Taker of Lives: A Gripping Crime Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  49

  Again

  Cat’s place didn’t open before four in the afternoon, but he was always there after two, cleaning, restocking the bar, receiving supplies, and doing everything else he needed to do to keep the place in business. Tess didn’t think he’d mind the early call, so she talked Fradella into going there for food. In retrospect, she realized Fradella hadn’t put up much of a fight; he loved those burgers almost as much as she did.

  Cat unlocked the door with a smile and a hug for her, and a frown, a mumble, and a reluctant handshake for Fradella, then watched them take the booth by the window.

  “Burgers and fries?” he asked, tying his apron.

  Tess grinned widely, feeling her mouth water at the thought of that feast. “How did you guess?”

  He laughed, but that quick laugh didn’t touch his eyes. “What am I serving here, breakfast or lunch?” he asked, with a tilt of his head and a bit of a raised eyebrow.

  Tess knew what he thought about the long hours she put into her job and decided not to fuel that fire.

  “Just a snack—”

  “Last night’s dinner too,” Fradella said at the same time. “We haven’t eaten in a while.”

  She looked away briefly, embarrassed to be caught in a lie, then back at Cat with a guilty smile. “Busted,” she said sweetly.

  “Damn right,” he replied, sounding like a scolding parent, a terribly disappointed one.

  He disappeared behind the counter and quickly returned with her favorite mint lemonade and a bottle of Perrier for Fradella, then went back to fix their meals.

  “It will be a while,” he said. “I haven’t started the grill yet.”

  “Take your time,” Tess replied, feeling hunger nibble at her stomach, triggered by smell coming from the grill he’d just fired up. She took a few swigs of lemonade and felt better. She leaned against the backrest and closed her eyes, reliving the early morning events.

  By four-thirty, Donovan had called with the results from the door-to-door surveillance video search and the RTCC sweep. One of the nearby homes had caught a jogger on its driveway camera, passing by at the right time, and now they had a grainy image of the suspect, wearing loose track pants and a hoodie, zipped up and covering his face completely in the side view caught on camera. Other video systems had captured the same individual, running his way off the island in a light jog, and then disappearing on the streets of La Gorce. Not once did that hood fall off to show his face. Not once did he take his hands out of his pockets. She’d hoped to see something distinctive on his hands, like a tattoo; that would’ve been great, but no such luck.

  After they lost the jogger, they couldn’t pick him up anywhere else; he probably got into his car and drove off, but they couldn’t pinpoint a vehicle either. No vehicle came to that camera-fitted stoplight for another hour after the jogger had vanished, and when one did, it traveled in the wrong direction.

  When Cat approached the table, carrying the two hot plates topped with burgers and fries, he noticed Tess was asleep, her head leaning against the side of the booth and her mouth slightly open. Her partner was snoozing with his head on the table, resting on his folded arms. He looked at them for a long moment, mumbling something under his breath.

  “I hope it’s worth it, kid. Out of all the kindred spirits you could’ve found, you had to choose a cop.”

  He turned away and put the two plates in the keep-warm oven, then muted the TV. He took a seat in a beat-up, old, leather armchair he kept in the back room and dozed off. There was nothing else he could do without running the risk of making noise and waking Tess up.

  A couple of hours later, Tess jumped from her sleep to the startling chime of her phone.

  “Winnett,” she said, swallowing with difficulty. Her throat was bone-dry, and her mind engulfed in dense fog. She reached for the remnants of lemonade in her glass and drank them to the last drop.

  “He’s back online,” Donovan announced on speaker.

  Fradella opened his eyes with a groan and straightened his back.

  “So soon?” she asked, then looked at the cell phone’s screen and saw the time. “Shit,” she mumbled. “Has he posted a message yet? What does it say?”

  “It says, ‘Do you want another one? Now that you can all admit who you are and what you want, let’s celebrate tonight,’” Donovan read. “He promises live action on demand and gives them the choice between three victims.”

  Her brain shifted in full gear under the shot of adrenaline. “That could offer some possibilities,” she replied. “We could compare to the top names on that list of yours. How much longer until the list is done?”

  “An hour, tops. The progress bar says ninety-eight percent.”

  Soon they’d know who he had set his eyes on next. “Awesome. How many votes does he want this time?” Tess asked.

  “Thirty million votes,” Donovan replied.

  “What particulars does he give?” Fradella asked, while Tess opened a browser window on her phone and loaded the Taker’s site.

  “Age, generic descriptions, like stunningly beautiful, young and slim, athletic and feisty. Nothing more.”

  “Whoa…” she reacted, as soon as the page finished loading. “He’s already scored twenty-three million votes for the youngest girl. What the hell is wrong with people?”

  “How old is that girl?” Fradella asked, unable to see the phone in Tess’s hand.

  “Seventeen, Todd,” she whispered, lowering her voice, although no one else was around. “The Taker’s next victim is only seventeen years old. A kid. Let’s hope he hasn’t gotten to her yet.”

  She ended the call and saw Cat bringing the burgers to the table. She stood and met him halfway.

  “Get these to go, Cat. The damn son of a bitch is back.”

  50

  Me: Enjoying

  Whoa… what a rush! Yeah! Marla’s last videoclip is something we’ll all remember, you and me, for years to come. As I ran from the Quinn residence, I heard the sirens closing in, but I stayed my course at a casual pace and ducked behind a trash can when the cops drove by. And they drove by without looking, without paying any attention to the security lights that flooded that particular driveway, without giving an ounce of thought to anything other than getting where they were told to, as soon as possible.

  Have you noticed how cops always rush to the location of a crime, oblivious of passersby who flee the scene? I’ve seen it in movies, but, if you recall my early experience with chloroform, I chose not to believe it. But then I saw it happen with my own eyes, when my neighborhood Walmart was hit.

  Three young men were hauling a large-screen TV while the alarms blared behind them at the doors. It was after midnight, and I presumed they hadn’t exactly paid for that fine piece of Samsung equipment. The three asshats ran to their car, a piece of crap banged up and rusty like it’d seen the Vietnam War era, then realized the TV was too large to fit in their trunk. Yeah, you’re right to be chuckling, that wasn’t very well planned.

  Then the cops came, two SUVs flashing red and blue like Christmas trees on steroids, doing at least forty miles an hour into a parking lot. They passed right by the three youngsters who were too focused on trying to make the TV fit sideways in the back seat of their car to notice the five-oh approaching. The cops drove right past them and headed with screeching tires all the way to the store’s front doors. By the time they came back outside, the three dumb-yet-lucky kids were long gone with their stolen TV.

  When exactly did humans stop using rational thought in their day-by-day processes? Was it when workloads grew like cancer and the fight to survive dumbed us down to agitated amoeba levels? Was it when the culture we live in no longer respected the individual’s right to rest, to think, to create?

  In any case, regardless of means, it happened. Nobody pays any attention to you anymore unless you’re one of these overrated bitches, and, yes, that will cost you dearly.

  And it’s happened to you too, Agent Winnett, only
you were the culprit, the closed mind refusing to see the truth staring right back at you. Or maybe I’m that good.

  You’re supposed to be this tough-as-nails FBI profiler, or so your online reputation goes, but you looked straight at me and didn’t recognize the, whatchamacallit, unsub you’re hunting. We made eye contact… you even spoke with me and didn’t really see me. Was your profile that wrong, Agent Winnett? Are you a victim of the same preconceived notions of how people look and act and talk when they reach certain levels of achievement in crime, hence you generated a false image of who I am?

  It seems you’re the same as all the others who see me but won’t acknowledge me, as if I weren’t there, as if I’m made of glass, completely transparent and void of substance. Story of my life… I’m invisible. If my shows so far weren’t enough to get your attention and make you see me, what will?

  At least one thing I guess you can agree with: I’ve earned the name you have bestowed on me. I’ve proven myself, and I will prove myself again.

  I am the Taker of Lives, and I’m about to pull the curtains open on my final show.

  And people are coming to watch, in the millions, despite the venomous, stupid little comments like those from Hornydog17 and others like him. So, what if an infinitesimal percentage of my audience believes I’m a necrophile? Maybe that’s what you are, because that’s where your mind is going every time you look into the mirror I hold high in front of your darkest, innermost self. For me, it’s enough to know I’m not one; I’ve stopped trying to make you pissants understand what I am or allowing you to push my buttons; you’re not worthy.

  I’ve stopped worrying about those few who post venom and filth but still stay on for the show, unable to let go, unable to take the easy way out and get lost. You wish you were me so badly, don’t you? Well, screw you, you’re not me, nor will you ever be.

  Finally, a few thoughts for the many millions who chose to share their time and their souls with me.

  Thank you all; you humble me, and, in doing so, you restore what should’ve been mine to begin with, and I will reward you richly in return.

  We all understand one another to harmonious perfection. The faint of heart have long since left this party, and now it’s just you and me left. You, who want to shed blood just as much as I do, but don’t have the courage yet. You, who need to see me doing it to get off. You, who can only dream of doing what I am doing. I promise you a show that will never let you forget me, not ever. I will be the most famous person yet, even if only for a day and from behind the dark veil of encrypted internet, and I will retire at the peak of my glory.

  Because, you see, if you still haven’t understood what I was trying to show you this whole time, you never will. Not to mention, I’m not about to let myself get caught, only to supply your dirty little fantasies.

  But tonight, get ready for a show to remember.

  51

  The Name

  Tess rushed up the stairs at the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office, holding the two Styrofoam boxes with their lunch. Fradella carried the drinks, climbing the steps two at a time. Once she reached the top of the stairs from where she could see directly into the conference room through the glass wall, she froze in place and Fradella almost ran into her.

  SAC Pearson was in there, and Donovan too, a first ever. Captain Cepeda was keeping them company, standing, leaning against the wall by the door.

  What the hell was going on?

  She frowned and trotted quickly to the door, then walked in, keeping her eyes riveted on Pearson’s grim face.

  “Sir,” she greeted him as she usually did, a bit more formal than most of her FBI colleagues. “D,” she acknowledged Donovan, but then turned her eyes to look at Pearson again. “What’s going on?”

  Instead of replying, Pearson looked at Donovan and made a quick gesture with his hand, inviting him to speak.

  “We’ve got a serious problem, Winnett. The software finished crunching all the names and we have a list of the Taker’s next possible targets, in order of priority, based on the criteria we used.”

  Her frown deepened. “And? Isn’t that what we wanted?” she asked impatiently, setting down the Styrofoam boxes on the conference room table. The smell of warm burgers and fries filled the room.

  “If we take the top three names on that list, they match the descriptions offered by the unsub as choices for his next kill. They match to perfection, beyond a shred of a doubt.”

  “Who’s the youngest?” she asked, leaning forward toward Donovan, as if a closer proximity could relieve her tension.

  “The first on the list and the youngest are one and the same, a seventeen-year-old girl by the name of Brianna Gillespie, Miss Teen USA, currently preparing for Miss World. Ring a bell?”

  “No,” she replied quickly, then looked at Fradella who seemed just as confused.

  “She’s Senator Wallace Gillespie’s daughter,” Pearson said.

  “Oh, shit,” she reacted before she could stop herself, and sat on a chair, as if all the blood rushing to her brain had taken the strength away from her knees. “I need full background on this girl. Where’s the senator now?”

  “In DC, where else?” Donovan replied. “We have to call him and brief him ASAP.”

  Her breath caught, as she processed the implications of making such a call.

  “Now wait a second,” she said, pushing the chair away from the table and standing across the table from Pearson. “You know damn well what that means. He’ll freak out, he’ll yank his daughter out of that house in three seconds flat. He’ll make one call and he’ll have Secret Service take care of things for him. Once he knows, there’s no way he’ll cooperate with us.”

  “And do you blame him?” Pearson asked. “It’s his daughter.”

  It was almost like déjà vu, only this time Pearson was no longer the father with dire concern for his daughter; he did empathize with the senator though, and part of that empathy had to have come from his recent experience.

  Sometimes the way things lined up was a bitch. She needed Pearson at the top of his killer-hunting game, not overly sensitive, drowning in sympathetic parental concern.

  “Let’s just think through this for a moment,” she said, lowering her voice to make herself appear calmer than she was and sitting back down. Towering over Pearson in a threatening demeanor wasn’t the best course of action, regardless of the situation.

  “Yeah, let’s,” Pearson said coldly.

  “If we tell the senator, and he yanks Brianna out of here, we’ll never catch the Taker of Lives. Never. Poof, he’s gone,” she said, underlining her words with a gesture of her hands, opening her fists and spreading her fingers widely. “We can’t do this, sir, you have to understand. It’s a unique opportunity to catch a serial killer that we simply can’t afford to miss.” Her voice started low-pitched and seemingly calm, then the tone raised to almost forceful, lifted by her frustration, and finally ended in an almost humble plea.

  “Let me tell you what we can’t afford, Winnett,” Pearson said. “We can’t afford to have a serial killer on the prowl anywhere near a US senator’s home. We can’t have a single strand of that girl’s hair disturbed by as much as a whiff of air coming from a murderer, when we knew about it ahead of time and we could’ve stopped it from happening. We can’t have any of that, not ever. Our careers, our badges? Poof, gone,” Pearson said, imitating her earlier gesture with his hands.

  Her frown persisted, laying two deep ridges above her brow, and her jaws clenched as she went through all the arguments she could bring to change his mind. She looked at Donovan, but the bright analyst kept his eyes riveted to the floor. He probably wished more than ever he was boating off Key West somewhere. By all appearances, he wasn’t going to let himself get caught in what could well end up being a deadly crossfire between two senior agents.

  She took a deep breath, then another, willing herself to be calm. Maybe Donovan didn’t feel like getting involved, but he already was.

/>   “There’s a new component to the profile,” she said, “something we all missed in the model.”

  Both Pearson and Donovan looked straight at her, surprise clearly written on their faces, and Fradella finally set down the beverages he’d brought from Media Luna.

  “Don’t tell me, Winnett,” Pearson said. “The model Donovan used for his search isn’t valid?”

  “I believe it still is, only there’s a part of it we stumbled on and built in by accident, not really understanding it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Pearson asked, raising his voice for the first time since their conversation started. “There’s one thing worse than not telling a senator that a serial killer’s lurking in the neighborhood, and that’s telling him and being wrong about it. He’ll crucify us.”

  “I don’t believe we’re wrong, sir. I struggled to understand why someone as famous and as popular as Marla Quinn was so low on the Taker’s list. If it’s strictly social media following that he’s after, she’s not at the top, I agree, but she got the best response in terms of media attention after the attack. Out of all the girls the Taker has attacked, Marla was the most influential.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that the type of attack he conducted on his victims was aligned with their order of fame by social media factors and type of fame, if you will. The shallow attention seekers and social-media hogs were publicly humiliated, while the more influential people, those who get tons of media attention, were scaled up in intensity. Haley was a clean, nonspectacular kill with a ketamine shot. Marla, way more popular, was killed in a daring manner, one that imprints on people’s memory. Finally, Brianna opens the door for the Taker’s ego to transcend the lines and reach beyond the realm of entertainment, well into politics, prime-time news coverage, the heart of our nation in DC.”