by Leslie Wolfe
His father grabbed his arm. “Hey, kid,” he said in a coarse voice, breathing the smell of alcohol into the air, where it hung around him like a shroud. “Aren’t you hungry?”
The boy shifted his weight from one skinny leg to the other, and tried to free himself from his father’s grip. “There’s no food, Daddy.”
“There’s some cheese in there, son. You like cheese.” The man took another gulp of liquor, then coughed a couple of times.
“It smells funny,” the boy replied, finally able to yank his arm free. He immediately took two steps back, putting more distance between the two of them. “It’s got green spots on it, and it stinks.”
The man didn’t say anything for a while, continuing to stare into nothingness, and every now and then swishing the remainder of bourbon in the bottle with quick, round gestures.
“It’s the whore’s fault, son, you know that, don’t you?”
The boy looked at his father, then his eyes circled the once-beautiful room, now littered with trash and dirt, and forever sunk in semi-darkness, from the blinds that never went up. The man had hardly moved since the night of the storm; something inside him had died the night he tried to kill his cheating wife. Yes, it was the whore’s fault.
“That’s what whores will make you do, son,” he suddenly said in a forceful, angry voice. “They’ll make you a killer. They’ll ruin your life, snatch it from underneath you, and stop your heart.” He looked at his son with bloodshot, watery eyes.
The little boy held his gaze for a while, then looked away. His stomach growled louder, and he found himself planning to wait for Mrs. Kingston to come home, hidden in the bushes off her driveway. He didn’t have much longer to endure until he could run to Mrs. Kingston’s; when his dad got like that, he just drank some more, cried a little, then passed out.
“Turn you into a dead man walking,” the man continued after a while. “Yes, sir, dead man walking.” He gulped some more bourbon. “Not even walking anymore… just sittin’ here waiting to die, killed by a whore.”
The boy felt a pang of fear. Was his father really dying? Should he call someone? That’s what they learned in school, to dial 911 if anyone was in danger. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d seen on TV what happens to children who lose both their parents. His old man might not be much of a dad, but if he called the cops, they’d bust him. They always busted the drunks, didn’t they? Like that, at least he had a home, and maybe his dad wouldn’t die after all. Maybe he’s just saying that.
“Whores,” the old man grumbled and spat on the dirty carpet, then took another gulp of liquor. “You’ll know soon enough, son, ’cause you’re a whore’s son, destined to repeat my mistakes.” He sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Every last one of them, you’ll see. You’ll come home one day to find your slut sucking someone else’s fat cock, in your own goddamned bedroom, that’s what gonna happen.”
“What’s a fat cock, Daddy?”
Silence engulfed the room, thick as the smelly, hot air that brought sweat beads on their skin. The boy waited for an answer for a while, curious, then gave up and looked away, keeping his mind busy with daydreams of Mrs. Kingston’s omelet, cookies, and milk.
His father ran his trembling hand over his greasy, thinning hair. “You’ll find out soon enough, kid. It’s just something whores like to suck on.”
The little boy fidgeted some more, still confused, eager to get out of there and put some distance between himself and his father’s all-engulfing sorrow. The old man had slouched farther in the sofa, a good sign he was close to passing out. Any minute now.
“You’ll see it comin’,” he mumbled, “if you won’t be as dumb as I was. You’ll see the whores whispering, preening each other, giggling, and shooting sideway glances. Freezing when you walk through the door, ’cause they’d been talkin’ trash when you weren’t listening. Waxin’ every bit of hair, painting their faces, their nails…”
He choked and coughed a few times, hard, and turned red in the face. He cleared his throat and spat on the floor again. “When your whore will do that kind of preening, that’s not for you, son, don’t be stupid… That’s for some other guy. Ahh… I loved every hair on that body of hers… I loved her morning face, crumpled, sweaty, and without makeup, and her long, tangled hair, and… Lord, have mercy… I can’t take it anymore.”
Tears rolled on his drawn cheeks, then broke apart in his stubble. He let the bottle go, and the boy caught it before it rolled off the couch. It was almost empty, but he quietly put it on the coffee table, afraid he’d wake him up. He watched his dad fall into a deep sleep, getting a little reprieve from the unspeakable pain the whore had delivered.
Slowly, the images of his never-forgotten past dissipated, leaving only darkness behind, and that vacuum pulled him back to reality. He became aware he’d been unconsciously playing with the rope, rolling it around his fists and tugging at it, as to make sure he’s ready. He coiled it neatly and tucked it into his pocket, then stood and watched Katherine for a few seconds.
She’d stopped sobbing; she still sat on the floor, holding her knees to her chest and keeping her eyes closed. Curled up like that, she didn’t resemble the image he was looking for, the image that haunted his dreams and turned them into raw, soul-scorching nightmares.
He tapped on the glass, then pressed a button that carried his voice into the other room.
“Get naked, and stay naked,” he bellowed.
Katherine jumped, startled. She stood and, for a second, stared at the dark window, with a look of sheer terror on her face. Then she turned sideways and started undoing the buttons of her white silk shirt, slowly, one by one, while tears fell and stained the fine fabric.
When she was down to the last one, she stopped moving, her fingers slightly trembling, still holding the button she’d undone. Just as slowly, she buttoned them back, one by one, under his consternated look. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and turned to the window, with a look of steeled resilience in her eyes.
“Screw you, motherfucker.”
18
Night Visit
The TV was on mute, but Tess enjoyed the latest episode of The Blacklist. The hustle of the hospital had finally relented, leaving only core night crews on duty, and clearing the hallways of rushed traffic and swarming visitors.
Cat dozed in his chair, unwilling to leave her side. He said he wasn’t going anywhere until she was fully able to take care of herself. She had to admit she wasn’t there yet, no matter how much she wanted him to get a good night’s sleep. Melissa had been a sweetheart and brought a small, beat-up, three-seater couch from one of the waiting rooms, so Cat could lie down for the night right next to her bed, although he kept his eyes open whenever she slept.
She looked at his tired, wrinkled face and her heart swelled with love and gratitude for the man who’d changed the turn of her life, for the stranger who saved her and took her in on the worst night of her life.
A quick rap on the door and Todd Fradella popped his head in. “Are you decent in there?” he whispered, and Cat opened his eyes and glared at him, visibly displeased.
“Yeah,” she said, and waved him in, then paused the TV and elevated the bed’s head section a couple of notches.
“I got these for you,” Fradella said, a little awkward, offering her a dozen red roses.
“Thanks! You know you shouldn’t have, right?” she replied with a wide, happy smile, then frowned a little, surprised to feel the way she did toward Todd Fradella. She was happy to see him, happy about the flowers. Too happy. Nonsense, she dismissed the thought, I’m just bored out of my mind.
She watched the two men shake hands without words, just nods and half smiles. She almost chuckled seeing how much these two men had in common, from the shoulder-length hair to the overall demeanor, yet neither seemed to be aware of it, and treated the other with suspicion bordering on hostility.
Fradella pulled the three-legged stool to the side of the be
d and unzipped his jacket. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Getting there,” she said, nodding a few times. “How about you? Why aren’t you at home?”
“Getting there,” he replied and chuckled. “Just made a stop to see you on my way to a shower and bed. Already had my fill of junk food for the day.”
“Too bad, I had some hospital-flavored Jell-O left, if you want it.”
“Thanks, I think I’ll pass.”
They were quiet for a while, the silence getting more awkward with each second. Then Fradella finally spoke. “I put alerts on all systems for any new rope-creep sightings. Next time he shows up, we’ll know.”
“Only if the women report it,” she said.
“You think we should put out a press release? Get the public’s awareness?”
She rubbed the nape of her head, thinking. “Maybe a generic one, encouraging people to report anything suspicious. If they don’t see his face and, consequently, they don’t report the incident, that alert you set up won’t help us much. But if we call the public’s attention to the rope sighting per se, we’ll spook the unsub and he’ll disappear before we can close in on him.”
“Hey, I wanted to ask you something, regarding the victimology matrix. I started populating it earlier today. What do I do with the first case, the cold one from last year? It could be his first, and that would make it critical in the investigation, right? But we don’t have much. Other than the rope sighting and the cause of death, we don’t have anything.”
“Add it to the matrix,” she replied, sounding unconvinced. “We won’t focus on that particular one, we’ll stay on the more recent ones. But just put it there, to make sure we keep in mind what little information we have gathered.”
“Uh-huh, will do. But why the change in approach?”
“Because we’re dealing with a killing team. It’s more difficult to profile, and more unstable over time, because the two unsubs evolve in different ways and also influence each other as they evolve. An entire year is a long time in a killing team’s evolution. I don’t want us to become sidetracked. The team might be newer than that. Last year it could have been only one unsub, acting alone.”
Fradella nodded, but didn’t say anything else. He seemed preoccupied.
“Tell me about the victimology matrix,” Tess asked him. “What do you have there?”
His eyes lit up. “I built it by the book,” he replied lively. “I put each victim’s name as row headers, including those who are just missing for now. Then I added columns for each characteristic I could think of. I started with physical appearance, then worked my way to social, family, employment, and financial factors.”
“How’s it looking, so far?”
“Ugh… I don’t think they had all that much in common,” Todd stated. “They all look about the same. They’re all mid-twenties, married, and have a young child.”
Tess reached and took the case file from her bedside table and shuffled through the victims’ photos. They could have been sisters. Gorgeous brunettes with long, wavy hair and flawless skin.
“Um, these perps cross racial lines, but only slightly,” Fradella added.
“How do you mean, slightly?”
“Katherine Nelson, she’s half-Hispanic, but her skin is light. As for the other two, they’re Caucasian, but their skin is tan. It’s almost like he’s looking for this tanned skin appearance.”
“You’re absolutely right, Todd. Huh… That means he’s very specific about what he wants and how his victims are supposed to look.”
“He? I thought we’re talking about a team, two men raping and killing together.”
“That’s correct, but in such teams, only one unsub has the anger-retaliatory profile, and that’s normally the killer. The other one is a necessary element, an accessory if you will, someone who helps the killer unsub fulfill his fantasy. That means the woman in this killer’s past, the one who’s fueling all his anger, was a brunette with long, wavy hair and tan skin. She might have been a mother of a young child when the unsub’s trauma took place. She might have been the unsub’s own mother.”
“We got to figure out where he sees them,” Fradella added. “They have nothing else in common that we could find, although I’m not done searching yet. Gary’s still working on backgrounds.”
“Look at everything: friends, family, vendors, clients, where they shop, where they spend any amount of time. Financials will help with that.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re on it. It just takes a lot of time, especially when you have two more women out there, missing, and you’re stalled at every warrant you need to get. It’s already been ten days for Sarah Thomas. I don’t know how much time she has left.” He stood and paced the room, keeping his fisted hands buried inside his leather jacket pockets. “I guess I was hoping for a miracle, and you sometimes—”
“Deliver miracles?” Tess laughed bitterly. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. Just work the case, and we’ll find them. We have to. I’ve asked my boss for analyst time and some help. If anyone can deliver any miracles these days, it’s him. We need someone to look into the victims’ social media profiles, someone who can access everything without any delay.”
Fradella stood and stared out the window at the myriad lights adorning the Miami cityscape.
“Listen,” Tess said, “you’re a good cop. Trust yourself to do the good job you normally do, and I’ll help as much as I can. Believe it or not, I’d rather be out there chasing those creeps than stuck here, in a hospital bed. We’ll catch them, I promise.” She felt her jaws clench. She hated being powerless, forced to accept the unacceptable.
Fradella nodded, then looked at his watch. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was. You need your rest.”
Cat shot him a quick, sardonic glance, but Fradella pretended not to see it.
“When you leave, please take that guy with you,” Tess said, pointing at the uniform cop who sat by her door. “There’s absolutely no reason for him to be here. My life’s not in danger, I promise you.”
Fradella’s phone buzzed, and he took the call with a quiet voice. “What’s up, Gary?” He listened for a second, then added, “I’ll be right there.”
He sunk the phone into his pocket and stopped at the foot of her bed. He suddenly looked tired, and his shoulders hunched forward. “They found a new body. They believe it’s Sarah Thomas.”
19
After the Party
She let a long breath of air out of her lungs and started the engine, as soon as Derek pulled the car door shut. The peaceful darkness of the car was a welcome reprieve from the office party’s noisy, overwhelming clamor.
Yet Melissa had welcomed the lavish office party Derek’s company put on every quarter. It was a good change from the routine, that estranging routine where the two of them passed each other in the kitchen, in the hallways, barely speaking, almost never touching. When they went out together, that changed; Derek was the perfect gentleman, treating her with deference and making her feel like he had in the old times—wanted, beautiful, and happy.
That night she’d kept her head on a swivel, checking each female employee for signs of whatever signs there would be if Derek were cheating on her with one of them. She’d personally greeted them with a handshake and a compliment, making Derek raise an eyebrow, but using the opportunity to seek the trail of that abhorrent jasmine perfume she’d smelled on his collar two days ago.
He didn’t seem to mind; because he was entirely focused on his career, his wife’s behavior only helped his interests. It had been a good evening for him, considering they’d bestowed on him the top performance award given at those quarterly pow wows. He was still gleaming, and he handled the crystal award with care, mindful not to put a scratch on it. He deserved the award, considering all the long hours he put into his work.
Or did he?
There she went, plunging down that rabbit hole again, although none of the female employees smelled of jasmine, or of any perfume for
that matter. Unfortunately, not even the overweight, menopausal ones with thick-rimmed, jar-bottomed glasses, so the mystery remained unsolved, fodder for her unrelenting anxieties.
He’d even danced with her, twice, although no one made him. He didn’t make much eye contact while at it, being too busy watching what others were doing, but she understood that. She understood the evening was a business function they attended, not an opportunity to have fun and feel good. If felt great though, to sway in his arms, and at times she’d caught their reflection in the ballroom mirrors. They made a lovely couple. He looked breathtaking in his black tux, and she’d taken a break from her typical grass-roots, practical attire. She wore a plunging neckline dress in midnight-blue silk, styled her hair, and put on a touch of makeup.
The engine idled quietly, and she took her time buckling her seatbelt, enough time to study his face discreetly. Tension lines were back, digging trenches on his forehead and marking the corners of his mouth with deep, vertical ridges. It was as if he’d worn a mask all through the evening in there, and here, with her, he let that mask drop. He kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting for her to get going, without saying a word. He managed to convey his impatience clearly though, filling the air inside the car with a crackling tension she didn’t welcome.
She shifted into gear and rolled out of the parking lot. “Here we go,” she said, trying to start a conversation.
Silence ensued, and his only reaction was to lean forward and adjust the air conditioning setting. The fan picked up, sending a wave of freezing air into the car. She felt the chill hit her bare shoulders but didn’t complain. Instead, she forced a smile in her voice, and asked casually, “So? How do you think it went?”