Killer Blonde

by Allan Evans

  “How was your flight, mate?” Bowles asked and gestured to the waiting beer.

  Cade, always one to give his friend a hard time, replied, “Have you been on a plane? Well, you know how it goes up in the air and then goes back down again? Well, it was just like that.”

  Bowles laughed and took a pull off his beer. “So, what brings you to Chicago? You mentioned it involved a case you’re working on.”

  “I’m looking for a serial killer up in the Twin Cities, one who seems to have a thing for tall knockout blondes.”

  Bowles smiled. “He’s not the only one, mate. All three of my ex-wives were tall blondes.”

  Cade smiled at the comment and picked at the label on his beer. “Before you got into your cushy corporate security gig, you ran the homicide division down here.”

  Bowles nodded.

  “I’ve heard rumor the killer had been plying his trade down here before going north. But I never came across similar cases when I researched the killer’s blonde M.O. Maybe I should be more general and ask if there were any pattern killers operating in Chicago recently.”

  The club was busy, and it was standing room only. A large man pushed his way to the bar, bumping Bowles as he was about to take a drink. Turning to face the man, Bowles was met with a stone-cold glare.

  “Excuse me,” Bowles said.

  The man didn’t say a word, instead leaning into Bowles’ space. The large man put his hand in front of Bowles’ face, squeezing his fingers into a fist. Both men could hear the thug’s knuckles crack.

  Bowles’s eyes had that spark again. “Look, I’ve got no problem going back to prison,” he said, his British accent more noticeble. “Just know who you’re dealing with, mate.” Bowles opened his coat, an extremely large pistol evident.

  The man held out his hands, as he clearly reappraised his life choices. “Hey, I was just messing with you. No worries.” He turned away and moved down to the end of the bar.

  Cade laughed. “Go back to prison? You’d never willingly go anywhere you couldn’t play golf.”

  Bowles shrugged. “You just have to learn to speak the native language and no one messes with you.”

  “Nice weapon, by the way. What is it?”

  “Taurus. Raging Judge 28 Gauge. It’s brilliant. Holds five shells, has a double-locking cylinder for added strength and uses a red fiber optic sight.”

  “28 gauge? It shoots buckshot?”

  Bowles nodded. “It’s a beast. I admit it. It’ll put down whatever is coming your way. Whatever ‘it’ happens to be. How about you, what are you carrying?”

  “Company issue. Glock.”

  Bowles made a face. “The Glock is basically what you’d get if Microsoft went into the pistol business. But I digress. You were asking about old cases.”

  “I was.”

  “We had a pattern killer at work down here. Stopped maybe a year ago.”

  “Tall blonde victims by any chance?”

  Bowles shook his head. “The victims were all over the place. All female, but no matching characteristics. They were all waitresses though. The offender killed six women who worked at downtown Chicago clubs. Our lead investigator, God rest his soul, made the connection after the third killing. He’d flooded the clubs with undercovers, Martinson figuring he could outsmart the guy. He didn’t.”

  “You never caught the killer?”

  “No, after his seventh killing, he just stopped.”

  “How did he kill his victims?”

  “The offender liked his knives. He’d cut them pretty good. Liked to hurt them, make them bleed before finishing the job. A real butcher.”

  “Hold on, you said he killed six women.”

  Bowles nodded.

  “Six? But you’d just mentioned he’d stopped after killing his seventh. Who was his seventh victim?”

  Bowles looked pained. “His seventh victim was our lead investigator, Shane Martinson.”

  “Shane Martinson,” Cade said the name, feeling something familiar about the sound of it. “Shane Martinson.”

  Bowles nodded.

  “Wasn’t he the one who broke the Syrian terror ring case several years back? Tons of media attention. Made the national news. That the same guy?”

  “That was him. Brilliant guy. Everyone knew he’d be the one who’d catch the waitress killer.”

  “But the killer got him first.” Another nod from Bowles.

  “No more killings after that?”

  “No, not in Chicago anyway.”

  Bowles drained his beer and nodded towards Cade’s. “Finish your beer. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  Cade tipped his glass back, stood up and tossed a five on the bar. The man from the earlier altercation looked away as the pair passed by. Cade thought he saw a little extra swagger from Bowles as they went out into the early evening sunshine.

  “Let’s take mine,” Bowles said, pointing to a bright red Hummer across the street. Parked at an angle, the wheels on the passenger side were up on the curb. Glancing at Cade, Bowles explained, “It’s an H1 Alpha, the original Hummer.”

  “Alan, we need to talk,” Cade remarked as he swung up into the beast’s cab. “First it’s the Raging Judge and now the H1. You are quite the cowboy.”

  Bowles laughed. “You nailed it. My love of American westerns is what first brought me across the pond. And the guns made me want to stay. I like guns, as you could probably tell.”

  “You mean your shotgun disguised as a pistol? How much did that run you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Only $800.”

  “The corporate gig must be paying well. And these original Hummers must go for nearly $140,000.”

  “Something like that. What can I say? Business is going well.”

  “So, I see,” Cade said, looking around the Hummer’s spacious cab. “Where’s the flight attendant on this thing? I’m getting thirsty.”

  The sign read Illumination Arts. Broad etched glass doors opened into a spacious lobby, the sounds of a jazz quartet intermingling with the trickle of water running down a wall fountain behind the receptionist. Bowles headed for the woman, while Cade wandered off taking in the exhibit. He stopped at the first painting, a portrait of a dark-haired woman, her head tilted down, her dark complexion blending into the shadows of the background. Her light eyes were striking in the way they seemed to look right into you.

  “What do you think?” a voice asked beside Cade. Cade turned to look at an auburn-haired woman standing beside him.

  “It’s mesmerizing. Her eyes bore into you like you’re the only thing in her entire world.”

  “It must have been that way for the artist, Seth Olive, too. He painted her—Malena—37 times throughout his career. The ironic thing is, after painting her 37th portrait, Olive divorced his wife and married Malena. And then never painted her again.”

  Stepping to the next painting, another of Malena. This one from a high perspective, looking down as she knelt on a wooden floor, her skirt spread out around her. Again, her eyes were striking as she looked up. Cade glanced at the woman beside him. “Sometimes getting your heart’s desire isn’t always a good thing.”

  “You’re saying that by getting the object of Olive’s desire, it took away his reason for living? That’s a cold way to look at life.”

  Cade shrugged. “I’m a cop. We don’t always see the best in people.”

  “So you’re exposed to the dark, seamy underbelly of society. Get over it,” the woman said and smiled. “My dad always said, ‘When life gives you lemons you paint that shit gold!’ He was a former hippy.”

  “Former? He doesn’t sound too reformed to me. I’m Cade Dawkins, by the way.”

  “Annie Feller. I’m the gallery manager.”

  “There you are,” Bowles said as he joined them. “Annie has some relevant experience which might help your case. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  Annie led them through a set of doors into a staging area. Works of art were scattered a
round, with a number of open shipping crates. She pointed them to a tall project table in the middle of the room and Cade climbed on a stool. “Relevant experience? I’m intrigued.”

  Bowles cleared his throat. “Several years ago, Annie had a part-time job at the Hilton Towers, working at Kitty O’Shea’s as a cocktail waitress.”

  The light went on for Cade. “The killer went after you. And you survived.”

  Annie nodded. “It was him. The police were not so sure, though.” Her eyes looked haunted by the memories.

  Cade touched her arm. “Why don’t you just walk me through the experience as you remember it? Tell me what happened.”

  Annie leaned forward. “I was here at the gallery. It was a quiet night and I’d let Francine leave early, so I was alone when a man came in, roughly an hour before closing. He was well dressed and had this perfect balance of charm and danger that I found rather appealing. At least at first. He said he was looking for a piece for his library.”

  “I take it he didn’t buy anything?”

  Annie shook her head. “No, things headed south before that happened. It started fine enough, as we walked the gallery floor. He’s spouting off his knowledge about art, but it’s all surface stuff. Like he’d just crammed for an exam. You know, names and dates. I noticed he’s not the usual, soft, Lakeshore Drive type who frequents galleries. He’s rigid like he’s military. And I began to pick up weird vibes from the guy.”

  “Weird? How so?”

  “When I’m walking someone through the gallery, I’m looking for cues, subtle indications which tell me how a prospect feels about the art. As someone who makes their living in sales, it can make all the difference in the world if I can get a reading on a person’s feelings. Only I wasn’t getting any. I couldn’t pick up anything. It was like his face was a mask—but there wasn’t anything behind it either. This guy had nothing. I excused myself to call my boyfriend. He’s a bouncer at Kitty’s.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “While I made the call, the guy let himself out. Because I park in the lot behind here, I told my boyfriend to meet me there just in case the man was still around. It was a good thing too—because the guy was hidden behind my car. My boyfriend saw him and ran him off.”

  Cade glanced at Bowles. “And you think this was the same guy, the killer?”

  Bowles nodded. “I do. He fits the general description we have of the offender. But it’s more than that, it’s his intent to deceive Annie and the complete lack of feelings. It has to be our offender.”

  Cade looked to Annie. “You mentioned he was rigid, like someone in the military. Do you remember what he looked like?”

  Annie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Dark hair, dark complexion.” She hesitated, clearly unsure where to go from there.

  Cade took a step closer to Annie. “Was he taller than me?”

  She sized him up for a moment. “No, he was several inches shorter than you.”

  “How about his build? Was he built similar to me? Or maybe more average like my friend Alan here?”

  “Hey…” But Bowles was smiling.

  Annie shook her head. “No, he was more muscular than you.”

  Bowles chortled.

  “Long hair? Facial hair? Tats? Accent?” Cade asked.

  Annie thought for a moment. “No to all of those. He wore his hair short, buzzed almost. But nothing else to set him apart.”

  Cade shrugged. She hadn’t given him anything to separate the killer from thousands of other guys. “I need you to close your eyes for a moment. Now think back to when you walked the man through the gallery. As he talked, was there anything he said, maybe it wasn’t the words, but the way he said it, that stood out? We all have our own way of speaking, a turn of phrase or expression worded in a distinctive way. Sometimes these can be particularly memorable.”

  Annie shifted her weight from side to side as she considered his question. Cade waited a moment and then spoke softly. “Take your time as you run the conversation through your head. If it helps, think about the pieces you showed him. Possibly they’ll trigger something.”

  With her eyes closed, Annie spoke. “I remember walking through the Mia Bergeron section. Her work is incredibly vivid, capturing surface detail in dazzling color but revealing so much more of the inner person. I remember him saying her work reminded him of Alex Kanevsky’s work. He went on about how both artists merged impressionism and hyper-realism. The thing is, Kanevsky’s work couldn’t be further from Bergeron’s. It was like he prepared a little speech and was determined to give it whether or not it was at all apropos. I remember him saying he’d been to an opening of Kanevsky’s and how he still couldn’t scrape the amazing imagery off his mind’s eye.”

  “An odd turn of phrase. Not sure what to make of it though. If anything else comes to mind, contact me,” Cade said, handing Annie a business card.

  On the way to the airport, Cade asked about Martinson’s killing.

  Bowles shook his head. “It was bad. We found him on the hood of his car, throat slit and blood everywhere. It was like he was displayed. heavy bruising on his face. The medical examiner said the heavy facial bruising was consistent with the killer holding Martinson’s head in place so he could see the knife coming. The offender had to have been both unusually strong and highly motivated to kill someone as fit as Shane Martinson was.”

  “Where was he killed?”

  “On the south side. Martinson received a tip someone was staking out a nightclub. Apparently, a man was parked across the street and watching the club three out of the last four nights. Martinson was waiting to see if the man would return.”

  “Where did the tip come from?”

  “That’s the thing. We never could confirm, but it sounded like it came from one of our squads. But no one ever came forward.”

  “Was Martinson lured into a trap?”

  Bowles nodded, as he signaled his turn into the Midway airport complex. “The offender sure looked like he had a grudge with Martinson. Shane was in plain clothes, parked in his personal vehicle. No sign he was a cop.”

  “Yeah?” Cade didn’t like where this was going.

  Bowles pulled up to the Delta ticketing entrance. “Martinson was undercover, yet when we found him, his shield was shoved in his mouth. Our offender was trying to make a point, don’t you agree?”

  Cade opened the Hummer’s door and shook hands with Bowles. “Looks like I might need to watch my back.”

  “You had better, mate. You had better.”

  The killer was at work.

  The nice thing about working security for the governor was the variety. You saw all walks of life and had the opportunity to travel as the governor met his political obligations. Even though his job was a means to an end, he still enjoyed his position. It gave him access. It gave him power. And best of all, it gave him victims.

  The ironic thing about working security for the governor was it meant the killer worked for the Minnesota State Patrol—the same law enforcement agency tasked with catching him. The Executive Protection Unit was responsible for protecting the Governor and his staff. Comprised of State Troopers, it was a prestige posting anyone in the Patrol’s nearly 900 employees would love to have. The killer was in the right position to succeed.

  And Marlin Sweetwater was motivated for success. The opportunity to pit his intelligence against law enforcement’s greatest minds was absolutely worth killing for. Of course, the downside of his deadly game would be his own death. He knew it was a very real possibility. But the game was everything to him, and there was no way he could stop now—he might as well try to stop breathing.

  Back in high school, his IQ was off the charts when it was measured. His counselor told him he’d go on to do great things. Maybe study engineering and build immense structures. Become a scientist and discover life-saving cures. Become a leader in government and change the world. But Sweetwater knew different. He was acutely aware of how singular he was. He always thought
other people pretended to be nice, but then at some point, he realized he was the one who was pretending. He was simply incapable of feeling what most people did—remorse, compassion, empathy.

  Whatever brain rewiring soared his intelligence to such superior levels also stunted him emotionally. Of course, stunted might not be the most accurate term. Deadened, twisted, or deviant might be closer. Screwing him up beyond all human recognition would be an accurate assessment.

  It had started with animals, as it always did. He’d killed his neighbor’s cat to see what happens at the moment the lights go out. The animal howled and clawed as it tried to get away. He’d held it down as the knife did its work. Getting as close as he could, he wanted to commune with the feline as its essence drained away. Sweetwater had felt something, he was sure of it. From that moment on, he was hooked.

  A variety of animals had followed. He’d trapped squirrels and rabbits after killing several of the neighborhood pets. People began to raise suspicions with all the missing animals. He’d learned from the negative attention the killings received. Recognized that he needed to put himself in a position of trust. And a position to give himself a steady supply of animals—he didn’t want to get caught seeking out his next kill. His first job was at an animal shelter, and he’d taken the first shelter animal less than a month later. Sweetwater was 16 years old.

  His first human killing happened the following year. Even though the need was building, in the end, necessity drove him to kill the woman. Carlotta Scott was a volunteer at the shelter. Sweetwater could see her suspicions grow as he took several animals. He hid his actions, always taking precautions against discovery. But the woman knew. Somehow, she sensed the wrongness in him.

  He’d decided on a course of action before the situation got out of hand, and followed Carlotta home to a rundown rambler, the lawn neglected and overrun with weeds. The street was quiet, the neighbors at work on the cloudy Wednesday afternoon. Hunting knife in hand, he’d crept through the yard behind hers. Best to enter through the back door, as he knew Carlotta wouldn’t open the door for him. His entry into her kitchen was simple as the door was unlocked. Sweetwater stood in her kitchen for several long minutes, wanting to feel her. He believed a person’s essence permeated their surroundings and wanted to experience it before he took it away. Holding still, he took in several deep breaths as he willed himself to feel her. A calico cat stared at him with disdain and scurried around the corner. Sweetwater’s inability to feel anything beyond his mounting frustration aggravated him.