Taker of Lives

by Leslie Wolfe

  The only problem with killing someone is that it’s too damn easy.

  I struggle with drugs, you know. I’m not a chemist, a pharmacist, or a doctor of any specialty, nor did I ever aspire to be. Everything I know I taught myself; they say in the age of the internet that lack of knowledge is nothing but laziness. Of course, take that with a grain of salt, because not everything they put on the internet is accurate or even real, and not everything you see in movies is either.

  Take chloroform, for example. Stupid thing nearly got me busted. Don’t you remember how they used to subdue girls, men too, in the movies with a simple handkerchief soaked in chloroform held at their noses? They used that trick on the big screen for decades. Turns out in real life it doesn’t exactly work like that. First time I tried, the bitch thrashed around violently for a good couple of minutes until she finally settled somewhat, but she’d already woken the entire house with her bedlam. A moment later, she started throwing up, projectile vomiting aimed at a new Guinness World Record, spraying her puke all over the room. I hated her for it, but that barf attack saved my life. I kicked my bag under her bed and hid inside her closet before she woke up enough to realize I was there. When her parents rushed in, no one remembered to ask what was with the noises they’d heard only moments before.

  I had to wait it out, inside the closet, holding my breath, and not daring to move, afraid some garment would become loose and fall from its hanger, drawing everyone’s attention. Thankfully, she kept on throwing up, and soon they all left for the hospital, too rushed to set the alarm.

  I got away with it. The hospital, in its typical style of providing healthcare in the age of insurance dominance, diagnosed her with food poisoning from some sushi she had for dinner at a nearby restaurant. They didn’t bother to run a blood toxicity screen, because the insurance wouldn’t cover it. That’s how I got away with it.

  The next day, a health inspector landed on that restaurant’s doorstep with inspection papers in his hand. Why, you might ask yourself? It was just food poisoning, right? Yes, but the bitch was famous, and fame changes things. It’s funny how things work in life; if I watched the wrong movie, leaving me with the impression that chloroform could help me do what I wanted to do with that girl, that single event rippled into making an otherwise decent sushi place pay ten grand in Health Department fines. Because, of course, the inspectors found something. They always do.

  But I learned my lesson that night. No more movie bullshit; I had to do the hard work. I remember learning about Rohypnol and GHB, how both have the same effect, but Rohypnol comes at a premium with erasing the user’s short-term memory around the time of the event. Not to mention GHB induces vomiting. Please, no more of that.

  I remember when I first tried Rohypnol on a girl, and it was oh, so, damn easy! She wasn’t anyone you’d know; no, just someone I wanted to test my new method on. We got to talking, then drinks, then she would’ve done anything I wanted, dizzy, confused, malleable. I put her to bed and thanked her for the help with my experiment. I know what you’re thinking in your perverted mind, but no, I didn’t lay a finger on her; I just ensured she made it safely to her own room. She didn’t remember that part though; she didn’t remember any of it. The next day she had no idea we’d spent hours together the night before. Perfect!

  The following week, I tested it on someone else, and her family too, some unsuspecting folks who asked me for dinner one time. They drank their roofies without the slightest suspicion, then one by one excused themselves and went to bed, leaving me all alone in the house, in complete control of their existence. That night I learned a few more things. That people under the influence of Rohypnol will buy any lie without debate, becoming easy to manipulate and order around. That I needed to learn my way around commonly used alarm systems, and that if I kept the time between my arrival and the actual ingestion of the drug to a minimum, say, under 30 minutes, they would have absolutely no recollection of our encounter the next day. It could prove tricky to do, but not impossible.

  Rohypnol wasn’t going to do the trick by itself, not for the girl I wanted to work on. It wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t give her a double dose, because I was afraid of what might happen. That’s why I mentioned earlier I struggle with drugs. Last thing I want is a girl dying on me, for no purpose whatsoever, by accident, in a haphazard act of ignorance and stupidity. No… I want their deaths to mean something, to make a statement, a bold one that people will remember. That meant I needed something else on top of the Rohypnol.

  I wanted them willing, unconcerned with appearances, not a shred of self-awareness, so we could create something memorable together. I was getting smarter about things, and I wanted a drug that would wear off quickly and have no lasting effects, that would disappear from the bloodstream quickly, so no one would be able to figure it out. A drug that was safe to use, easy to handle, just like the stuff they use in hospitals for short-term anesthesia. Exactly like that.

  It’s funny how, once you know precisely what you want, opportunities start presenting themselves. It took me a few minutes to find a supplier and, using an encrypted proxy, I ordered the drugs I was looking for online, together with an assortment of accessories, for which I paid using bitcoin. Untraceable. A few days later, a package arrived at my door. I was ready.

  Yeah, I’m smart, aren’t I? Too bad studies show absolutely no correlation between intelligence and success, be it either financial or social. Who cares if you’re smart? No one does. But if someone has the right shapes, the right skin, the right gender, and the right hair, people will put that someone on a pedestal and swoon over every single, narrow-minded, narcissistic, and self-indulgent word that comes out of their mouths.

  Not to worry, I’m going to show you all how misplaced your admiration is. I have the power to destroy all your undeserving idols, although you don’t even know I exist.

  13

  Santiago

  When Santiago opened the door, Tess could see he’d been crying. His eyes, swollen and red, were still flooded with tears, although he tried to hide his face from them. He invited them in, and then excused himself for a moment. Tess heard the water running in the bathroom for a minute or two, but when Santiago came back, his eyes were just as red and swollen.

  She recognized his face. She’d seen one of his ads recently, most likely an advert for Rolex or Omega, or was it Breitling? No, John Travolta was still the official face of Breitling. It must’ve been Rolex then. He was handsome, with delicate yet masculine features and thick, raven black hair.

  “Mr. Flores,” she said, speaking gently, “thank you for seeing us so late in the day. I’m assuming you know what we’re here about.”

  “I’ve heard about it on TV. No one called me,” he said, his voice breaking as he spoke the words. “I had to find out from the news. If she would’ve called me, I—”

  He stopped, then sat on the sofa with urgency and abandonment, as if his knees had buckled and couldn’t support his weight any longer. Tess sat across from him, on the edge of an armchair, while Michowsky slowly paced the room, observing every detail of the trendy living room.

  “There was nothing you could’ve done, Mr. Flores,” Tess said. “It’s my understanding she took her life shortly after she found out about the photos.”

  The emotions on Santiago’s face shifted, from the deepest sorrow to the sharpest anger. “Do you know who did that to her?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but we’re working diligently to find out,” she replied. “What can you tell us about your relationship with Christina?”

  His anger vanished, pushed aside by sorrow and despair. “I was in love with her,” he said simply, while his chin trembled in an effort to contain his tears. “Hopelessly in love with her since the day we met on Vogue’s studio set in New York City two years ago.”

  “Did she feel the same toward you?”

  “No…” he admitted, turning his head away for a moment. “She loved Pat, her boyfriend, but I knew what kind of m
an he is, and I’d hoped one day she’d see it too. I was going to be there for her when he broke her heart.”

  “You weren’t jealous of Pat?”

  “I’d lie if I said I wasn’t, but I couldn’t do anything to upset Christina. I was resigned to be her best friend, content to share whatever bits of her life I could, and I waited.”

  “Were you ever angry or upset for being rejected over a lesser man like Pat?”

  “Angry? Never,” he said. “Lesser man? Maybe, but I didn’t think of him that way. Pat was the man she chose, and I respected that.”

  “Was she happy?” Fradella asked.

  “She was, and that made everything acceptable for me, although I knew he’d make her suffer eventually,” he replied. “It hurts to admit, but she was happy with him. Her career had taken off too, she was booked everywhere, yes, she was happy.”

  “Did she mention any issues with her family?” Tess asked, thinking maybe they’d been looking in the wrong place, although the very thought of it made her sick to the stomach.

  “What do you mean?” Santiago asked, frowning and looking first at Tess, then at Fradella.

  “Did she ever complain about her father, or his friends?”

  “Oh, no, definitely not. The Bartletts are respectable, civilized people. She never said anything.”

  “Any creeps or stalkers she might have mentioned?”

  “None,” he said, without any hesitation. “We all have fans, but most fans are reasonable. None of hers stood out in any way that she shared with me.”

  “What other important people were there in her life? Anyone else worth mentioning?”

  “There was this girl, Althea,” he said, blushing a little. “I did my best to avoid her, because she always seems to want to be alone with me, if you know what I mean, and I’m not interested.”

  “Were she and Christina close?”

  “Not particularly, no,” he said. “Sometimes, when Christina was home between location shoots, she’d come by to hang out with her, see what clothes she brought back, talk fashion and stuff.”

  “Girl stuff?”

  He shrugged, then shook his head. “I doubt it. Christina wasn’t like that. She didn’t care much for gossip.”

  Tess exchanged a quick glance with Fradella and Michowsky. It seemed they needed to talk with this girlfriend too, just to cover their bases. Maybe she knew something, or maybe Christina had confided in her after April 15, the night she was assaulted.

  “We’ll need to speak with her,” Tess said. “Would you happen to have her phone number?”

  “Sure, but you’ll probably have to wait a while. She’s in Europe, studying.”

  “When did she leave?” Fradella asked.

  “Early April sometime,” Santiago replied. “It was before my InStyle shoot, and that started on the first weekend in April.”

  He took out his cellphone and retrieved a number from the phone’s memory. He initiated the call on speaker, then set the phone on the table. Three beeps, and an automated voice announced that the number they were calling had been temporarily disconnected. It was another dead end.

  Tess studied his attractive face. Not a trace of deception on his features, in his behavior, in the words he chose, or the things he said. If he knew something relevant, he wasn’t aware he did. Maybe she could trust him with a little more information.

  “Mr. Flores, please keep what I’m about to share in the strictest of confidence,” she said, earning herself a long, scrutinizing gaze from Michowsky.

  Santiago nodded and clasped his hands together in his lap. “Of course.”

  “Christina was assaulted in her own home on April 15, about midnight; that’s when those photos were taken. We have reasons to believe she was drugged by someone who was comfortable enough with the property and its surroundings to act without fear. Did she mention anything after April 15 that could shed some light on what happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said, after spending a moment thinking. “I went over there that week when she came back from her Paris location shoot. We had dinner with her parents. Pat was out of town or something.”

  “And she seemed perfectly normal?”

  “Yes, absolutely. A little tired, maybe, but that’s to be expected with all the jet lag and the crazy hours.”

  “Can you think of anyone who could’ve done this, Mr. Flores?” Michowsky asked.

  “No,” he answered quickly. “I’ve spent all day today wondering how it was possible, her photos ending up out there like that. She was a modest girl; she never did naked shoots, no matter what they offered. She turned down Hustler, did you know that?”

  No, they didn’t know that, and it was a valuable piece of information. It said a lot about Christina’s character.

  They thanked Santiago and left, then called it a night after wolfing down some burgers and fries under Cat’s watchful eyes, at the Media Luna Bar and Grill. Whenever Cat laid eyes on the two detectives, a deep crease appeared between his eyebrows and wouldn’t disappear for a moment.

  She’d asked him about it, and he’d merely replied, “They’re cops, and I don’t trust cops.” She laughed, because she was also a cop. Since the day Cat had saved her life, almost twelve years ago, he’d watched over her fiercely, ready to do whatever it took to protect her from all harm. His devotion warmed her heart and helped heal her deeply buried wounds that still hurt at times.

  She’d only been asleep for a few short hours when a chime woke her, a little before 6:00AM. A text message from Donovan: “Read your email.”

  She quickly read through the message and the attached files, then texted Michowsky and Fradella. At 7:25AM she found them already waiting for her in the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office conference room when she brought in coffee and donuts.

  They had another victim.

  14

  Press Release

  “We looked Estelle Kennedy up and there’s no report of a suicide or attempted suicide,” Fradella said, the moment she stepped through the door.

  “Good morning to you too,” she replied, offering the coffee cups that were accepted quickly with nods of gratitude, and putting the donut box on the table between them. “That’s because Estelle is still alive.”

  Michowsky shot her an inquisitive look, while taking a careful sip of hot Starbucks latte.

  “She fits every other criterion, except for the suicide part,” Tess explained, “which leads me to believe she might not know about the photos yet.”

  “All right, let’s see what we’ve got,” Michowsky said, then approached the screen-mounted TV to be able to read the email displayed there.

  “Donovan has already analyzed the photos he found online, and they were taken on May 10, with GPS coordinates matching the victim’s residence.”

  “I see a pattern here,” Fradella said, then picked up a dry eraser marker and started filling out the second line of the victimology matrix.

  “Estelle won on American Idol two years ago, and she is one of the few who continued to grow their careers from there,” Tess said, reading from Donovan’s email. “She isn’t a one-hit wonder, but none of her songs made it to Top Ten either; not yet, anyway. This girl is on her way up.”

  “Age?” Fradella asked, marker in hand, ready to put the number on the whiteboard.

  “Twenty-three,” Tess replied. “Her parents, Jim and Nadia Kennedy, sold their restaurant and took early retirement. She still lives with them. Add this to our victimology matrix, please.”

  Todd drew a vertical line at the end of the table and wrote, Lives w Parents.

  “Do you think living with parents is part of the victim profile?” Michowsky asked. “Why would that matter to the unsub?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe he’s reeling from a traumatic event he’s trying to recreate, having to do with successful or famous adult children living with their parents. Or maybe these are the vics he has access to. A girl like that rarely lives alone; typically, there’s a romantic rela
tionship going on, and it’s more difficult to sneak into a bedroom and subdue two people instead of one.”

  “A girl like that?” Fradella asked, frowning a little, the way he usually did when he wanted to make sure he grasped everything correctly. She had to give him points for rarely, if ever, making assumptions.

  Tess displayed Estelle’s American Idol photo on the screen. She was stunning, her almost surreal beauty augmented by the glow imparted by the achievement of winning. The photo showed her turning her head to face the camera, while playfully tugging at the strap of her blue, sleeveless top and smiling widely, happy and proud at the same time. Her gaze was showing confidence not debauchery, and her classy clothing made the same statement. Despite the occasion, she wore discreet makeup, nothing vulgar or exaggerated. Estelle was a good girl.

  “How about the other photos?” Michowsky asked, then cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.

  “Donovan’s email has them,” she replied. “I’m not going to display them on the wall,” she added, shooting a quick glance at the glass wall that separated the conference room from the squad room that was already buzzing with activity. “They’re worse than before, and Estelle was unconscious, just like Christina was.”

  “Taken at night?” Fradella asked.

  “Yeah, sometime after midnight. Donovan sent the stats in the body of the email.”

  “Is it just me, or does the timeline of these attacks seem out of whack to you?” Michowsky asked.

  “Let’s put it on the board,” Tess replied, and grabbed the marker from Fradella.

  She drew a long, horizontal line above the victimology matrix and marked a point about two thirds to the right with a small vertical line.

  “That’s today, Friday, May 25,” she said, adding the date below that point. “Christina was assaulted on April 15, but didn’t hear about the photos until May 24, when she killed herself.” She added all those dates as she talked through the timeline. “But the unsub kept busy, because on May 10, he assaulted Estelle.”