“What do you mean you don’t know?” Delucci asked, pressing her for information. “You must know. Was his face covered? What was he wearing?” he asked impatiently, ignoring the filthy look Jake shot him. “Ms Carovella, I find it hard to believe you could just forget something like this. If it were me it would be etched in my mind forever.”
Stephanie shook her head, her hands curling into fists of anger. She spoke between clenched teeth. “I have never forgotten. I can remember every little detail. From the blood spatter patterns all over the wall, to the knife he held against my throat. I will never forget it.” Dropping her eyes to the ground, she sighed heavily. “I know his face. I know it deep within my soul. I see his face before I close my eyes and when I dream at night,” she said in frustration. “I know his face, but for the life of me I just can’t remember it.”
“You can’t remember it?” Delucci asked, dumbfounded.
Stephanie’s brow furrowed in stress. “They – the original Detectives on the scene - think I mentally blocked it out. I was in a lot of shock.”
Jesse watched Stephanie pace agitatedly, her features frozen in a haunted expression. She’d been so lost in the past that he wasn’t even sure she knew what she was doing. He wasn’t sure she knew where she was, she seemed completely trapped in a past of her own making.
She stared at him, shaken by the question. Unable to stop herself, she began to tremble. Her knees buckled beneath her. Falling into a kneeling position on the ground, she nodded mutely. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Her words fell from her lips, coming in short spurts as she gasped for breath.
“He grabbed my arm. I tried to get away. He wouldn’t let me. The blood was everywhere. It was all over me. He pushed me and I fell. I fell back onto the bed. He ripped my shirt. He tore my clothes. I fought back. I bit and punched and kicked. It excited him. Fighting back turned him on, but I wasn’t going to let him do to me what he did to Kat. I fought him off. We struggled and I grabbed the knife. I grabbed the blade. I made him let go. I grabbed the knife. I stabbed him with his own knife,” she gasped, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her ghost white face.
“I stabbed him in the leg with his own knife and twisted it. I ran. I ran to the door. I got out. I could hear him screaming – screaming at me, screaming my name, as I ran. I didn’t look back, couldn’t look back. I just ran.” Her words sped up, her thoughts focused on that night. She was so lost in the past she wasn’t even aware when Jase knelt down beside her.
Her voice gritty, she stood up, pacing the living room. She unconsciously rubbed her hands up and down her arms, a shudder running through her tiny frame. Stopping by the window, she turned her back to them all, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her voice was tortured when she spoke again. “I knocked on every damn door. I screamed for help. I was covered in blood, my clothes torn and I begged them to help me. I was so scared, so sure he was going to kill me. I think I woke up every person in the dorm.” Stopping, she took a deep breath. Her vision clearing, she said quietly, “The Campus Police had no clue what to expect when they arrived. If they’d taken action immediately, he wouldn’t have escaped.”
She fell silent, staring out in the darkness. She was unsure what else she could tell them. “I sat with sketch artist after sketch artist but I could never help them. I was pretty shaken up and needed medical attention.”
Smiling bitterly, she flicked a glance at Ben. “Ben, you once asked me how I got the scar on the palm of my hand, well now you know. I sliced open my hand gripping the blade.” Her smile fading, she added, “I was in a state of shock the first time Detectives approached me with a sketch artist and then I just couldn’t remember. All I can remember are his eyes. I’ve seen him three times in my life and each time, I never remember his face. I just remember his eyes. They were flat, lifeless- dead. It’s like staring into someone without a soul.”
Turning away from the window, she leaned against it, gripping the railing tightly for support. Looking around the room, she wasn’t surprised to see the horror and shock on all their faces.
Laughing harshly, she rested her eyes on Gena. “Gena, you asked me if I was hiding anything, well here it is. Kat, Angel, Carolyn and I – we were all stalked our first year of university and Kat, poor sweet Kat, never made it out alive. First there were the hang-up calls followed by heavy breathing. Then personal mementos and clothing went missing. We’d come home from class and find he’d left us some kind of gift. We thought our boyfriends were trying to scare us, play mind games with us. Finally he started sending us flowers – our favorite kind.
Christ, we were kids and didn’t take it seriously. There’s not one day I don’t wish to God we had, but how were we supposed to know? Was I supposed to be his intended victim? I’m positive I was. I don’t know why he chose to kill Angel, Carolyn or Ana instead of me but I do know this. It’s all a game to him, and I’m the end prize.”
Chapter Thirty
Jase gently knocked on the bedroom door, pausing before he entered the room. He stood in the doorway, scrutinizing the woman standing with her back to him. Stephanie barely registered the knock on the door, staring blankly into the darkness.
Waiting patiently for her to acknowledge him, he frowned when her eyes never left the window. Observing the way she wrapped her arms around herself, he thought she looked like she was preparing to protect herself from anything coming her way. She seemed so fragile, so lost – almost breakable.
Tearing his eyes off her, he scanned the room, struggling for composure at what confronted him. Each wall was dedicated to each murder, he realized. Crime scene photos were taped all over the walls, with hastily scrawled post-it notes beside each photo. He stepped closer, wanting to read each scribbled note, to know every thought running through her mind.
She fascinated him. If he was completely honest, he was also attracted to her. He had been from the moment they’d met, and maybe even before that. He’d listen to Angel tell him about the dynamic Stephanie Carovella and every story he’d heard made him want to know her. He smiled to himself. The funny thing was, she was oblivious to the way she captivated men. They were drawn to her like butterflies, and she didn’t even seem to realize. Gena saw her as a femme fatale, someone who used her looks and femininity to wrap men around her finger, but Jase knew differently. She didn’t give a damn what men thought of her. In fact, Jase would bet everything he owned that the only man whose opinion had ever mattered to Stephanie, was Dominic Delaney. For a brief moment, he envied the dead man.
Sliding his eyes to the lone box sitting on the middle of the king-size bed, he wondered what it contained. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Clearly his throat loudly, he turned his attention back to Stephanie. Still waiting for her to acknowledge him, he silently moved to stand behind her, gently touching her shoulder.
“I thought you could use this,” he said, tenderly but determinedly, turning her around to face him and handing her a cup of coffee. She accepted the coffee wordlessly, dropping her gaze to it before lifting shuttered eyes to his.
He watched her turn her back on him, the soft pattering of the rain against the window pane thunderous in the silent room.
Speaking quietly, he said, “You know, there’s not a single person downstairs who doesn’t love you in their own way.” Pausing, he waited to see if he was getting through to her. “Every single one of them is here tonight to protect you, to be there for you. Not one of them is condemning you for what happened.”
She half-turned away from the window, her eyes glittering with a hidden emotion, one which made him step back haltingly. “They don’t condemn me? Jase, I was there. I saw the horror on their faces. I saw Gena’s face. She blames me,” she whispered fiercely, punching her fist against her chest. “She has always blamed me for every little thing to go wrong. Even before I started to tell you what happened to Kat, she’d already condemned me. Don’t you dare tell me not one of them downstairs blames me for what happened, for what is happening.�
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Looking out the window again, her voice was harsh. “Why shouldn’t they blame me? I blame myself. If it wasn’t for me then Angel and Carolyn would still be alive. If Kat hadn’t desperately wanted to be just like me, she’d be alive today.”
“Stephanie you’re being too tough on yourself,” Jase said, moving closer to her. He gently braced his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them reassuringly.
She twisted back to him, her expression unreadable. “You think I’m being too tough? Jase, you don’t get it do you? He will never stop. He will never stop killing my friends until he gets what he wants. Me. He wants me. Angel died because he knew I would come home. He killed Angel to bring me back to this god-forsaken hellhole,” she said, her voice laced with steel.
“You can’t know this for sure,” Jase argued, reaching out to stroke her cheek. He winced when she flinched at his touch. He immediately dropped his hand to his side, unconsciously flexing his fingers.
“You’re wrong. I know this exactly. He will never stop Jase,” she said, punctuating each word with a control she didn’t feel. “I thought I was finally free. I left Dominic and thought leaving him would be enough. I gave up everything to protect all of those I loved. I gave up my whole life to protect them. I gave up everything. God, I gave up Dominic. And, even then it wasn’t enough so I moved away to protect everyone…” She broke off, aware she’d said too much.
“You moved away?” Jase whispered, the realization of what she was telling him making his voice crack. “Jesus Christ. He was still stalking you? Is this why you left your husband? Why you eventually left L.A?” he asked, disbelief vibrating through him.
Stephanie ignored him, her eyes moving behind to search for the box sitting on the bed. Jase’s gaze followed hers, wondering again what was in the box now holding her attention.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s in the box, Stephanie?” he said quietly, shoving his hands into his pants pocket and waiting for her answer.
She laughed bitterly, tearing her eyes away from the box to meet his. “A past I can never escape,” she answered, moving past him to sit on the bed. Her hands automatically reached out to draw the box onto her lap. Her fingers braced the sides of the box.
Jase walked to the bed. Sitting down beside her, he watched her wretch the lid off the box. Frustration crept through him at her hooded expression. She was so good at keeping everyone out. Tonight was one of the few times she had let anyone close enough to see the real her and even then Jase wondered how much of it was contrived and how much of it was the truth.
Stephanie ignored him. She stared hard at the box which held so much of her past, a past she’d wanted to keep hidden. Reaching inside the box, she pulled out a photo album. Silently, she handed it to Jase.
Jase opened the photo album, not sure what to expect. He was surprised to find newspaper clippings. Reading the first newspaper clippings headline, he tore his eyes off the article to look at Stephanie. “Are these...?”
She nodded calmly. “I kept every newspaper article on Katrina’s murder. I don’t know why. Maybe I was hoping it would trigger some memory, a reflection of what happened that night to help me remember his face. It didn’t work. Nothing seems to trigger any of the memories. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve scoured these articles. I know every little detail of her murder – from what the police thought, to who their suspects were. I used to read the articles until I could memorize them from front to back,” she said, tapping her fingers against the box she held.
“Gena will want to go through these clippings,” Jase said, dropping his eyes back to the photo album.
Stephanie nodded in agreement. “Of course she will. She’ll scour the articles and see the similarities between all the cases,” she said, her voice clipped. Tiredly, she added, “There are newspaper articles in the scrapbook you’re going to find interesting. They’re related to other murders. After Katrina’s murder, there was a spate of co-ed murders similar to Katrina’s and then nothing. It’s almost as if he disappeared off the face of the earth until Carolyn’s attack four years ago.”
“More murders?” Jase asked, quickly flicking through the album to scan the articles.
“Yes, murders I thought were linked to Katrina’s murder. The police disagreed and put them down to copycats or just coincidence.” Contempt laced her voice as she added, “Just like, they put being stalked down to my over-active imagination.”
“You thought otherwise,” Jase concluded, looking up from the articles.
She inclined her head, studying him with a cool smile. “The rapes, the throats slit... the similarities are all there-”
He shook his head, speaking over her. “And, all of these similarities can be found within newspaper clippings. The police could have been right. They could have been dealing with a copycat. It’s all circumstantial.”
“I know it was him,” Stephanie argued, clenching her fist and beating it across her chest. “I know it inside here.”
Jase took her hand, gently unclenching her fist. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but the police would have needed concrete evidence, something solid to link all the crime together. A gut feeling just doesn’t do it.”
“I know that. I didn’t spend four years of university studying Journalism and Criminology just for the hell of it, Jase. I know the police need certifiable evidence. I’ve gone through hundreds of crime scenes in my own time, studying the victims and the killers. I know the law, and I’m telling you this, he killed all these girls.”
Jase smiled at her passionate response, fascinated by the fire flickering in her eyes. “Let’s say you’re right. Apart from your gut instinct, what makes you think all these murders are the work of the same killer?” he asked, indicating with his hand to the files. “Tell me what you can see that others can’t. Prove it to me,” he challenged, crawling onto the right side of the bed, and leaning back against the bed’s headboard.
Stephanie nodded, scooting to sit side by side with him, stretching her legs out and leaning her head against the plush pillows. “For starters, the newspaper articles written about Kat’s attack mentioned her rape and her throat being slit, but they didn’t mention his signature. It wasn’t mentioned because the police had no clue it was even a signature. Nevertheless it was there and it’s always the same,” she said, reaching over and taking the scrapbook from Jase.
Quickly flipping through it, she added excitedly, “He positions his victims as he seems them. Angel was a Dominatrix dominated, Carolyn was a fallen star. The earlier murders were more hurried, less practiced but the signature was always there.”
“How can you possibly know this?” Jase pressed.
“I studied the cases, Jase. As a crime reporter, I had access to old cases – and certain files. I had friends who were willing to provide me with the information I couldn’t dig up myself,” she said, leaning towards the box and pulling out four manila folders. “Katrina’s file – what little of it there is anyway,” she said bitterly, dropping it onto Jase’s lap.
She dropped another file on top of Katrina’s. “Casey Fielding, a 19-year-old Cheerleader, found murdered at USD. She’d been raped and her throat slit. She was dressed in her cheerleading outfit and found dumped on the University’s football field. The Toreros got quite a surprise when they showed up to their early morning practice run.”
Pausing, she added two more files to Jase’s lap. “Sue Ellen Johnson and Abigail Marques were roommates and best friends from Trinity University, San Antonio. Both were only 18-years-old and members of Alpha Chi Lambda. They were found butchered in their dorm room – raped, their throats slit and positioned kneeling before God. Both girls were devout Methodists. I don’t believe the university has ever fully recovered from the scandal of their murders.”
Tossing five more files on the bed, she arched an eyebrow, asking, “Would you like me to continue?” Not waiting for him to speak, she continued quietly, “Do you know, before Kat was murdered, I still wasn’t sur
e which direction I wanted to go with my career? It was always going to be Journalism. I’ve never wanted to do anything but write and for me, Journalism meant I was helping to change the world. I was letting people see the world for what it was – harsh, scary, and not for the innocent. After Kat was murdered, crime reporting seemed the perfect choice. I switched out of Public Relations and into Criminology. In my spare time I read everything I could get my hands on about criminal law. I didn’t just want to be a crime reporter; I wanted to be the crime reporter who helped put murderers away. I wanted to save the innocents of the world because I was never able to save Katrina. It was natural for me. I thrived on it. Gena and I used to sit for hours arguing over old crime cases and her own study cases, analyzing the killers – getting into their minds. For Gena, it was part of the job. But for me, it was fun. It was almost as if fate had decided that my destiny was to be surrounded by crime and murder.”
Jase took her hand in his own, lacing his fingers with hers. It made her stop. She looked down at their hands and smiled when he squeezed her hand encouragingly. “Do you see a pattern? Do you see why I know we’re dealing with a serial killer; with the same serial killer?”
He nodded, clearing his throat and indicating to the files. “These were the only ones you could find?”
Stephanie shrugged. “These were the only ones I could find after Kat’s death,” she said, giving him another small shrug. “Like I told you, it’s as if he just disappeared off the face of the earth after this. I never stopped looking for him, a part of me always knew he would be back When Carolyn was attacked, I knew it wasn’t over. She was being stalked again. The pattern was the same. First it was flowers, then little notes and hang ups, then items went missing. Eventually he attacked her. It’s the same old twisted courtship, just like when we were in university. He’s a traditionalist. Like his signature, this is a consistent theme in all his murders.”
She laughed harshly. “I spoke to friends of the victims. They told me each victim was terrified, positive she was being stalked. I told the police, but yet again they dismissed me. What on earth would a stupid young college girl know about police procedure? That was the standard response. I was just a frightened college girl with paranoid delusions. It didn’t matter that I could see a pattern they couldn’t. Hell, they just saw me as a pain in the ass. I actually got told by one Detective that I was damaged goods. He’d read the glorious history of my parents murder and labeled me fucked up. In the end, they closed off the case and pretty much told me not to bother them again.”
Nowhere to Run (Stephanie Carovella) Page 23