by Leslie Wolfe
“How about the children? Why do you kill them?”
“My brothers… they would have never recovered,” he replied in a voice loaded with sadness. “They would have ended up just like me, lined up on death row, getting used to being called monsters by righteous people like yourself.” He averted his eyes for a quick second, then looked straight at her. “I put them out of their misery.”
She hadn’t realized that she’d been munching on the cheeses, entrenched in the conversation. She’d forgotten her own disgust, faced with a new mystery.
“Are you saying the people you killed abused their children?” She gestured with her fork, then picked an olive.
“No,” he shouted, then slammed his hands against the table, rattling all the dinnerware and startling Tess. “No, you’re not paying attention,” he continued, still agitated. “I killed my own family. They’re the ones I killed first, right there, at that damn dinner table. I was twelve years old.”
“Oh,” she reacted, and pushed herself toward the back of her chair, feeling a sudden urge to put more distance between Garza and her. “That’s not anywhere in your file.”
How could she have missed that? She’d taken the history in his case file as the ultimate truth and completely missed the point he was trying to make.
He scoffed and shook his head, as to express his disappointment with police records.
“You’re listed as an orphan with no history other than state,” she said, sounding apologetic.
“He-he,” he laughed sadly, “little do you cops know. Like it was the state who gave birth to me, huh?”
She watched him silently for a second, unsure where the conversation was going.
“Would you be willing to tell me—”
“Where they’re buried? Sure, I’ll tell you precisely where the bastards are buried, because they deserve to be dug up. Why should they rest in peace?” He ran his fingers through his thinning, shoulder-length hair, then continued, in a gentler voice. “I buried my brothers in a different place. I wanted them far from that brute, so they could find some peace, at least in death. I won’t tell you where my brothers are, Agent Winnett. They have a right to be left alone.”
He scraped the last piece of salmon off the platter and chewed it without raising his eyes from his plate.
At a loss for words, Tess watched him eat, and, for some reason, recounted how many families he’d killed. He was credited with thirty-four, but she’d established someone else took out three of those. That left thirty-one, and thirty-one was what she’d believed to be true up until that dinner. But now she’d learned Garza’s count had gone up to thirty-two families he’d murdered. Speechless, she waved again, inviting the waiter guard to bring the rest of the food, staving off her returning nausea.
The young guard, wearing a white apron and seeming even paler than before, served the steaks and fries, and poured their wine in the tall glasses with trembling hands. Then he vanished as quickly as he could.
Garza took the wine glass to his nose, inhaling the scent with his eyes half-closed. “Thank you for this, Agent Winnett,” he said, tapping his fingernail quietly against the glass. “What an unexpected pleasure, or dignity, I might call it.”
She nodded in response, and he took a sip of wine, then put the glass down on the table, closer to her side. As he took his hand away from the glass, he brushed against her hand, and she jolted back. Instantly, she withdrew and cringed for a split second, averting her eyes. It didn’t last long; it was a lightning-fast, instinctive reaction, before her willpower and training took over and she straightened herself, ready to fight if needed.
His eyes were riveted onto hers, as a recognizable sadness shrouded his face.
“Ah…” he said softly, in a barely audible whisper. “You’ve been touched. Bruised.”
Her blood turned to ice cubes and she froze, averting her eyes for another split second. It took all her willpower not to scream. How could he see right through her that well? How was it possible? She wanted to run, to burst out of there screaming and never look back. But she knew she had to stay put and play it as cool as possible. After all, people were watching from just 3 feet away. And not just any kind of people; investigators, who could find it interesting to dig and find out why she, a federal agent no less, reacted so badly.
She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye, unflinching.
“You’re tainted,” he whispered, casually covering his mouth to make it difficult for the people in the observation room to read his lips. “How sad that makes me. If I wasn’t locked up in here, I’d offer to set things straight for you.”
The corner of her lip twitched, almost imperceptibly.
“But I’d be too late, I reckon,” he continued, still whispering. “Good for you, my dear.”
He took a couple more bites, then pushed his plate away.
“What do you need to know?” he asked in his normal voice, and pointed at the file folder.
Surprised, she cleared her throat and gathered her thoughts in a hurry.
“How did you know Emily Townsend was raped? I… We don’t have any record of that information ever being released.”
He leaned back against his chair and thoroughly wiped his hands on the napkin, then set it aside.
“I watched his work carefully, when they interrogated me about it,” he replied, with the demeanor of someone discussing a routine business transaction. “I remember every single family I spent time with. Clearly, like it was yesterday. The moment they showed me the case photos that didn’t belong to me I knew what he was.”
“Who? We need to know who he is,” she said, leaning forward and almost touching his hand.
“How could you? He doesn’t even know who he is.”
She frowned, disappointed. Was this another one of his games? Twisting words and dancing around the information?
“You said you knew who—”
“What, not who. He’s a man who’s transforming with every life he takes.”
“Transforming into what?” she pressed.
“There aren’t two of his victims who suffered the same way. He’s not punishing them like I am, nor is he repeating, reliving his fantasy. He’s discovering himself, who he is, who he can be.”
“Who?” Tess asked, feeling more and more confused.
He hesitated a second before replying, but then looked her in the eye.
“A monster like you’ve never seen before.”
35
Reflections: Blown Cover
For years, I was grateful for The Family Man, for his existence, shielding me from the consequences of my escapades. Then, suddenly, only a couple of months after I’d enjoyed the company of Emily Townsend, he was arrested.
I watched it on TV, and I saw his face in the flashes of tens of cameras. An average man, looking more like a hobo than someone who could get away with countless murders for so many years. He had to have something special about himself though, to pull that off. I, for one, know just how difficult that is.
His capture made me reflect on potential outcomes for my future. I saw myself in his shoes and hated it so much I took a solemn oath that day. I will never allow myself to be captured alive. Never. No one can ever cage the predator that I am.
I remember spending that evening in silent solitude; I invoked a migraine to send my wife and kids away and locked myself in the study, in semi-darkness. With him gone, out of the picture, I could be free, I could choose to do whatever I wanted to do. I could continue, unhindered, the search for the perfect high, to try all the things I wanted to try. Also, that night I made myself the promise of keeping my addiction under strict control. With The Family Man gone, I became visible. I had to be twice as careful.
Once a year, that was my promise. Maybe twice, if special circumstances arose, but not more. Never more.
Of course, there weren’t any self-imposed restrictions on what I could do, those special times once or twice a year. Quite the opposite. I let my endless
imagination guide me, and I experienced incredible new highs.
My new game involved several weeks of searching for the perfect apple, the one most likely to satisfy all my senses. I’d turned the neurochemical mechanism of choosing into an advanced art. Once I’d found her, I’d spend another few weeks studying everything there was to know about her. I still planned to visit the home, back then. I hadn’t felt brave enough to kidnap a woman for a few more years, at least two, I think. During the time I took to study her whereabouts, her lifestyle, and her close circle of people, I spent hours daydreaming of how our encounter would play out. I’d script every step, in my mind, of course, and planned carefully to make sure I had all the needed props with me that special night.
I’m not going to bore you anymore with such tactical details. I’ll just take a trip down memory lane with you and share the most memorable experiences of those days.
Janice was a Gala apple, crisp and very sweet. I saw her waiting for a bus one day, in the suffocating heat of a Miami summer. Later I’d learned she’d scored a DUI by letting herself get caught high behind the wheel. She’s the one I charmed, the only one who was, at least for part of the evening’s schedule, willing to participate. I’d come prepared with all sorts of drugs for her to try, and suddenly I was her best friend.
That lasted for most of the night, until I took my knife out. Then she tried to escape and fought deliciously against my possessive body. She had such stamina. I took a souvenir from my night with her; I still look at it every day and remember her long hair and thin waist. It’s not an object anyone would miss, my souvenir, so don’t worry.
Then there was this blonde little thing, my Golden Delicious, who was visiting from out of town somewhere. I took some serious risk with her; the only time I’d done that in a motel room, with only the television sound to cover her duct-tape-muffled screams. With her, I brought toys, lots of toys, and tried them all. I didn’t like that I had to use duct tape though. I like to hear them scream and beg and shriek; it’s part of what turns me on.
Then I laid low for a while, petrified at my own recklessness, but I soon emerged out of my self-imposed fasting for Karen, a fiery, auburn blonde who fought me like a ninja on crack. She was a Honeycrisp, assaulting my senses at every bite until I penetrated her deepest core. She lived inland, in a home sitting relatively isolated on some acreage, lost in the woods. I took my time with her; the conditions were perfect.
I confess I grew bolder with every one of them, but I never broke my promise, and I always kept my addiction under control. Once a year, twice sometimes, never more. I had an entire year to dream about it, and I made each encounter count. Throughout the years, I built a collection of souvenirs that still fills my heart with exhilaration every day when I see it. I still know which beauty gave me each one of these mementos, and I cherish them deeply. And every year, I add at least one new item to my growing assortment of souvenirs.
On a current and troublesome note, Laura Watson is still alive and well. Fuck it to hell. I need to contact the bastard who took my money and didn’t deliver. When I get to him, I’ll make that memorable too. That’s a promise.
Then, there’s the Laura problem I still have to take care of. It’s becoming urgent.
36
Change of Plans
It was almost half past nine when Tess pulled over in front of the posh Miami Beach residence belonging to Dr. Austin Jacobs. It was much too late in the day for a house call, but she had no choice, nor was it her fault. From Raiford, she stopped at Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, where she picked up her car, then she did her routine check on Laura’s apartment, where she eavesdropped only long enough to hear the muffled conversation Laura and her boyfriend were having over dinner. Then she headed out to Miami Beach as fast as she could, but she still didn’t make it before nine.
She rang the doorbell, and immediately a light came on in the living room. Good; the doctor was awake. She held her badge in front of the peephole, rehearsing in her mind the entire speech she came prepared to give.
The door opened and Dr. Jacobs appeared, wrapped in a fuzzy bathrobe.
“What can I do for you?”
“Apologies for the late hour, Dr. Jacobs. I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI. I have a few questions regarding Laura Watson.”
Dr. Jacobs invited her in, then closed the door. She led the way to a nicely decorated living room, where she took a leather armchair and invited Tess to do the same, across from a small coffee table. She obliged, weirdly aware of the squeaking sound the thick leather made when she let her weight sink into the deep cushions.
Dr. Jacobs ran her hands through her dark-red hair and tucked a few strands behind her ears. Even without makeup, she still looked imposing, much like the picture Tess had seen everywhere, from the Internet to TIME magazine’s cover.
“All right, I’m listening,” she said, frowning.
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Dr. Jacobs, especially after everything I’ve seen and heard about your project with Laura Watson, but we’re almost 100 percent certain Kenneth Garza did not kill the Watson family.”
Dr. Jacobs leapt from her armchair with the agility of a raging jungle feline.
“What? You can’t be serious! How’s that even possible?”
With every question, her tone rose higher, until she was yelling. She gestured angrily and paced the room with large strides, stomping her fuzzy slippers forcefully with every step.
“Recent developments have revealed additional information about this case,” Tess gave her best shot at a vague, but at least partially true answer. Those recent developments were in fact known for years, but were chosen to be ignored out of bad judgment and sloppy police work. That was the whole truth, but Dr. Jacobs wouldn’t have taken kindly to hearing it.
“My entire study is shot to pieces,” Dr. Jacobs continued to yell. “What am I supposed to do now? I’ve secured grants, collected funds, I’ve talked to people. I’ve been on national television! It’s not like I can send people a raincheck and expect to still have a career.”
She stopped her rant and came to a stop in front of the small, well-assorted bar.
“Bourbon?” she asked in a more peaceful tone. “I definitely need one.”
“No, thank you,” Tess replied. “Still on the clock.”
“Well, tell me if you change your mind,” Dr. Jacobs said, then gulped an oversized shot and immediately poured herself another. She resumed pacing, but at a slower, calmer tread.
“I see this as a huge opportunity,” Tess offered, “not to get confirmation for a new regression method, but to track and catch a killer no one knew existed.”
Dr. Jacobs focused her piercing eyes on Tess.
“Just imagine the headlines,” Tess upped the ante, gauging Dr. Jacobs’s interest correctly. “You just need to adjust that method, to be openminded with your questions, and not assume you already know the answers.”
Dr. Jacobs continued to keep her eyes on Tess, absorbing.
“Just… don’t lead Laura on a certain path,” Tess continued, uncomfortable venturing in someone else’s area of expertise.
“I know how to do my job, Agent Winnett,” Dr. Jacobs snapped. “Thankfully, I don’t need advice from law enforcement, especially when they botch their work like that.”
Tess took in a sharp breath of air, not expecting her unfiltered directness, but decided to let that remark go unanswered.
Suddenly, Dr. Jacobs plunged into her armchair and abandoned her glass on the coffee table. She rubbed her forehead, thinking, pursing her lips. Then she scribbled a quick note on a notepad she kept on the same coffee table.
“I’ve noticed the sessions we’ve had so far yielded very little result,” Dr. Jacobs said, her voice now professional and level. “It seemed to me as if Laura fought me under hypnosis. I can’t understand why.”
“When does that typically happen?” Tess asked.
“When there’s a strong emotional con
flict at play, or when uncovering those buried facts is just too painful to watch and take in, even as an adult.”
“Maybe this will help then,” Tess offered.
“Maybe,” Dr. Jacobs scoffed, “but don’t expect me to be grateful anytime soon. Whatever the outcome, I’ll have a PR nightmare on my hands. Not to mention angry investors and a compromised study.”
She didn’t seem that mad anymore, so Tess thought it was a good time to ask for a favor.
“I need to ask you one thing,” she said, as she rose from her seat. “You can’t tell Laura anything about this. Not until we’re entirely sure about this whole situation.”
“You want me to change the course of the study, without disclosing it to my patient? It’s almost unethical,” she replied.
“Almost?”
“There’s no precedent we can baseline against. Thankfully though, I promised Laura we’d explore her subconscious mind searching for her buried memories, not explicitly for Kenneth Garza, and that makes the entire situation barely ethical. However, I will be withholding critical information from my patient, and that’s never okay. Make it quick, Agent Winnett. Catch your killer sooner rather than later, will you?”
Tess offered her business card at the door. “I’ll be in touch soon, but please call if there’s any new information.”
Dr. Jacobs nodded and opened the door for her.
“Oh, and one more question. Is it at all possible for you to, um, rush through these sessions?”
“What do you mean?” When she frowned, Dr. Jacobs’s eyes became more piercing under her perfectly arched and waxed eyebrows.
“Could you maybe do a session each day? Instead of one per week? We need to get to that info as fast as possible.”
Dr. Jacobs scoffed angrily and plopped her hands firmly on her hips. “That’s unheard of in my line of work. This is not manufacturing, you know, where you add another shift to get results twice as fast. This is the human brain we’re talking about. The mind needs time to heal, to process all the traumatic…” Her voice trailed off, and she tilted her head a little. “Wait, why are you asking me this?”