Her Final Confession: An absolutely addictive crime fiction novel

by Lisa Regan

  She clicked on Household Items Taken/Left at Scenes and found that someone had done a very simple outline:

  Victims 1 and 2, Alexandra and Martin Wrede, March 1993, taken: son’s drawing.

  Victims 3 and 4, Luisa and Josh Munroe, May 1993, found: Wrede drawing; taken: hot-air-balloon wind chime.

  Victims 4 and 5, Mary and Tim Donegal, July 1993, found: hot-air-balloon wind chime; taken: a pair of men’s glasses.

  Victims 5 and 6, Travis Green and Janine Ives, September 1993, found: a pair of men’s glasses; taken: Travis Green’s wallet.

  Victims 7 and 8, Kristen and Darryl Spokes, January 1994, found: Travis Green’s wallet; taken: a mug.

  Victims 9 and 10, Gretchen and Billy Lowther, March 1994, found: mug; taken: a knife.

  Victims 11 and 12, Justin and Amy Neal, March 2004, found: Billy Lowther’s knife; taken: nothing is said to have been taken from this scene. This is the last-known SSMS crime.

  It was a strict pattern. Even after ten years, the killer had brought Billy Lowther’s knife with him and left it at the scene. It was almost a compulsion. In a corner of her mind, a voice asked if she was going to be able to add James Omar and the Wilkinses to the victim list. But they didn’t quite fit, did they? Not exactly.

  She clicked back to the list of threads and searched again. She clicked on a thread called Why Are There No Composites?, which was a half dozen people complaining about why no sketches of the Soul Mate Strangler had ever been circulated by the press. Two other people replied, reminding their forum counterparts that no one except Gretchen Lowther had ever seen the killer, and when she saw him, it was dark, and she didn’t get a good look at his face.

  Josie moved on, clicking on a different thread called FBI Profile. It appeared to be the actual profile prepared by the Federal Bureau of Investigation based upon a review of materials submitted by the Seattle Police Department. A cursory glance at the lengthy report was enough to assure her that someone on the super-secret forum had indeed secured the actual FBI profile of the Seattle Soul Mate Strangler. It had been prepared over ten years earlier, after the final murders in 2004. Josie knew that sometimes when cases became old enough and cold enough, law enforcement became more inclined to release certain details about the case in the hopes that it would jumpstart the investigation. Of course, the profile, while detailed and thorough, hadn’t led to an arrest.

  She skimmed over the descriptions of the victims, their residences, and the analysis of the crime scenes. There was nothing that stood out to her as particularly helpful. Helpful to what end, she wasn’t sure. She still wasn’t sure what she was hoping to accomplish by researching the Seattle Soul Mate Strangler. Her theory that he had been at Gretchen’s home, shot Omar, and kidnapped Gretchen wasn’t supported by any physical evidence or even by Gretchen herself. It also didn’t explain why Gretchen would take the fall for Omar’s murder rather than trying to catch the man who had killed her husband. For a moment, Josie felt doubt creep in. What if Noah was right? What if the most obvious thing was the correct thing? What if Gretchen had simply shot Omar and was now paying for it? Was she making too much of the situation? Was she trying to force something into the scenario that wasn’t there because she wanted to save her friend? No, she thought. There were too many inconsistencies and unexplained coincidences. The Soul Mate Strangler was a viable lead, and if he was back on a killing spree twenty-five years after his initial crimes, and he had killed the Wilkins couple, then the DNA would prove it.

  With a sigh, she moved on to the offender characteristics. Given his ability to plan and execute the crimes and control the scenes, he was believed to be intelligent. They knew from Gretchen’s account that he was a tall white male between the ages of thirty-five and forty. Since no one ever saw anything suspicious, he obviously blended well in the middle-class communities from which he chose his victims. He likely drove a reliable vehicle that also would not stand out in those same neighborhoods. The report also noted that he had to have some means, since he never stole any valuables from the residences. Because of the sophistication shown from the very first crime, it was likely he had a criminal record for burglary and also probably some run-ins with law enforcement for domestic violence.

  Friends, family members, and coworkers would describe him as neat and organized but also domineering, arrogant, prone to anger, and extremely manipulative. He likely had some experience either in law enforcement and/or the military and was probably a hunter. It was unlikely that he would just stop, said the analysis. He may be in jail, or was dead, or had moved to another part of the world where his crimes could not be linked to the ones in Seattle. The report went on for several pages about the probable nature of his relationships with women. The bottom line was not a surprise: the killer harbored an extreme hatred toward women.

  “No shit,” Josie muttered to the computer screen.

  “What was that?” Trinity said as she breezed past in a silky pair of pajamas. She went to the refrigerator and took out several items that looked suspiciously like the makings of a turkey sandwich. As if in response, Josie’s stomach growled.

  Josie stood and stretched her arms over her head. “I was just talking to myself. Can I ask you a question?”

  “About serial killers?” Trinity asked as she took two plates from her kitchen cabinet.

  “No, about outlaw motorcycle gangs.”

  Trinity looked up from the two sandwiches she was cutting into slices, and Josie was struck by how much it was like looking into a mirror—especially at moments like these when Trinity’s face was clean of all the television makeup. “We’re back on biker gangs? I thought your big lead was the Soul Mate Strangler.”

  Josie took the sandwich offered but didn’t eat it right away. “I’m pretty sure it is, but I need a break for a few minutes. Besides, there’s something bothering me.”

  Trinity plopped into a chair at the kitchen table and bit into her sandwich, eyes on Josie as Josie mulled over the questions that had been nagging at her since she talked with Starkey. Josie said, “If a gang like the Devil’s Blade kidnapped the wife of an undercover cop in retaliation for said cop having tried to infiltrate their organization, what would they do with her?”

  Trinity set her sandwich down on her plate and stared at Josie, her expression serious. “Josie,” she said. “You’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know the answer to that. What do men like that always do to women?”

  Josie knew they were both thinking of the case that had forged a tenuous friendship between them. The missing girls case. A shiver ran through Josie’s body.

  “Would they let her go? After holding her for a long time—a year even? Would they just dump her back off into the hands of law enforcement?”

  “No,” Trinity said. “They might keep her long enough to use her for whatever they wanted, but they’d kill her. Maybe there wouldn’t be a body, but no one would ever see her again.”

  “Thought so,” Josie said, biting into her own sandwich.

  Chapter Fifty

  Josie was still sifting through the threads on the discussion boards when the first hint of daylight drifted across Trinity’s apartment. Fifteen minutes later, an alarm clock sounded from the recesses of the hallway. It was abruptly cut off a moment before Trinity emerged, her pajamas wrinkled and her hair in disarray. She squinted at Josie as if she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. “Dear lord, Josie. You’re still at it?”

  For the first time, Josie noticed her eyes were burning and her back was achy and stiff. Blinking, she clicked on a new thread labeled The Neal Family. “This is the last one I’m reading,” she said to Trinity. “Then I’m getting some sleep.”

  Trinity pointed to the digital clock on her microwave. “Better make it fast. You won’t have much time to sleep before you catch your train.”

  “I’ll sleep on the train,” Josie said.

  She had spent hours devouring information about the Seattle Soul Mate Strangler and all of his victims. She had aban
doned the forum a few times, using her browser to search for any connections between the killer and James Omar or the victims and James Omar. There was nothing. It was easy enough to make a case for the killer having come out of retirement to murder the Wilkinses, leaving Gretchen’s travel mug at the scene. She might have thought he had nothing at all to do with the Omar murder except for the photo that had been pinned to Omar’s body. If she could find a connection between the Neals and that photo, she might be able to convince the chief to take her theory seriously and possibly take an important step toward freeing Gretchen.

  Starkey had said the Neals hadn’t had children, and from the reading Josie had done on the discussion boards so far, this was borne out. In fact, even though the murders of Amy and Justin Neal were the most recent, they were the one couple no one knew much about. The only threads she’d found to do with the Neal couple so far were centered around why the killer hadn’t taken anything from their home. Some theorized that he had intended for the Neals to be his last murder, and that’s why he hadn’t taken any trophies. It was his signal to the world that he was finished. Other people theorized that he had, in fact, taken something, but that no one knew the Neals well enough to be able to identify the missing item.

  Josie wondered if this discussion would be more of the same, but when she opened it, she saw that it appeared to be a collection of court documents. They were in PDF files. Josie clicked each one and read through it. Both Justin and Amy Neal had had criminal records. Almost all the charges were drug-related except for an assault charge, which it appeared Justin was on probation for when he was killed.

  There were several more PDF files, and Josie fought fatigue as she clicked and read, clicked and read. She almost didn’t bother with the last few, but she couldn’t leave them. Not after she had wasted so much time already. The very last PDF was a Petition for Adoption. She knew at once this was a sealed, confidential court document. Whoever had gained access to it and posted it on the forum had done so illegally. No wonder the person in charge of the forum didn’t allow law enforcement to peruse it.

  “Coffee?” Trinity asked.

  Josie had nearly forgotten she was there. “No,” she said tersely. She didn’t need coffee when adrenaline was shooting through her veins faster than lightning. Amy and Justin Neal had had a son, and they had given him up for adoption several months before their deaths.

  Josie stood and went over to her purse, which she’d thrown onto the couch. She dug out her notepad and wrote down the names of the couple who had petitioned the court. The Neals’ son’s name and other information had been redacted since he was a minor, but Josie had what she needed to track his adoptive parents down. She checked the clock in the lower right-hand corner of the laptop. It was too early to start making calls. But once the sun came up and she’d had a few hours of sleep, she’d start with a call to Jack Starkey.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  MAY 2004

  Seattle, Washington

  * * *

  Amy Neal shrieked when her husband tore the bed covers from her body. The flashlight she’d clutched in one hand tumbled into the pillows behind her, its beam lost. Her other hand pressed a photo to her chest. “Dammit, Justin,” she said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  His six-foot frame loomed over the bed, a shadowy figure in the darkness of their bedroom. Her bedside clock said it was 2:13 a.m. As usual, Justin had fallen asleep on the couch. She had left him there after watching the evening news. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the hand he held out to her.

  “Give me the picture, Amy.”

  She pushed it into the folds of her nightgown. “No.”

  He gave a heavy sigh. Frustration or defeat, she couldn’t tell. The next thing she felt was his weight settling onto the edge of the bed. His voice was softer this time. “Amy, he’s fine. We did the right thing.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Did we, Justin? Is he fine with those… those strangers?”

  His fingers found her bare knee and squeezed gently. “They’re his parents now, Ame. You’re the one who keeps obsessing over the photo. Does he look unhappy to you?”

  A sob lodged in her throat. No. Their son didn’t look unhappy. He looked free and healthier than he ever had under their care. “It makes me want to use again,” she squeaked.

  Justin’s fingers squeezed again. “I know. Me too. That’s why I think we should put the photo away. We need to move on.”

  Now the tears fell, streaking her cheeks. “How? How do you move on from your own son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you really ready to move on?” she asked.

  “No, but we can’t stay like this—in this constant state of…”

  He trailed off. Grief. Loss. Doubt. Those were the words she knew he couldn’t say. They’d only been clean a few months. They had criminal records, and Justin was still on probation. They’d given their son’s foster family permission to adopt him. They knew it was best. What they hadn’t known was how hard it would be.

  “I saw the knife,” Amy said, her voice thick and husky with tears. “What are you planning to do?”

  Justin’s head snapped up. “Knife?” he said. “What knife?”

  “The bowie knife. You left it on the kitchen counter. Where did you get it? Who’d you steal it from?”

  “Ame, I didn’t bring a knife into this house. Are you crazy? What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me. We said we weren’t going to lie to each other anymore.”

  The bed creaked as Justin stood. “This is bullshit,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then go look!” Amy said.

  Justin took one step, and then a blinding light swept suddenly across the room, cutting into both their lines of vision. The sound of a man’s laughter followed it. “I have a better idea,” said the strange voice. “You both stay here, and we play a game.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  PRESENT DAY

  Denton, Pennsylvania

  * * *

  It was a call from Noah that woke her. Josie was facedown in Trinity’s bed, drool spilling out of her mouth, when the incessant ringing of her cell phone yanked her from the warm clutches of sleep. Bleary-eyed, she fumbled for the phone on Trinity’s nightstand. She saw Noah’s name on the screen and pressed answer, scratching out a hello.

  “Are you still in New York?” Noah asked.

  Josie turned her head and looked at Trinity’s bedside clock. “Shit,” she said. “I have to catch the train in an hour.”

  “Chitwood is asking questions,” Noah said. “I told him you had a family issue and had to take a personal day.”

  “Instead of telling him I was in New York City as part of the Omar investigation?” Josie said.

  “You know he wouldn’t have approved it. The press are on him about the Wilkins homicide. He called in some favors to have the DNA analysis expedited.”

  Josie sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “That’s a good thing. We need to have it run through the federal database when it comes back. Listen, I’ll be back in time for lunch, okay? I’ve got a lot to tell you, but I have to get ready to catch this train.”

  “Of course. Also, I got the warrant out to the phone provider to see what we can find out about the burner phone that Omar was calling in the last two weeks. They said it will take five to seven days, unfortunately. The good news is that we got Omar’s text messages from the last two weeks.”

  A burst of energy shot through her. “What do they say?”

  Noah sighed. “Nothing conclusive. You can look at them when you get back.”

  The energy gave way to disappointment. “Can you send them to me as a PDF? I can read them on the train.”

  “Sure. I’ll get them over in a few minutes.”

  They hung up, and Josie readied herself for the day in record time, in spite of her exhaustion. She was on the curb in front of Trinity’s build
ing with her suitcase in tow a half hour later. She hailed a cab, and during the drive to Penn Station, she called Jack Starkey.

  He answered sounding as though he had stayed up all night drinking. His hello was somewhat slurred. “Quinn?” he said as if he didn’t believe it was her.

  “Yeah,” Josie said. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I had a couple of questions.”

  There was silence. Then he said, “Sure, okay, but I have a question for you first.”

  “Okay,” Josie said. “Go ahead.”

  Hostility filled his voice. “What are you playing at?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I did some internet research last night. You didn’t tell me Gretchen was arrested for that kid’s murder. Why the hell not? What’s going on down there in central Pennsylvania?”

  Josie sighed. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was relevant at the time.”

  “Not relevant?” he boomed.

  “Is there something you’re holding back that you want to tell me now that you know Gretchen is being charged with murder?”

  “What? No. No, it’s not like that. I told you what I know.”

  “Did you know that Amy and Justin Neal had a son?”

  “A son? No, no. They didn’t have kids.”

  “Except they did,” Josie said. “A little boy. He was in foster care for years before they finally gave him up for adoption to the couple fostering him.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”