Taker of Lives: A Gripping Crime Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Eighty knots? Who the hell is this guy?”

  No one replied; Pearson held his breath, watching the dots move on the radar. The civilian go-fast had almost reached the Reina when it slowed its speed, a few seconds before the Reina slowed too.

  “Phantom, the civilian vessel opened fire on the Reina,” Eagle One crackled over the choppy sound of a helicopter rotor. “Some kind of sniper fire, shooting holes in their engines from a mile out.”

  Cheers erupted in the control room.

  “Civilian vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard, please identify yourself,” the Eagle One operator called on all frequencies, approaching the go-fast from the west.

  There was nothing but static on the air for a long moment.

  “This is Gary Michowsky, Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office,” a familiar voice announced. “The target vessel is dead in the water. Come pick up this load of trash, Coast Guard.”

  “Yeah!” Pearson reacted, then reached for the microphone. “Great job, Michowsky! Didn’t know you were into speedboating.”

  “I’m not,” Michowsky replied. “I borrowed this from a friend, and I’d better return it without a scratch. Only the sniper rifle’s mine.”

  54

  Tactical

  Tess watched the Gillespie home through binoculars, hidden behind white sheers, standing at a window on the second floor of the house across the street from the senator’s, on Seaspray Avenue. The owners, Dr. Weimer, a plastic surgeon, and his family, had been more than forthcoming and had allowed them unrestricted access to the property, while they withdrew to parts of the lower level, waiting anxiously for the entire thing to be over with. For obvious reasons, Tess didn’t feel she could share too much of what they were after with the Weimers, hence they were understandably concerned.

  Fradella had reached an agreement with the owner of the property behind the surgeon’s house, allowing them access though the backyards into the Weimer’s place, after a section of the fence had been temporarily removed. As such, they could go in and out of the Weimer house as frequently as they needed to, using Seabreeze Avenue, the street that ran parallel behind Seaspray Avenue, without the risk of being spotted by the Taker’s surveillance.

  Tess couldn’t see much of the Gillespie frontage; just the main door and the driveway with the three-car garage. The house was a sprawling, single-story, white house with blue storm shutters, sitting on a perfectly green lawn. The rest of the house and the front lawn were obstructed from view by thriving palmettos and impeccably trimmed, eight-foot tall boxwood hedges. Even from her vantage point, she couldn’t get an unobstructed view of the entire façade.

  Two Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office detectives entered the room, followed by Detective Fradella.

  Tess didn’t take her eyes off the Gillespie home when Fradella announced, “We’re all set.”

  “Walk me through it,” she asked.

  “The house is surrounded by patrol cars on speed enforcement, all within a five-minute drive from here,” Fradella replied. “The units will respond to the chemical spill alert, as discussed. If the perp hears the dispatch call, he’ll believe all units are moving out of the area.”

  “Okay,” she said, refraining from adding that the Taker didn’t need five minutes to end a life. Last time he needed less than five seconds. On the other hand, they couldn’t risk bringing a single patrol car any closer to the target residence. She didn’t want the Taker spooked and vanishing without a trace. “Any activity here, before we arrived?”

  “The girl was home alone for a while, then she drove off in a red Beetle convertible with the top down,” one of the detectives replied. “She met another girl for coffee at the Starbucks on Atlantic Avenue, then both of them drove back here together. They’re inside the house right now.”

  “Who’s the other girl?” she asked, frowning. She didn’t like surprises, although she realized she should feel relieved instead. At least Brianna wasn’t completely alone in the house.

  “We didn’t see much of her face to be sure,” the detective replied, “and Brianna picked up the tab at Starbucks. She wore a sun hat and shades,” he added, “but we ran her age and type against known friends or acquaintances in Brianna’s life, and she most likely is Ashely Summers, twenty-six, no priors. She’s an event planner who’s been working with Brianna for a while.”

  “Ah, okay,” Tess replied, still staring at the front windows. She couldn’t see anything, due to sun glare and sheers. “How about the backyard? Do we have eyes there?”

  “We do. We’re tapped into all neighbors’ surveillance, plus we have our own,” Fradella replied, switching views on a laptop. The display showed a distant, grainy view of the backyard pool, where two girls lay on lounge chairs with drinks in their hands. The sun was descending quickly, about to set in less than an hour. Whatever visibility they still had in the backyard would soon be gone.

  She was still watching the house when a Prius stopped in front of the place and a man dashed to the door in a determined step, almost running.

  “I don’t like this, people, who is this?” Tess asked.

  “We have his plate,” Fradella said. “Randall Lathrop, the TV evangelist. He’s got priors for battery, disturbing the peace, but nothing major. He’s her ex-boyfriend. Do we stop him?”

  Tess inhaled quickly, the air burning her lungs after holding her breath for a long moment. “No. He doesn’t fit the profile. Let it play out.”

  The man rang the doorbell, but almost immediately started pounding at the door impatiently.

  “Do we have audio on that?” Tess asked.

  The detective turned up the volume on the laptop and distant, flaky noises came from the built-in speakers.

  Brianna opened the door, wearing a minimalistic bikini, then immediately wanted to push it shut. “Get lost, Randy,” she yelled, but Randall had put his foot in the door, preventing her from closing it.

  “Intervene now?” the detective asked.

  “No, hold still,” she replied firmly. “This is not the unsub.”

  “Lost?” Randall spoke angrily, wielding his fist in the air. “You dare talk to me of being lost? Look at you!” Then he spat on the ground. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Brianna said something unintelligible, still trying to force the door shut, but then the other girl appeared in the doorway. She wore a one-piece swimsuit, a large, white hat, and Chanel shades, looking like a full-page ad for Travel and Leisure magazine. She held her phone in her hand and showed it to the man.

  “I already called the cops, you freak,” she said. “Get the hell outta here.”

  “Do we have an active 911 call?” Tess asked. If that was true, the Taker was never going to show.

  “Negative, Agent Winnett. Just a girl with a lot of grit,” the detective replied.

  Tess smiled when she saw Randall turn away and leave, spilling Bible verses and curses in the same, endless rant. “Way to go, Ms. Summers.”

  Randall climbed behind the wheel of his car and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  “Good riddance,” the detective said.

  “Not so fast,” Tess reacted. “I want this man pulled over and kept busy until we end our operation.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Just say the neighbors complained about his violent behavior, because I just did and right now I’m the neighbor. Have a unit pick him up. Dispatch them by cell phone.”

  “On it,” the detective replied, after glancing at Tess for a quick moment, unable to hide his frustration. He probably didn’t take too well to being bossed around by a fed. Tough luck.

  Fradella followed the exchange and smiled, visibly amused.

  Tess pulled a chair near the window and watched the street, painfully aware of the dimming light. Soon they’d lose all visibility into what was going on. On the laptop monitor, the girls still splashed in the pool, drinking, laughing, turning the music volume higher and higher with each song they loved to hear
and belt along with.

  It was almost completely dark, when a green Beemer convertible pulled in the driveway. Two young men in white golf shirts and baseball caps hollered loudly a few times, honked twice, then one of them dialed a number from his car’s media center.

  “Open the gates, girls,” the man said, “we come bearing gifts.”

  One of the garage doors opened, and they drove inside.

  “I don’t like this,” Fradella said. “Not one bit.”

  “Who are they?” Tess asked calmly. Neither of them was the Taker; he never hunted in pairs; only alone. He would’ve never tolerated to share his fame with another human being.

  “Car plate comes back to Wesley H. Stone, eighteen.”

  The other detective whistled between his teeth. “Eighteen and a brand new M4 convertible Beemer in his name. What a life.”

  “He’s a student, a colleague of Brianna’s. I’ll take a leap of faith and assume the other kid is too. You good with that?” Fradella asked.

  Tess nodded, absentmindedly. Where was the Taker right now, and what was he doing? Was he bothered by all these people at Brianna’s house? Or did he feel challenged by the larger crowd he needed to overpower?

  “But why the garage?” the detective asked. “I don’t pull into the garage when I visit with friends.”

  Fradella chuckled and shot Tess an amused look. She barely refrained from groaning.

  “That’s because they’re bringing liquor, and that’s illegal at their age, last time I checked,” Fradella clarified.

  A few moments later, the two boys, wearing colorful swim shorts, splashed in the pool. Brianna came out, carrying bottles of booze, and the other girl followed with glasses and a bucket of ice. The party was just starting.

  She watched them for a while, feeling the tension in her body increase with every passing minute. There was still time until midnight, but not a lot more. Every few minutes she checked the Taker’s website, and nothing had changed for hours; only the vote counter was constantly increasing, now at over thirty-five million votes in favor of killing Brianna Gillespie tonight.

  Several hours later, the party ended; it was about 11:15PM. One of the two boys washed his face repeatedly with cold water at the poolside shower, probably to sober up enough to drive. After a few moments, the garage door opened, and the Beemer reversed. The top was up, and they thought they saw the other girl’s large, white hat in the back seat.

  “Stop this car on a traffic check?” Fradella asked. “He’ll score a DUI for sure.”

  “Might spook the Taker,” Tess replied. “It’s too late; it’s almost midnight. Let them go.”

  About ten minutes later, they saw Brianna on video take another splash in the pool, all by herself. She didn’t bother to clean up or anything; a maid was probably going to do that the next morning. Ms. Summers was nowhere in sight, confirming the theory that it must’ve been her in the back seat of the Beemer, hitching a ride with the two boys.

  Brianna Gillespie was home alone, just in time for the Taker’s midnight call.

  Only he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  Frustrated as hell and feeling nervous tension that bore burning holes in her skull, Tess refreshed the Taker’s site once more. This time it was live, displaying a new message from the killer.

  It read, “Thirty-seven million people have spoken their choice.” And a countdown, showing twelve minutes left.

  It was precisely 11:48PM.

  Cursing out loud, Tess dialed Donovan’s cell. He picked up immediately.

  “How sure are you it’s Brianna he’s after?”

  “At least ninety-five percent,” he said, but she sensed hesitation and self-doubt in his voice.

  “Damn it to bloody hell, Donovan!”

  55

  Exposed

  Tess watched the countdown reaching zero while holding her breath. Did they get everything wrong? Was the Taker of Lives about to evade capture yet again, while murdering an innocent girl live on camera, for the gratification of millions of viewers lurking in the blackest recesses of the Dark Web?

  Finally, the curtains pulled open on the Taker’s streaming site, and the image of a girl’s bedroom filled the screen. Tess took the photos shared reluctantly by the senator and compared the images quickly. Yes, it was Brianna’s bedroom, and the unconscious girl being stripped naked by hands covered in black latex was the senator’s seventeen-year-old daughter they’d sworn to protect from all harm.

  She took the radio in her hand while rushing downstairs. “Breach! Breach! Breach!” she ordered, and SWAT swarmed around the house, running from the Weimer’s yard in full gear.

  They busted the door down and rushed inside, clearing all the rooms one by one. Tess rushed after them with her weapon drawn, but stopped for a moment in the middle of the living room, unsure where the girl’s bedroom was.

  “Over here,” she heard a voice call and ran in that direction.

  The door to Brianna’s bedroom was open, and she saw one of the SWAT holding the Taker by the arms, while another aimed his gun at the unsub’s chest. Finally! He wasn’t opposing arrest; he just let himself be manipulated, handcuffed, and waited patiently while the arresting officer read him his Miranda rights.

  Tess ran past them and felt for Brianna’s pulse. It was strong and steady, and the girl shifted in her sleep when she felt Tess’s cold fingers touch her neck.

  “Get EMS in here,” she called. They’d placed an ambulance on standby in the Weimer’s boat garage; it was going to take less than a minute to get there.

  Then she saw the camera, already being dismantled by Fradella and packaged in evidence bags. On the opposing wall, above the girl’s bed, the Taker had secured chains with cuffs that hung loose, ready to be used.

  “He was going to suspend her on the wall,” she said, answering an unspoken question, “like a trophy.”

  She turned to the Taker and ripped the latex off his face. Then she gasped and took a step back.

  “It’s you!” she said. “The—”

  “Insignificant, totally forgettable girlfriend?” the Taker replied, with a bitter laugh.

  Still slack-jawed, Tess couldn’t find her words; the Taker was a woman! How could she have not seen that coming?

  She frowned, thinking there would probably be a lot of time to analyze that at a later time, after the Taker was finally booked and thrown in jail.

  She beckoned a uniformed cop to bring the mobile fingerprint scanner. The young cop approached and removed the glove from the Taker’s right hand, then scanned her index finger.

  “Althea Swain, twenty-seven,” he announced. “No priors.”

  “Then how come she’s in the system?” Tess asked, her frown deepening. The name sounded familiar, but something was off, and she couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  “Get this: she’s a TSA-preapproved traveler. She probably flies a lot.”

  “Of course, she does,” Tess sighed.

  She examined the Taker’s body, still clad in the latex suit, searching for any indication in its shape that could’ve pointed to a woman, something they’d missed when watching the prior videos. There wasn’t anything to give away the curves of a female body. No breasts pushing through the latex, no waistline, no hips.

  Only one thing could explain it, probably the reason why the latex suit seemed to be too large, by at least two sizes.

  “Remove this suit and bag it,” she said. “It’s evidence. Take photos, before and after.” She didn’t believe the Taker was naked underneath that suit; far from it.

  As the suit came off, her suspicions were confirmed. The Taker had wrapped her body with tight stretches of fabric, flattening her breasts and modifying her shapes to match the contour of a slightly overweight man. She’d padded her flat abdomen to hide her waistline and the curves of her hips, and even added some love handles to make the body image seem real.

  It was impressive, and she wasn’t the only one thinking that, she realized when she heard
Fradella’s whistle. The padding was sewn onto a makeshift suit with a zipper, easy to put on and remove in seconds.

  EMS barged in through the door and loaded Brianna, still fast asleep, onto a stretcher, then made their way quickly to the bus waiting outside. Tess followed them outside to make sure they moved as fast as they could, considering the potential exposure always associated with everything the Taker did. The streaming site was offline, taken down by Donovan the moment he could lock onto the camera’s Wi-Fi connection and run a trace.

  A black Chevy Suburban pulled to the curb, and Senator Gillespie hopped out of it before it had reached a complete stop. He rushed to the ambulance, where the techs were reviving Brianna. Turning, he yanked Tess by her arm, probably seeing her FBI badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck.

  “You swore to me she’d be safe!” he bellowed.

  “She is safe,” she replied quietly. “She probably won’t remember any of this.”

  The senator shoved her away with such force that she slammed into the open ambulance door, then he turned to the EMS who was fitting Brianna with a blood pressure cuff.

  “Talk to me, damn it, I’m her father.”

  “She’s stable, vitals are strong, and this is more of a precaution,” the EMS said, pointing at the stretcher. “She was roofied, nothing more.”

  “Roofied?” he yelled, turning toward Tess with a death glare. “Does that sound safe to you?”

  “Sir, may I suggest you let them do their job and move her away from here? The press will soon roll in, and I’m sure you want nothing of that kind of attention.”

  He didn’t reply, nor did he stop glowering at her for another long moment. Then he climbed in the back of the ambulance and ordered them to drive to a private clinic.

  Tess didn’t breathe normally until the ambulance disappeared from view. She looked at the street, filled with law enforcement vehicles flashing red and blue, the entire area now cordoned off and restricted to traffic. Still, the media was bound to arrive soon.