by Leslie Wolfe
Flashbacks invaded, superimposed against the hammock’s densely forested landscape. Voices, feverishly articulating words over one another, arguing for hours, to no avail. The feeling of powerlessness, the most unbearable feeling he’d ever had to endure, followed by the moment he had to concede the fight, throwing the battle in the hope he’d win the war. Someday.
Not many people held the power to make him suffer; very few did, actually. In truth, just one did, and she’d hurt him so badly it still burned to remember. The wound was deep and still bleeding, his ego unaccustomed to hearing anyone say no to him. Yet she did, and her word overtook his, again and again, and he was forced to comply every single time. The humiliation, the degradation he’d felt, the shame and indignity at the thought that others might have known about his defeat were unbearable. All he could think about was the day he’d make her pay.
Until that day, nearing fast, he had to seek his release by taking other lives, weak compensations for his daily dose of degradation, when he was forced to do what she wanted instead of having his own way. But the day she’d finally pay was near, and nothing she did could stop that from coming. Just thinking of that day, of how it would all play out, brought an adrenaline rush to his body, a wave of anticipation excitement that sent his blood rushing through his veins.
He visualized her begging for his mercy, saying what she’d always said to him, “No.” Only this time she’d beg, she’d cry, she’d plead for his benevolence as he’d punish her again, and again, and again. At the end of that day, only he’d be left standing, not her. She’d be kneeled forever, imploring his forgiveness, for the ultimate sin of her existence: having said no to him, her son. There was an almost poetic sense to his vision; the circle of life, where new replaces old, spring defeats winter, and son supersedes mother.
His lips curled upward in an anticipatory smile, thinking of the evening’s prize, waiting for him to return from the Glades. She’d be waiting for him, alone and terrified in the darkness, just another test drive, as he liked to call these surrogates. The more she’d wait, the more she’d be ready for him. The fruit isn’t tasty until it’s ripe, someone had once taught him. Oh, yes, it was his mother, when she’d lectured him about patience, and how better everything was when it’s thoroughly planned and executed. Soon, she would have the opportunity to judge him on his ability to wait patiently for his reward, on his aptitude to plan and rehearse before executing to perfection.
A tiny noise got his attention, almost imperceptible against the concert of critters, and he turned to face his unsuspecting prey. It was a large one, that bear, only 20 feet away. He drew back the string, holding the arrow snug against it with his fingers. He leaned his cheek into the string, aligning his line of sight with the arrow. He waited patiently, and the bear didn’t disappoint. He turned slowly, then stood on his hind legs, exposing his underbelly. That’s when he released his arrow, and immediately loaded another one, ready to shoot it.
There was no need for a second shot. The animal roared as it fell to the ground on its side, and then groaned a couple of times. Matthew approached it, looking straight into the beast’s eyes. The initial surprise was soon replaced by agony, then by acceptance. Then they glazed over, as life left that magnificent body.
Matthew kneeled and cut one of the bear’s claws. He tucked it into his side pocket and walked away briskly. It was getting late. He had work to do that night.
34
Mugshot
The Suburban came to an abrupt stop in the Club Exhale parking lot. The area was starting to fill up, as darkness announced to patrons that it was time to sample Miami’s night life. Only a few cars behind theirs, Fradella’s cruiser showed up, cutting the flashing lights on his vehicle’s lightbar before entering the club’s property.
In the distance, the club’s music was already in full blast, and the club’s exterior lightshow had started, flashing laser spots and searchlights toward the starry sky.
“It’s going to be hard to talk to people in this goddamn noise,” Tess muttered. “Got the prints?”
Fradella handed her the printed mugshot, and she looked at Matthew’s face, studying it. Could he be the one torturing and killing young women all over the country? Pensive, she rubbed the back and the side of her neck, right under her left ear, with vigorous strokes. Her fingers were cold, but didn’t bring much relief to the burning sensation that bothered her right there, at the hairline between her ear and her nape. She rubbed it some more, willing it to go away, while staring at Dahler’s picture. No matter how hard she scrutinized that face, she didn’t see the monster she was looking for; the photo showed a young man, neatly dressed and cleanly shaved, posing for some official purpose, maybe his driver’s license. He seemed relaxed, at ease, and sure of himself. He was charismatic, attractive even, and in no way did he seem creepy. Ashely had been right; no red flags went up with this man.
And yet, when she looked at his deep blue eyes, something uncoiled in her gut, tugging at her instincts. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. She was sure she hadn’t seen him before, not even on TV, so it wasn’t that. It was more like her gut was telling her she should run, nesting fear in her belly while it made the hairs on the back of her head turn sensitive, sending shivers down her spine. Which was just as ridiculous, as it felt déjà vu. She never ran; she was one of the good guys. Looking at this man’s photo, it didn’t seem like there was anything to run from either, from a rational point of view.
She remembered reading somewhere that man’s ability to recognize predators instinctively had almost completely vanished, the skill becoming useless in the modern world of safety and comfort. That was the reason why so many unsuspecting victims fell prey to psychopathic killers everywhere. Such instincts had long been deemed unnecessary by our natural evolution, and the victim can’t tell anymore if she’s in the presence of a predator. In some people, studies had shown, atavism had preserved the ability to identify such danger, allowing them to react instinctively and recognize predators without even seeing them, or by looking at mundane photos. Like the one she was holding. Matthew Dahler didn’t look like a creep, but he was still worth investigating.
“All right, so how do we do this?” she asked impatiently, shooting a glance at her watch. Twenty-one hours since Julie had vanished; twenty-one hours of terror and pain. Oh, God…
“How do you suggest we handle it?” Fradella asked. “We can't control all the people we should be interviewing. If one of them tells Dahler we’re asking questions, we’ll have lawyers up our asses by tomorrow morning.”
“Watch me not give a shit,” she replied, already on her way to the club entrance. “Do your damn job, threaten them if you have to, and let’s get Julie back. That’s what you should be thinking of.” She didn’t even turn her head to see if he’d heard her. She didn’t care. She was perfectly capable of working the case alone if she needed to, and she wasn’t willing to waste another second.
There was already a line formed at the club entrance, and Tess bypassed it in a hurry, then flashed her badge at the bouncers.
“Seen this man around here?”
The two bouncers looked at the photo, then at each other quickly.
“Yeah,” one of them said, “he’s a regular.”
“Uh-huh,” the other one added.
“Comes here alone? With a woman?”
“Um, sometimes alone, other times with friends. Normally stays a few hours.”
“Did you see him leave with women he picked up here?”
The two bouncers looked at each other again.
“Um, no, don’t think so.”
“Uh-uh,” the other one confirmed.
“Is he here tonight?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“All right, thanks,” Tess added and started toward the entrance, then stopped. “If you share our little conversation, it’s obstruction of justice. Keep that in mind for your future health and well-being. You don’t want to see me come back here
again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She entered the club and felt instantly deafened by the blaring music. It was getting crowded, the proximity of so many strangers making her jumpy and uneasy, almost claustrophobic. With the corner of her eye, she saw Fradella walk to a bartender and show her the mugshot on his phone. She approached the long counter and waved to a bartender for attention.
“I got five orders ahead of you, sweetie, hold your horses,” he shouted from the sink.
“Now,” she shouted back, lifting her badge up in the air.
“Fine,” he replied, turning off the water and dropping the half-rinsed glasses back into the sink. “What do you need?”
“This man, he’s a regular here, right?”
“Yeah, his name is Matthew, I think.”
“What’s his favorite drink?”
“Really? You go around asking that?” A patronizing smirk developed on the man’s lips.
“Humor me,” she replied coldly, and his grin died.
“He drinks Grey Goose, nothing else. One or two per evening, never more.”
“Comes alone? Picks up girls? What does he do?”
“He tips well, that’s for one. He sometimes comes alone, but just sits at the bar, watching people dancing. Sometimes he dances too, especially when he comes with friends.”
“How about girls? Does he hit on girls?”
“Hmm… you won’t believe this, but girls hit on him more than he hits on them. He’s not into picking up chicks, you know.”
“Does he talk to you? What about?”
“Um, nothing much, just small talk. Cars—he drives a Porsche, you know. I’m more American muscle, myself.”
“His Porsche, is it a 911?”
“Nah… Cayenne.”
Oh, an SUV, how interesting, Tess thought. That was the first intriguing bit of information she’d gathered so far. The fact that he didn’t leave with girls was disappointing. She needed more information; she needed to find out how he operated.
“What else do you guys talk about?”
“I don’t know… girls, sometime we comment on girls, and what we see them do, here on the dance floor. You won’t believe me if I told you, the things we see. Man…”
Tess gestured impatiently with her hand, shaking her head.
“Yeah, I remember, we talk about hunting sometimes. He hunts. I used to hunt too, back when I lived in the Midwest. I used to hunt deer. He hunts here, in the Glades, which I’d never do. Too scary.”
He hunts right here, at your counter, she nearly said out loud. Instead, she collected the photo and moved away, heading for the other end of the bar.
She beckoned the other bartender and didn’t have to insist in his case. Either he’d seen her flash her badge before, or he wasn’t that busy. She pushed the photo on the counter, right in front of him.
“Tell me everything you can about this guy.”
“You know who he is, right? I mean, you must know who he is.”
“Yeah, I must. So tell me something I don’t know.”
“He’s a regular, comes at least a couple of times a week. Drinks Grey Goose, sometimes lime water or tonic water.”
“Does he pick up girls?”
“No, he’s not into that kind of action. Although, if they hit on him, he talks to them, sometimes dances with them if they’re really hot.”
“Takes them home?”
“Not that I’ve seen, no. I mean, who knows, right? I’m behind this counter all night.”
“What do you talk about?”
“Whatever, just causal talk. Music, mostly. I used to dream of being a musician, you know. Dream died a few years back, when I couldn’t pay the bills with my singing. He plays the guitar, you know.”
A couple of girls landed on the counter right next to Tess, loud, feisty, and most likely drunk.
“Gimme Sex on the Beach, hot rod,” one of them, a tall, pretty blonde, shouted over the counter.
The bartender grinned at Tess before grabbing a glass and starting to mix the order. The girl propped herself up on a bar stool and reached for the photo, just as Tess was getting ready to collect it. The girl turned the photo around to take a better look. She tapped on it with perfectly manicured fingernails, encrusted with rhinestones.
“I know this guy, what’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Tess replied quickly. “Have you ever talked to him?”
“Yeah…” she said, then looked at the floor for a second, apparently embarrassed. “I did, but, well, it didn’t work out.”
“You hit on him?” Tess asked, frowning.
“You’re direct, aren’t you, huh?” She took a sip from her drink, just placed in front of her, umbrella, straw, and all on top of a highball glass filled to the brim. “Yeah, I hit on him, but I guess we didn’t click.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You know, pick-up stuff,” she said, smiling. “But he didn’t even ask me to dance or buy me a drink, so I got the message and I walked away. Too bad, the guy’s superhot. And loaded.”
Tess thought for a second. Why did he reject this girl? She was the right age, physiognomy didn’t quite matter with this unsub, and she sort of resembled Sonya anyway. Tall, slim, blonde with long, sleek hair. Emerald green eyes. She wore expensive clothing, and, if Tess wasn’t mistaken, her high-heeled pink Louboutins went for over a grand. So what went wrong?
“Tell me, what’s your major?” Tess ventured a shot in the dark.
“What the hell is wrong with people these days? What, huh? So if a girl doesn’t have a major, she can’t have a little fun?”
Jackpot.
“Why, what’s wrong?” Tess probed, forcing a camaraderie smile she didn’t feel.
“He asked me the same thing. He said that’s how he made sure I’m not jail bait. I dropped out, I don’t have a major. I told him that, and he lost interest on the spot. Asshole.”
Tess snatched the photo from the counter, patted the girl on her shoulder, and scampered away. That’s how he did it. That’s how he sifted through all those girls, finding the overachievers easily, without raising any suspicions. Anyone who’d graduated ahead of time would brag about it, if given the opportunity, with plenty of detail. Her one and only lead looked better and better, gaining detail and sharpness like an image coming into focus.
She searched the crowd for Fradella and found him chatting with a couple of servers. She waved at him, gesturing she was going outside.
A few minutes later, he and Michowsky joined her in the heat of the early Miami night.
“He’s a regular,” Michowsky started to say, but Tess stopped him with a hand gesture.
“I know all that. Todd, I need you to screen last night’s CCTV feeds looking for this man. Search around the time codes when Julie disappeared, so any time after 10:15PM. See if he’s anywhere on video, and what he does, who he talks with, and where he goes. See when he leaves, and with whom. I got a phone call to make.”
“Care to share?” Michowsky asked.
“Yeah. I think it’s time to ask the Lin family a couple more questions.”
“It’s 10:45,” Michowsky protested.
“Tell that to Julie,” Tess snapped, then tried to make it a little better. “It’s only 9:45 in Chicago.”
She dialed the Lins’ number with cold, sweaty fingers and put the call on speaker.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice picked up immediately.
“Mrs. Lin? This is Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI. We talked yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. What can I do for you?” Mrs. Lin asked in a trembling voice.
“Do you know Matthew Feldman Dahler? He is in that picture of your family you shared with me.”
“Yes, I know Matthew, what’s this about?”
“At that gala, did Matthew interact with your daughter at all?”
These was a brief silence as Mrs. Lin probably tried to remember.
“He danced with May once or twice, I thi
nk. He’s a courteous, gentle, young man, and May loved speaking and dancing with him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lin, I appreciate your help.”
“What is this about? I’m sure you don’t think that Matthew had anything to do—”
“No, Mrs. Lin. We’re just covering all bases, that’s all.”
She ended the call, biting her lower lip with excitement in her eyes. Matthew dancing with May Lin confirmed, at yet another point in time, this unsub’s MO. She felt the excitement grow inside her, swelling her chest. She was close and drawing closer with every step. Too bad Dahler wasn’t the type of suspect you could easily locate, so you could then bust his door open in the dead of the night with a bunch of SWAT agents. No judge would issue a warrant for all the Dahler residences, vacation homes, commercial properties, boats, business real estate, and whatever else they owned, where Matthew could be holding Julie.
She was close and drawing closer, but she wasn’t there yet. She didn’t even think she had enough grounds to get a search warrant for Matthew Dahler’s main residence, especially if the judge would prove to be just as starstruck as everyone else. They didn’t have any hard evidence either, not yet. Only coincidental, mundane facts, casual encounters, and tidbits of apparently harmless information, all pieces of a puzzle that promised to come together nicely and draw the complete picture of their serial killer. Promising, but definitely not enough for a search warrant. Dahler fit the profile, but probably so did thousands of other young, affluent, Caucasian males who possessed charisma and the financial freedom to move around unrestricted. Club Exhale must be a common theme for many of them.
Tess knew she only had one shot at doing this right. If she searched the wrong property, warning Dahler they were getting close to finding his lair, he’d kill Julie and cover his tracks. He’d get away with it, with all of it. They’d never catch him. No, she couldn’t rush into getting warrants or questioning Matthew Feldman Dahler. She had to be smart about it.