The Second Stranger

by J P Tompkins

  I had a chance, early on, to report the information about the hair-cutting. I asked Hogle about it one day when I was at the police station and we just happened to run into each other while I was waiting for the elevator.

  He froze when I mentioned the hair and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. He quietly asked me to step around the corner and I followed him. He opened a door to the stairwell and stood, motioning for me to walk through. I did, and once we were alone, I realized why he wanted to speak here, alone, out of earshot of his fellow detectives and everyone else.

  “I’m asking you nicely,” he began, “to not report that.”

  “Why?” I had already decided, based on how serious he looked, as well as a suspicion as to why he wanted to keep it secret. But it’s my job to ask, anyway.

  “We’re holding that information for when we question suspects, and hopefully for when we make an arrest in this case. Only the killer would know about the hair.”

  My suspicion was confirmed and I didn’t run it. Didn’t even tell Neil about it.

  I shake off the memory and watch the Thorpes now. Both look like they’ve been pushed to the edge again, shocked and confused. How are they to process all of this? Their daughter was spared from a sexual attack, and they’re hearing that the cops don’t think she was the victim of a serial rapist-killer…but she’s still dead.

  I stand there feeling my jaw clench, my stomach tightening, my eyes going dry from not blinking.

  “There’s no evidence that your daughter was a victim of the guy we’re looking for,” Hogle says. “We don’t think there’s any connection.”

  “You can’t know that for sure,” I say, the words coming from my mouth before I can stop them.

  Hogle looks at me. “Ms. Downey,” he says, flatly, and that’s it. Like: Shut up, this doesn’t concern you.

  Then, with annoyance in his tone, eyes focused sharply on me, he says, “There’s no evidence. The attacks don’t match up.”

  My teeth are grinding and I can feel my pulse in my neck, my temples, behind my eyes. But I restrain myself. Not because Hogle brushed me off, but because Erin’s mother gave me a look that basically said the same thing. Just her eyes, cutting in my direction, half hidden behind her eyelids.

  So out of respect for them, I remain quiet.

  “Then who? Who did this?” Mr. Thorpe says, rising from the bed. “Paul?”

  “Jack.” Her mother’s soft voice, trying to calm him. She touches his arm and he rips it away from her.

  Now I wish I weren’t here.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Hogle says. “If it helps any, we are keeping this case—”

  “If it helps?” Mr. Thorpe’s voice is almost a shout at this point as he paces. “If what helps?”

  Hogle remains calm, his voice level, as if he’s in customer service and trying to deal with a difficult shopper. “We’re going to keep you in the loop with every new development, I assure you.”

  Roark explains: “Normally, we would return it to another team, let them handle it. But since we already started, we’re keeping it. Just in case.”

  Mr. Thorpe puts his hand on his forehead. His face is red. “My wife and I need some time to ourselves.”

  Both detectives stand up from their chairs. I do the same.

  And then I notice Hogle and Roark looking at each other awkwardly. Hogle nods to his partner.

  Roark says, “There’s one more thing you need to know. I’m sorry to have to deliver this news under these circumstances. Erin was three months pregnant.”

  Chapter 22

  The Thorpes are in no mood to talk on the record after hearing the news that their daughter was pregnant when she was murdered. After Detectives Hogle and Roark leave, I tell them that I have to get to work, even though it’s not true. I just want the quickest way out of here.

  “Are you going to write about the pregnancy?” Mrs. Thorpe asks, as she wipes her nose with a tissue.

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  She looks to her husband, who just looks back to her. His face is expressionless. There’s no sadness there. There’s no anger. There’s nothing, like he has no thoughts, like he’s been drained completely of life.

  Mrs. Thorpe reaches out to me, touches my shoulder.

  I really need to get out of here. They need to grieve, argue, and do whatever else they need to do.

  ◆◆◆

  “Hell no, I didn’t know. Jesus, Kate.”

  Paul sounds sincere, a word I normally don’t associate with him.

  I’m in the hotel parking lot, sitting in my car, AC on full blast trying to battle the heat. I’ve just called him and told him everything I’ve learned.

  “How far along was she?” he asks.

  “Three months.”

  I hear him take a deep breath. “That would have been just before she left.”

  “Right.”

  I hear a door close—maybe his office door or conference room—and it sounds like he sits down, letting out a long, slow sigh. “I don’t know if it’s mine. I think the last time we had sex was before she moved out.”

  “You think?”

  He sighs heavily, almost grunts. “I’m just trying to figure it out.”

  “Well, did you see her after she moved out or not?”

  “Once. No, twice,” he says. “And that was within the first couple of weeks, I’m sure of it.”

  He’s probably not sure of it, but I drop the issue.

  “The cops don’t think the serial rapist got her,” I say. “They think someone else killed her.”

  “Who?” There’s an urgency in his voice, a sense of alarm. But I can’t tell if he’s concerned for what really happened to Erin or for himself.

  “They didn’t say.”

  “It’s me,” he says, and for just a few seconds I take this the wrong way, and he clarifies: “They’re going to think it was me, aren’t they?”

  I say nothing.

  “They always do,” Paul says. “They always go after the husband, the boyfriend, fiancée, whatever. And they’re always right. But not this time.”

  I agree with him, completely, and without reservation, but I don’t say so. Instead, I say: “I’ve got another call coming in.” I hang up quickly after the lie. I’m not going to get anywhere with him. The police will, and I’ll find out about it anyway.

  Just like I find out, for the first time, that there’s a psychological profile of the killer, when Cole calls a couple of minutes after I hang up on Paul. He tells me he’s sending it via email.

  “They’re just now doing this?” I ask.

  “No, it’s actually dated about two months ago. The State Bureau of Investigation worked it up right after Payton Donnelly and Brad Starke were killed. So, you were right.”

  We’ve discussed this before, Cole and I, with me insisting there had to be a profile and Cole assuring me there wasn’t, that he’d know about it and he’d be able to find it.

  “Apparently, this was only shared with our department this morning. The SBI has been keeping it all to themselves, and just the lead detectives as far as I can tell.”

  “Fucking Hogle.”

  “Yep.”

  “Because of the leaking,” I say. “And he thinks I’ll publish it.”

  A few seconds of silence, then: “I guess you’re going to publish it.”

  “You guessed right. I’m going to call my editor right after I look at it.” I wonder how much he knows about what I learned from Hogle and Roark this morning. “So they think someone else killed Erin.”

  “I heard.”

  “They’re wrong,” I say.

  Cole is silent.

  “What?” I say. “You agree with them?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “Well, who else would it be?”

  “Someone she was seeing,” he says. “Whoever the father is. I mean, if Paul’s right and the baby wasn’t his, there’s another guy in the picture. No get
ting around that. And it would explain all the differences, like a bad copycat job.”

  “I think I would have known if Erin was seeing someone. She never even hinted at anything like that. Paul’s just a liar. It’s what he does. This whole thing about him not remembering…it’s bullshit. He’s the father.”

  “Listen, I have to get back to my desk. Let me know when your story’s up?”

  “I will. And, hey, thanks. I’m not sure I say that enough.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. “Go to work.”

  ◆◆◆

  When I get to my street, the first thing I notice is the curb in front of my house. A few balloons twist in the breeze. As I get closer, I see even more flowers there, dozens of them, along with numerous stuffed animals. I pull into the driveway and walk back out to the memorial that was small this morning, but is now larger.

  There are notes attached to a few of the flowers, personalized as if the writer knew Erin. The balloons contain messages about resting in peace and not being forgotten. Two religious-themed candles stand among the flowers, their wicks fresh, unused.

  I go inside and to my closet, pen and pad in hand, sit on the floor, and skim through the profile. It’s long, almost fifty pages, and my quick scan shows that they cover things I already know. I go back to the beginning and read, making notes of the things that stand out, focusing on the profiler’s repeated use of the terms “likely gainfully employed” and “excellent physical condition.” These points were not paired together in the narrative, but they are in my reading of it.

  It’s the gym, the one that Kristi Stroup and Janelle Morris went to. It’s the only common link between any of the victims. That Beth and Payton didn’t go to the gym didn’t matter; he could have chosen them any number of ways, maybe even purposefully to throw off investigators. If so, it was working, considering how Hogle and Roark dismissed my theory.

  I grab a tack from the little box, tear the page of handwritten notes from the notebook, and pin it to the wall.

  Maybe it’s time to move all of this back into the living room. I consider it for a moment. It’ll give me more space, putting things back where they were before Erin moved in.

  I sit on the floor for several minutes, weighing that option, but also thinking about Erin being pregnant. I never saw the first sign of it. Not on her physically and not in her behavior. Nothing. Three months along. How did she keep that from me? Was it because I wasn’t around much and, despite our long friendship, she no longer looked at me as a confidant? Or was there another reason, some reason she wanted to hide it? Or was there some reason she thought she had to hide it?

  A guy. Someone she was seeing. But who, and when, and where? No, it had to be Paul’s.

  All of this is secondary, a private matter that her parents—and, I guess, Paul—will have to deal with. There’s no reason to believe it has anything to do with the case and I can’t clutter my mind with that kind of distraction.

  I get up, having decided to leave the evidence wall where it is, and get my laptop to start writing the articles.

  The first is the latest on Erin, the autopsy results, including the pregnancy. This is a struggle, writing about how the detectives have concluded that Erin’s murder isn’t part of the killer’s case.

  I know they’re wrong. But I’m a reporter, I deal in facts, verifiable information, quotes and yes, the occasional leak. So I push through it, setting my biases aside, repressing the emotions that are telling me this is all wrong, that my fingers are typing words I know not to be true and these words are going to become part of the official record. I make more than the usual effort to attribute information, including more times than is necessary lines like “according to police,” “officials say,” “Detective Hogle said,” “Detective Roark said,” and “the SBI believes.” I want distance from these conclusions.

  The second article is about the profile. I reference my notes, verbatim copies of the profiler’s words, including as much of it as I can and then change my mind.

  I call Neil. He answers on the second ring and I tell him what I have.

  “So write it up,” he says. “Let’s get it on the site ASAP.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I don’t think this needs a story at all.”

  “What do you want us to do with it? Sit on it?”

  “No, no. Let’s run the whole thing,” I say, “word for word. All of it, almost by itself, no story.”

  He’s silent.

  “I’ll write an introduction, just one paragraph, explaining what it is.”

  “Do it,” he says. “Call me when you send it over.” He hangs up.

  I begin to type: The Herald has obtained…

  Chapter 23

  It’s four o’clock in the morning. I haven’t slept for one second. I sent the articles to Neil just before eleven, thought about taking a sleeping pill, but decided against it. I wanted to stay up and wait for my stories to go live on the website.

  By the time they do, I’m already deep into the message board, reading their latest take on the news.

  One poster has linked the story about Erin’s autopsy.

  Comments from numerous members of the forum follow:

  Something doesn’t add up here.

  She wasn’t raped and no sign of any other sexual assault. Why not?

  The usual. They’re saying nothing new, but it’s not a surprise. There isn’t anything new there. These people would lose their minds if they knew about the hair-cutting aspect of this case.

  The discussion thread about the offender profile has over a thousand views already and the story has been up on our site for barely thirty minutes.

  I clicked on this topic, interested to see what these Internet sleuths would make of it, so many of them having studied numerous cases and profiles. But they say nothing of this one. Just a brief back and forth between two members: one insisting the profile is vague, boilerplate stuff; the other arguing that they could say that about any profile, until more evidence comes in or law enforcement zeroes in on a few suspects, and then the profile makes more sense as one piece of the larger puzzle.

  The conversation is mostly about Erin. They’re all convinced someone else killed her. One poster floats the idea of a copycat and is met with opposition—the prevailing opinion, albeit with no evidence, is that Erin was targeted by someone she knew who was trying to make it look like the serial killer.

  I slam my laptop shut, sick of that theory.

  I get out of bed, frustrated, tense. I stretch, trying to loosen the knots in my neck and back. I stand for a good minute, still, just looking out of my bedroom, across the hall to the closed door. Slowly, I move toward it, reaching out and gripping the doorknob.

  A slight turn. A click. The door feels heavier, pushing against the suction created by the air conditioner.

  I slide my hand along the wall inside the room, feel for the light switch, and flip it up. Nothing. The overhead light in the ceiling fan must be out. I go back into my room, grab my phone, and turn on the flashlight app. I’m two steps into Erin’s room when the door slams shut. The AC has pulled it closed.

  And now I’m in Erin’s old room, mostly dark, just a weak pool of light from the light on my phone.

  I stand at the foot of the bed, right where her killer probably did. Just as he probably held his own light—much brighter—training it on her face so when she woke up, she’d be stunned and unable to see anything. Just like the others.

  I hold my phone out, illuminating the bed. I picture Erin there. Did she sleep on her side? On her back? Covers on or off? I decide she was a side sleeper, using just the top sheet because it’s summer.

  I see her there now. Despite my sleep-deprived brain, or maybe because of it, I see a vivid image of her as she lies still, peaceful and unaware.

  With my free hand, I reach out as if to touch her feet. Like he did.

  She stirs.

  I push.

  Her head rises from the pillow. She gasps.


  I see her sit up, quickly, shocked, blinded. I see it all. Like he did.

  I feel my heartbeat quicken. Is this what he felt? The surge of adrenaline, the rush of excitement, coursing through his veins, racing in a fury to his muscles, making them tight and ready to unleash force, to do what he came here to do.

  I’m on the bed now, just one knee, my other foot planted firmly on the carpet. Closer now to the image of Erin. I can see it all so clearly. I can feel it. I can feel her.

  She recoils, or tries to, and then she’s overpowered. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. No scream. No shout for help. No cry for her life. I watch it all. Like he did.

  She’s easy to overpower, tired as she is, yanked from a deep sleep, unready for the fight of her life.

  But Erin, unlike the other victims, was an athlete in high school and college. First a gymnast, then a volleyball player. I remember this now as I hover over the bed, thinking…what happened next?

  And then I knew.

  ◆◆◆

  “She fought him,” I say. “She fought him off and that’s why this attack was so different. Maybe she even hurt him.”

  Dr. Benson sits across from me, one leg over the other, his legal pad propped on one knee. His elbows rest on the arms of the chair, hands clasped in front of his face.

  I didn’t sleep for a second all night and this morning I felt light-headed, a little woozy. I thought maybe I shouldn’t be driving and that I might cancel the appointment, call and reschedule. But two cups of coffee did the trick and here I am.

  At the very beginning of this session, the first thing he did was ask why I hadn’t taken the pill last night, telling me it was obvious in my face, my eyes, and that he didn’t even need to ask if I had taken it.

  I’m telling him about what I did last night in Erin’s old room and he sits there rapt the entire time. There was a moment, just a brief one, in which I wondered if his intense stare was because I was telling the story so well or maybe he was thinking I was going to be a much more difficult case than he’d imagined so far. What I was telling him was admittedly a little crazy. Maybe more than a little.