Glimpse of Death: A Riveting Serial Killer Thriller

by Leslie Wolfe

  “Every day she’s in their hands she’s being raped and tortured. Trust me, every minute counts.”

  “We know that,” Doc Rizza said, putting his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “We all do.”

  “I just… have a bad feeling about this,” she repeated. “Serial killers sometimes escalate, and the timelines collapse. This could happen, and we can’t let it happen.”

  “And we won’t,” Doc Rizza added. “Advanced tox screen came back with faint, metabolized traces of propofol. It’s a powerful anesthetic and relaxant, injectable. I reexamined the bodies and found a needle mark on Lisa’s neck, almost entirely healed. It could be how they were abducted, how they were so quickly subdued.”

  “How about Sarah’s neck? Any injection marks?” Michowsky asked.

  “None that I could find. But keep in mind Sarah’s strangulation was significantly rougher than Lisa’s. The abrasions and contusions on her neck might have obliterated any injection mark, especially one that was almost completely healed antemortem.”

  Tess bit her lip nervously. These unsubs were too smart, too organized for a killing team. They must have killed many times before; such perfect level of organization happens only when the unsubs repeat the same MO over and over again, until every detail is perfect. Then what changed? Why weren’t they seeing evidence of earlier kills? Why weren’t they finding earlier mistakes?

  “Todd, how does our victimology play out against open missing persons cases?”

  “Only two others who’d seen the glimpse of death. If we remove that condition, and apply the narrow victimology traits—small child, married, physiognomy, the count goes up to twenty-one open cases.”

  Tess’s brow instantly furrowed. “During what period of time?”

  “The past two years.”

  “What if you open it up to, say, ten years?”

  “Nothing, or almost nothing. I’m thinking that whatever stressor triggered the unsub’s killing, it must have happened roughly two years ago. Can’t speak for rapes though; they’re just too many.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the data indicates. It’s either that, or he was locked up somewhere, unable to do his bidding. But it’s clear he’s done it many times before; he’s too experienced, too organized. This killing team, they have it together like none I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then why didn’t we find the bodies? What changed?” Michowsky asked.

  “I think this unsub buried his mistakes… I believe he’s started displaying them only when they were worthy of admiration, perfect to the tiniest detail. When he was sure he’d taken all forensic countermeasures to keep us at bay.”

  “How can you say that, when the unsubs left heaps of DNA on the victims’ bodies? How’s that a forensic countermeasure?” Doc Rizza asked.

  “Because DNA wasn’t left by accident; case in point, Doc, you said, ‘heaps.’ The unsubs marked the bodies with their DNA.”

  “Like a brand, or something?” Fradella asked.

  “Exactly. Leaving DNA behind is part of their signature. It doesn’t change the profile; it just reinforces it, and adds a new dimension. The unsubs want the victims tainted, marked by semen, bearing the imprint of the carnal contact they’ve had.”

  “What does that mean?” Fradella asked, frowning.

  “Combine that piece of information with the way he put the victims on display, naked, with their genitals exposed, in plain sight. These unsubs see the cheating wives as fallen women, as sluts, and make it their mission to let the world know who they really were.”

  “You think their motivations could be religious?” Michowsky asked.

  “I doubt that, for some reason.”

  The conference line rang and Fradella picked it up with the press of a button.

  “Conference room,” he announced.

  “I know that,” Donovan said. “I can see you all on video, remember?”

  “Ugh… remind me to flag you in DIVS as a stalker,” Tess chuckled. “What’s up?”

  “Two things, actually. Stacy Rodriguez is openly bisexual. Not sure how that changes things, but in her social media there are plenty references to her being bi. Older photos, pre-marriage, show her with girlfriends and boyfriends, with no pattern or commitment to one gender or another.”

  “Okay,” Tess replied, “that does change things a little. It removes the oddity in our victimology table. She might have been inclined to cheat with a man, not a woman, confirming every bit of data in the matrix. What else?”

  “Your special request, is it okay to share findings on an open line?”

  “Absolutely. It might be illogical, but my gut tells me it’s related to this case.”

  “Your Mr. Henderson is squeaky clean. A forensic accountant, CMA, who’s working hard and has been promoted three times in the past four years. Impeccable finances, clean and almost nonexistent social media, no reports of domestic violence, happy family photos posted online with his wife and child. No health issues, no addictions. Do I continue digging?”

  “N–no,” she replied hesitantly. “My gut must have been wrong on this one.” Her frown deepened. “How old is the child?”

  “He’s six,” Donovan replied promptly. “Why?”

  “Ah, don’t know. It’s just—”

  “Your gut, again?” Donovan asked. “Only time will tell.”

  He hung up, and no one said a word for a while. Tess’s mind ran back to Melissa’s unusual behavior of late; she must have had other reasons to behave the way she did, to look so distraught, and to have those growing black circles under her eyes. People’s lives held all sorts of heartache, and serial killers weren’t seen at every corner. Only in my world, Tess thought bitterly, killers are everywhere I turn.

  “Why is the name Henderson familiar?” Michowsky asked. “I could swear I—”

  “My nurse, her name is Melissa Henderson.”

  “How does she play in all this?” Michowsky asked, rushing his hand over his buzz-cut hair, while his eyebrows shot high up his forehead.

  “She doesn’t; it was a hunch I followed up on, and it was a dead end. You heard Donovan. Did you pick up the plumber?”

  “Yeah, he’s been slowly cooking in Interview Two. Ready?”

  “Yep,” she said, and followed Fradella as quickly as she could. “It was the same plumber in both Sarah and Katherine’s homes? Or did you bring in the company manager?”

  “The same plumber. He closely fits the rapist composite; we might have our doer. One of them, anyway,” Fradella added.

  She took a seat across the table from the suspect, and looked him in the eye. He didn’t flinch; he just scoffed quietly, as if asking, “Really? Why do you keep me here, and why do you look at me like that?”

  He was strong, muscular, but cleanly dressed and well kempt for someone in his line of work. He matched the rapist composite sketch, but Tess wasn’t getting from him the lustful vibes a rapist normally puts out in the presence of an attractive woman. She opened the folder she’d brought along, and looked at the sketch again. His eyes were different; mostly because there was no evil intention in them. He was also too young, and didn’t have a record, not even a parking ticket. Most likely he wasn’t their guy, but she needed to be sure.

  She pulled out Lisa Trask’s photo from her file, and asked, “Do you know this woman?”

  “No, I don’t,” he said, after a split-second hesitation.

  “How about her?” she asked, and offered Sarah’s photo.

  “Yes, I think I fixed her shower faucet a few months back.”

  “And her?” Tess offered Stacy’s photo this time.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so. They all look alike, you know.”

  He was perceptive, but open with his observations. A good indicator of innocence.

  “How about her?” Katherine Nelson’s image was the last in the lineup.

  “I changed a toilet for her, um, maybe last December?”

  “So, what, these women rejected you and you got
angry?” Michowsky intervened, so out of order it was almost funny.

  “What?” he said, taken aback by Michowsky’s question. “What do you mean?”

  “I think you got jealous of these women, being how they’re successful, they didn’t want to have anything to do with you, because you’re nothing but a shit-stirrer, aren’t you?”

  Tess almost rolled her eyes. She needed to have a conversation with Michowsky. She was about to interrupt the interview, when the plumber’s reaction surprised her.

  He was laughing out loud, his hands clasped over his abdomen, as if to keep it in place.

  “Is that what you think? Do you think there’s anyone out there doing this job because they like stirring shit? Let me give you some perspective. How much money do you think I make a year? More than the two of you combined, and then some. I drive a Cadillac, and that’s how I get laid. I make more money than those two women who were my clients. The other two I never met. I don’t know what you guys think I did, but I didn’t do it. You’re so wasting your time.”

  “Do you want to exculpate yourself with a DNA test?” Tess asked.

  The plumber frowned; he seemed concerned, and his laughter had vanished.

  “How do I know you’re not going to abuse this test? Cops these days… no offense, but I don’t really trust you, that’s all.”

  “The law prohibits us from storing any DNA that was taken as a voluntary, exculpatory probe,” she said. “It will only go to the trash, I promise.”

  He looked at Tess, then at Michowsky and frowned some more. Then he sighed and looked at Tess again. “Okay, have at it.”

  45

  Turmoil

  Melissa turned on the light in the small bathroom her son used and looked around. Her eyes stuck on his toothbrush, and she stared at the familiar object for a long time, trying to breathe normally. Then her gaze lifted and met itself in the mirror, hesitantly, through a thin mist of tears; she could barely stand looking at herself. The woman in the mirror appeared just as terrified as she felt, inches away from doing the most unthinkable thing of her existence. She was about to compare her son’s DNA with the DNA profile of someone the FBI had labeled, “Unsub one: killer.”

  It was unthinkable, but that way she’d know, once and for all. She’d know for sure, without asking that fed a single question, or sharing any bit of her husband’s illicit pursuits. Cheater or not, he was her son’s father, and she couldn’t conceive drawing any law enforcement attention to him, not unless she was sure, positively sure, beyond any possible doubt.

  Her hands trembled, as they’d done quite often lately, but she opened the Ziploc bag she’d brought with her and put her son’s toothbrush inside, then sealed the zipper. She was ready… or was she?

  A fleeting thought of gratitude toward Tess Winnett passed through her mind, for being so well organized. She’d labeled the sketched portraits and the DNA profiles with the same monikers, making it easy for her to choose the one she needed to use. She’d researched online the term unsub, and found it meant unknown subject. There were two profiles in Tess’s DNA file, one for each unsub, but she only needed the one that looked most like her husband, although not even that one was a close visual match. It was probably nothing, but, as a mother, she needed to be more than sure, otherwise she couldn’t bear the thought of Derek touching Charlie, or even looking at him. She’d lose her mind, waiting for that case to be closed, those evil men to be found and arrested, and for the truth to finally dissipate the wave of ominous darkness that swirled through her heart and brought a constant state of fear to her life.

  Her son could be the son of a serial killer. The thought passed through her mind leaving deep ridges of terror and pain. She cringed inside, and it took all her willpower to leave that bathroom, clutching the small Ziploc bag and getting ready to leave.

  She was about to put her entire existence in the helping hands of Charelle, her nursing school friend, currently a lab technician at the hospital. Charelle had laughed when she’d heard Melissa had doubts about the paternity of her son, and needed her help in the strictest of confidence. The time was right, Melissa had explained, because her husband had had a DNA profile done to look for health risks, considering his father had died of liver cancer. Once Melissa had started lying, she didn’t stop; she poured them out there, one after another, until Charelle laughed again and said, “Relax, sweetie, you’re not the only one who… shopped around, if you catch my drift. Just bring something of your son’s to the lab later tonight, and by morning, you’ll know if hubby’s your baby’s daddy.”

  It was already seven o’clock, and Charelle’s night shift was starting at eight; she needed to get going. She grabbed her car keys and Charlie’s toothbrush, and rushed toward the door, but stopped in her tracks when she heard a key turning in the lock.

  “Ah, you’re home early,” she reacted without thinking, the moment Derek walked through the door.

  Derek looked her in the eye for a second, then his gaze stopped on the toothbrush she was carrying.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked, then gave the open door a strong shove and watched it slam shut behind him.

  “Yeah,” she replied, struggling to speak normally. She cleared her throat, and managed to continue. “Why? You needed something?”

  “Where are you going?” he asked quietly, still staring at the toothbrush. “That Charlie’s?”

  “Yeah… There’s a visiting specialist at the hospital; his expertise is in childhood oral health. I told him about Charlie’s cavities, and he suggested we get his saliva tested to see if he’s prone to cavities.”

  “What kind of test?” he asked.

  He hadn’t moved from the hallway, nor put his car keys on the rack. He just stood there, staring at her, questioning her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  “Uh, acidity, bacteria, PCR, that kind of stuff.” She lied badly and she knew it, yet she couldn’t help it. Her mind had turned into a completely empty shell, unable to draw a single useful idea, and spewed too many details, way more than necessary.

  “PCR, huh?” Derek said, smiling faintly, and looking in her eyes. “Isn’t that a type of DNA test?”

  “Um, uh-huh,” she replied.

  “I see,” he said, and took a few steps toward her. “I won’t keep you. I’m heading back to the office, I have a project I need to wrap up tonight. I need my laptop; I forgot it in the bedroom this morning.”

  “Want me to grab it for you?” she offered.

  “Sure, if you will. Thanks.”

  She went to the bedroom and found the laptop bag leaning against the bed. She grabbed it and took it to him. He gave her one long look before grabbing hold of the bag.

  “I won’t be long; maybe a couple of hours at the most.”

  “Okay,” she replied, trying to hide her relief. “I should be home before that, anyway.”

  Once the door closed behind him, she leaned against the wall, pressing her hands on her chest to calm the desperate beats of her heart. She breathed deeply, letting a rush of air out of her lungs. She couldn’t help but think of how badly the two of them lied to each other, yet neither addressed their issues openly. She knew what her reasons were for accepting his lies without challenge, but she found herself wondering what were his reasons. What was he afraid of?

  She waited until she heard his car pull out of the driveway, then waited another couple of minutes before leaving. Then she snuck to her car, almost afraid she’d be seen, feeling like she was doing something illegal.

  “Hello there, beautiful Melissa.”

  Ryan’s voice startled her. She looked at him while noticing how badly her hands and knees trembled from the scare. Too many adrenaline jolts had rushed through her body lately, turning her into a nervous wreck, a panicky mess.

  “Oh, hi, Ryan,” she said, smiling unwillingly, and just feeling better because her neighbor was there. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she felt safe, although there was no rational
reason for it. Ryan Stafford was nothing more than a kind stranger, yet a stranger, nevertheless.

  “Rushing off somewhere?” he asked, his smile lingering on his lips.

  “Yeah, got to run to the hospital and drop something off at the lab.”

  “Why don’t you let me do the honors? I wanted to talk to you about something,” he added, a little hesitantly.

  “What about?”

  He fidgeted for a second, as if trying to find the right words for what he was going to say. “I’m worried about you; no, I really am,” he added, reading her body language.

  She’d lifted her hand in a denying gesture, waving the toothbrush bag with it. “No need,” she replied, “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not buying that, you know. You’re always so upset when you think no one’s watching; you look grim, worried. What’s on your mind?”

  She looked away, unable to say anything. Deep down she desperately wished for someone to talk to, but Ryan wasn’t that someone. She was also surprised at herself, at how willing she was to spend time with him, to lengthen and relish the feeling of safety, of being nurtured, cherished, and respected. Why did a simple driveway conversation convey all that meaning? Too much adrenaline, probably. That, and prolonged exhaustion from her troubled, sleepless nights.

  “Why don’t you let me take you out for coffee, then take you wherever you need to go? It might do you some good,” Ryan added, and his friendly smile widened.

  She gave the toothbrush bag a furtive look, then made up her mind, almost. “At this time of night?”

  “Tea, then?”

  “Okay, if you insist,” she said, then let herself be led to Ryan’s car.

  He opened the door for her and held it, and she appreciated the gesture, along with every other kind gesture the man made, and every word he said. She climbed into the passenger seat and felt more relaxed, able to relieve some of the tension she’d accumulated in her neck and shoulders. Somehow, just leaning against Ryan’s passenger seat felt good. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, thinking critically of how tempted she was by that man, how willing she was to let him take care of her, and how few additional complications her current life needed.