by John Scanlan
Sexual assault was never a part of Carlos’s crimes, however; the sense of control and power he got from taking a life and getting away with it was all the gratification he needed. Nonetheless, he knew his wife needed gratification as well and felt guilty he could not provide it for her. He knew full well that someday his crime spree would end, and when it did and he was exposed for who he truly was it would bring her a great burden to bear.
He had decided about a month prior to this most recent endeavor he was about to engage in to take out an additional life insurance policy on himself. He named her as the sole beneficiary, and in the event of his death she would be set to inherit five million dollars, an amount that would increase by double if he met a violent end. That, of course, was his plan. He decided that if he were ever faced with being arrested and being put on trial he would provoke a “suicide by cop,” allowing Julia to collect the insurance money. He had read over his policy several times and, as he understood it, this type of situation would not nullify her payout.
This decision was not an easy one for Carlos to make, in actuality. His legacy was now the body count he left behind. He loved the notoriety he received as the South Florida Strangler. He had studied the most infamous serial killers and wanted to be known as one of them someday when it was all said and done. He knew being unable to give interviews from a prison cell and not having every detail of his horrific criminal activity spelled out in court would hurt that legacy. But he loved Julia so much that he would make the ultimate sacrifice. He was willing to trade the only thing he wanted for his future, the legacy he so desperately craved, for her future. For her forgiveness. However, Carlos had no plans on giving up or getting caught anytime soon.
He drove to a grocery store just inside the Broward County line and parked his car. There was a bus stop outside the store parking lot and he waited with the handful of people to catch the next bus. The store was in a nice area that he regularly drove through to get to work each day and he had no concerns with leaving his car there for as long as he needed to.
He had to dress as he normally would in order to maintain the illusion with Julia that he was going to work, and so he wore tan cotton slacks and a white button down shirt with a floral pattern on it. He had on a nice pair of leather shoes and a three hundred dollar watch, which was his most modest timepiece. Even if he had dressed as casually as possible, he was a neat man to begin with. He knew where he was going to be walking around his attire could make him a potential target. He had been in the area on one occasion--dropping his target off after a consultation. His luxury car had garnered the attention of what seemed like the entire neighborhood then.
The bus dropped him off about two blocks from where he intended to go and he began walking. The streets were dimly lit, and by now darkness had come. He was able to stay on the main road for a fair stretch, which itself was not the safest of streets, but it had higher vehicular traffic and was slightly better lit than the side streets he passed. Finally, he made a right turn onto J Street.
J Street wasn’t the worst street in Davie, but it was one of them. It was run by drug dealers and gang members; twenty four hours a day they sat on dilapidated front porches and ruled their court. Sure enough, as Carlos passed by one such front porch, he could hear comments being made by its occupants. He walked faster.
He had done internet searches on J Street and found numerous periodical articles about crimes committed there, however, none of them were homicides, which he found slightly comforting and sort of amusing. He knew this didn’t mean none had ever occurred there, just that none had been reported on recently. And he knew if he was successful, which he intended to be, that the most recent such crime to be reported on would have been committed by someone from an upscale, relatively crime-free neighborhood.
Finally, he stood across the street from his soon to be playing field. He used the shadows to his advantage now in case his intended target was to exit the house or look out the window. He noticed no lights on in the main house and checked his watch. The time was only nine o’clock. He knew he would arrive earlier on his “big night” and when he left that evening he would be sure to turn the lights off.
He looked in the driveway and noticed an old blue car pulled so close to the garage door it almost looked as if it had driven right into it from where he was standing. He had not seen this car when he had been there before, but he knew Anne’s son lived above the garage and that he had primary use of it. In all his planning and all the planning to come, the son was the biggest wildcard.
It was a situation he had never been in before. He knew it was a huge risk, striking with another resident on the property, but he felt strangely at ease with taking it. All the stories he had heard about this son made him seem like a non-threat. Carlos had confidence that he could complete his task so smoothly that no one would ever be the wiser that he was even in the house until they made the grisly discovery when he was long gone. And if the son did, by chance, enter the main house and discover him there, he would have no choice but to take his life as well.
Even Carlos felt it was odd, the strange sense of confidence he had about this particular murder. He had a sense he couldn’t fail on this one, even though it provided the greatest chance for him to do so thus far. He began to believe that it was destined to happen; from the minute he chose this victim, he felt something was guiding his hand to her.
As his attention moved from the main house to the garage, Carlos noticed one small window above the door that was covered with very thin, almost see-through curtains. He saw a light on in the apartment but saw no movement. He wanted to stay and continue his surveillance on the son, to see if he emerged at any time from the garage or what time the light went out, but he knew it wouldn’t be wise to do so. He could hear people on a porch a few houses away. They were talking about him. He decided he had seen enough to finalize his plan and began walking away.
“Wachu doin out here, homie?” Carlos just wasn’t quick enough. A black man, looking to be in his early twenties, had asked the question. Carlos hadn’t even noticed the thug approach and he nearly bumped into him as he tried to make his way back to the bus.
“I like that watch . . . those shoes, too. They look like they made out of some fine ass Italian leather or some shit.” His gold teeth caught the dim streetlight as he spoke and smiled. His hands were at his chest in fists, flexing the well-defined arms that were completely exposed on either side of his white tank top undershirt.
“So I’m gonna ask you again, what brings a motherfucker with fine shoes like you to this neighborhood?” His jovial tone changed to anger.
For a moment, Carlos paused. His mouth opened slightly and his heart began to race. He tried to focus and steady himself. He looked into the eyes of the young street thug. At first the fear he instantly felt shone through, but then he relaxed. Carlos looked away for a brief moment and noticed that his interrogator was alone on the sidewalk in front of him, but that four of his friends were watching with curious eyes from the porch across the street. He had known this sort of thing could happen. He knew this was the other large risk he would have to contend with. The neighborhood couldn’t be predicted. He knew he would have to walk it again. He knew there would be people outside no matter what hour he arrived or left. He knew he would be seen, or possibly worse. It was entirely possible he could be robbed or killed. But, again, he felt confident about dealing with it then. And dealing with it now.
“I think you know why I’m here. Do you have it or not?” There was silence. A look of confusion spread across the face of the street thug, but only momentarily, then a smile returned.
“What are you, a cop? Who told you to come here?”
“I’m no cop and it’s not your business who told me to come. I was told this is the place to get the best in town. Maybe I heard wrong. But, as you can tell, I’m not afraid to spend money on what I like. If you can’t help me I’ll go somewhere else.” Carlos started walking away slowly, but felt a strong ha
nd on his right shoulder.
“Hold up, just hold up for a second.” The thug looked him up and down. “You got a lot of balls coming here, talking to me like that. I’ve smoked fools for less. Fact, why don’t me and the brothers smoke you right now and take your fine ass shoes and all this money you say you got and call it a day?” He lifted up his dingy wifebeater in the front to expose a black semi-automatic handgun tucked into his waistband. Carlos didn’t flinch.
“I suppose you could do that, but then this is all you would get, what I have on me now. I’ve come to you with a business proposal. I have a thousand dollar a week habit. I have friends who have the same. If this is truly the best in town, as I was told, I’ll be back in a few days for more, and so will they. Understand? Don’t kill the golden goose, my friend. From what I can tell you don’t get many high priced clients.”
Confusion again set in on the face of Carlos’s adversary. “Yo, I must be trippin,” he said in a low tone of voice, shaking his head and causing his dreadlocks to toss about wildly. “Dantrelle, get yo ass over here!”
This was it: Carlos wondered if his plan had worked or if he was about to meet an untimely demise.
“Break this fool off a little something.”
“How much you want?” Dantrelle asked in a booming baritone. A hulking black man with a shaved head, he, too, wore a white undershirt that exposed his humungous, tattoo-covered arms.
“A thousand,” Carlos said calmly. Carlos took a stack of neatly folded bills out of his pocket and held it in his hand. Dantrelle placed a small baggie of cocaine in the same hand, while simultaneously taking the cash. Dantrelle immediately turned and walked back to the porch without saying a word.
“So what do you and your high places friends do to make all this bank that you spend on blow, anyway?”
“The less you know about me and I know about you the better. This is business.”
“Aight, I feel you. I’ll be seein you round in a few days then.”
With that it was over and Carlos continued on his way back to the bus stop. He breathed a very deep sigh of relief, then he smiled. Yet another boost to his ego, another adrenaline rush that made this upcoming kill so exciting and different. As he turned the corner off of J Street, he took the baggie of cocaine out of his pocket. He untied the twist tie and dumped out the white powder as he walked.
Carlos despised drugs and he rarely drank alcohol anymore. His whole existence was about control--control over others. He would never consider doing something where he would lose control over himself. The way he saw it, a thousand dollars, possibly two thousand, was a fair sum to pay to be able to carry out this particular act. He had the money, and he was fairly certain Julia wouldn’t notice if it were missing. He regularly kept at least a thousand in cash on hand, as did she.
Carlos wasn’t concerned about being identified by his new friend either, even though he knew he and everyone else on that porch would be questioned after the body was found. But he also knew their house was a drug haven, and all the occupants of it had to be dealers or gang bangers, most of whom probably had outstanding warrants for their arrest. They would not want to draw undue attention to their operation and wouldn’t give anything up voluntarily. Nor would they want to give up someone they believed to be one of their most lucrative new clients.
The only problem he saw was if one of them eventually got arrested for something, most likely drugs or some type of violent crime, and wanted to make a deal. But they didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he worked, or what he drove. He would dispose of the shoes and watch shortly after the murder was completed, and he knew he had no unique physical features or marks that would assist in identifying him. The way he saw it, the only thing that made him stand out in that neighborhood was that he was so . . . normal.
While Carlos was out laying the foundation for his latest project, Julia was at home, preparing for a night out. She generally only frequented the most exclusive night clubs in Miami or Ft. Lauderdale. She flaunted her sexuality and attracted wealthy men who bought her most anything she wanted. Even though she already had a boyfriend on the side that she had been seeing for four months, she was on her way out looking for more.
She left Carlos the standard cover story note in case he came home, telling him she was out with her girlfriend Vikki and would most likely sleep there.
Carlos sat quietly on the bus engaged in deep thought. It was dark and almost completely empty, giving him the ability to focus. He decided not to go to the office. Instead he would go home and get some sleep. He felt confident in his plan, and the bus ride would be sufficient time for him to hammer out the few details he had yet to diagram. He knew he was set to meet with Anne on Monday to discuss her hip surgery. He felt that he had already won her trust, enough to let him in when she wasn’t expecting him, but he knew one more chance to build on their rapport wouldn’t hurt either.
He could also attempt to gather more information about her son, specifically his comings and goings and nighttime behavior. Yes, it was decided: he would wait until Monday evening to follow through with his plan. Anne Bradford had less than forty-eight hours to live.
The bus pulled up to his stop and he got off, got into his car, and drove home with a sense of satisfaction. He felt an odd feeling of pride even though he had yet to put his plan into motion. He again felt that this murder was different, like it was destined to happen. He just couldn’t shake that feeling. Perhaps it was that he had gotten to know this victim prior to his murdering her, much like his first victim.
Out of all his victims and all his crimes, he thought of his very first victim, Rebecca Sullivan, the least. It was his most unprepared, unskilled crime, and after being as seasoned as he was now, he almost had a sense of embarrassment about it. However, what he did think about, almost more than anything else he had done, was the elaborate cover up he was able to pull off in its aftermath. He relived it again and again.
The fact that he had outsmarted so many and had been able to walk away unscathed was the most gratifying thing he had ever done. What he actually savored was not the kill itself; it was the cat and mouse game he played with police afterwards. It was the terror and fear he was able to inflict upon society, even though he walked in their midst every day. It was the feeling of control that he could stop any moment and no one would ever know it was he who had been the South Florida Strangler.
The South Florida Strangler. At first he didn’t care for the name much. He wanted to just be known as himself, Carlos Hernandez, no moniker needed. But he knew that wasn’t the way it worked and he knew he had to be given a name for the public to latch on to while his true identity remained a mystery. Carlos knew that the media loved to give catchy titles to criminals. The only ones who didn’t get nicknames were the ones whose crimes were not fully revealed until they had been captured. He knew the serial killers and criminals who struck the most fear into the public’s hearts and captured the intrigue of many were the ones whose crimes were discovered in real time, and they were the ones given the clever names. The Night Stalker, BTK, the Green River Killer, the Zodiac: they all paralyzed communities with fear prior to their capture. They exhibited the sort of control Carlos wanted, and was now getting.
And so the name South Florida Strangler grew on him. The only thing that bothered him was that he had not gotten credit for his first kill, which he felt he richly deserved. At times he wanted to point out to people in the media that the South Florida Strangler’s body count, as they reported it, was off by one. Inside, he demanded his first victim be included and longed to reveal her as one of his own, though he knew he could not. Another man now sat in prison for her killing. Carlos had taken no trophy from her home after committing that crime as he had with the rest. If he was killed resisting arrest, as he planned to be, it would be impossible for police to link her to his other victims.
After the dust had settled on the Rebecca Sullivan case and subsequent trial, Carlos had decided murder was much too messy
via gun or knife. There was too much evidence to dispose of and the chance of being caught was far too great. For that reason he decided to strangle his victims.
His second victim was a seventy-two-year-old woman named Elsa McMillan. Carlos had never actually spoken to Elsa like he had with Rebecca, nor had he ever come in contact with her until the day her took her life.
Each surgeon had a drawer for their patient files, which they kept locked while they were away. Carlos had developed a friendship with the majority of the other surgeons employed at the hospital. Regulations on patient confidentiality were less stringent then and many of the surgeons would leave their file drawers unlocked or leave their keys where they were available to other surgeons. Carlos learned each surgeon’s upcoming surgery schedules. He learned what types of surgeries were performed, and more importantly, how long the surgeries would take.
If he found himself alone in the office, he would quickly access one of the doctor’s drawers and remove the files. He skimmed them until he came across someone who, for whatever reason, struck him. He would dig deeper in that file to see if that particular patient, always female, always Caucasian, could possibly be a future victim. He tried to choose women as close physically to Rebecca Sullivan as possible. He wanted to relive his first taste of bloodlust. He wanted to perfect it.
After some time passed in reviewing files and choosing candidates, he came across one who seemed to fit perfectly: Elsa McMillan. Elsa slipped while at home in her kitchen and had broken her leg. She had been rushed to the hospital after a neighbor found her after her fall. Her surgery was successfully completed three months prior to Carlos’s perusal of her file, and she still made regular visits to have her leg and progress checked. She had originally been taken to a hospital in Miami, however, the doctor that performed her surgery left that hospital shortly after performing it and took a position at Ft. Lauderdale Hospital. Elsa had been made aware of this and insisted upon having the doctor who actually performed the surgery examine her and track her progress, and so she traveled to Ft. Lauderdale for each appointment.