by Leslie Wolfe
“Did you clear this through your channels?” Michowsky asked.
She frowned and averted her eyes.
“Not yet.”
32
Reflections: Analysis
I know you’re dying to ask me what I did next. Come on, admit it, you want to know. If you could get your hands on me, you’d probably lock me in a cage and ask me thousands of questions, in your lame attempt to decipher how I think.
You’d ask all the wrong questions though. People like you can’t ask people like me the right questions; your mind simply can’t conceive them. Therefore, I’ll save you the angst and effort and try to provide answers to the fundamental questions you’re missing.
There are two types of beings in this world: the strong and the weak. Predators and prey. Goes the same for people. Some, like you, will live servient lives, burdened by a pointlessly celebrated conscience, lacking what it takes to grab life by the throat and squeeze it for all it’s got, in the epic power struggle that turns sheep into wolves. Others, like me, always go for what they want, and never worry about any preconceived notions that might hinder their progress.
A preconceived notion, such as the line someone arbitrarily drew somewhere, not sure where exactly, separating what you can and cannot prey on. It’s perfectly all right, by your societal standards, to sink your teeth into or carve out a piece of an apple. Yet the same conventions prevent you from sinking your teeth or slicing into another human being. Correct? With me so far? How about a dog or a cat? Not allowed, either. Hmm… they’re mammals, just like humans are, protected by these preconceived notions your mind’s engraved with since early childhood.
But wait… how about cows? Pigs? Sheep? Who deemed it acceptable for you to sink your teeth into a juicy ribeye? Who decided what’s right or wrong? Or, even better said, who do you take your orders from? I bet you never thought of it that way.
The further down the food chain we venture, the more acceptable it is for animal life to be sacrificed for your epicurean enjoyment. There isn’t a single fish species that’s safe out there in the deep, unless, of course, they’re toxic or bad-tasting. As for plant life, just like my metaphorical apple, it doesn’t stand a chance. It gets either cultivated or mass murdered, based on a single criterion: its nutritional value.
Then, what makes some species sacred and other species game, by your twisted standards? Where’s that line drawn? Mammals, in general, aren’t safe. The more exotic, the more the wealthy (read, the powerful) are willing (read, able) to pay to nibble on. Of course, if the exotic mammals in discussion aren’t toxic or bad-tasting. Or otherwise considered gross.
There’s us, humans, sitting comfortably at the top of the food chain, and we’re considered off-limits. A few other species have hitchhiked to the top with us, by becoming our companions: small cats, dogs, goldfish, hamsters, and everything else we like to fuss over on a daily basis. There’s an unwritten rule that says those creatures, up there at the top of the food chain either by merit or by associated status, are off limits too.
I’m starting to see where that line is drawn; don’t you?
If there’s a wide-enough gap between you, reigning at the top of said food chain, and where your intended dinner resides, you can go ahead and enjoy your feast; that’s agreeable by your complicated societal and even religious standards.
Who’s the hypocrite now?
Now you see why, for me, picking an apple from life’s generous shelf and feasting on it is perfectly acceptable, even if the apple I desire happens to be something—or someone—you’d call an innocent human being. I’m high enough on the food chain; higher than you. Much higher. Unburdened by conscience, I rose to the limit of my own buoyancy; in my case, my imagination and my zest for life. The gap between me and other human beings, including you, is large enough to allow me to feast unburdened by any concerns. Bon appétit to me.
Let me clarify another aspect you might fail to comprehend. I’m in no way cannibalistic. All references to eating, consuming, savoring, or feasting were metaphoric to spare you from the graphic details of what I really like to do. Nothing more than allegories, meant to illustrate concepts that your blindfolded mind cannot comprehend otherwise. No, I’m not a cannibal; never was, never will be.
I’m a collector. I collect a special brand of power. It might be hard for you to comprehend, but please try. I’m like a rechargeable battery, only nothing ever consumes my energy; I accumulate, and I hold on to what I store. There’s no limit to my capacity; I can store an infinite amount of such power, and I’m always searching for more. Whenever I take a life, my power grows, and I feel it rejuvenating my body and mind with electrifying zaps of energy. When I possess the body of the young woman writhing and screaming under me, with my nostrils flaring and my hands slightly shaking with anticipation excitement, I revitalize my entire being. That’s why I take my time… I’m savoring. It’s just like dining with a fine meal, only mental, not physical.
I’m addicted to power, you see. That’s tricky, even for me, because I require higher and higher jolts every time, just to make that needle move. So, I keep searching.
For what, you might ask?
Like most addicts, I keep searching for that ultimate fix, that enkindling hit of adrenaline, dopamine, and other wonderful neurotransmitters my body so desperately needs. Yes, I’m an addict; but I won’t die in a ditch, teeth optional, clad in rancid rags, and avoided by all levels of a blind, yet judgmental society. I’m not a victim; I’m a predator. Unlike most addicts, I control my addiction; it doesn’t control me.
That’s why when I entered Emily Townsend’s residence, I was equipped with a collection of forensic countermeasures: cable ties, large trash bags, latex gloves, and condoms. I was finally prepared to do what I’ve always wanted to do, ever since Donna.
That’s why when a few weeks later, I heard they caught The Family Man, I felt relieved, liberated even. No more wasting time with useless distractions, such as men and children; from then onward I was free to pursue my real passion.
Last, that’s why I could forego the apple of my dreams, Laura, to be picked and… There’s no word for it. He won’t savor her. He won’t enjoy her perfect little body like I would have. He’ll just eliminate a loose end, that’s all. Ahh… the injustice… the shameful waste.
But he’s going to do it today. My burning turmoil will soon be over. Goodbye, Laura, my forever forbidden fruit.
33
Dinner Plans
Tess caught a few moments alone in the conference room, while Michowsky and Fradella went to get refills on their beverages and probably a quick snack. Alone, she could think better, but she didn’t like where those thoughts ran to.
Dinner with a serial killer! Gah! Nothing more disgusting she could think of, than sitting a couple of feet across from an unchained monster and putting food in her mouth. Food he breathed over, food touched by air that came out of his lungs.
Enough of this crap, Winnett, or you’re going to barf prematurely, she admonished herself, inserting a bit of humor to untie the knot in her stomach. It didn’t work too well. No matter what she kept saying to herself, there was little logic to the planned torment. She had nothing. After countless days spent digging through the three cases, then seventy-four more, then down to eight, nothing solidified as a viable investigative path. Even the profile she got from Bill McKenzie was a preliminary, partial view; even he didn’t have the answers she was looking for.
Then, what were the odds a death-row monster could hold any clues? What if he was just playing tricks on her? Well, that was a possibility, but she couldn’t afford to waste the tiniest hope that she’d gain a speck of valuable information out of their encounter. Somehow that monster knew Emily Townsend had been raped, and she hoped she could bait that information out of him with a steak and some fries.
She forced herself to focus on her breathing for a few seconds, to settle her stomach and silence her racing thoughts, then called Pearson.
&n
bsp; “Winnett,” he greeted her matter-of-factly.
“Sir,” she replied, unaware she was frowning. “I need your approval to interview Kenneth Garza again. Tonight.”
There was a brief silence.
“I sent you there myself, to do precisely that. What am I missing?”
“Um, sir, I need to go off procedure,” she blurted, cringing in anticipation of his reply.
“Why the hell am I not surprised, Winnett? What do you want to do?”
“Garza is willing to trade some information for a, um, dinner. He wants me to have dinner with him, inside the interview room at Raiford.”
“That can’t be it, Winnett. You wouldn’t have called me just for that. You’re leaving something out. What is it?”
“His cuffs. He wants to be unrestrained during the meal.”
“Absolutely not, Winnett. Anything else?”
“We must, sir. It’s his fantasy. The moment he twitches, he’ll get shot.”
Pearson scoffed, disgusted. “Is that what you want, Winnett? His brain matter scattered all over your face?”
“No, sir, but it’s what I’ll settle for. He has information, things that were never released in the Townsend case. He knows about the rape, when that information wasn’t released to the public.”
A couple of seconds passed in absolute silence. Tess could visualize Pearson running his hand across his shiny, bald scalp, while the ridges on his forehead and around his mouth deepened.
“Warden’s going to give me an earful, Winnett,” he eventually said. “All right, go ahead with your circus. You know you’ve exceeded your forty-eight hours for this case, right?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Learn to listen to people, Winnett. I delayed your other case, the health insurance fraud investigation, but I can’t delay it for much longer.”
“Sir, one could argue that most of the health insurance industry is a fraud, so I think it can wait until we catch a killer, wouldn’t you agree?” she spouted, then bit her lip and rolled her eyes, irritated with herself.
“Jeez, Winnett,” he replied dryly, then hung up.
She didn’t have long to admonish herself for her lack of diplomacy, because Michowsky barged in.
“Ready to go. Let’s roll.”
34
The Dinner
The ride to Raiford had been unexpectedly quiet. She’d managed to muscle Gary out of driving, and she white-knuckled the whole way over, taking advantage of his car’s siren and letting it blare the whole time. He would have had to shout if he’d wanted to talk to her, and she didn’t want any conversation; she knew exactly what he had to say.
He’d brought along a small arsenal, as if more than a handgun would be necessary. Probably that was his way to relieve his stress at the thought of the encounter. She would have preferred he stayed back at County to help Todd with the database searches and shortlisting of suspects, but, on the flipside, it was the second time he was there for her, having her back. She didn’t want to admit it, but knowing he’d be in the next room, finger on the trigger, eased her fears. Did nothing for the nausea though, but made her feel safer. She smiled, a tiny, shy smile flashed in his direction.
“What?” he asked, looking tense.
“Thanks for doing this,” she replied, her voice loud above the siren’s noise.
He scoffed and yelled in return, “If you turn around now, I promise no one will know about it. Let’s just… not go through with this.”
“I have to, Gary. You know that.”
Not another word was spoken until they entered the observation room. The one-sided mirror showed the interview room had already been prepared for the event. The table was set, covered in a white, damask tablecloth, with real plates and silverware. Crystal wine glasses and neatly folded, matching damask napkins completed the setting. Whoever arranged the setting had done a good job.
Garza was already seated, still wearing his cuffs on a chain, but unlinked to the table. Her seat was to his left side, not across, probably to allow a direct line of sight or fire from the observation room, without her getting in the way.
She studied him for a few seconds, unaware she breathed heavily. He’d taken a shower and wore clean garb, probably a courtesy of the staff toward her more than him. His hair and beard were still moist, just like the first time they’d met, and he was equally relaxed and calm.
“All right,” she said, then swallowed hard, “let’s do this.”
She entered the interview room and he stood politely, greeting her with a smile and a head bow.
“Agent Winnett,” he said, “what an unexpected pleasure.”
She put the file folder she’d brought along on the table and took her seat.
“What about these?” he asked, showing her his handcuffs.
She studied him for a couple of seconds, drilling him intently with her scrutinizing gaze. She didn’t see any alarming signs in his eyes, on his face. Even her gut stayed silent.
“I gave my word,” she said, “that you’ll be civil and respect this dinner, just as much as I respected your wishes, against all procedure.”
He nodded once, reassuring. She made a gesture toward the mirror, and someone soon entered and removed Garza’s chains.
“Feet too,” she offered, hoping to buy more of his cooperation. If he was going to stab her, he didn’t need his feet for that anyway. She’d be inches away from his steak knife.
The terrified officer crouched down and carried out her order.
Garza put his hand on his chest, in a gesture of gratitude. He seemed to be genuine about it, but Tess knew better than to trust anything a psychopath did or said.
“I’m a dying man, you know that. I… thank you.”
She acknowledged him with a faint, forced smile, then waved again.
“Shall we?” she asked, as the door opened and a scared, pale junior guard pushed a rolling table with hors d’oeuvres. Cheeses, foie gras, olives, smoked salmon, the works.
Gary must have instructed the young man thoroughly, because he never stood in front of Garza while serving and made sure he didn’t obstruct Gary’s line of fire.
“You must be really stuck with your investigation, Agent Winnett,” Garza said, as soon as the guard left the room. He tasted an olive and studied the stainless-steel fork appreciatively. “I haven’t seen one of these in a long time.”
She poured water for both, then reached out for the file folder.
“Oh, please no,” he said. “First we eat, then we talk about the case.”
She didn’t argue, leaving the folder where it was and turning toward him.
“What should we talk about then?”
“We’ll find something,” he said, taking a bite of smoked salmon. “This is delicious, Agent Winnett. Why don’t you try a bite?”
She forced a breath of air into her lungs and stabbed a piece with her fork, then made quick work of chewing and swallowing it, chased down by two gulps of water.
“You don’t enjoy it much, do you?”
She wanted to kick herself; she needed to up her game.
“I prefer cheese,” she replied casually, then picked a tiny cube of Swiss cheese from the plate and chewed it thoroughly.
“Ah, I see. Have at it then, I’ll stick with the fish, in that case.”
She’d expected him to be rushed, to wolf down the fine foods without so much composure. She found herself studying him, trying to understand what was going on in his mind, and why that dinner was so important for him. She realized that, despite the thousands of pages of case files she’d read, she didn’t know much about Kenneth Garza, the serial killer known as The Family Man.
He immediately caught her interest and replied, as if he could hear her thoughts.
“This meal reminds me of my parents,” he said calmly. “I bet there isn’t much in there about my childhood, is there?” He gestured toward the file folder.
“Not really.”
“My father used to beat u
s kids at dinnertime,” he said, sounding almost casual. “Whether he had a reason or not, he’d just start beating on us the moment we touched our food.” He took another olive, picking it up with his fork without hesitation. “Then he starved us. He forced us to sit at the table and watch him eat, while we sat there, crying, eating nothing. He starved us, while he ate like a pig. May I?” he asked, pointing at the cheese platter.
She nodded, and he hesitated somewhat before choosing a piece of French Brie.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he continued, as soon as he swallowed the cheese bite, “that I blame my father for what I’ve become. That’s typically how…”
His voice trailed off and he averted his eyes for a second, staring at his empty plate.
“No,” she replied, “I’ll just ask you, what are you repeating? What story are you telling with your killings?”
He shook his head a couple of times, deep in his memories, as if unable to pull himself out of there.
“I’m just killing him over and over again. And I’m killing the poor bitch who stood there, smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor until she could bear the pain he’d given her to bear, and watched calmly how her own children went to bed hungry every night, beaten and humiliated. He was generous with the pain and humiliation he dealt out. My mother got her share, every time the pig got horny, drunk, or both.”
A sad, disgusted look lingered on his face.
Tess recognized the sadness she’d seen on his face before, whenever rape was mentioned. But she couldn’t figure out an explanation. Was he playing out a fantasy? He’d been a warden of the state his entire childhood; there was no mother mentioned anywhere, nor a father. She frowned, thinking. What was he trying to say? No one had ever come close to gaining any insight into Garza’s motives for his blood-curdling, ritualistic murders, his terrifying signature.