The Christine Murders

by Regina Fagan

  She looked around at the large desk near the windows, stacked high yet surprisingly neatly with folders and papers. Against one wall near the door stood a bulletin board containing photos of the victims of the serial killer. A large map of the city displayed the marked locations where each body had been found. This office was not what she had expected to find here, since it was furnished tastefully. A smooth slate-blue carpet covered the entire floor space, and healthy plants were abundantly set on empty surfaces around the room. Spacious bookshelves, packed full, took up every bit of available wall space. The place resembled an attorney’s office rather than a police lieutenant’s.

  “You have so many plants and books here, Lieutenant,” she said, trying to soothe her nerves. “I don’t feel as if I’m in police headquarters.”

  “All overflow from home. I’ve nowhere else to put them, and I enjoy having them around me, especially the plants,” Kinsella answered, smiling. “Why not come over here and sit down, Miss Lindsey? There’s no reason to be nervous.”

  He could sense how she felt. Christine studied him closely, remembering him from the television news. He was tall, slender, and extremely handsome, with raven hair and eyes a deep shade of brown. This afternoon, his face showed the shadow of a beard. He was certainly easy to look at. As she sat down, she felt annoyed with herself for concentrating so much on his good looks.

  Kinsella sat down at his desk, fixing his dark eyes intently on her. For some reason, his scrutiny made Christine blush deeply, something she rarely did. Her cheeks flamed, and she felt herself sweating under her open coat and sweater. Her hands were quivering, too, and she clasped them quickly in her lap. To her embarrassment, Kinsella noticed.

  “Please, relax,” he said softly. “Tell me what you came to see me about.”

  Christine took a deep breath and held herself as straight as possible in her chair. “I think I know who the killer is,” she said. Her voice, clear and strong, surprised her. “And not only that, but I’m sure he’s after me, too.” She felt better now. Let him decide from here on if she was crazy or not.

  Kinsella said nothing. His eyes, so dark and penetrating, aroused a disturbing, yet not entirely unpleasant sensation.

  Finally he slid his eyes from Christine and toward the pictures tacked on the board across the room. Christine watched while he concentrated on them before turning his attention back to her.

  “Tell me about him, Miss Lindsey,” he said finally, his voice calm and expressionless. “Take all the time you need, but please tell me everything you know.”

  ***

  Mesmerized by those dark eyes, Christine told what she knew of Luther Ross-Wilkerson and how she had met him. Starting with the spilled coffee on the flight from London, she recounted each conversation, the arrival of the flowers and crystal and the silk scarf, and ended with last night’s call. She grew stronger in her conviction as she spoke, supported by Kinsella’s rapt attention. He never spoke, only listened, jotting down notes on a pad while she talked. Only once did she notice a sharp reaction from him: when she mentioned the scarf. “What color?” he asked. “Dark blue,” she answered. He looked at her, eyes narrowed, before continuing to write.

  She finished her story with an account of Bill’s similar discovery, and his dislike of Luther from the start. He had urged her to come to the police before now, but she hadn’t seen any reason to do so, thinking that Luther was just a strange yet annoying man. She did meet some odd men in her work, no doubt of that. And some could be persistent. But last night, when she had recognized the photo on TV, she had put everything together and realized exactly what was happening to her.

  When she finished, she pointed toward the pictures of the victims. “They all look like me, don’t they? Coloring, hair, height probably, too. I’m not imagining this. Even my friend Bill noticed these things.”

  Kinsella was looking at the pictures again. “I’ve looked at little else besides those faces for the last two weeks.” He stopped, his voice bitter, and turned back to Christine.

  “Miss Lindsey . . .”

  “Please call me Christine,” she interrupted him.

  “Yes, all right Christine,” he said. “What happened to your friend Bill? You just said something about his having ended up in the hospital this morning. Why?”

  “He was mugged, outside my apartment building, early this morning.” She told him what had happened.

  “Mugged outside Sutter Court? Was anybody caught?”

  “Not that I know of yet, but you could probably find that out easier than I.”

  He was writing again. “Okay, I will. I want to see the report. That’s one of the safest areas of the city, if anything is safe anymore. Tell me the details as you know them again, would you?”

  “There really isn’t much else to tell you. He’s still in a coma, although he seems to come out of it a little sometimes. We assumed that someone followed Bill from his car. But there was one very puzzling thing, and I’m sure it’s in the report the officer took. Bill was inside the front gate of my building, and the gate was locked behind him. Nobody knows how he’d gotten inside. There is a new key for that gate and I hadn’t yet had a chance to give it to him. So we decided that the most logical explanation is that someone before him must have left the gate open, but our security guard swears no way on that idea. The gate was locked. We just don’t know how it happened.”

  Something else floated back to her from the early morning hours spent at the hospital. “The doctor who admitted Bill told me he was mumbling something about a key. Just that, nothing else. A key. And that’s really all I know.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend, Christine.” He returned to Luther. “This Luther Ross-Wilkerson should certainly be easy enough to check on. He’s British, you say. He does fit the description of the man we are looking for. But nobody has said anything about a British accent. I would think that would be immediately noticeable.” He looked at Christine, and for the first time, she felt challenged.

  “The accent is slight, Lieutenant, but unmistakable to anyone who would have any lengthy conversation with him. Unless he’s covering up. People can do that very easily too, especially if they are hiding something that could be traced back to them.” She was getting testy now, but she was so tired, and suddenly quite irritated. Didn’t Kinsella believe her?

  He answered her carefully. “Yes, that’s always a possibility. Plenty of actors can do that very well these days. Our witnesses didn’t engage in any long conversation with this man, but that’s the least of it all right now.

  “I intend to check on Mr. Ross-Wilkerson today. But you did say he never openly threatened you? Just the strange phone calls, plus the expensive gifts? And one of those gifts was a dark blue scarf?”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Kinsella didn’t answer but continued writing.

  “I am convinced he is your killer,” Christine said, leaning forward and looking closely at him. “That composite . . . those cold blue eyes! I’d never forget them.” She was becoming agitated again, beginning to feel this had been a fool’s errand coming here to speak with this man. Kinsella wasn’t going to help her. In fact, he seemed bored.

  Now he focused his dark eyes on her again, peering out through thick lashes. “You know, nobody even knows for sure that the guy we’ve got in that composite is our killer. He could be just some guy seen talking to Doctor Heald and Susan Sayles.”

  This was too much. “The same man just happens to be seen with both women? You don’t believe that, do you?”

  For a few minutes, Kinsella was silent. “No,” he replied finally, softly. “No, Christine, I don’t believe that. And I do take this business you’ve described with Ross-Wilkerson seriously and I intend to explore it fully, just as I’ve followed every other piece of information and lead and accusation that’s been brought to me since the composite was released.”

  Christine met his gaze boldly. “And were any of tho
se worth your while?”

  “So far, no, nothing really.”

  Abruptly, Christine stood up. She felt weak and weary, and terribly frustrated. She knew that to Kinsella, she was just one more citizen with a complaint that he’d had to listen to. All she wanted to do now was to get out of this office, away from John Kinsella. Something about him unnerved her. He was most unlike any police officer she had ever spoken to. And yes, he seemed utterly bored with her story.

  “Christine, in your work you must come across all sorts of men. I’m sure plenty of them make a play for you. This guy, this Ross-Wilkerson, might be just one more jerk obsessed with flight attendants, as many men are, with – I will agree – a very weird method of trying to win you over. At the very least, he’s harassing you. I am going to call on him, and when I speak with him - once I clear him of any other wrong doing - I promise you that I’ll see to it that he never goes near you again.”

  “Yes, you do that, please, that will be a big help. Once you clear him.” Christine almost spat the last words at him. “And now, it’s late, and I’ve got to get to the hospital, to see how Bill is. I’ve told you all I can. If you care to reach me, you know where I live.” She picked up her bag, buttoned her coat, and walked to the door. Kinsella followed. From the bulletin board, Kelley Grant, Ann Heald, and Susan Sayles smiled back at them.

  Christine pulled the door open before Kinsella could reach it. “I can see myself out.”

  “No, I’m afraid you can’t. Officer Clavens will be near the security station down the hall. He’ll take you down. Miss Lindsey, please . . .” he began.

  But she turned and interrupted him. “No, you listen to me! I am afraid, desperately afraid, of Luther Ross-Wilkerson. I’ve asked you to do something to help me, not go and scold him and tell him to be nice. ‘Please don’t harass the little flight attendant, she doesn’t like that.’ ” She waved her hand at the bulletin board. “You know, you are so calm, so cold about all this. I guess you’re used to murder. But I’m not. Those poor women. I don’t want my picture added to your board, Lieutenant Kinsella, so I myself will do whatever is necessary to prevent that, even if you won’t.”

  Before Kinsella had a chance to reply, she had slammed the door and run swiftly along the hallway.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Kinsella had considered following Christine Lindsey when she ran from his office, but decided his company was no longer welcome. He returned to his desk, aware of the scent of her perfume lingering in the room.

  His phone buzzed. It was Al Clavens. “Yes, Al. Everything okay?”

  “The lady was angry, John. What the hell happened there?”

  “Did she chew you out,” Kinsella asked him.

  “No, she was as polite as can be. But I could see something happened and she didn’t seem too happy with you. She had said she knew something about our killer. Any good leads?”

  Kinsella was looking again at the photos on the board. The resemblance each woman bore to Christine Lindsey was remarkable. But even more so to Alyson Merlott. Her picture wasn’t up there, but Alyson had been even more like Christine than any of the others. “Yes, maybe. I may have something, but I’m not sure, Al. I just think I handled that interview very badly. I don’t know why, but she got the impression I didn’t take her seriously enough, or care. And that definitely isn’t true.”

  “Maybe you’re just losing your touch with the ladies, John,” Al answered.

  After he’d hung up the phone he picked up the notes he’d been making and read them. He and Phil would call on Ross-Wilkerson, as they had so many others. Kinsella dropped the notes, sighed, and shook his head. The Chief of Police, the Mayor, the media – they were all on his back over the lack of suspects or answers in the current killing spree. He wondered if Christine Lindsey’s lead might be a break.

  Momentarily, he allowed himself to dwell on Christine. She was extremely attractive. Under normal circumstances, he would have liked to know her better. But things were far from normal anymore.

  She was a flight attendant, obviously an intelligent capable woman; he did not think she would be given to light accusations. She was probably well used to men making passes at her in that line of work, and she would no doubt be able to handle herself. So why was she so clearly terrified of this Ross-Wilkerson who may just be some eccentric, love-sick jerk trying to impress her with expensive gifts? Why had he set her off so much?

  She said he resembled the killer’s composite. No, she had said he was the killer. So had her friend, Bill, according to Christine. And there was one item she’d mentioned that had really stood out: the guy had sent a dark blue scarf. He couldn’t let her know how much of an alarm that fact alone had set off for him.

  He would find Phil and get him to go over to Union Street with him. It certainly would be worthwhile interviewing Luther Ross-Wilkerson. At the very least he might be able to set Christine’s mind at ease should this turn out to be another dead end. And he would indeed put the fear of God in the asshole if he was bothering Christine.

  He was worried, however, about Christine’s remark about doing whatever she had to to prevent becoming a victim. He thought about that editorial urging women to arm themselves. He didn’t want her or anybody else taking the law into their own hands by gunning for would-be suspects.

  He began thinking about Christine again. She really was beautiful. Cool and beautiful. He felt the unmistakable stirrings of sexual attraction. He imagined calling her up and asking her out. Yet he could also imagine the reaction that would get him. A charge of harassment, no doubt. Just what he needed. Somehow, he didn’t think she thought too highly of him. She was way out of his league anyway, he decided, feeling disturbed about that. He sighed deeply. Time to pull his mind back to where it belonged.

  He thought about the mugging early this morning outside her apartment, vaguely wondering if Bill was Christine’s boyfriend. Something else about that situation kept bothering him. What was wrong with it? He needed to see the police report filed on the attack.

  Kinsella shook off his thoughts of Christine Lindsey. Or tried to. He didn’t need such fantasies now. He stretched, and then rubbed his face.

  He needed to shave again. Suddenly he felt very embarrassed. She probably thought he’d looked like a bum. Then he asked himself why he cared what she might think about him or his appearance. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t push Christine Lindsey from his mind.

  ***

  The friendly and pleasant Officer Al Clavens had seen her outside the building, and once on the street, Christine wished she’d left her car at home. In her present mood, a brisk walk would have been good therapy for the turmoil rumbling through her.

  As she drove out of the parking lot, she thought about the conversation with John Kinsella. He had been polite, yet he never gave any indication that he took her seriously. The only thing that really seemed to register with him was her comment about the blue scarf. She wondered why.

  She started toward the hospital, still thinking about Kinsella and finding it very difficult not to. She would have preferred to dislike John Kinsella. Instead, she had been physically attracted to him from the moment she’d entered his office. There was a sensuousness about him that was immediately enticing.

  But all too soon, her thoughts slid back to Luther. What was she going to do about Luther? What could she do? Kinsella thought he was just a guy with a crush or an obsession. He had made that obvious. She believed that he would go and find Luther, or try to. Somehow, she doubted he would be able to. She didn’t think Luther would be sitting around waiting to be picked up. So what was she to do in the meantime? Demand protection? Fat chance of getting that, unless Luther made a definite attempt against her. But she would not allow that to happen.

  She had reached the hospital and was searching for a place to park. She decided she would go to Kinsella again and try harder to convince him. If he refused, she would go to his superiors. Or the newspapers. And
she would buy a gun, as that columnist had suggested. The only advantage she had over the other women was that she was aware of what was happening and what faced her. She had to convince Kinsella somehow that she was right, but if she was forced to handle Luther alone she would see that she was prepared and that she alone was the only one still standing when it was over.

  ***

  Nearly an hour later, while she sat at his bedside, Bill began to move and mumble. Christine stood up and placed both her hands over his. He would recover, but his doctors had told her it might be a few days still before he awakened from the coma.

  “Bill? Can you hear me?” she asked. “It’s Chris. Can you let me know if you can hear me?” She held onto his hands, and soon felt Bill’s grasp tighten barely but perceptibly.

  “Chr-rr . . . ah . . . key,” he began to stammer softly.

  “What is it, Bill?” She touched his cheek. “Please try to tell me.”

  “Keys, keys, Chris.” His voice was very soft, almost a whisper, yet clear this time.

  “What keys? Where?”

  “Your keys . . . has . . . ” Slowly, his voice drifted away again and he lay deeply sleeping once more, all movement and attempts to speak ended.

  “What’s this all about keys, Bill? Is it the key I forgot to give you for that gate? I have it for you, don’t worry, when you’re well again.” She fixed the covers comfortably around him and sighed. “For all I know you are talking about the keys to the liquor carrier on that last flight you worked. I just don’t know where you are inside yourself now, Billy.”

  Bill made no further response.

  Feeling horribly discouraged, Christine yawned. She was exhausted. She would have to go home to rest and get something to eat.