by Leslie Wolfe
“Uh-huh, that’s exactly it,” Doc replied.
“You know what that means, Gary,” she said, turning toward Michowsky and Fradella.
“Yeah, I do,” Michowsky replied morosely. “I came to the same conclusion, but started from a different point. There have been other reports of creepy-man-with-a-rope sightings. Three more. We have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Or two,” Doc Rizza intervened. “If we could return to the autopsy findings, please?”
Tess frowned and propped herself against the pillows. “I’m guessing there’s more.”
“More DNA, for starters. There was a third DNA sample, male, in the semen I found inside Lisa’s body. She was forcefully raped, multiple times. Some vaginal tearings had started to heal, while others were fresh, perimortem. Plenty of bruising on her thighs, arms, buttocks, and abdomen. She was tied up repeatedly, and there were abrasions on her wrists and ankles, some starting to heal. See here,” Doc added, and pushed detailed photos toward Tess.
She picked them up, one by one, and studied them carefully.
“This is the ring you were talking about?”
Fradella leaned to look. “Yes, that’s the one the husband said doesn’t match.”
“Looks really cheap.”
“I had someone look into it. It’s dollar-store grade, widely available. We couldn’t lift any prints though.”
“What do you think it means?” Fradella asked. “Changing her ring?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Tess replied, rubbing the back of her head. “Taking her wedding ring, that’s rather common in serial-killer signature, to take memorabilia, tokens to remind him of his victims. By taking a wedding ring specifically, the killer annihilates the victim’s marriage, nullifies it, erases the other man from the picture. To put another ring in place, and such a cheap one, that’s the part I’m not sure about, but I’m positive it means something. Could be his way to express disdain or contempt for the institution of matrimony, or for that particular victim’s marriage. We need more information about the other rope-creep sightings.”
“As soon as Doc’s done.” Michowsky gestured an apology.
Doc Rizza checked his notes quickly. “Let’s go back to Lisa Trask’s throat abrasions, and what they mean. The findings are consistent with ligature strangulation, down to the very last detail. See here, we have subcutaneous hemorrhage, blistering, exfoliation. Again, some of it starting to heal. These are all antemortem or perimortem injuries.”
Tess ran her hand through her hair. She still felt the fog of painkillers in her brain, and wished it gone. “Meaning she was strangled before?”
“Meaning it could have been some sort of rape and sexual asphyxia combo going on, at the hands of two assailants. Consistent with the two male DNA samples we found. One was found only in the semen; we’ll call that donor ‘the rapist.’ The other one, probably through transferred epithelials, while the killer grabbed and pulled the rope without gloves. Simply put, rope burn. His skin exfoliated due to the rope’s abrasive characteristics, leaving marks on his hands, and transferrable skin cells on the murder weapon. We’ll call this man ‘the strangler.’”
“Whoa…” Tess reacted. “You’re saying the strangler never raped her, and the rapist never touched the rope?”
“Seems that way.”
Her frown deepened. Serial offender couples or teams weren’t new; just rare, and more challenging to profile.
“See here,” Doc Rizza showed her another close-up image of Lisa’s throat, right under her chin. “This particular abrasion that looks like pinched skin, right there, is where the rope ends crossed. The strangler stood in front of her, pulling the rope ends to the sides and upward.”
“I see,” Tess replied, not taking her eyes off the close-up of the victim’s throat.
“There were hemorrhagic spots on her scalp. My guess is the rapist was pulling her hair, forcing her head back, and opening access to her throat for the strangler. These other images, taken at the crime scene, will show you the telltale livor mortis signs. You can easily visualize how she was placed and immobilized for her ordeal.”
“Can I keep these?”
“Sure, that’s why I brought them.”
“Anything else, Doc? Tox screen?”
“Negative on preliminary, still waiting on the advanced. Another interesting finding is that she was perfectly groomed, for someone kept in captivity for more than a week. Fingernails and toenails perfectly manicured, freshly applied nail polish and makeup. All unwanted hair was waxed, and I mean all of it. Recently; it didn’t have enough time to start growing back.”
“Okay, that’s unusual,” Tess mumbled, then turned to Michowsky and Fradella. “Let’s hear about the other rope-creep sightings.”
“Database returned two other missing persons who had previously reported a man holding a rope, close to their places of employment or homes. Sarah Thomas, twenty-seven, a human resources manager for a services company, has been missing since February 10. She disappeared from a mall parking lot. She’d seen the man with the rope a few days before being taken, but didn’t file a complaint because she didn’t really see his face. The husband mentioned the incident in the missing person’s report.”
“If he’s killing them after keeping them for fewer than ten days, we don’t have a lot of time,” Tess said. “Ten days means today. Sarah might already be dead, or they might kill her very soon. Who’s next?”
“Dr. Katherine Nelson, also twenty-seven, third-year medical resident here, at University of Miami Hospital. She was taken two days ago; she vanished from the hospital parking lot.”
“Oh, my God,” Melissa gasped, and promptly covered her mouth with her hands.
They’d forgotten about her, and stopped noticing when she came in and out of the room, probably tending to other patients when she was absent.
“Did you know Dr. Nelson?” Tess asked her.
“A little. She’s doing her pediatrics rotation. We don’t cross paths that often. She’s smart and decisive, just like a good doctor should be. She’s also a bit snappy, even irate at times; that’s not that great.”
“Melissa, you know you cannot talk to anyone about anything you hear us discuss in here, right?”
“Mum’s the word, I swear,” she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful, but her eyes were still wide with fear. “In our parking lot? I can’t believe it.”
Tess and the detectives exchanged concerned looks. They didn’t want any leaks to the media.
“Just be careful, and you should be fine. We’ll add security to the parking lot, to make sure everyone’s safe. That will make you feel better about not being able to warn your friends.”
“Yeah, got it,” she replied. “I know how this works, Tess. You’ll land me in jail if I say anything.”
Tess nodded once and smiled, almost apologetically.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what will happen,” Michowsky reinforced the point in a harsh voice. Tess frowned at him and he let it drop.
“Maybe it’s best if I leave for now,” Melissa offered. “You have enough IV drip for another hour or so, and I can work on my charts from someplace else. Buzz me if you need me,” she added, gesturing toward the bed controls.
As soon as she closed the door behind her, Michowsky groaned. “Ahh, damn it. You think she’ll keep her mouth shut?”
“She’s a smart woman,” Tess replied. “Give her some credit.”
“All right,” Michowsky replied. “Back to Dr. Nelson. She saw the man with the rope here first, in the hospital parking lot, a couple of days before she went missing. Then at home, that same evening. That’s when she called it in. Two days later, she vanished.”
“So he takes two at a time? Or maybe Sarah’s dead already, and we haven’t found her body yet?” Tess asked.
“They,” Doc Rizza said. “They take two at a time.”
“Yeah, you’re right… Who’s the third case of rope sighting?”
“An o
lder case, a cold one from last year. Vic was found in the water, all trace evidence compromised. During the investigation, it was revealed that the victim had shared with friends she’d been spooked by the rope man, but never reported it. End of story… case went cold from there. The rest fits; strangled and raped, wedding ring replaced. No DNA though, not a trace. Water is a great forensic countermeasure.”
Tess stayed silent for a minute or so, processing everything she’d learned. She needed to get involved, and she needed help. Those DNA tests couldn’t take a week, not when lives were at stake. She was going to call Pearson, to have the samples moved to the FBI lab by courier, and the results delivered in a day, tops. Pearson was going to give her an earful, but she’d have to take his scolding and get the lab work approved. She needed Donovan too, her FBI analyst. The man was amazing; there wasn’t a piece of data buried anywhere, in any system or database, that he couldn’t dig up and cross reference.
“I know what the rope man is doing,” she finally said.
The three men watched her with interest, without saying a word.
“He’s giving these women warnings. He shows them what’s waiting for them, and somehow they fail to heed. That’s why none of them see his face… they only see the rope, coiled tightly on his fists, ready to kill. They see death; he shows them a glimpse of death.”
16
Sarah
Katherine angrily paced the small room, shooting venomous glares at the dark window. She’d defied them some time ago, had yelled rants at the dark window, filled with loathing and desperation, and nothing happened. Did they not hear her? Or did they choose to ignore her for now, and save their punishment for later?
Sarah still sniffled, curled up in the armchair, turned away from the window. She must have been terrified of the potential consequences following Katherine’s defiance. She’d told her the punishment had been severe for the girls who tried to disobey in one form or another, but she didn’t share what she meant by that. How severe? Was it worth trying? Maybe she should just comply, trust the other woman’s judgment and experience, and make sure she didn’t have to suffer more than was strictly necessary.
Katherine felt her willpower erode, destroyed by hopelessness and despair. Why did it matter? Clothes on or off, who cared, if they were never going to see the light of day again? Same for the makeup and grooming masquerade those freaks imposed. A pang of guilt stabbed her weary mind when she realized she’d been gambling with Sarah’s life too, by not allowing her to do as she’d been told.
She considered her options one last time, then approached Sarah and gently touched her shoulder. “Listen, Sarah, I’m sorry if I—”
She froze, hearing the clacking noise of the deadbolt being pulled. Sarah jumped off the armchair and almost hid behind her, clasping her hand. The door opened and the bastard who’d kidnapped her took a couple of steps inside the room, then stopped.
“You, let’s go,” he gestured toward Sarah.
She whimpered and hugged herself, half-bent forward, as if almost ready to collapse. “No, please, no.” Her whimpers turned to loud, uncontrollable sobs, but the man didn’t care.
“Leave her alone,” Katherine said fiercely, and took a step forward, inserting herself between Sarah and the man. Maybe she could overpower him… maybe.
The man laughed, the aroused laugh of a pervert. “Wait your turn, little beauty, don’t be so eager. There’s plenty down here to satisfy both you bitches.” He ended his phrase with a terrifying grin and a pat on his groin.
Then he shoved Katherine out of the way and slapped Sarah hard, sending her to the ground. He grabbed her arm and started dragging her away, but Katherine jumped him from behind, trying to grab his neck with both hands and pinch his carotid arteries long enough to cut the blood flow to his brain and take him down. He shook her off without much effort, then punched her in the jaw, slamming her against the wall. She heard her teeth crack and fell into a heap, seeing stars.
The man dragged Sarah away and bolted the door. Seconds later, something unusual made Katherine get back on her feet, despite feeling dizzy and nauseated.
Muffled noises came from behind that dreaded window, and the light had been turned on. In shock, Katherine watched the man drag Sarah to a tall, wooden bench. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, with the exception of a massive, leather recliner. The floor was graded cement, and had a drain at the center, where dried blood stained the dirty surface. The bench was riveted to the floor, only a few feet away from the window.
Sarah cried and begged, but the man didn’t hesitate. He manhandled her brutally, and tied her ankles to the bench legs, then he cuffed her wrists and chained those cuffs across the bench, to the other two wooden legs.
Katherine cried and gasped in horror, then forced a deep breath of air into her lungs and screamed as hard as she could. “No! Let her go!” She pounded on the window with both her fists, but the man only grinned as he positioned himself behind Sarah, and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking hard.
Sarah’s eyes turned toward the window as she endured the assault. Katherine locked eyes with her, pounding on that glass, screaming, crying, wishing she could help her with more than just a look. Then Sarah closed her eyes, taking refuge inside herself.
That’s when the second man came in, the taller, stronger one, the one with dark hair. Or so Katherine thought, because from her vantage point she couldn’t see his face. But she saw enough to start screaming again.
The man stopped in front of Sarah, and watched for a few minutes what the other man was doing to her. Then he slid his hand into his pocket and took out a piece of thick twine, and slowly coiled it around his fists. He tugged at it, to make sure he had a good, strong grip, then waited in front of Sarah for a few minutes more.
She’d seen that rope before. She’d seen those fists before.
“No! Please, no!” Katherine yelled, pounding some more. Neither man seemed to hear her.
She looked around the room, desperately looking for something she could use to break that window. She grabbed the chair and slammed it against the window as hard as she could, but didn’t even scratch it. She tried again and again, then let it drop to the floor, breathless.
Tears ran freely on her cheeks. Her hands touched the window where she saw Sarah’s face, and she screamed when the rapist grabbed a handful of Sarah’s hair again and pulled hard, forcing her head up. The other man quickly wrapped the rope around her neck, and started pulling. Sarah writhed and struggled against her restraints, gasping for air, her eyes wide open and agonizing. Then her body fell onto the bench, inert, no longer moving or drawing breath.
She was gone.
The light turned off in that abhorrent room, and Katherine couldn’t see anything anymore. She let herself slide to the floor, sobbing hard and hugging her knees.
There was no hope left, not even a trace. She was going to die in there. Soon.
17
Memories
He took his seat on the recliner, moving in the darkness with ease, like a feline. He closed his eyes for a second and breathed deeply, feeling sated, fulfilled. He enjoyed those moments deeply, the moments of perfect, complete gratification that came immediately after taking a life.
Slowly, he coiled the rope and slid it into his pocket. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Katherine.
She was still on the floor, under the windowsill, sobbing and hugging her knees. He could still see her, not directly, but through the reflection in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. Her entire body heaved, and her hands trembled, fisted, held tightly at her chest. She’d withdrawn into the corner and looked small, fragile. Not an ounce of her earlier arrogance was left.
“Whore,” he whispered, “this is your lesson. Learn it well.”
He leaned farther back into the recliner and closed his eyes. Against the blackness of his closed eyelids, images started to form and dance, blurry at first, almost as wisps of gray clouds against a black sky. Then the
images came into focus and fell into place, countless pieces of an ephemeral puzzle, painting the picture he could never forget.
He saw his mother, naked on the floor of her own bedroom, in front of a man who pulled her hair rhythmically as he thrust his hips and groaned. He recalled the little boy running away scared, terrified she was going to die.
He squeezed his eyelids, forcing that image to go away, and the memories to fast forward a few months. There he was, on a day like many others around that time, coming home from school, wandering as slowly as he possibly could. He was in no rush to get home; nothing good waited there anyway. He examined the leaves in a neighbor’s hedge for a few minutes, then played with the pastor’s dog until the old mutt was out of breath and went away to cool off under a big magnolia tree.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t had anything to eat that day. No one packed his lunch anymore, and there was no lunch money his father could spare. He braved it out, day after endless, hungry day.
He made a quick detour and stopped at Mrs. Kingston’s. She always had something good to eat, and she shared generously, without asking questions. She wanted little in return; just for him to wash his hands before eating, and rinse his plate after he was done.
Mrs. Kingston’s car wasn’t in her driveway, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad, as if he’d lost a friend. He knocked on the door anyway, waited, listened, but no one responded. Resigned, he dragged his feet the remaining distance, and finally arrived home.
His father was already there, looking the same, doing the same, wearing the same dirty undershirt and shorts, and holding the same half-empty bottle of liquor. It must have been a different bottle though, because he didn’t take too long to empty one, and every time the little boy took the trash out, the clinking sound of empty booze bottles resounded and made a statement.
The man barely acknowledged the boy’s presence. He stared into emptiness, and didn’t say anything when his son dropped his backpack near the door and went straight for the fridge. The little boy opened the door, looked inside for a second, then closed it. With his shoulders hunched and his head hanging low, he passed by his father, heading toward the back of the house.