The Watson Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “A formal review? May I ask why?”

  “My question is, do you really need to ask why?” He drilled his eyes into hers until she lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. “Yes, you’ve closed the case. Yes, you added one more notable notch to your belt. But the review committee has become aware that some of your stats are not that good.”

  “Which stats?” She knew she had an impeccable case record, so it couldn’t be that. Then what?

  “Your kill ratio’s higher than everyone else’s. You have been cleared in every shooting, but there was something about your last case that got their attention.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Let me finish, Winnett. I suggest you let the committee finalize the formal review and make their recommendations. Like I said, you’ve already been cleared in each shooting, so you’re fine.”

  She waited for a full second before speaking.

  “Sir, with all due respect, I’m not fine. A formal review can be a career killer.”

  He stood abruptly, started pacing the floor, and buried his fisted hands deep inside his pockets.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Winnett. There’s nothing anyone can do. Let things happen, and don’t rock the boat. But it wouldn’t hurt you to arrest a suspect for a change, instead of shooting them.”

  She stared quietly at the floor, feeling the sting of frustration.

  “Understood,” she eventually replied, managing to refrain from disputing everything that was wrong with the system.

  Pearson sat back at his desk, and his frown deepened.

  “Second item on the list is definitely not helping you with the upcoming review.” He cleared his throat, then continued. “I would like you to work with a partner for a while.”

  “Oh?” she said, looking at Pearson with poorly hidden annoyance. She didn’t want a partner, but she knew it was bound to happen, sooner or later. Pearson had been clear about it. But still. “We’re not required to have permanent partners in the FBI, so I was—”

  “Don’t quote statute on me, Winnett. I still get to decide who does what here, and with whom. That clear?”

  “Yes, sir. But that means you actually want me supervised, rather than—”

  “Winnett!”

  She froze. She didn’t want to push him too far, but she didn’t feel she deserved it either. Where could she draw that line, between taking direction from her boss and standing up for herself?

  “For now, there isn’t anyone available to work with you,” he said, then glared at her as her relief must have been too obvious. “But I want you to consider having a partner as a next step in your career. It will help you a great deal, and it will help with people’s perceptions about you.”

  “What perceptions?”

  “That you’re not a team player. That you don’t care about how others feel, or about their results; just about getting case after case solved, as fast and as good as possible.”

  “Umm… and what’s wrong with solving cases fast? That’s my job!”

  “The perception is that you don’t care who you hurt in the process. You have to fix this perception, Winnett. You have to, and I’m not kidding. Regain the trust and respect of your colleagues, and make sure you can demonstrate you belong on this team. There’s no room for solo artists here, Winnett, regardless of your case record. We’re all part of a team, and we have to act like it.”

  She bit her lip. How the hell was she supposed to do that? Interactions like she’d just had in the bathroom with Colston were so rare, they only proved the rule by being the exceptions. They were enjoyable though, she had to admit.

  “I worked just fine with Mike. I think I demonstrated that. But Mike’s gone. He’s dead.”

  “Listen, Winnett,” Pearson continued, loosening his tie with a frustrated sigh. “No matter what you, or I, or anyone else would be willing to do, Mike’s not coming back. No matter how much you blame yourself, or how much you decide you can’t work with anyone else. It’s time to move on, Winnett. Don’t let it destroy your career.” He fell silent for a second, letting his loaded gaze say the words he didn’t speak.

  She lowered her eyes again, not sure what more she could say.

  “Then, there’s the problem with the governor,” he continued.

  Tess sighed quietly and refrained from visibly rolling her eyes.

  “He called with your name, twice, while you were working your latest case. Twice!”

  “He gets calls from all the ritzy people I happen to bother during my—”

  “Winnett!” he snapped. “Don’t you think I know how the wheels turn? But you have to be smart about it! At some point, he could call and ask me formally to make you another governor’s problem! No other agent in this branch has your kind of track record. They all solve cases, maybe not with your record of achievement, but definitely with less noise and disruption. With fewer complaints.” He paused for a little while, as if trying to figure out what to do with her. “Be smart about these things, Winnett,” he eventually continued. “Don’t allow your behavior to cast a shadow on the reputation of this team, internal and external. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Tess managed. She was going to have to figure out how to get people to like her, to accept her. She had to change, and that was never easy. She needed to soften around the edges a little, but somehow still be able to do her job, maintain her edge. She had no idea how to do that, or where to start.

  “I’m giving you an assignment,” Pearson moved on.

  She lit up, feeling anticipation and excitement elevate her gloomy spirits.

  “There’s a serial killer on death row at Raiford; Kenneth Garza.”

  “Ah, The Family Man,” she added.

  “Yes, The Family Man,” Pearson confirmed. “His execution date is set and it’s approaching. It’s in three weeks or so, on the twenty-second. I’d like you to study his file, and go there for an interview. Make sure everything rings right, that we’ve crossed every T and dotted every I, and we’re not going to have any surprises in his final hour. Are you familiar with his case?”

  “No, just with his reputation. It was before my time.”

  “Jeez, Winnett, you’re something else. Before Winnett and After Winnett, is that it? How arrogant can you get?” The irritation in Pearson’s voice was discernible, almost physical in the unusually elevated pitch.

  “No, sir. I meant I am familiar with all the serial killer cases closed during my tenure.”

  “Of course, you are,” he scoffed, “because you closed them!”

  “No, sir. I meant I’m familiar with all serial killer cases closed by the Bureau, regardless of who closed them, since the day I joined the FBI ten years ago.”

  Pearson’s jaw dropped a little, but then he regained his composure, apparently unperturbed. She felt the urge to smile, but knew better and didn’t.

  He continued, “Okay, so get familiar with Garza’s file, and go have a chat with him before he fries.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said and stood, ready to leave.

  He pointed at a stack of boxes, already loaded on a dolly and parked in the corner of his office, near the door. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Garza’s file,” he said, then resumed reading the documents he was studying before her arrival.

  She grabbed the dolly’s handle and winced. Sharp pain stabbed her side. She shifted the handle to her other hand and managed to roll out of there without hitting the walls or denting any furniture.

  Relieved, she focused on pulling the dolly awkwardly on the thick carpet, looking behind her at each step to make sure the stack of boxes still held on. Then she ran into someone, head-butting into a muscular chest, white shirt clad, and boasting a colorful necktie. She gasped, as the impact sent a wave of pain into her shoulder.

  “What the hell, Winnett, watch it,” Donovan said. He was the best and brightest on their analysis team. An analyst, not a field agent, despite his numerous applications, and his solid, unwavering enthusia
sm.

  She tightened her lips and swallowed a long, detailed curse.

  “Sorry, Donovan. Are you okay?” A hint of sarcasm seeped in her voice. He shook his head.

  “And to think you wield a weapon for a living. Huh… I wonder who approved that,” he replied with biting humor.

  That stung, and, within that angry split second, she felt the urge to tell Donovan it was the same people who’d denied him his application to become a field agent. But then she remembered her commitment to herself and Pearson and swallowed that angry comeback.

  “Um, once again, sorry,” she said softly, then turned to leave.

  Donovan’s face dropped, seemingly unsure how to react. The Tess Winnett he and everyone else knew would have ripped him to shreds for far less. He stood there, riveted in place, watching her wince while she struggled to pull the loaded dolly.

  “By the way, in case you want to know: you push the dolly; you don’t pull it with loads that high,” he offered, then turned away and resumed his course toward the elevators.

  Gah… She closed her eyes for a second, trying to envision a space where she could let the angry cuss words she felt like shouting at Donovan’s broad shoulders actually be articulated, to let off some of the pressure she felt. No such place.

  She turned the dolly around and started pushing it, suddenly seeing how easy it was to make it across the wide floor to her desk. She smiled, almost forgetting about the review committee and the weight of the thousands of pages detailing the many gruesome murders perpetrated by The Family Man.

  She was back. That was all that mattered.

  A Letter

  The recipe for pasta primavera can be tricky for those who don’t spend enough time in the kitchen. Laura Watson didn’t aim for culinary perfection; she just wanted a quick meal for Adrian and herself, something to be a little different from the monotonous sandwiches grilled in the toaster oven, or the long list of microwave dinners gulped down in front of the TV.

  Typical youngsters, the two of them shared an apartment that reflected Laura’s financial well-being, but also her chosen profession. At least twice the usual number of lamps and light fixtures adorned the place, every single one of them bearing the WatWel Lighting logo.

  A particular wall sconce in the shape of a stylized seashell held special meanings. Laura had designed that lamp when she was fifteen, and her adoptive father/business partner had built the prototype. A year later, that particular model sold like hot cakes to hotels and resorts on both coasts. On her apartment wall, seemingly out of place, the prototype wall sconce was rarely turned off. Looking at the lamp’s gentle light reminded Laura of her family legacy, the company her biological father had started with her now adoptive parent, Bradley Welsh.

  Brad held a special place in her heart; he’d been a terrific adoptive father, who’d broken all the rules and had not placed her legacy in a trust; rather, he’d involved her in decisions at a very young age; he’d been there to kindle her interest for the light fixture manufacturing processes, teaching her how to lead, letting her sit in high-level meetings and big-dollar client negotiations. Together, the two of them had become media darlings.

  There were pictures of them on the apartment walls, the oldest going back to when she was seven or eight years old, and he took her to the inauguration of the new manufacturing facility. She’d cut the ribbon herself, struggling with the huge scissors, but knowing she had him by her side. On a special place above the fireplace was the only photo of her long-lost family, five happy faces that shared one of many moments of closeness together, hiking in Yosemite. On the opposing wall, there was another cherished photo, of her father and Brad Welsh, taken the day they’d incorporated WatWel Lighting.

  That’s why, following the family tradition, she’d chosen a degree in electrical engineering, a difficult specialty that suited her future role with WatWel Lighting. She’d raced through the curriculum in a hurry, and she was bound to finish her degree early by several months. Yet following a simple pasta recipe posed issues for her.

  Laura read the instructions again, and groaned. The recipe was marked “easy” or “beginner” on two of the most popular online recipe sites, yet she didn’t have the necessary patience to execute all the things that needed to be done to achieve the colorful bowl of pasta. She let out another frustrated groan and decided to cut corners, the corners she had the most issues with. Zucchinis? She didn’t have those and wasn’t about to leave the house and go shopping. Adrian wouldn’t know the difference anyway. The surviving red pepper in her fridge had endured in there for a long time and was mushy in places; definitely a candidate for the trash can, not her glamorous Saturday lunch.

  She checked the time, throwing a worried glance at the digital clock hanging on the dining room wall, and decided not to waste any more of it. A little nervous, she ran her fingers through her long, sleek hair, tugging a few rebel strands behind her ears. Adrian’s workshop was about to be over, and she wanted to be done with the meal. Okay… she was going to cut a lot of corners.

  She drained the pasta, mumbling something unintelligible as a few rogue farfalle made it past the drainer and plunged down into the garbage disposal. She put the drained pasta into a large pan just as the phone chimed. She shot a quick glance at the phone’s screen and saw a message from Adrian, saying, “On my way, be there in ten.” Then she opened a small pack of frozen, mixed vegetables, and poured it on top of the pasta. She added olive oil without measuring it and turned on the stove.

  Laura loved gizmos of any kind; maybe a trait inherited from her father’s technical brain, or an acquired preference, she wasn’t sure. Her apartment held an entire collection of small appliances and electrical tools of various kinds. Her best friend and adoptive sister, Amanda, teased her by saying that everything in her apartment had to have a power cord, or it didn’t belong. For the task that most people endure without thinking, the part of the recipe that reads, “Cook on the stove, stirring constantly,” she had a new device, an automated stirring machine that clamped on top of the pan and did the stirring for her. At least that helped a little.

  She cleaned the table quickly and set the placemats, then plugged in a small electric grater and threw in a chunk of fresh Parmesan cheese. She was about done, when she heard the key in the lock.

  “Hey, baby,” Adrian greeted her with a smile, then pecked her on the lips. “Mmm… smells good in here!”

  Boo, their tabby cat, circled his legs with his tail straight up, like a banner.

  She chuckled lightly. All the cut corners were going to remain her secret; Adrian wouldn’t know. He was an orphan, a kid who’d lost his parents to drugs and various prison systems, then grew up in street gangs and juvenile crime until someone took him in. A stranger… a neighbor who was willing to put up with the troubled teenager and had brought him to his senses before he could completely ruin his life.

  They had that in common, the two of them, losing their parents early in their lives. Laura had the better deal though. She hadn’t seen one day of street living, of poverty, or of foster care at the hands of the state. Her father’s business partner and his family had been there from the moment her parents were so tragically taken from her, when she was only five years old. She had been the fortunate one in that respect, having grown up with the love and care of a family that left nothing to be desired.

  Adrian, on the other hand, still had that ruggedness, that fierceness of the street survivor, of the boy who was forced to grow up overnight and fend for himself, when others his age still wrote letters to Santa. His heart was in a good place, but he could become overbearing and too protective at times, his fears and inner monsters fed by who knows what nightmarish experiences he had lived through. It drove her crazy.

  That’s why Laura averted her eyes as much as she could that day; she couldn’t bring herself to tell him she was pregnant. She’d confirmed it earlier that morning. She’d waited for him to leave for school, then rushed to the corner drugstore to get a
test, and came running back home. She’d only been a few days late, and she still had hope. She was taking her birth control pills every morning like clockwork, so she expected to see one line on the test, the one line that would put her fears at ease.

  She saw two. She didn’t believe it; couldn’t. She waited for another hour, then ran another test. The same two lines that confirmed the unwanted truth: she was pregnant. In shock, she rushed to her laptop and typed exactly what she was feeling. She searched, “On birth control and pregnant. How is it possible?” Then added several question marks after her search phrase, not for any rational reason; only so she could refrain from breaking things.

  The search results returned various possible causes that didn’t quite match her case, but the fourth one on the list sent shivers down her spine. Apparently, if you take antibiotics when you’re on the pill, it could reduce the pill’s effectiveness. Then she recalled the strep throat she’d had three or four weeks earlier, and the full regimen of antibiotics she had taken. Someone should have told her!

  Swallowing her tears, she weighed her options. She wasn’t ready to start a family, to get busy with diapers and everything. She wanted to get her bachelor’s degree, followed by her master’s, then join her adoptive father at the helm of WatWel Lighting and open the new line of digital, LED fixtures. There was no room for a baby in her life plans. And Adrian? Probably not the best father material. Not the worst either, but someone so overbearing can drive a kid, and its mother, completely nuts. Still, abortion was not an option; she couldn’t even bear the thought.

  By mid-morning, it had become simply too hard to swallow her tears, and she just let the floodgates open. She cried herself out, then decided to cook a special meal, just so she could have something different to prevent Adrian from seeing something was, in fact, different about her. A decoy, a culinary smokescreen. As for her pregnancy, she needed to think and decide what to do. She suddenly missed her mother, her real one, the one she could barely remember. She wished she could run to her and ask her what to do, and cry some more, curled up in her lap.