Glimpse of Death: A Riveting Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “We don’t have time,” Tess replied grimly. “He just took Stacy, and that means he’s going to kill Katherine in the next two days. We can’t let that happen.” No one replied; there wasn’t anything they could say. “Let’s discuss victim acquisition. How do these unsubs find them?”

  “It has to be something in the victims’ common background,” Bill replied. “Keep digging, and you’ll find it.”

  “We’re doing that. But how would you start?” Tess replied.

  “Let’s talk about the rapist unsub. What’s his profile?”

  “I’d say he’s an immature, anger-excitation killer, immature because he hasn’t killed yet. A lust predator on the verge of becoming a lust murderer,” Tess replied.

  “Correct,” Bill said. “I believe these two unsubs are sharing in the task of finding new victims.”

  “Division of labor, you’re saying?” Michowsky asked, surprised.

  “It makes sense,” Bill replied. “However, we don’t know much about the rapist unsub; it’s next to impossible to generate a profile based solely on the act of rape. He’s not torturing the victims, he’s not mutilating their genitals, and, while there certainly are distressing psychopathological processes going on in his mind, we can’t estimate what those are. That leads me to believe he’s the one finding the victims, not the killer. He might follow the killer’s direction with respect to the general victim profile, but the rapist unsub is the one who’s lusting.”

  “That still doesn’t tell us how they find them,” Tess replied, disappointed.

  “This profile won’t give you that, unfortunately. From social media stalking to a certain background item all victims have in common, everything is possible. Do you know why crime-solving rates have dropped so much in the past decade?”

  “The personal factor disappeared?” Tess replied.

  “Decreased, not completely disappeared. Random happens more and more often, from drive-by shootings to completely random attacks on strangers, culminating in random targeting via the Internet, which remains the hardest one to trace,” Bill added, and let escape a sigh loaded with frustration. “Let’s hope the profile is accurate, because lust murderers are statistically more likely to acquire victims they have seen and lusted for. Tess, are you ready to give the profile?”

  “I think so. Let’s get Dade and Broward counties on the call.”

  “On it,” Fradella replied.

  Tess heard a chime on the conference line, and asked, “Who just joined the call?”

  “Yours truly, Donovan,” she heard a familiar voice reply.

  “How did you have this number?”

  “Your Outlook calendar. You were ignoring my calls, and so was everyone else. Instead of thinking it’s a conspiracy against dear old me, I assumed conference call. Hey, what do you know, I was right!”

  Michowsky and Bill chuckled.

  “What’s up?” Tess asked, trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d remotely hacked into her laptop, without her even knowing. Analysts were a terrible pain to deal with, but too useful to annoy with a well-deserved scolding.

  “I got some news on the black Crown Vic. Four precincts still use that model, unmarked, mostly for court errands and low-key assignments, that kind of thing. None of the precincts recognize that particular car, but they can’t eliminate it either, because the photo’s too grainy. Two of those precincts don’t keep a log for that vehicle, so they need to look at their own surveillance video to figure out who took it out the night Lisa Trask vanished.”

  “Okay, that’s good work, Donovan,” she replied. “That’s a solid lead.”

  “Not really, no. More than a thousand Crown Victoria cars of that generation were auctioned to the public in southern Florida during the past five years, as they were replaced as active-duty police vehicles. Quite a few of them were black, 187 to be precise, and that’s a lot for sunny Florida. More could have been painted black since they were auctioned. Truth is, we got nothing.”

  She let out a long, frustrated breath of air and rubbed the nape of her neck with frozen fingers. Wherever they went and whatever they tried, they hit a wall. Killing teams meant double the chances for mistakes being made, yet these unsubs didn’t make any. No mistakes whatsoever, except for leaving DNA evidence on the bodies.

  “Please follow up on the DNA analysis. Light a fire if need be, or tell me if you need me to call them myself.”

  “Done already,” Donovan replied. “They’re swamped, and calling yours ‘a monstrous order,’ and that means it will take a while.”

  “I don’t have a goddamned while,” Tess snapped. “Katherine Nelson doesn’t have a while, and neither does Stacy Rodriguez. Find a way to rush that, please.”

  “That wouldn’t be a complete genome sequencing order for two DNA samples?” Bill asked. “The lab called me earlier today, hoping the order was ours, to beg for some leniency on turnaround time.”

  “Yes, that’s mine, and now you know there can’t be any leniency. It’s a damn computer running it, so watch me how I don’t give a shit if a machine gets overworked.”

  She bit her lip the moment she let the profanity escape. A conference call was the wrong place to do that, and one with Bill in attendance was even worse.

  “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Tess,” Bill laughed. “It’s not really that simple to run a full DNA profile, but I see what you mean. I’ll make a call right after this, and fuel that fire under the lab’s rear. If you pull this off, if you close this case based on DNA sequencing, my hat’s off to you. It’s never been done before, you know.”

  Two chimes announced two more participants on the call.

  “This is Miami Dade, Detective Rivera here,” a woman’s melodious voice announced.

  “Broward County, Detective Greene,” a man added.

  “Thanks for joining, everyone,” Tess started. “SSA Bill McKenzie and I are ready to release the preliminary profile in the glimpse of death killings. We’re looking at two different unsubs, both upper twenties to mid-thirties, both Caucasian or Hispanic. DNA will confirm their ethnicity shortly, and we’ll communicate with you as soon as we have it. These two men are a highly organized and methodical killing team. They’re precise in execution, and carefully plan each abduction, including layers of preliminary work that is part of their complex signature. That makes them highly intelligent, and demonstrates a high level of self-control in both individuals.”

  Tess stopped talking, waiting for questions. None came, but Bill took over and continued.

  “We believe the killer unsub has a history of personal trauma that motivates the narrow victimology. In addition to that history, there must have been a relatively recent trigger event, which started him on the path of killing. He’s an anger-retaliatory killer who makes a statement with each victim. He takes their expensive wedding rings and replaces them with low-priced, mass-market ones, delivering the message that the victim has somehow cheapened the value of marriage. The victims they target are young wives and mothers who cheated, or were inclined to cheat at some time. Their choice of victim appearance is also very precise. This will help you narrow the list of missing persons and cold cases that fit, because this killer has taken many other lives before killing Lisa Trask.”

  Tess picked up from Bill, and continued delivering the profile. While she spoke, she couldn’t help but notice how well the two of them worked together.

  “These killers are highly prolific, and they take a life every eight to ten days,” she said. “This pace might escalate; we’re already seeing signs of accelerating rage. They have abducted one more victim this afternoon, and that puts the life of Katherine Nelson, the young doctor who was kidnapped on February 18, in immediate danger.”

  “This is Dade,” Rivera said. “You haven’t given us much. How can we find them?”

  “They most likely hold steady jobs, because all the rope sightings happened after business hours,” Tess added, “and they must have access to a secure, iso
lated place where they keep victims locked up for so many days. Check suspicious warehouses, abandoned buildings, construction sites, remote Glades dwellings. Since the killer unsub has had a traumatic past, that’s likely to manifest in adulthood as one or more of many psychological conditions, such as personality disorders, compulsions, PTSD.”

  “They’re very bold,” Bill added. “They return the victim to the site of the glimpse of death sighting. As of right now, we have plainclothes people watching all those locations for Katherine Nelson, and we’ll deploy more for the three locations where Stacy Rodriguez saw the man with the rope.”

  “Doesn’t that mean Katherine has to die for the plainclothes to catch him?”

  “Yes, and hence lies the problem. We need to move faster than that. Your best shot is if you hear about any sightings whatsoever and follow those leads. Pull video surveillance, engage RTCC, work that rope sighting like you’ve never worked a case before. Take this message to your teams; they need to hear the urgency and the importance of it.”

  “How about that rope?” Greene asked. “Anything special about it?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It’s just plain jute, the type any hardware store carries; nothing we could trace,” Doc Rizza replied.

  “Can we put out a press release?” Rivera asked. “There are millions of people in the Miami-Fort Lauderdale area. Thousands could be potential victims, and thousands more could be the killer.”

  “We believe the press release could potentially spook the killing team, and make them change their MO, leaving us in the dark. We will coordinate with the bureau’s press office to put out a generic message advising people to report anything unusual,” Tess replied. “Speaking of press, so far the rope sighting aspect of the killings hasn’t been leaked to the media. This is nothing short of a miracle, considering how many civilians were involved. Please keep it that way, and direct all inquiries to the FBI media desk.”

  “One of these two unsubs could be driving a black, older model, unmarked Crown Victoria, either an active or former police car. This has not yet been confirmed, but keep the detail in mind,” Bill said. “The kidnapper could be using real or fake police credentials to kidnap the victims. Stacy was taken from a high-traffic street in broad daylight. Fibers found on the two victims, Lisa Trask and Sarah Thomas, are consistent with that vehicle.”

  No one had any more questions. They hadn’t given them much to go on. A needle in a haystack was an understatement. Tess rubbed her neck again, feeling tired and frustrated. It was hard to admit they had detailed behavioral profiles and even DNA evidence, but still had no leads. They had nothing, and Katherine Nelson had fewer than two days left to live.

  33

  Evidence

  Melissa waited for her husband to come home, jumping to her feet with every passing car that slowed on the street, with every squealing brake. She had the TV on a movie channel with the sound on low, and a glass with some wine on the small table in front of the couch. Carefully planned, the setting was meant to relax and entice him to share a glass or two with her.

  She saw the lights go off in the neighbor’s living room, and checked the time. It was late, almost ten o’clock. She slowly paced the living room, every now and then taking a small sip of already warm wine. She found herself thinking a little too much about Ryan, wondering what it was about him that she liked. Maybe the kindness in his eyes, at contrast with Derek’s fierceness of late, or maybe his willingness to help her even with the smallest of things, the simple gestures of camaraderie she missed in her family life.

  She heard a car in the driveway screech to a stop on the loose pebbles at the edge of the asphalt. She went to the window and watched Derek climb out of his car and approach the door. She rushed back to the couch and threw herself onto her favorite spot, picking up the wine glass in one hand, and the TV remote in the other.

  Derek unlocked the door and walked in. He looked a little tired, but not more than usual. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat, turned dry all of a sudden.

  “Hey, want some wine? I just opened it,” she asked, in what she wanted to sound like her normal voice.

  What did normal sound like? She didn’t know anymore, and she cringed thinking Derek would see though her transparent intentions.

  He didn’t; he kicked his shoes off and loosened his tie, then took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Next, he dropped on the couch and promptly put his feet up on the coffee table, inches away from her wine glass.

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

  “Want something to eat? I have some pastries, and I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich if you’d like.”

  “I ate at work. They gave us some pizza.”

  She brought another glass and the wine bottle, and filled his almost to the brim, then handed it to him.

  “Cheers,” she said, and clinked her glass against his. “How was your day?”

  He gulped more than half the wine and set the glass on the table. She filled it again, and he didn’t object.

  “Boring… How come you’re drinking?”

  Her breath caught; she needed to tread carefully.

  “Ah, just a lousy, miserable day at work, that’s all. I just got home myself.”

  “Your mysterious federal agent causing you trouble?” he asked, and shot her a quick glance between half-closed eyelids. Even so, she could see the derision in his eyes, but she was also surprised he still remembered what she’d shared about her work on the way back from the office party.

  “No, she’s fine. I wish I could spend all my day with her, but I also work in the ER. Today it was crazy busy. Heart attacks rolled in one after another, a couple of car crashes, and bad ones too. Two ended up dead, one in a coma. Ugh…”

  Melissa took another sip of wine, and soon enough, Derek followed her example and drank some more. As soon as he closed his eyes, she filled his glass again and topped her own with just a few drops.

  “What’s she up to these days? Keeping you entertained?” he asked. He was slurring a little, probably the effect of the wine on an empty stomach and a tired brain.

  “Who? The fed?”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, without opening his eyes. “You work on something interesting for a change.”

  She frowned, intrigued by his interest, but stayed true to her plan and replied almost cheerfully.

  “She’s something else, this gal. It’s like being on the set of Criminal Minds, you know. I love it. People come and go, all kinds of people, other feds, cops, they all talk about all these murders, sheesh… scary!”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know. I’m in and out of there, between her room and the ER. I can’t really keep track of what they say. Just like TV,” she added, gesturing toward the screen displaying the latest episode of CSI. “Can you recall what these guys just said? Just that it was some guy who stabbed his brother; that’s all I remember.”

  She shrugged, and waited patiently for Derek to want another sip of wine. As soon as he did, she poured the rest of the bottle in his glass.

  “Okay, one last swig and it’s off to bed with you. They work you hard, these guys.”

  Just like Sophie had said he would, Derek listened to her and did as he was told. He drank the rest of the wine with thirsty gulps, then followed her upstairs to the master bedroom, where she helped him get undressed. Her fingers trembled when she reached out to touch his clothes, so close to his skin. She held her breath the entire time, and soon it was all over. Then she waited for him to brush his teeth and get into bed. Before she could tell him that she’d be joining him soon, he was fast asleep, snoring something fierce, with his mouth open.

  She watched him sleep for a few minutes, her forced smile long gone, replaced with a look of intense concentration. She had all the steps planned in detail, so she didn’t hesitate.

  First, she took out Charlie’s old baby monitor, the one with a small camera that hooked to her tablet. Sh
e connected it, made sure it was positioned to capture the bed, and covered it with a couple of clothing items, to hide it from view in case he woke up unexpectedly.

  Then she went downstairs, taking the tablet with her, and passed through the kitchen, where she found a small LED flashlight and a handful of Ziploc bags. Armed with those items, she proceeded to the driveway, where she unlocked his car using his keys, not the remote.

  It was dark and quiet outside, and she was in her own driveway, yet she felt uncomfortable doing what she was about to do. She rarely missed having a garage, but now it was one of those times.

  She sat behind the wheel and quietly closed the door. The ceiling light went off, and she lit the flashlight. Carefully, she examined the passenger seat, inch by inch, working her way up the seat to the headrest. Right there, clinging from the headrest, was a long hair fiber, barely visible in the flashlight beam. She grabbed it with one hand, and examined it closely. It was long, much longer than her hair had ever been. It was almost black and shiny, wavy yet smooth. She reached into her pocket and pulled a Ziploc bag, then opened it with her teeth, afraid she’d lose the hair if she let it out of her hand.

  A quick tap on the window almost made her scream. She dropped the flashlight and its light went off. She threw a quick glance at the tablet screen, and saw Derek was still sleeping. Then she looked at the man who waited outside her car window with a familiar smile, and breathed more at ease. She lowered the window.

  “So sorry, Melissa, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ryan said. “Can I help you find what you’re looking for?”

  She felt a rush of blood color her face. How could she tell him what she was looking for? “No, no, I’m fine.” She shifted in her seat, trying to prevent him from seeing the tablet, left open on the passenger seat.

  He gave her face a quick, understanding look, and nodded once, slowly. “All right, I understand,” he replied, and his eyes wandered from the tablet’s screen to the Ziploc bag she was holding. “I’m here if you need anything. At least let me give you my flashlight, while I fix yours.”