by Banks, R. R.
“I know you,” he says. “You need a challenge. You need that constant mental stimulation.”
“I know,” I reply. “I just need to figure out what that next challenge is going to be. Haven't quite gotten there yet.”
Pete runs a hand over his face. “I gotta be honest. I don't know that this is the smartest move for you. You know what happens when you don't have something –”
“I know,” I reply gently. “But, I also think I'm at the point where I need to stop hiding behind the things I did in the past to justify my bad behavior. I think I've grown – no, I think you've helped me grow – to a point where I can take the training wheels off and not fall back into old habits.”
“A lot of people say that,” he says. “And then they relapse.”
I run a hand through my hair. Honestly, Paul is right to be concerned. I’ve never been someone who's done well with time on their hands, historically speaking. It's one reason I developed the habits I did to begin with.
I'm not that person anymore though. I'm stronger. A lot stronger. In many ways, I've grown up over the past decade or so. I used to be an immature, entitled prick. I know that now. Back in the day, I probably would have acted like Jared – calling my agent to rattle his cage about somehow finding me more money because I felt like it was owed to me.
That's what tends to happen when you grow up in an affluent family. That's what happens when you never want for anything, and you get everything you ask for – mostly so my folks, who were always busy on the social scene – didn't have to deal with me.
I know, I know. Poor little rich boy, cry me a river.
Point is, the way I grew up left me with an attitude and superiority complex. I can admit that now. It's a part of myself I’ve had to confront as a part of my recovery.
“I'm stronger now, Pete. Better able to deal with life and my own shit,” I say. “That's in large part because of you.”
He shrugs. “You're the one who put in all the work.”
“And you're the one who put your foot in my ass if I didn't.”
“Somebody had to.”
I give him a long, measured look. “No, they didn't. Nobody had to do anything for me,” I say. “You took that on yourself. And that's something I'm never going to forget. Ever.”
A faint smile touches his lips, and he looks away. Pete's a serious, unemotional guy. He's never been one to be overly sentimental about anything. And he's certainly never been able to accept praise well.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Don’t start crying on me now.”
I laugh and take a drink from the mug of coffee that's been cooling on my desk – and find that it's grown tepid while I had to sit there and hold Jared's hand through the phone call. I drink it anyway. Coffee's coffee.
“Anyway,” I say as I set the mug down. “I'm burned out, Pete. I think it's time to close this chapter and start another. Whatever that may be.”
“So, you're going to shutter CEM?” he asks, his eyebrows arched.
“Hell no. Not after all the blood, sweat, and tears we put into this thing,” I say.
“Then what are you thinking?”
I lean forward in my seat. “I'm thinking about stepping back from operations. Permanently. And letting somebody else take over here. And I want it to be you.”
As stoic as Pete usually is, it surprises me to see him sit back in his seat and look flustered. Like this is an idea he can't possibly fathom.
“There's no one I trust more to uphold the standards we've set here than you, Pete.”
“You just want to pawn Jared goddamn West off on me,” he says and laughs.
I shrug. “Maybe that too,” I say. “But, you've been here from the beginning. Who better to keep this place going and growing than you?”
“I can think of a thousand other people,” he replies.
“I can't.”
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Pete is a natural born leader. In my mind, he is the perfect, logical choice to take over my role here.
“Look, I get that you're burned out,” he says. “But, maybe you should just take some time off. Step back and clear your head. Go on vacation. You haven't been on a vacation in – shit, I don't even know how long. You need to go have some fun, Brice. I think you've forgotten how.”
“What? I have fun.”
He scoffs. “When? As near as I can tell, you work, work some more, and then go home. To work.”
“Not true,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. “I go out. I have fun.”
“When's the last time you went out for something not work-related?”
I sit back in my seat and grin at him. Yeah, he's got me there. Back in the day, I was a party guy. I loved going out to the clubs and having a good time. But, that's back when drinking, drugs, and women were my vices. I'm not that guy anymore. I've grown since then. Evolved.
I guess I've also become something of a homebody as well.
That wild lifestyle just isn't for me anymore. But, it's not like I don't want to have fun – it's just that my definition of fun has changed.
“That's what I thought,” Pete says and laughs.
“Glad you're amused,” I reply.
“I just worry about you, kid,” he says. “You're still young. You need to find a nice girl and settle down.”
“And drive a minivan, live in a house with a white picket fence, and coach my kid's little league team? Hard pass.”
“Sure, why not?” he asks. “What's so wrong with that? You've worked hard, got your house in order, you've made a ton of money – why not learn to enjoy it with someone else?”
“You work just as much as I do, Pete,” I say. “If not more.”
“But, my wife makes sure I get out there and have some fun,” he says. “She keeps me young. You need to find you a woman who will do that for you.”
“Yeah, easier said than done,” I say. “The only single women I seem to meet anymore are only interested in one thing – my bank account.”
Pete nods. “One of the drawbacks of being rich and successful. Not to mention a former NFL quarterback. Certain kinds of women tend to line up for a guy like that.”
I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. “We're getting into a whole other conversation here. Let's get off my love life and back to the topic at hand. And that's you taking over as the head of CEM.”
Pete sighs and stares down at his hands for a moment before looking back up at me. “Believe me, I would be honored. Truly honored. But, I don't want you to rush into anything. I don't want you to regret a decision you’ve made just because you're bored and burned out.”
“I've already given it a lot of thought, and I really believe CEM has run its course for me,” I say. “I'm ready. I want to move on to something different. As much as I love sports –”
Pete holds a hand up to stop me. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Before we discuss this further, or commit to anything, sleep on it for a while. If you still feel the same way about it a couple of weeks from now, we'll address it again.”
I open my mouth to argue but quickly realize that Pete is done negotiating. Those are his terms, and I can either accept them or take this as a loss, and walk away. And since there is no one else I trust with CEM, nobody else I want in the big chair, I would be smart to play by his rules.
“You really don't want to deal with Jared West alone, do you?” I say and laugh.
“No, not really,” he replies with a grin.
“Fair enough,” I sigh. “We'll do this your way.”
“I want you to consider this from all angles, Brice,” he says. “Really think about and reflect on the decision you’re making here.”
“I will.”
He looks at me for a long moment and then gets to his feet. Carrying his cup of coffee across my office, he stops by the door before turning around to look at me.
“Thank you, Brice,” he says. “To even be considered for the job – it means a lot.”
“Th
ere would be no CEM without you, Pete,” I say. “It's only right that you take over for me.”
“If – and that's a big if – you decide to step down.”
“If,” I say, shooting him a gentle smile.
With an inscrutable look on his face, Pete leaves my office, shutting the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I really don't think anything is going to change between now and – well – whenever Pete wants to address the situation again. But, I'll humor him for a little while and pretend to seriously consider it.
As I sit there, lost in my own thoughts, an email pops up on my computer. I turn in my chair to the monitor and call it up. It's from an old friend of mine named Mitch. He's from my hometown of Morro Bay and is one of the few people I've actually kept in touch with over the years. He and I played ball together in high school, and in college. Like me, he earned a scholarship to play at USC, and was always my go-to target on the field.
His message is simple – “Don't know if you saw this. Call me when you get time.” The email includes an attachment, so I open it and find an article from the local paper up there. When I read the headline, I feel my heart stutter, and a sharp stab of anguish pierce my body.
Arnold Simmonds, Beloved Teacher, Football Coach, Passes Away
I read the article a couple of times as tendrils of grief wrap themselves around my heart and squeeze it tight. Coach Simmonds was more than just a high school teacher. He was more than just a coach. He was the closest thing I had to a father figure growing up.
And now he's dead.
I check my schedule and start making plans to clear it. There’s no way I’m missing the only chance I’ll have to pay my respects.
Chapter Four
Emma
Having lost my job at the paper, I've had to resort to picking up extra shifts down at The Hot Corner – the sports bar and grill I work at. The only thing I hate more than the uniform – shorts that leave half my ass hanging out, and a shirt so tight, I can barely breathe – isn't the constant ogling and innuendo-laced comments from a bunch of drunk, horny men. I couldn't care less about that, actually. It's coming home smelling like the rancid wings and decadent fried foods on the menu.
But, the tips are okay, and the extra shifts I've been picking up are definitely helping offset the lost wages from my job at the paper. It's not glamorous, but at least it's paying work. It keeps the lights on at home, and food in the refrigerator. That's about all I can ask for at the moment.
After taking a shower and washing the smell of cheap vegetable oil off my skin and out of my hair, I throw on a pair of pajama shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt. I open all the windows and turn on the two pathetic box fans I have, hoping to create something of a breeze in my tiny apartment. Summer – even though it's getting late in the season – is brutal in Southern California.
I grew up in Morro Bay, which sits on the central coast of the state where the climate is a lot more temperate. I'm still adjusting to the difference in temperatures between home and here. After finishing the journalism program at Morro Bay State, I moved down here, thinking that the opportunities would be abundant.
They are not.
It took me almost a year to land the internship at the Times Daily – one of the only paid internships I could find after finishing out my college program. And now, I've gone and royally screwed that up – something of a common theme in my life.
I walk into my bedroom and glance at the stack of boxes against the far wall. Even though I've lived here for several years now, I still have some things packed up in boxes.
In my defense, it's a stupid paranoia thing. There's a small, irrational part of my mind that believes I'm going to get kicked out at any time. My budget is so tight and unforgiving that I've been late with rent more times than I can count, which only fuels that paranoia. Any day now, I'm expecting my landlord to show up, eviction notice in hand. The really stupid part is that, somehow, I've convinced myself it's more likely to happen if I unpack everything and really settle in.
Hence, the packed boxes.
The one I'm looking for isn't filled with odds and ends, though. It's filled with all the notes and research materials I've collected on the possible serial killer I was tracking before Helen killed my story. I carry it out to the dining room table and set it down next to my decrepit laptop.
Already feeling damp and sticky again, and like I could use another shower, I force myself to sit down at the table. I take a long drink from my water bottle as my laptop slowly boots up, and start to sift through the box of materials I've collected.
I lay out my notebooks, news clippings, and photographs of various locations. I don't have the pull to get actual crime scene photos or police reports, so I have to rely on the words of others to paint the scene for me.
Fortunately for me, I've become pretty damn good at the whole online sleuthing thing. Some might call it stalking, but I think of it as going above and beyond to provide in-depth research.
I sift through the notebooks and other files I've collected about the case. Ever since Marina first put the bug in my ear about publishing my own blog, I've been giving it a lot of thought, and honestly, it appeals to me a lot.
I know it's going to take some time to monetize it. Building a following of devoted readers who come back day after day isn't easy, and it won't happen overnight. But, after doing the numbers, I know it's going to be really tight. There won't be room for a lot of extras. But, if I can keep picking up extra shifts at the bar, and worst-case scenario – pick up a second part-time job – I might be able to make enough money to make ends meet.
It's not going to be easy, but in the end, it might be worth it. If I put out quality work, rather than the substandard online tabloid clickbait garbage that's popular these days, who knows what could happen?
Marina is right. I'm a talented writer and dedicated researcher. And I can make my way in this world on my own. I can make my own mark.
“Keep thinking it, and maybe you'll believe it one day,” I mutter to myself.
There are usually a few minutes a day when I feel completely fearless and empowered. Like I can take on the world and win. But, if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that the universe can always find a way to knock you off that high horse.
What matters though, is whether you continue to lay there, or pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and continue pursuing your dreams.
This is one of those defining moments. Life knocked me down hard this time. It knocked the wind out of me, leaving me bloodied and bruised. The question is, am I going to stand up and keep moving forward? Or am I going to just lay back in the grass and let life pass me by?
I already know the answer to that question.
Grabbing the first notebook, I stand up and position myself in front of the fan. I start to flip through the first couple of pages, reading my notes, and re-familiarizing myself with the details of the case.
“Okay, so what do I have?” I mutter.
I walk away from the fan, realizing it's doing nothing but blowing hot air on me – only making me more uncomfortable and irritable. And right now, I need to focus. Concentrate.
This all started shortly after I started working for the Times Daily. I was just doing some digging around in their database of old stories, clips from other papers, and open unsolved murders listed in the police directory. Initially, it was just for fun – or, what passes for fun in my life, anyway.
It was after poking around in the databases for a few hours, I noticed three open unsolved cases that caught my eye because they were so similar. Same cause of death – strangulation with an unknown object, perhaps a belt or scarf. The three girls looked virtually identical to one another – all of them Caucasian or light-skinned Hispanic, dark-haired, with blue eyes, and slight builds. Beautiful young women, all college-aged.
Even with my pretty limited background in criminology, it seemed obvious to me that the three were connected and that the offender obviously
had a type. The more I dug into those three cases though, the more I found – nothing. No stories made the connection. There was no indication that the police were even looking at it as the work of a potential serial killer.
When I increased the search parameters, I found something even more troubling – similar unsolved murders dating back at least five years. Five years and eighteen girls in the Long Beach, Bellflower, Paramount, Lakewood, Torrance, and Seal Beach areas had been murdered by – as far as I could tell – the same man.
And nobody had connected the dots. Nobody had done a damn thing about it.
Before Helen officially ended my investigation, I saw that the latest murder had taken place only four months prior. Once she pulled the plug on my story, I stopped looking into it. For all I know, another five girls have been killed since then.
What I did find when I really started getting into it, was that the victims – at least, the three recent ones in Long Beach – had several things in common with each other. They belonged to the same gym, all attended Cal State Long Beach, and lived in the same general area – there were a lot of different ways these women could have all met the same man. Their killer.
I pick up one of two photographs in a file folder on the table and look at it closely. Billy Woods. Personal trainer down at the gym the three local girls belonged to. He's tall, fit, and has the typical California surfer-dude look about him.
I started to look at him a little closer because he had a few assault charges on his record. Several of his ex-girlfriends also filed restraining orders against him, claiming that he's choked them – which, to me, is a giant red flag.
There is one hitch to it though. If I'm right, and these murders do, in fact, stretch back five years, he would have started young. He was nineteen or so around the time of the earliest murder in Bellflower. It's possible. I've read cases where serial killers start young. It's rare though.
It's even rarer that someone as young as Billy was at the time of the murders would be so sophisticated in their methodology. It usually takes someone a few years and some experience to get their craft and their killing technique down pat.