The Watson Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Me?” he scoffed. “There’s nothing I have to say you people haven’t heard before. This isn’t the place where new, interesting stuff happens, you know. This is a place where death-row inmates prepare to die. Well, I’m prepared already. I’ve been prepared for eight years now.”

  “You have no regrets?”

  Tess’s question threw him off a little. He averted his eyes briefly, then returned his calm gaze back at her.

  “Everyone has regrets.”

  “Name one.”

  “One that’s not in there?” Garza pointed at the file she held closed in front of her.

  “Sure, why not?” She continued to let him be in charge of the conversation, already intrigued.

  “My biggest regret is that you people don’t care for the truth as much as you should, considering your line of work.”

  “How so?” Tess frowned a little. Was he going to be a cliché and start saying, “I didn’t do it?” That would be very disappointing.

  “I’ve told many others before you, that I only killed thirty-one families, not thirty-four. I would have expected some interest, considering the three families you pinned on me for no good reason were killed by someone who gets away with it. But no. No one gives a crap. They just want their cases closed, with no interest for truth or justice.”

  Tess looked at him intrigued. Why would he say that?

  “So, you have an interest in justice?”

  “Do you find that so hard to believe?”

  She pursed her lips. There was an air of acceptance about him, almost of kindness. Yet this man had taken so many lives in cold blood. The disconnect between the man’s appearance and his history was chilling. A true, absolute psychopath. She felt her hairs stand on end.

  “Yeah, I do, actually. Can I be blunt?”

  “Go ahead,” he encouraged her, making a hand gesture restricted by the rattling chain.

  “I’m thinking okay, thirty-one families or thirty-four, you still fry. What do you want? Do you want to open up a can of worms now and get a stay of execution?”

  He laughed and leaned back in his chair, as far back as the restraints allowed.

  “No, God, please, no stay of execution. I want this to be over.” His laughter quieted and turned into a pervasive, lingering smile. “No, I just want what’s true to be true. To be known as such.”

  “Nothing else?” Tess probed.

  “No. That’s it.”

  She thought for a few seconds, trying to think what type of manipulation could the psychopath in front of her cook up. She couldn’t think of any ulterior motive, and law enforcement did make mistakes at times, more often than anyone cared to admit. She decided to keep an open mind.

  “All right, I’m listening,” she said, preparing to take notes on a blank page in her file folder.

  “Well, you’d be the first. You have the list of families in there, I’m sure,” he said, just as calmly. “Please take it out and follow along.”

  She complied, unable to refrain from shooting him a quick, inquisitive glance.

  “The Meyers, the Townsends, and the Watsons, found them?”

  “Um, yes,” she confirmed, after marking the three names with her pen.

  “These are the ones I didn’t kill. The rest, I did. The rest are all mine, but these ones are not.”

  “Okay, but prove it to me,” Tess said, staring him straight in the eye. “You were already found guilty by a court of law for the murder of these families, so I see no reason to believe you.”

  “What reason would I have to lie to you?”

  “What reason not to?” she returned, impassible. “You have to do better than that.”

  “I’ll give you two reasons for today, then I’ll let you go back and work that angle. Then we’ll talk some more, if you’re interested.”

  “Shoot,” she replied, seemingly only half-interested. She knew better than to show any interest or excitement with a psychopath in the room.

  “First fact: if you go ahead and timeline my killings, the ones I really did, you’ll see they’re never closer than three months apart, from one to the next. I needed that much time to choose my targets, to study them, and to prepare for the kill. These three, the Watsons, the Townsends, and the Meyers, are the only ones breaking the pattern. The Watsons were killed only a couple of weeks after the Hamiltons. I killed the Hamiltons, but I didn’t kill the Watsons.”

  “Most serial killers escalate, I’m sure you know that.”

  “That’s what the other cops said, but I’m telling you that’s not what happened.”

  “Okay, let’s say I’ll look into that. What’s the second reason why I should believe you?”

  He remained silent for a while, showing some signs of internal conflict for the first time. He clenched his jaws and bit his lip before speaking, while his hands clasped and unclasped repeatedly.

  “I haven’t shared this with anyone yet. It’s very personal, you see.”

  Tess nodded quietly, waiting for him to continue.

  “I like to kill women just as much as I like killing men and their offspring. This killer enjoys women more.... I may be a killer, but I’m no rapist. Check your facts.”

  There was sadness on his face, a flicker of gloominess coloring his features. Tess wondered why. She checked her notes. The file had Garza listed as a hedonistic thrill killer motivated by anger, whose methods did not include rape. His MO was quick and to the point. He shot his victims once or twice in the head or chest, killing them quickly, painlessly. What made him famous though was what he did after killing them.

  “None of these victims were raped, the ones you’re disputing: the Meyers, Townsends, and Watsons. What are you talking about?”

  He sustained her inquisitive look for a few long seconds before replying.

  “Check your facts.”

  Methodology

  Laura paced the small reception area slowly, a little uneasy, doing her best to avoid the receptionist’s look, although the young woman seemed kind and understanding, not at all judgmental after inviting her several times to take a seat.

  She struggled to stay put. All kinds of random thoughts whirlpooled through her mind, probably a measure of her anxiety at the thought of meeting Dr. Jacobs, of taking a glimpse at her forgotten past. She checked the time nervously, then tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. She glanced quickly at the receptionist, who smiled apologetically.

  She’d been waiting for almost fifteen minutes, her courage wearing thinner with each minute. Maybe her mind had closed up and swallowed all that horror for a reason. Maybe there was nothing to remember; maybe she really hadn’t seen anything. Maybe Adrian was right, and she shouldn’t try to fix the unfixable. Nothing she did now could ever bring her family back.

  She turned on her heels and started for the exit, averting her eyes.

  “Sorry,” she said timidly, “I have to go.”

  “Please, don’t leave,” the receptionist said. “She’s stuck on the phone with the hospital; there’s an emergency. It’s really not something she can cut short. Please. It will only be a few more minutes. I’ll ping her again.”

  “Um, I’m not very sure I should even be here,” she mumbled, in lieu of an apology.

  “Please. She’d be very disappointed, because she knows she can help you. And you can help her.”

  Laura’s head hung; she felt defeated. A few more minutes won’t matter, she promised herself, watching the receptionist type quickly, probably a new message to Dr. Jacobs.

  To pass the time, she focused her attention on the diplomas that hung on the wall, at the left of Dr. Jacobs’s office door. Normally, diplomas hung inside the doctor’s office, not outside. She found herself wondering why this particular office was the exception to that unwritten rule, but then became absorbed in the impressive list of credentials. PhD from UCLA, with honors. Board certified, specialized in behavioral and cognitive psychology. Awards for publications in the field of cognitive neuroscience
. Worldwide recognition for her research. Dr. Jacobs could have worked with anyone she wanted. And yet, she’d invited her.

  “You can go in now,” the receptionist said, breaking her chain of thought.

  She knocked twice, then entered.

  Dr. Jacobs’s office was huge and decorated with incredible taste. Mahogany wood paneling, leather sofas and generous armchairs, and a massive desk. Fine art hung on the walls, gallery-level oil paintings of still nature and breathtaking landscapes. Yes, her black-framed diplomas would have ruined the look and feel of her posh office.

  “Hi, I’m—”

  “Laura Watson, right?” Dr. Jacobs approached her with a spring in her step and a friendly extended hand. “Thank you for coming, and most of all for waiting! It was impossible to get away, I apologize.”

  Her handshake was firm, and Laura enjoyed the friendship and warmth it conveyed.

  “Why am I here, Dr. Jacobs?” she asked directly, eager to hear the answer.

  Dr. Jacobs tilted her head for a second, giving her a scrutinizing look.

  “Let’s sit down,” she offered, then led the way to a pair of armchairs seated in front of a lit fireplace. “I’m starting work on a new study, a new method to restore blocked or distorted childhood trauma memories. I think you’d make a great candidate for the study, because, well, you fit the profile we’re looking for, and—”

  “What is that profile, exactly?” Laura looked at her with serious, unforgiving eyes. Jacobs didn’t budge under her drilling gaze, and her friendly demeanor didn’t fade.

  “Adults who have sustained significant trauma as children, under the age of seven, and who have no recollection of said traumatic events.”

  “I see,” she acknowledged, then lowered her head a little.

  “That’s just the profile. You, however, make a terrific candidate for my new method because in your particular case, there is ample documentation of what went on during the traumatic event, and because we already have information about the perpetrator.”

  Laura frowned.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we know who killed your family, Laura. May I call you Laura?”

  “Yeah, sure. And that’s important, how?”

  “My method’s primary use will be in assisting with the investigation of crimes committed against or in the presence of minors under the age of seven, whose blocked memories we can’t extract or understand with traditional methods. To get this methodology ready for use, we need to demonstrate its validity, its reliability. In your case, knowing who the killer is will give us just that: validation of results.”

  “Um, I’m an engineer, or almost, Dr. Jacobs, not a doctor. I get most of what you’re saying, but not all of it. Do you mean you’ll help me remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even what happened the night they died?”

  “Yes. All of it.”

  She bit her lip and wrung her hands, afraid of what the past would uncover. Deep frown lines scrunched her brow. She had to remember. She wanted to remember, no matter how painful or how scary that seemed.

  “I can only imagine what you must be going through, or how hard this is for you, but don’t worry,” Jacobs added, reading correctly the reasons for her anxiety. “This will not push you past what you’re able to handle. We’ll work gradually, and the moment you’re not comfortable we will stop.”

  She frowned deeper, and for a few seconds she contemplated running out of there and not looking back. But she owed it to them, she owed it to her parents to remember. She wanted to remember how they looked, how they sounded, how they felt when she touched them. Her eyes welled up.

  “Please, walk me through what you’re going to do,” she asked quietly, barely louder than a whisper. She stared at the fireplace, where a happy fire danced on real logs, reminding her of a distant past, another fireplace, another life.

  “We’ll start slowly,” Dr. Jacobs replied. “I’ll take a fact sheet first, listing all key details you remember or you know from third-party accounts. I’ll add information from police reports and the actual case file for the, um, murder of your family, then we’ll have weekly age-regression sessions.”

  “Hypnosis?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been tried before,” Laura said, sounding almost apologetic.

  “Not like this,” Jacobs replied. “We’ll add sensory details, to help trigger the buried memories.”

  “What sensory details?”

  “Smells, sounds, images, perceptions.”

  Laura didn’t hide her confusion. She looked at Jacobs with a renewed, deep frown.

  “I’ll explain in a minute. But first, why don’t you walk me through what happened?”

  Her voice was soft, gentle, supportive. Laura took a deep breath, steeling herself to go there. Long seconds of deafening silence passed by before she could speak.

  “I don’t remember, you know that. I will tell you what I know from other people.”

  “That’s all right,” Jacobs said softly, ready to jot down notes.

  Laura swallowed hard, feelings and painful memories choking her. She took a deep breath, then finally found the words.

  “They were killed on a Friday night and were not discovered until the next morning, when the housekeeper came. She worked weekends. I remember someone saying she took classes during the week, so that’s why.”

  “Where were you when they found you?”

  “They said I was in the laundry hamper.”

  “The laundry hamper? Smart little girl!” Jacobs reacted.

  “We used to play hide and seek with Grandma,” Laura smiled sadly, as she recalled, “and I drove her crazy, because I hid in all kinds of unusual places. My sister and brother hid like normal kids, under beds and in the closets, but I hid in suitcases, in the dishwasher one time, and in the laundry hamper. She used to tell me I must like filth and smelly socks,” she chuckled lightly, then wiped a rebel tear at the corner of her eye.

  “So, you recall playing with your siblings and your grandmother?”

  “Yes, like it happened to someone else, but yes, that memory is still there.”

  “Great. What else do you remember being told about that day?”

  “People didn’t talk about it with me. Carol and Bradley, my adoptive parents, avoided the subject fiercely. I can understand why. The only thing my adoptive parents told me was that I didn’t speak a word for a couple of years after that night. But I know Hannah, our housekeeper, was the one who found me, eventually.”

  “Why eventually? Do you know?”

  “Yes, I do. I looked her up when I got older, because I wanted to find out everything I could about that day, and my adoptive parents didn’t know much. She’s still around; we stayed in touch. She didn’t want to say, at first, but she said she’d known I was somewhere in the house, because she didn’t find… um, they didn’t find my body anywhere. She looked everywhere, knowing how I liked to hide, and got herself into trouble with the police apparently, for disturbing the crime scene.”

  “I see. Would you mind if I speak with her?”

  “N—no, I guess not. What would you ask her?”

  “Just more details, to help us with our sensory setup.”

  “Not sure I follow,” Laura shrugged.

  “For instance, what was for dinner that night? The smell of that particular food might trigger some memories. What clothes, if any, were in the laundry hamper? Socks or your mother’s silk blouses? A particular fabric touching your skin could trigger a memory. Was the TV on? Or music?”

  “I understand,” Laura replied, “or at least I think I do.” She drew a sharp breath. “When do we start?”

  “Sooner than you’d expect. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” Jacobs asked, flashing a charming, wide smile.

  “I can be, why?”

  “I was invited to speak about my new method on television, and I’d like to ask you to come with me. It’s an interview with the Brandt Rusch, no less,” s
he added, naming one of the most famous news reporters of the moment. “He’s network, you know, not local.”

  Laura stood abruptly, getting ready to leave.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Surprised, Dr. Jacobs stood as well, and touched her elbow.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Don’t you see the opportunity here?”

  “This might be an opportunity for you, Dr. Jacobs, but it’s my life, and I won’t have it turned into a circus for anyone’s benefit, including yours. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

  She turned to leave, pressing her lips together to refrain from saying something she’d need to apologize for later. She couldn’t believe she’d wasted so much time and raised her hopes like that, for nothing. For a stupid TV show.

  “What if they hadn’t caught him?” Dr. Jacobs said, asserting her voice just a little above the friendly, supportive level.

  Laura stopped, frozen in place.

  “What if the man who killed your family were still at large, out there? Can’t you see? Your case is the baseline we need to calibrate a study that could bring hundreds of criminals to justice, criminals who prey on children. The fact that we know your family’s killer with such accuracy is a one-in-a-billion chance, Laura. Please don’t throw it away.”

  She turned and faced Dr. Jacobs, her features carved in stone. She felt her blood boil, as a wave of overwhelming emotion swallowed her.

  “I won’t throw it away, if you give up the TV circus. Why are you doing that? And why drag me with you?”

  “Because this is how research grants are obtained. These methodologies, like everything else, are like products. At first, you invent them, prototype them, but then you have to publicize them, so the market can respond, and investors can put their money into your idea. TV interviews, media releases, articles, fundraisers, you name it. Taking this methodology nationwide, after proving beyond any doubt that it works and can be safely and fairly used in criminal investigations, will take serious time and effort. Financial effort.”

  Laura stood quietly, feeling her resistance vanish under the force of Dr. Jacobs’s argument.