he replies. “But we’re under a gag order here. If they see me talking to you…”
He doesn’t finish his statement. I know all too well the threats and intimidation tactics the SPD uses to ensure the uniforms stay silent at a crime scene.
“I get it, Chris,” I tell him. “But I’m working for Marcus Hughes right now. I’m looking into the murder of his daughter, and I think this case is related.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “I met Marcus a few years back at an event at the Key... good dude,” he says. “Heard about his daughter. It’s awful. How’s he doing?”
KeyArena was the home of the Sonics back when they were in town. Even after they left, the WNBA team, the Seattle Storm, kept it open for years, and a number of concerts and high-profile events always use the space. Now it’s been refurbished, has been renamed the Climate Pledge Arena, and will soon home Seattle’s new NHL expansion team. A lot of off duty cops moonlight as security at the arena during basketball season. It’s good money for a pretty relaxed gig.
“About as well as you’d expect,” I say. “He’s been through a lot.”
Chris nods, a frown on his face, no doubt thinking about his own two daughters. I know I should feel guilty intentionally pulling on his heartstrings like I am. I should feel like a schmuck for manipulating him like this. But I don’t because this is all for a greater good. This is to save lives. And if I have to be a little deceitful and manipulative to do that, then so be it.
He looks around nervously for a moment, then leans toward me, lowering his voice as he speaks.
“It’s bad back there, Pax. Girl’s naked and splayed out. Tossed out like garbage,” he sighs. “She’s been stabbed like fifty times. She had her chest ripped open and get this… her heart was taken. Can you even believe that?”
I clench my jaw and nod. “Yeah. Unfortunately, I can.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You’re not saying Stella was—”
“This is between you and me, Chris,” I tell him. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, you know you can count on my discretion,” he says firmly. “Always.”
I know I can. Chris is somebody I know can keep a secret. But because I don’t fully trust anybody, I need to make sure I put it out there that this is to be kept between us. I can’t afford any misunderstandings.
“So how many are there?” he asks.
I gesture to the trees. “She makes five.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
I really want to get back there and survey the crime scene. I need to see the body as it fell and get a sense of how everything went down. But I know it’s not going to happen. With a fifth body now, I’m feeling an incredible amount of pressure on my shoulders. It’s stifling.
I’m lucky enough to see another familiar face heading our way. Detective TJ Lee is approaching the tape, behind Chris, and he doesn’t look pleased. I make a point of frowning and giving Chris a hard look. Chris is no dummy, and when he reads my expression, he knows what’s about to happen. That somebody who can make his life a living hell is coming up on him from behind.
“Come on, man,” I say loudly enough for TJ to hear. “Give me something. You owe me, Chris.”
He flashes me a smile that disappears after a split second, then speaks just as loudly, trying to put some heat into his voice for dramatic effect.
“You’re not a cop anymore, Arrington,” he says. “I got nothin’ for you, man. Move it along.”
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TJ steps up beside Chris and glares at me. He looks at Chris, then back at me, the frown on his face deepening.
“What are you doing here, Arrington?” he asks.
“Trying to gather some intel,” I reply. “Officer Morris here isn’t being very helpful. So how about it, Detective? Can you—”
“You need to go, Pax,” Lee cuts me off. “Seriously, you being here’s a bad idea right now.”
“TJ, I need to see the body. I need to see the crime—”
“That’s not going to happen,” he snaps. “You know there’s no way I can sign off on giving you access.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Who’s the ranking officer here?”
TJ’s face darkens. Nobody likes it when somebody goes over their heads. It’s true of beat cops, it’s true of detectives, and it’s especially true of administrative types. TJ isn’t immune to the petty jealousies that come with having somebody trample over your turf. I probably can’t claim that I was totally immune to it either.
“Time for you to go,” TJ says. “Seriously. It’s for your own good.”
“My own good?”
I exchange a look with Chris, who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here at the moment, then turn my gaze back to TJ. It’s then that I realize what he means. And I guess in his own way; he actually is trying to do me a solid.
“Torres is here, huh?” I ask.
TJ turns to Chris and gives him a nod. “Can you—”
“Yeah,” Chris cuts him off.
I watch Chris walk down the tape, away from us, then turn back to TJ.
“Yeah, Torres is here,” TJ says. “And he still doesn’t like you.”
“Pretty sure he’s never going to,” I respond. “And frankly, I don’t care.”
“What are you really doing here?”
I glance over at the copse of trees and see Deputy Chief Torres step out with a small group of suits. It’s got to be the task force Gray said he was going to establish. With Torres in charge of the whole thing, my hopes for them aren’t very high. Torres is exactly one of those loud voices who drown out the competent cops like TJ that Gray mentioned.