by Leslie Wolfe
“All right,” he eventually said, “I’ll give you forty-eight hours. See what you can find out, draw your conclusions, and let’s put this mess to rest. Wrap it up in forty-eight, not a second more. I have a health insurance fraud case lined up for you.”
She nodded once, although she thought forty-eight hours would probably not be enough. It was a stone-cold case, archived for fifteen years. No new witnesses, no new forensics, no new evidence of any sorts. Just something a death-row psychopath had said.
“Um, I need to place Laura Watson in protective custody.”
“Absolutely not,” Pearson replied firmly.
“But, sir, this girl’s got a target on her back, ever since they aired her interview. Do you think the real killer will risk leaving this loose end out in the open?”
SAC Pearson clenched his jaws but remained quiet for a few seconds, thinking. He probably mulled over the implications of exposing the uncertainty of their findings in the Watson case, so late in the game. She understood his concerns, because she’d spent most of the night awake, tossing and turning, trying to make the wisest decision under the circumstances.
“Sir, I understand the media risk, but we have to,” she insisted. “If she dies—”
“I don’t need you to spell it out for me, Winnett. I can think for myself.”
She promptly clammed up. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t get on his good side. She couldn’t establish a real dialogue between them. Maybe his past frustrations with her behavior ran so deep that their relationship couldn’t be healed anymore. Maybe her job was, in true fact, hanging by a thin thread, waiting to snap at the first gust of adverse wind.
“Listen to me, Winnett, because I’m only going to say this once. You’re not going to place Watson in protective custody. Not until you have confirmed your theories beyond any reasonable doubt, and you have a tight case with a new name on it. Even then, you will run this by me first, for approval.”
“But, sir, she’s going to die—” she pushed back vigorously, standing up.
“I wasn’t finished, Winnett, for God’s sake,” he reacted, visibly antagonized by her reaction. “For now, you have nothing, just speculation. Please, feel free to interrupt me if I’m wrong.”
His condescending tone ripped through her self-imposed calm, making her blood boil. Regardless, she decided to shut up and listen, no matter how disheartening that was. Pearson was her superior, whether she liked it or not.
“I’m glad we agree on something,” he continued. “You want to compromise the reputation of several police departments and their detectives on nothing more than speculation. Do you realize that every case those detectives have closed will have grounds for appeal? Do you realize the ripple effects of such a discovery, so late after the fact? Those detectives won’t even be trusted to sign for mail, going forward... All they have, in their line of work, is their reputation. You’d completely destroy that, on nothing more than speculation coming from a death-row mass murderer. Not to mention the rift you’d create between us and them, between the regional Federal Bureau and local police. We’re supposed to work like a team, to be on the same side here, Winnett. But then again, what do you know about teams, huh?”
His words fell like stones, as if she was caught in an avalanche of hurt and humiliation that she didn’t feel she deserved. Was it that bad to put a woman’s life above political bullshit? She let her head hang for a second, but then raised it and looked Pearson straight in the eye.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe any of this political crap is worth the gamble with Laura’s life. If Laura were your kid, you’d probably agree more.”
Pearson sustained her gaze fiercely, and Tess noticed his skin was turning a darker shade, probably his telltale sign for contained anger raising his blood pressure level.
“All I’m saying, Winnett, is get me some goddamn facts before doing anything we’d probably regret for years to come. Can you do that much for me?”
“Yes, sir, I can. In the meantime, would you please approve a protective detail for Laura Watson?”
Pearson stood abruptly and slammed his hands against the desk. Taken aback, she took a step back, reacting instinctively to put more distance between herself and his unusual outburst.
“There are no grounds yet, not until you get me some facts. I thought we just agreed on that. Dismissed.”
12
Reunion
Tess trotted out of the federal building, eager to put some distance between SAC Pearson and herself, between her scrunched face and the inquisitive glances of her colleagues, who were arriving in endless files, pouring in from their morning commutes and lining up for screening.
She’d tried to get Laura out of harm’s way and failed. She tried, to the limit of pissing off beyond repair her direct supervisor. Yet, she had to admit Pearson had a point. So far, she didn’t have any facts on her side; just the words of a death-row serial killer and some observations, some details that would have made her investigate the cases more carefully.
Would have? Or might have?
Those murders happened fifteen years ago. Well, the Watson murders did. The rest were more recent, but not by much, a year or two. Back then, DNA was an emerging forensic science, and the tests were ridiculously expensive, rarely approved, and took forever. The Internet wasn’t nearly what it was today, and neither were mobile communications, car navigation systems, or nationwide, integrated databases, such as the one she preferred to use, DIVS.
DIVS, or Data Integration and Visualization System, brought a single-source search that pulled results from literally hundreds of databases, making correlative deduction easy and accessible, and, more important, fact-based. It was easier for her now, immensely easier than it had been for the investigators who looked at those cases fifteen years ago. Still, they shouldn’t have just discarded the discrepancies in killer signature, ballistics, and MO that easily. That—putting aside DNA evidence, DIVS, or any other technological advancement—was just crappy police work.
Take ballistics, for example. The gun used in the Watson killings was the same model used in prior Garza murders, a Beretta 9 mil, but it was a different gun. Yet the experts explained it away quickly, by stating that Garza must have used another gun for that murder. Later, with the Meyer killings, when again the ballistics didn’t match the most recent Garza killing, they explained it away by stating that the gun matched the Watsons, an already confirmed Garza murder at the time of the Meyer family massacre. The evidence was there, but was it, really, anything more than coincidental? Was it that incomprehensible to assume that Garza might have used two identical guns, not one, over years and years of killing? Still, discarding MO and ballistics evidence so quickly didn’t speak well of the police work done fifteen years ago.
Oh, Gary… What the hell were you thinking back then?
She dreaded the call she was about to make. She and Detective Gary Michowsky had crossed paths before, and it hadn’t always been pretty. Her impatient, demanding style collided with his almost forgiving nature. He was a good cop, many times overworked, rushing through things, trying to do what he thought was best, and sometimes failing. Like everyone else, including her.
There was another side to Gary though. On the last case they’d worked together, he’d risked his life to have her back, even after she’d treated him harshly, irritated by the errors he’d made during the investigation. She cringed, thinking about what she stood to discover in the Watson case, and what that could mean to Gary, his career, his reputation, and his self-esteem.
She hopped in her Suburban and turned on the engine, then immediately increased the flow of cold air and breathed deeply a few times, curbing her anger. Everyone had done the best they could, under unusual circumstances. But she didn’t feel that was nearly enough; not when a young woman’s life hung in the balance.
Ah, screw the politics, and screw them if they can’t take it, she thought, then dialed Gary Michowsky’s cell number. Everyone di
d the best they could; but this time, it wasn’t good enough. She had to do what was needed.
He picked up immediately, and the background noise told her he was in a car.
“Go for Michowsky and Fradella,” he said, opening the call in his typical manner.
“Good morning, Michowsky and Fradella,” she greeted them as cheerfully as she could. “Tess Winnett here.”
A quick, loaded second of silence ensued. She could tell the two men were exchanging glances, wondering why she’d called.
She continued. “Gary, I need to talk to you about the Watson case and two others.”
A roar of laughter erupted in Gary’s car. She winced and turned the speaker volume down.
“What’s so damn funny, huh?” She sounded almost irritated.
“Pay up, pay up,” Fradella’s voice cut into Gary’s laughter. “We had a bet going, and I won. A tenner. Good money for a young, poor kid like me, right, Agent Winnett?”
“Yeah… he won,” Gary admitted reluctantly, his laughter gone.
She pursed her lips and refrained from lecturing them.
“What was the bet about?” she asked instead, keeping her voice calm and neutral to encourage them to open up.
“Right after that TV show aired last night with The Watson Girl, I just knew you’d call, first thing in the morning,” Todd Fradella replied. “I just knew it. But Gary, no, he said you’re probably assigned to another case, minding your own stuff.”
She didn’t know how to react. Maybe she was too tense, too afraid for Laura’s life. Maybe she saw things others didn’t see, the possible truths hiding behind the words of a monster named Garza. Maybe she knew how the real killer, if he was out there, would deal with the risk posed by Laura regaining access to her memories. She didn’t care which for sure… all she knew was she didn’t feel like laughing. Nope, not at all.
“Okay… whatever. I’m coming over to Palm Beach. I’ll set up shop in the conference room, like in the good old days. We’ll catch up.”
The two clammed up promptly, probably swallowing what they really had to say about her upcoming visit.
“What’s going on?” Gary finally asked.
“I have reasons to believe the Watsons and two other families weren’t killed by Garza,” she replied, giving them the same canned phrase she’d given to SAC Pearson earlier. She hoped for better results with Michowsky and Fradella, but she wasn’t holding her breath. No one liked dredging up old history.
Silence again, and the rhythmic sound of car tires running over concrete bridge segments.
“I see,” Michowsky replied, not a trace of humor left in his grim voice. “Can I ask, how come you’re looking into these cases now?”
“Garza’s about to be executed. I did some due diligence; normal procedure prior to his execution. Some things caught my attention, that’s all.”
It was pointless to go into the details over the phone. There was going to be plenty of time to do that later, in a conference room, where they could all get together and dish it out freely.
“When are you coming in?” Todd asked, his voice marked by poorly disguised worry.
“Right now,” she replied coldly. “I’m on my way.”
No one replied. She felt like the unwanted relative visiting the family for a few days, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was catching the killer who was out there, free, after taking who knows how many lives and getting ready to take another.
“You know, it’s one hell of a coincidence,” Gary said, “you looking into this case just when the survivor is supposed to have those regression sessions.” He paused for a while, probably waiting for her to say something. “All right, see you later.”
He hung up, leaving her free to mull over his words. Coincidence? No, that concept didn’t exist. Not in her reality. She felt a tug of uneasiness in her gut, as if a scary monster curled up in there was about to awaken.
13
Argument
The dealership’s lounge area was small, but well-equipped for people looking to kill an hour or two, waiting for their car maintenance to be done. There was only one other customer, and Laura enjoyed the peace and quiet, letting her mind wander as she flipped absentmindedly through the pages of the latest Popular Mechanics.
Across the floor, in the dealership showroom, a tall, slim man stood near the exit, looking in her direction through two glass walls. His eyes didn’t budge; he stared at her with intense, drilling eyes, and his facial expression, unchanged, seemed carved in stone, emotionless. He stood out from everyone else, dressed in a black turtleneck and a jacket, quite the unusual combo, especially for Miami.
A little uneasy, Laura shrugged off the sudden pang of fear that pierced her gut and returned to her Popular Mechanics. All kinds of creeps were bound to stare at her after that damn TV show. Normally she enjoyed the magazine and read quickly through the articles that caught her eye. But nothing had been normal since the day she received Dr. Jacobs’s letter. Pulled back into her dark past and thrown into an abyss of turmoil and anxiety, she couldn’t find her bearings anymore.
She needed time to recollect her thoughts, to strengthen herself for what she was about to do. Sadly, she only found that peaceful time there, at the dealership. School was tough these days; a frenzy of difficult, final-year assignments, and hordes of young, carefree students, mostly boys, who tried to pull her into dates, parties, and whatever forms of pleasurable past-times they could think of. March spring break was near; where was she going to go? Did she want to join them on a diving trip to Key West?
Home wasn’t much better either. Adrian had been more overbearing than usual, ever since she’d gone to see Dr. Jacobs. She tried to make excuses for him, maybe more than she should have. He was a kid who never had anyone but her. He was probably afraid to lose her, afraid of anything that could alter the frail balance of their life together. Probably, deep down, Adrian wanted to keep her from going forward with the regression sessions, even against her will. He knew better than to try that, because he knew her quite well. Laura seemed frail and carried the aura of her past around her like an ethereal cloud of pain and sadness, but she had willpower, and she stood for what she wanted, for what she believed was right.
Yeah… that was valid for those times when she didn’t hide for hours in a car dealership, to avoid confrontation and find some peace.
She tightened her lips, angry with herself, then abandoned the unread magazine on the small table near her chair. It was time to go home, although she still planned to make a stop at the grocery store. She was going to cook something, instead of microwaving sandwiches again, and she wanted to make chicken piccata. She felt she was discovering a new hobby, stress cooking. Not stress eating; that would be terrible. No… just stress cooking. She chuckled silently, imagining a conversation where she’d say, “My hobby? I’m a stress chef.” Well, stress chef or not, she needed capers. One more stop before going home.
A worried, impatient text message from Adrian got her to jump to her feet and ask her service advisor to put a rush on things. A few minutes later, her car was ready, and she took the keys from an attendant who couldn’t keep his eyes off her body.
Before long, she stood in the checkout line at the grocery store, carrying a jar of capers and a small tray of chicken breasts. She put them on the conveyor belt and greeted the jaded cashier with a faint smile.
“That’s $11.49,” the cashier said.
She pulled her card and swiped it, then extended her hand for the receipt. At the corner of her eye, something got her attention, and she turned to look. Then she froze. There he was again, the turtleneck man, his eyes riveted on her. He was closer this time, too close, a mere few yards away. There were lines of tension in his chin, his mouth, and in the way his muscles tensed under his cheeks, as he clenched his jaws. She felt a wave of unspeakable panic but managed not to run away screaming. Instead, she tried to keep her cool and think. Who could this man be? What did he want?
“T
here you go, ma’am,” the cashier said, but she didn’t react.
She couldn’t call the police; the man hadn’t done anything wrong. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him, petrified, as if she was staring into the hypnotizing eyes of a snake about to pounce.
“Ma’am?” the cashier insisted, holding out the receipt.
Laura took it with a trembling hand, finally breaking eye contact with the stranger. She started toward the door, trying to walk calmly.
“Ma’am?” the cashier called. “You forgot your bags.”
She scoffed and turned quickly to grab the bags, then disappeared through the automatic doors with a spring in her step. She tugged at the strings of her hoodie, and pulled the hood over her head, almost to her eyes. She was grateful for the heavy rain, compounding the darkness of the early winter evening. Afraid to look over her shoulder, but feeling the choke of fear strangle her, she walked faster and faster until she got to her car. She started the engine, pulled out, and floored the gas pedal as soon as she exited the parking lot. Only then she took a deep breath, but kept her head on a swivel, looking at the passing cars, checking her rearview mirror.
On the short elevator ride to her apartment, she had a few seconds to calm herself. She didn’t want to freak Adrian out. Knowing him, he’d storm out the door and beat the streets, looking everywhere for the stranger who’d stalked his girlfriend. No, she didn’t need any of that.
She unlocked the door and immediately locked it back after she got in, not forgetting to put the chain on. Then she leaned against the door, feeling a little safer.
“I’m home,” she hollered, not seeing Adrian anywhere.
“In the shower,” he replied.
Boo appeared, his tail straight up and stiff, as he meowed excitedly, then rubbed against her legs, weaving a complicated pattern.
“Hey, Boo,” she said softly, then picked him up in her arms and rubbed her face against his. Boo purred happily.