by Elle Gray
Brody nods, seeming to accept my assessment. “Okay anyway, I swept the social media accounts of all the victims and came up with nothing,” Brody informs me. “Nothing stands out.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a long shot anyway,” I grumble.
The door to the Fishbowl opens, and Amy steps in carrying a tray. She flashes me a wide smile and sets a tray laden with boxes of Chinese food down on the table.
“You guys have been going at it all morning in here,” she says with a grin. “Thought you could use some food to keep it going.”
I inhale the aroma of the different spices and smile as my stomach rumbles. We had been sequestered away all morning going through the murder books, bouncing different theories off one another, and trying to build an accurate profile of the man we’re hunting. It didn’t hit me until Amy dropped off the food that I actually am starving.
“You’re a mind reader, Amy,” I say. “Thank you for looking out for us.”
She shrugs. “Somebody’s gotta,” she says. “Anything else I can get for you guys?”
I shake my head, and Brody gives her a smile. “We’re good. Thank you, Amy.”
“You got it.”
She walks out, and I grab a box and open it up to see what’s inside. It’s noodles in a thick sauce with beef, green onions, and sesame seeds. There’s a thick scent of garlic in it and my mouth waters as I inhale the aroma. I hold up the box.
“Noodles?” I ask.
Brody shakes his head as he opens his box. “I’m good. I’ll stick with the fried rice.”
I grab some chopsticks and dig in. We eat in silence for a few moments, and I keep turning everything over in my mind. We’ve added some small bits to the profile, but we’re still missing massive pieces of the puzzle. I’m not able to see the full picture yet.
“So were you able to dig anything new up on Bethany?” Brody asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing useful. She was your typical twenty-something. Went out sometimes. Had friends. Dated sometimes. But nothing particularly stands out,” I tell him. “By all accounts, she was more into her job than anything else. Organized to the point of obsessional. But she was kind. Well-liked by her co-workers and everybody else I talked to. Except for the well-liked by everybody bit, she could have been you.”
Brody frowns. “This guy’s all over the place. Not even the girls this bastard’s killing seem to match,” he says. “I thought serial killers stuck to a certain type of victim.”
That was something that had been bothering me as well. I mean, two of the girls— Hailey and Stella— both seemed to be more introverted. Studious. Quiet. Two others, Dana and Ashley, were known to be party girls. The last one, Bethany, was a mixture of both. Not exactly a social butterfly, but not a shut-in introvert either.
“We’ll have to assume it’s purely their physical appearance,” I say. “Nothing about their personalities is consistent. The only thing consistent between them all is how they look.”
Brody puts their pictures all up on the main screen again, and we look at all five women. It’s a stark illustration of our killer’s physical type. But the question that has my mind turning in circles is where did his path cross with all five of these women? They were of such different personalities and habits, and according to their social media accounts, didn’t even frequent the same places.
I take another mouthful of noodles and chew, staring at their pictures as if I can will the answers out of them. But nothing is popping for me. It’s all coming down to those missing pieces of my puzzle looming larger than ever.
The sound of Amy’s raised voice draws my attention, and I see Deputy Chief Torres bulling his way toward the Fishbowl with anger etched into his every feature. Amy is trailing just behind him, shouting at him to stop, but he ignores her. Thanks to the smoked glass, he can’t see in. He can’t see us or what’s up on the monitor, and I remind myself to give Brody another word of thanks for thinking of that.
“Kill the screen,” I tell Brody.
“Already on it.” He taps a couple of keys on his keyboard.
The screen goes dark just as the door swings open, crashing into the stopper before it hits the glass. Amy pushes her way past him and plants herself between Torres and the table as Brody, and I close our laptops so he can’t see what’s on the screens.
“I tried to stop him, Mr. A,” Amy says, a dark expression on her face. “He just came stormin’ in here like the Gestapo or something.”
Torres turns to her, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t you have some filing to do or something?”
I shoot to my feet and plant my hands on the table, leaning forward as I stare hard at him. He stares back at me with rage. The air in the Fishbowl drips with tension and a whispered promise of violence.
“I know you get away with treating your employees like garbage, but this is my house, Torres,” I hiss. “And you will show my employee the proper respect she deserves. You so much as breathe another disrespectful word to her and I will toss you out on the sidewalk myself. I may not even open the window first.”
“You go ahead and try that, Arrington,” he replies. “You go ahead and lay hands on a cop—”
“Just because you wear the uniform, that doesn’t make you a cop,” I cut him off. “And you’ve got no cause to be in here. This is private property, so unless you have a warrant, you’d best follow my rules.”
Torres glares at me but doesn’t say another word. Amy looks at me, asking with her eyes whether she should escort him out or not.
“It’s fine, Amy. I’ll handle this. Thank you,” I tell her.
She gives me a nod, then glares daggers at Torres for another moment before leaving the Fishbowl, closing the door behind her. Brody leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on the table, crossing one ankle over the other as he laces his fingers together behind his head, clearly looking forward to the show.
Torres looks hard at him for a moment. As he does, I pick up my phone and turn on the recorder. Washington is a two-party consent state, so I hold my phone up for Torres to see that I’m recording, and he gives me a sour expression. I set the phone down on the table and let it run.
“Just so we don’t have any misunderstandings or miscommunication down the line, I am informing Chief Torres that I am recording this conversation,” I start formally. “This is as much for your protection as it is mine, Torres. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, fine,” he snaps. “Whatever.”
“Let it be noted that Deputy Chief Torres has acknowledged that I am recording this conversation, and has given his consent,” I state.
“I need to talk to your boss,” he snaps at Brody. “You mind?”
“What part of, ‘this is my house’ are you having trouble understanding, Torres?” I spit. “You don’t get to dictate anything around here. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of my partner.”
Torres scowls, his face darkening, and Brody smiles wider. It’s probably immature, but I’m enjoying being able to say what I want to him without fear of suffering any sort of professional consequences. It’s a refreshing change. I’m enjoying twisting that knife a bit. Just call me Petty LaBelle.
“Fine,” he snaps, hurling the file in his hand at me.
The file hits the desk and opens, spilling papers out across the table. I pick up the first one. It’s a printout of the article that appeared on the Seattle Dispatch. I smirk as I drop it back onto the pile and raise my eyes to his again.
“And?” I ask.
“Telling people you’re working with the SPD is a criminal-”
“First off, I didn’t tell anybody anything. And if you have proof that I did, I’d like to see it,” I reply. “Second, why would I tell anybody I was working with the SPD? I have a good professional reputation to uphold.”
Brody barely stifles a laugh. Torres glowers at him, a dark look in his eyes as he regards us both with utter contempt. I can tell by the malicious gleam in his eyes that he would love no
thing more than to tear my head off my shoulders and shove it somewhere mighty uncomfortable. But still, it doesn’t change the truth in either of my statements.
“As for this article, I already spoke with the writer,” I continue. “I told them it is false, and if they did not take it down immediately, I would sue for defamation and damage to my reputation.”
Brody snorts as he unsuccessfully tries to stifle another laugh. Torres whips his head over to him so fast; I’m half surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. But Brody has already taken his feet down off the table and is tapping away at his tablet. He raises his eyes to Torres and holds the tablet up, showing him the front page of the Dispatch.
“See? Looks like the piece that’s got your knickers in a knot is all gone,” he says.
The veins in Torres’ neck bulge out, and his jaw muscles clench. I know I’m pushing him hard, but after having to deal with his crap for years, I feel entitled. He turns to me, his scowl only deepening.
“What were you doing at my crime scene yesterday?” he growls.
“Does a private citizen need to have a reason to be in a public park?” I ask.
“You’re really pushing it, Arrington.”
I shrug. “You barged into my office voluntarily and without invitation,” I say. “If you’re stupid enough to stand there and listen to me run my mouth, that’s your problem, not mine.”
Brody doesn’t bother trying to hide his laughter this time, and Torres looks absolutely apoplectic. He turns back to me, his eyes burning with fury.
“Let me ask you again. What were you doing at my crime scene?” he hisses.
“What I, as a private citizen, do in my own time is none of your business, Chief Torres,” I shoot back. “Are you accusing me of a crime? Are you planning on arresting me and charging me with something?”
“Did you murder that girl we found in the park?” he asks, his voice brightening. “Seems awfully convenient for you to show up at a crime scene. I know some killers like to show up at crime scenes and watch the fallout. Really gets ‘em off.”
“So just to be clear,” I say, nodding to the phone that’s still recording. “You’re now accusing me of murder. Do you have any evidence, Chief?”
It’s as if he is only now aware there’s a recording device, despite the fact that I already showed it to him. That’s the problem with letting your emotions get the best of you. You lose control and sometimes say stupid things like Torres. Though, to be fair to Torres, he’d say stupid things even if he was in control.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Arrington. I’m merely asking a question,” he says, suddenly finding his professional voice. “As a seasoned investigator, it seems awfully coincidental and strange to me that you would be at a murder scene that had no connection to you at all.”
I stroke my chin and nod. “I see,” I reply. “So, in your mind, me being in that park is indicative of my guilt, or at least my involvement in a homicide.”
“Did you take part in the planning and/or murder of Bethany Stoops?” he asks simply.
“Do you really think I did?”
He shrugs. “I’ve ceased being surprised by the depths of humanity’s depravity,” he says. “It would not surprise me to find out that you were involved.”
I exchange a look with Brody, who’s wearing an expression of disbelief blended with anger. A wry chuckle passes my lips, and I shake my head. This is a new low, even by Torres’ already pathetically low standards.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Torres presses.
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dignify such a stupid question,” I say, nodding to the recorder again. “But, since his is for posterity, I categorically deny any involvement in the murder of Bethany Stoops.”
Torres looks at me with pure hatred in his eyes. I can see just how badly he wants to believe I had something to do with it. I have to wonder, though, if he’d go so far as to try to build a case against me, using false evidence and coerced witnesses. He was friends with Boo Radley, after all. And if there was one thing Boo did well, it was frame people. Perhaps a little bit of that rubbed off on him.
I realize at that moment, that’s why he came here. He didn’t come here to rattle my cage about some article on an independent journalist’s website. He wanted to shake me down. Wanted to look me in the eye and ask me the question to see how I’d react to his veiled accusations.
From the outside looking in, as an investigator, I’d have to say he’s not wrong to be here in front of me. Not knowing I know about the serial killer, or the task force that’s chasing him, me randomly showing up at a crime scene might look a bit suspicious. I was too blinded by my own distaste for the man to see it at first. I guess he’s not the only one who’s a slave to his emotions from time to time. My bad.
On the other hand though, Torres of all people should know I’m not capable of murder. Torres himself used to bust my balls about how rigidly and inflexibly moral I can be. And how I wouldn’t just take the easy way out and wave my gun around to get my way. Personally, I see that as a virtue. To my mind, that Torres doesn’t explains a lot about the sort of man he is. Not that I need the reminder; I remember all too well.
But Torres barging into my office and trying to shake me down tells me that he and his task force have absolutely nothing. He is here grasping at straws. He looks at me with a malevolent gleam in his eye. I see clearly now that this has been his play from the moment he barged in. If he’s not actually trying to frame me, I think he believes that even by intimating he thinks I could be involved, he’ll get me to back off.
“So that’s your final answer?” he asks. “You didn’t have anything to do with Bethany Stoops’ murder?”
“You know I didn’t.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know anything. This is an active investigation, and everything is currently on the table,” he says. “That you showed up to an active crime scene that you had no connection to… it’s curious.”
I fold my arms over my chest and stare at him, refusing to be baited by his tactics. “Do what you have to do, Torres,” I say. “But let me tell you, every second you spend looking at me is a second you’re not chasing the real killer.”
He grins at me. “Pretty sure OJ said something along the same lines once.”
“I wouldn’t know, old man; I was in like third grade.”
That got to him. Without another word, Torres turns and storms out of the Fishbowl. I watch him walk through the office, through the lobby, and keep watching until he steps into the elevator. When the doors close, Amy raises her arm and gives him the finger, drawing a laugh from me. I like her that much more. I turn to Brody, who looks like he’s ten shades paler than when Torres first walked in.
“Dude,” he says. “He’s coming after you.”
“Which is exactly why he’s a horrible cop,” I reply. “He wouldn’t know how to run an investigation if his life depended on it.”
“You better hope that’s true, because if he actually is building a case against you…”
“Between you and our new friend Marcy, we’ll have plenty of notice. In the meantime, let’s forget about him and focus on the case at hand,” I say. “We need to find Stella’s killer. And the sooner we do it, the worse we’ll make Torres look, so let’s get on this.”
“I’m all for making that chump look bad.”
I nod as I sit down and open my laptop again. But as I scroll through the murder books, I know I’m looking for something that’s not in there. The missing pieces of the puzzle. But I read through them all again anyway, acutely aware of every grain of sand falling through the hourglass.
I know the clock is ticking here. I need to build the profile and find the killer before Torres can build a fraudulent case against me. And I need every second I can get.
Twenty-Two
Sacred Grounds Coffee House; Downtown Seattle
I glance at my watch and sigh. She’s five minutes late. Marcy called me earlier in the afterno
on and told me she needed to see me tonight, so we set a meet for eight this evening. I take a sip of my coffee and pick up my phone.
I call up my email and start cleaning out the usual array of junk, only saving the important messages. I’ll never understand those people who let their emails pile up. Brody is a prime example. He’s got tens of thousands of emails just sitting in his inbox. Most of them are just garbage he’s already read but never deleted. It’d drive me bananas. Personally, I can’t stand the clutter, so I clean my inbox out regularly.
The last email is from an address I don’t recognize. It’s a strange handle: the word “ripper” followed by a long string of random numbers. It piques my curiosity. As I open it, that ice crashes down in my veins again. I bolt upright in my seat and read it again, and then a third time, absorbing the words.
“If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.”
Lessons must be learned, and I am the teacher. My curriculum is nothing short of the truth. These whores must learn they cannot deceive, cannot lie, and expect to escape the consequences. There are consequences to all our actions.
Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Arrington?
Five have already taken this lesson to heart. Many more will follow.
What I have to teach must be learned. What I have to teach shall be learned.
Do not hunt me. Do not get in my way. If you do, you will find that I am the Alpha male Alvin Perry never was. I am a force of nature. Do not test me.
Sincerely,
The Seattle Ripper
I feel the electricity coursing through me as I scan the words again and again. It’s the first time that I know of, that the killer has made contact with anybody. There was nothing in any of the reports in the murder books about him reaching out. It raises two immediate questions in my mind: Why me? And why now?
But then I reel it back in. For all I know, this is Torres planting seeds and trying to get me to do something he really can charge me for— like withholding evidence in an ongoing murder investigation. As I think about it, I temper some of my excitement, thinking this really could be him trying to set me up. I’m going to have to get Brody to track down where this email came from.