The Watson Girl: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “What about now? Have you noticed Laura being afraid of anything? Anyone?”

  Hannah frowned and gazed at Tess, intently. A look of suspicion appeared on her face. Tess smiled encouragingly.

  “There was always… She always seemed afraid of something. I noticed that throughout the years, and I asked her, but all she’s ever told me was that she’s afraid of what she doesn’t remember. It’s like fear lives inside her, she told me. Lives inside her forever.”

  “How about now? You saw her a couple of days ago. Did she seem more afraid than before?”

  “Um, a little bit, maybe,” Hannah admitted, her salt-and-pepper eyebrows ruffled above her bleak, moist eyes. “I asked, and she told me she’s afraid of this new therapy. She’s afraid of what she’ll find.”

  “Huh,” Tess said quietly. It seemed plausible, but somehow she didn’t buy it. The Laura she’d just met was terrified, scared for her life, of something real, more real than memories. But then again, she couldn’t rule out the effect of deep-set anxiety and posttraumatic stress. Of all people, Tess knew better than to discard such effects. Maybe she wasn’t hiding any pertinent information or a new threat; just a terrible ghost trapped in her mind.

  “Let’s go back to fifteen years ago, Ms. Svoboda. Do you remember the Watsons mentioning any issues with anyone? Anyone wanting to hurt them?”

  Hannah lifted her head and stared at Tess.

  “How come you ask? I thought you have the animal who—”

  “We do, Ms. Svoboda. These are just routine questions.”

  “No, there was nothing wrong,” she eventually replied, after biting her lip and frowning, a clear sign she didn’t buy Tess’s justification. “They were great people, living a quiet life.”

  Tess waited for the shabby elevator doors to close before letting out a noisy breath of air, loaded with all the cuss words she could muster. Everywhere she looked, she found nothing.

  28

  Early Morning Coffee

  The next morning, Tess pulled over near the Starbucks patio at ten to seven, but Bill McKenzie was already there, seated at a small, wrought-iron table. The air was chilly and humid for Miami, and she welcomed the thought of a hot cup of coffee. Suddenly she wondered what Bill had ordered for her. There were two large coffee cups on Bill’s table, one in front of him, and the other obviously waiting for her. She smiled, excited with anticipation.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, forgoing the normal greeting. Then she bit her lip. She could at least have greeted him properly and asked him about his flight. He didn’t seem to care though.

  “It’s a large cappuccino, two shots of espresso, lots of foam, no sugar,” he said, almost laughing toward the end of the phrase, probably reading the puzzled expression on her face.

  How the hell did he know her favorite? She racked her brain, trying to recall if she’d ever ordered coffee in his presence.

  She drew her chair our and took a seat, then smiled at Bill with a grateful, yet inquisitive look.

  “Thanks much. What, is my favorite coffee formula somewhere in my file?”

  “No, Special Agent Winnett, I just happen to be that good at what I do,” Bill replied, leaning back into his chair after taking another sip of coffee.

  “No way!” she reacted. “No one’s that good. No. Please try again.”

  “All right, I’ll demonstrate,” he offered.

  “Bring it,” she replied, and her smile widened.

  “You’re a jeans, rather than skirts, kind of woman: direct and to the point. That means you hate fake stuff. If it can’t be sugar, it won’t be Splenda either. Keep this point in mind for future reference. You’re sporty rather than pretentious. That tells me snobby stuff like mocha lattes are not your thing. You’re in good shape, so you do watch your diet, but I have personally witnessed you wolf down a double cheeseburger with everything on it, except the bun. That tells me you watch the carb intake in your diet, but fats are okay. That translates into whole milk, lots of foam, no sugar. It’s early, so a double shot of espresso would be fine with you, considering you whined a little about the time of our appointment. As for the size, I chose safely. Not too large, not too small.”

  “Wow… I’m speechless,” Tess replied. “I’m glad I called you in for help.” Her smile slowly died, when she realized just how transparent she must seem to a man with Bill McKenzie’s profiling skills.

  He frowned a touch, watching her get all serious.

  “I was expecting your call sooner,” he said, all laughter gone from his voice. “I was expecting you to reach out, just like we discussed.”

  She stared at the pavement, finding no words in her defense. She bit her lip, recounting how many times she’d retrieved his number from her phone’s memory, only to give up and postpone what she should have done weeks ago.

  “You know you can’t continue with fieldwork, Tess. Not with your unmanaged PTSD. We discussed it.” He paused for a short while, not taking his eyes off her. “I can’t delay this any longer.”

  She looked him straight in the eye, unable and unwilling to hide her sadness from him.

  “I know, I’m sorry. I tried… I just—”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.

  “No… not really,” she whispered, keeping her eyes lowered. She didn’t feel she could face him.

  “What happened to you?” he probed, his voice gentle and kind, inviting and understanding.

  She didn’t dare tell him. After all, he was a supervisory special agent; not her direct superior, but nevertheless, he was higher up the food chain in the FBI, and, as such, he had duties. Among others, he had the duty to enter the unreported crime into the database. She couldn’t take that risk. Her personal drama had to remain personal.

  She stared at the pavement and shook her head quietly. In a passing thought, she felt grateful for her long hair that fell forward, covering the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Tess…” he called, maintaining the same supportive tone of voice.

  Now he was going to ask her to trust him. She couldn’t. She forced a deep breath of air into her lungs, and looked at him, directly.

  “But I did reach out to my therapist,” she said, “to get back on schedule, to see him regularly.”

  He scrutinized her for a few, interminable seconds.

  “I’ll need his name, please.” His voice had turned just a notch toward professional rather than friendly.

  “He’s off book,” she protested. “If this gets out, I’m finished. Bill, please… This job is all I have.”

  “You don’t trust me worth a damn, do you, SA Winnett?” He almost smiled, with a hint of bitterness.

  “No, it’s not that, Bill, I promise. It’s just that I’ve worked so hard, and for so long, to keep this thing buried, that I freak out just by thinking someone else knows about it, that’s all.”

  “I need his name only to make sure you’re getting the help you need, from someone good enough to help you the right way; not a someone mediocre, who could do more harm than good.”

  “So, you’re saying I can’t even choose a good therapist?” The pitch in her voice escalated with her frustration. How could he trust her to do the job she did, when he didn’t see her fit to choose a shrink, for fuck’s sake?

  He probably read her face like an open book, because he put up his hands in a pacifying gesture.

  “I’m saying when you have to go off book, choices are less than stellar.”

  She gazed at him for a long time, searching his face for any sign of deception. He held her gaze with an open, friendly expression and didn’t budge. Sure, they were all trained in various techniques of interrogation, manipulation, and deception, but she didn’t feel any warning tug at her gut. She remembered Cat’s advice to trust someone one day soon. Maybe that day had come.

  “Dr. James Navarro,” she eventually said.

  He whistled appreciatively.

  “It’s been years since he took a new patie
nt. You did good.” He sipped some coffee, and Tess wondered if she could dare profile his coffee recipe, and how far she’d land from reality.

  “Now stay in therapy, for as long as he tells you to,” Bill continued. “You might not realize, but PTSD is affecting your entire life. Beyond jeopardizing your career, you’re missing out on life. You’re unable to trust anyone, and you can’t form any meaningful relationships. It’s a pointless sacrifice, a waste of a good life, Tess. Yours.”

  She stared at her cappuccino cup, letting tears threaten her eyes.

  “All right, so how can I help you?” Bill asked, in his professional tone of voice. She smiled, grateful for the change of subject.

  “Let’s go upstairs, if you’re ready. We have a really messed-up case.”

  29

  Reflections: Self-Control

  We could have already met, you and me; it’s possible. You might have smiled after I walked right past you, thinking I looked good, a covetable, successful alpha male. You might have envied my wife or admired what a nice couple she and I make. You might have secretly wanted to date me, maybe just for one night, to taste the forbidden fruit of the dangerous affair with a charismatic, potentially dangerous stranger.

  You might have seen me before, but not known me for who I am… not really. I’m the snake in your neatly trimmed grass.

  You might have yielded to me in a mall parking lot dispute, when we both arrived at the same time, poised to take that perfect spot near the entrance. You might have seen me unwilling to concede the fight and might have turned away and parked elsewhere, disappointed but alive.

  Not like that shmuck with the rusty, green Ford pickup.

  He saw me lined up for the spot, signal on, waiting for a Lexus to pull out. Yet he didn’t care, and we almost collided head-on after the Lexus finally left, both rushing to seize the opportunity. We both honked, gestured, cussed at each other through lowered windows.

  Then he did the unthinkable. He muscled me out of that spot, taking advantage of the fact that his banged-up Ford was worth less than the front left wheel of my ride. Brand-new, convertible Beemer against Deliverance pickup truck from hell never wins. Not in a head-on fight anyway.

  But he made a terrible mistake.

  No one outpowers me. No one. Ever.

  I waited for him to be done shopping, and I was there when he pulled out and left, unaware I was a couple of cars behind him the whole way to the outskirts of Weston. I was still two cars behind him while he stayed on I-75 west. Then I was right on his ass when he headed into the Glades, just like I hoped he would.

  I cut him off and forced him to stop on the side of the road. He jumped out of his piece of shit jalopy with his fists clenched, screaming and cursing, foaming at the mouth. When he was close enough, I took a tire iron to his head and he dropped like a fly. I hit him again, just to make sure he’d stay down, then dragged him into the brush to finish him off.

  I wasn’t satisfied; I wanted to stomp him to death, but he seemed dead already. I stabbed him anyway, one deep stab with my tactical knife, as I roared my frustrated anger. I plunged that blade until I heard his ribs crack, then I plunged it again. And again.

  No one outpowers me. No one. Ever.

  There I was, panting like a dog in heat, rolling his body farther into the brush. I was deeply unsatisfied. The asshole didn’t die feeling small and insignificant like I wanted him to feel. He didn’t get a chance to realize what was happening to him. He didn’t yield to my power; he died ignorant of his worthlessness, and I felt cheated. When I killed him, I felt nothing. I didn’t feel vindicated.

  I should have followed him home, tied him up, and made him watch while I possessed his wife completely, fucking her in any way imaginable, for hours. Yeah, there’s a wife somewhere I’ll never get to meet; he wore a cheapo wedding band. He should have been screaming too, not just her, while the restraints cut into his flesh, unable to help her, emasculated in the most supreme way a man can ever be, completely powerless. That would have been so much better. What an afterthought… Can you imagine him begging for my forgiveness, while I sliced his woman slowly, savoring every one of her screams? That’s the opportunity I lost by rushing in to get quick, pointless revenge.

  I was left with an emptiness inside, an immense frustration of having killed without any satisfaction. But I learned something valuable that day.

  Killing doesn’t do much for me anymore if I’m killing men. The rush I felt when I killed Watson was gone; my brain got used to so much more in the almost five years of killing since that first, transforming night. Like any other addict, I needed more and more to get high.

  That redneck asshole deprived me of that badly, because he wasn’t a woman, and because he died quickly, almost painlessly, when he deserved to die screaming. That’s good to know. I won’t be wasting my time on men, unless I absolutely must; and if I must, I’ll make it worthwhile. But I’d rather stay focused on what matters: the quest for that perfect apple, and finding the recipe for the perfect feast.

  I also had another problem emerging, about the same time I killed that hillbilly. I became more and more concerned that my wife suspected something was off about me. It probably originated when I started shaving my legs and my pubic hair. I don’t think she bought the explanation I gave her, something to do with personal hygiene at the gym. I also started using hairspray quite generously and trimmed my hair much shorter. I didn’t want the emerging age of DNA forensics to represent the end of mine.

  You do realize I couldn’t go and straight-up ask her what she suspected or didn’t suspect. I watched her carefully, and she seemed to behave normally, so I’m not really sure what, if anything, she might have suspected or might still suspect. That’s great, because there could come a time when she might have to testify, if that contract killer botches up the Laura Watson job in any way, and it comes back to haunt me.

  I don’t think it will; I’ve been careful, and so has he. In any case, my wait is almost over. He said he’s going to kill her tomorrow.

  30

  The Profiler

  Tess finished summarizing the case and remained standing in front of the case board, holding a dry erase marker with both her hands. No one spoke a word. Bill frowned and bit his lower lip, while his eyes navigated from one crime scene photo to another. Michowsky and Fradella kept their eyes glued on Bill’s face, waiting for him to share his opinions. As for Doc Rizza, he still panted after climbing up two flights of stairs and took a gulp of water from his bottle every now and then.

  “You know,” Bill eventually said, “I was asked to consult on Garza’s cases when they prepped him for court. Somehow, I missed all this. These three cases were lost in the background noise of thirty-one other cases. Can’t believe it,” he added, pursing his lips and crossing his arms, visibly embarrassed.

  Tess shot Michowsky a quick glance and thought he looked somewhat relieved. She nearly smiled. He must have felt vindicated about his own mistakes.

  “So, my question is,” she continued her earlier line of discussion, “if the unsub emulated The Family Man for almost seven years, and he’s definitely evolving toward the lust-motivated profile, where did he start? Where did he continue after the Townsend family? We’ve shortlisted seventy-four cases, any number of which he could have touched. Then we eliminated some—”

  “Let’s start with finding out who he is,” Bill said. “Let’s sketch a profile. You’re doing well so far, Agent Winnett, why don’t you try?”

  The cap of the dry eraser marker found its way to Tess’s mouth; she bit on it a few times, making a faint clacking noise.

  “He emulates Garza, but rapes the women anyway?” Bill added, encouraging her to continue. “What does that tell you?”

  “Um, that it’s his primary urge. Rape is his primary urge, not killing,” she offered, hesitantly.

  “Yes,” Bill confirmed. “Go on, you’re on the right track.”

  Fradella watched their exchange and took notes, thrilled
to take part in the profiling process.

  “But he doesn’t just rape,” Tess added. “He chooses to kill multiple individuals just to get to his intended victim. Why? And why did he hesitate before?”

  “The issue with working multiple cases at the same time is that sometimes details clutter your mind. Elevate your judgment to the strategic level, and isolate the real questions.”

  “Okay… Why didn’t he rape the first two women? Rapists have the sexual urge, the lust, so it can’t be he didn’t think about it. I can’t think of a single case in history where a killer evolved into a rapist, so what the heck am I missing?” Frustration etched her voice.

  “The answer is he did rape them,” Bill replied.

  “Um, nope, he didn’t, I’m fairly sure of that,” Doc Rizza intervened.

  “Psychologically, he did,” Bill clarified. “He stabbed them instead of shooting them, even if he was prone to emulate Garza. He bit Mrs. Meyer too. Biting is a sexual sadism practice,” he clarified, looking at Michowsky, then at Fradella. “We see it much too often, unfortunately.”

  “So, you consider stabbing a form of rape?” Doc Rizza asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

  “Almost,” Bill replied. “Stabbing is personal. The blade, penetrating the victim’s body, is a potent substitute for the actual sexual act. Look at the location of the stab wounds. He didn’t go for the heart; he stabbed all of them in their lower abdomen; another powerful hint.”

  “You’re saying you agree he emulated The Family Man, and, for all intents and purposes, he almost succeeded, but when he was faced with the opportunity, he couldn’t control his urges and stabbed the woman to satisfy his urges with a surrogate act?” Tess asked, a long question blurted in one long breath.