by L. T. Vargus
SIERRA: Nothing, really. It was dark. And the headlights made it so I couldn’t see nothin’.
DET. JANSSEN: So you couldn’t tell where you were at all once you got outside?
SIERRA: No. Just that it was rainin’. And then I ran through some woods. And I was sure he was right behind me. I was so scared. I was so scared he was gonna get me.
DET. JANSSEN: Did he see you get away? Did you hear him or see him?
SIERRA: I don’t think so. But I just knew he was gonna kill me. I wasn’t ‘sposed to get away.
DET. JANSSEN: How long did you run through the woods for? Do you know?
SIERRA: Five or ten minutes? Maybe. I don’t know. It was dark. And I thought he was comin’ after me. I don’t know.
DET. JANSSEN: And did you find the payphone right away, or did you have to walk for a while?
SIERRA: I don’t remember. I just remember seein’ lights ahead, through the trees, and I thought, “A little farther, just a little farther.” And the whole time, I was sure he was right behind me. And he was gonna grab me at the last second and kill me like he meant to in the first place.
Detective Janssen tilted his head to glance at the clock on the wall.
DET. JANSSEN: OK, Sierra. I think we’ll take a little break now. You want something to drink?
SIERRA: Diet Coke?
DET. JANSSEN: I’ll be back.
The tape cut out and began again some time later. An open can of Diet Coke rested on the table in front of Sierra, and she spun it around idly, tapping her finger against the aluminum.
DET. JANSSEN: Let’s talk a little off the record for a minute. And be honest, Sierra. You were partyin’ tonight, weren’t you?
SIERRA: No, I was not.
DET. JANSSEN: Come on, Sierra. Not even a few drinks? Maybe smokin’ a little somethin’?
SIERRA: No, sir. I been clean. I been clean two weeks!
DET. JANSSEN: OK. Alright. It’s just that your speech is a little slurred, you know?
SIERRA: I told you! He hit me in the head, and then he gave me that chloroform!
DET. JANSSEN: Chloroform? How’d you know it was chloroform?
SIERRA: Well, whatever! Isn’t that what they usually use? On a rag?
DET. JANSSEN: Isn’t that what who usually uses?
SIERRA: In the movies!
DET. JANSSEN: And what about this woman you saw?
SIERRA: Woman? What woman? There was no woman.
DET. JANSSEN: Says here you said you saw a woman jogging by. A witness, I guess.
SIERRA: No. There wasn’t a woman. It was just the one guy.
Darger cringed at that last bit about the chloroform. It sounded… fanciful. A detail thrown in for maximum drama. Darger could see how that — coupled with her history — might make someone look at Sierra’s testimony from the beginning and start to doubt it.
She double-clicked the next file.
As the second video played, Darger followed along with the written transcript. Sierra’s demeanor and appearance were much changed in the two weeks since her first interview. Her hair was dry, her makeup unsmudged. Her eyes were no longer wide and blinking with fear. If anything, she looked a little bored as she took a seat in one of the plastic chairs across from Detective Janssen.
DET. JANSSEN: We wanted to go over a few things if that’s alright.
SIERRA: Fine.
DET. JANSSEN: Let’s start with where you were when he first got you in the car.
Sierra was combing her fingers through her hair as the detective spoke, and she stopped abruptly, hands floating back into her lap.
SIERRA: I was by McHappy’s.
There was a long pause as Janssen stared at the file in front of him.
SIERRA: McHappy’s? The bakery?
Sierra studied her fingernails and nodded.
SIERRA: Now hold on a minute. Last time you said you were on Vine St. Near Savarino’s. Visiting someone named Jimmy.
Sierra’s head shook from side to side. She didn’t look confused or baffled by Janssen’s statements. She seemed utterly calm.
SIERRA: No. That was wrong. I said it wrong. I was at Jimmy’s, but earlier. Way earlier. When the guy got me, I was by McHappy’s.
Janssen crossed his arms over his gut with one fist over his mouth. He stared at Sierra for several seconds before moving on.
DET. JANSSEN: OK. Let’s talk about how he got you in the car, shall we?
Sierra shrugged.
DET. JANSSEN: There was some confusion last time we talked, about whether or not he offered you a ride. Did he offer you a ride?
SIERRA: Yes.
DET. JANSSEN: And you got in the car with him, and that’s when he hit you?
SIERRA: No. I kept walking. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t get in the car with no stranger.
DET. JANSSEN: So he pulls the car up to you as you’re walking, asks if you want a ride, and you keep walking?
SIERRA: Uh huh.
DET. JANSSEN: And then what? He stopped and got out, or what?
Sierra crossed and uncrossed her legs.
SIERRA: Yes.
DET. JANSSEN: And you didn’t run then?
SIERRA: Huh?
DET. JANSSEN: I’m just saying, some stranger asks you if you want a ride… probably creeped you out a little, right?
SIERRA: I guess.
DET. JANSSEN: And then when you say no, he doesn’t drive off. He keeps right along with you. Stops the car. Gets out. Seems like you’d know then that something was off.
SIERRA: Well, I…
DET. JANSSEN: I mean, it would make more sense, for example, if he had kept on driving, and maybe, I don’t know, pulled into an alley or something down the street, waited for you to pass, and then grabbed you.
SIERRA: Yeah. Well. That’s… that’s what happened.
DET. JANSSEN: It is?
Sierra nodded.
SIERRA: Yeah. He went into a parking lot up ahead of where I was walkin’. Only I didn’t see him. And that’s when he got me. He came up behind me and grabbed my hair and put the rag over my mouth and then I passed out.
DET. JANSSEN: Last time you said he hit you on the side of the head.
SIERRA: Yeah. He hit me, too
Janssen licked his lips and glanced at the camera.
Darger tapped her pen against the screen through the next section as if that might speed things up. Janssen and Sierra were stuck rehashing the vague details about the man and the car. Caucasian male. Hair, dark and wet. Big glasses. Car, dark sedan.
DET. JANSSEN: And you woke up where?
SIERRA: In the room. It echoed funny.
DET. JANSSEN: Echoed?
SIERRA: Yeah. Like the way his feet scraped against the ground.
DET. JANSSEN: The ground? Like dirt?
SIERRA: Umm… I guess.
DET. JANSSEN: Before you said the floor was cement.
A line of wrinkles arranged themselves across Sierra’s forehead. Her eyes squinted and closed and then she shook her head.
SIERRA: I don’t remember for sure.
DET. JANSSEN: What about the door. Before you said you remembered a door like on a garage.
Sierra blinked four times, eyes fastened on the tabletop in front of her. Finally, she spoke again.
SIERRA: Yeah. I think so.
DET. JANSSEN: So maybe a shed instead of a garage?
SIERRA: Maybe. It’s hard to remember.
DET. JANSSEN: And is there anything else you can think of?
Sierra scratched her eyebrow.
SIERRA: No.
Janssen flipped the folder on the table closed and stood, moving to the door and opening it.
SIERRA: I can go?
DET. JANSSEN: Yeah. You’re done. Talking with you has been ever so helpful.
Janssen made no attempt to disguise his indifference. Sierra rose from the molded plastic chair and left the room.
Darger was about to close the video player when she heard something. She rewound the video
and increased the volume on the computer. It was Sierra’s voice again. Softer now that she was away from the microphone in the interview room. She had to put the speakers at full volume to hear it.
SIERRA: Wait. I think…
Detective Janssen was still standing in the doorway. He rested his fists on his hips.
SIERRA: I think there was a pool nearby.
DET. JANSSEN: A pool? Why is that?
SIERRA: I don’t know. A feeling I guess.
DET. JANSSEN: And you just remembered this now?
SIERRA: I just… got a flash of it. In my head.
DET. JANSSEN: A pool, then. Got it. Thank you for coming in.
The screen went to black.
Darger frowned over the paper transcript. That last section wasn’t even on it. She rewound the last bit of the interview and replayed it. Then she leaned over and grabbed the file from where it rested in the passenger seat. She flipped open to one of the autopsy reports, skimming. She jabbed a finger at the page. Her eyes glittered like a cat stalking a bird.
“Gotcha.”
Chapter 6
Her motel room featured lush carpeting the color and texture of moss, and she thought the quilted floral bedspreads draped over the mattresses clashed with the moss quite well. All red and green and ancient like Freddy Kruger himself did the interior decorating circa 1984. The room had that stale smell Darger associated with all motel rooms: must and industrial cleaners and a hint of old cigarette smoke from years gone by.
The bed springs squeaked as she dropped her suitcase on the nearer bed. She poked her head in the bathroom just long enough to see her reflection in the harsh fluorescent light, and that pretty much completed the tour.
Her palms went clammy again. She was nervous about meeting Agent Loshak.
Better to get it over with then, she thought.
She marched out the door and down the concrete catwalk that gave access to the second floor rooms. She paused in front of the neighboring room, fist poised to knock. She hesitated. The door suddenly seemed intimidating. Agent Loshak wouldn’t be happy to have another agent sent out here to check on him. Less than another agent, maybe. A glorified babysitter. She steeled herself for combat.
Her knuckles rapped against the door. One, two, three.
A grunt answered from inside the room, then the squeak of a creaky subfloor, and then silence. Darger figured Loshak was watching her through the peephole, and she made an effort to look official, standing straight and tall with her chin lifted slightly.
Finally, she heard the clatter of the door being unlocked. The knob turned and a pair of red-rimmed eyes surrounded by pale flesh peered back at her through the crack. Despite the sickly pallor, there was something striking in his gaze. A wry look. Clever.
“Special Agent Loshak?” Darger said. He kept staring, so she continued. “I’m Special Agent Darger.”
She held out her hand, but Loshak made no move to take it or to open the door further.
“Your ID.”
“Pardon?”
“Let me see your badge.”
He made a gesture with his hand that indicated she should get on with it.
“Alright,” Darger said. She pulled it from her pocket and stepped forward to hand it to him. Something about this exchange made her feel as if she were a dog in a pack, being challenged by the alpha. She wondered if it was on purpose. On second thought, it was definitely on purpose.
Loshak took the badge, rubbing a paw over several days’ worth of stubble on his chin as he studied it. When he handed it back, they locked eyes. This time, Darger wasn’t going to let him dominate. She held his gaze, unblinking, and it was Loshak who looked away first. He opened the door a little wider, but he didn’t quite move to let her in.
“You know, you coulda called ahead.”
Darger noted that he was changing the subject. Defensive. Another sign of weakness. Odd. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting.
“I did. Both your cell and the room number. You didn’t answer.” She glanced over his shoulder and took in the room quickly. “Your phone is off the hook.”
“Well, yeah… I find it rings less that way.”
Loshak’s face pulled into a grimace, and he held up a finger.
“Excuse me for a moment.”
He turned, walking quickly to the bathroom at the back of the room. The bathroom door banged shut behind him. He left the front door open with Darger standing in it.
She heard a gagging sound and then the slap of liquid on liquid. He was vomiting. Delightful.
She looked both ways down the second story balcony, feeling awkward standing outside of the open door. Screw it. She took a step inside and pulled the door closed.
After about a minute, the toilet rumbled and flushed. Water ran in the sink, and then Loshak reappeared.
She blinked a few times, debating whether to address the puking elephant in the room or try to ignore it.
“Are you OK?”
Loshak waved her concern away as if it were a fly circling the potato salad at a Fourth of July picnic.
“Just a little under the weather. Want some advice? Stay away from Savarino’s in town. Bad scallops, I think.”
“Duly noted,” she said.
Loshak sat on the bed, tilting his head to look at her with a clever look about his eyes.
“I assume you’ve seen the file?” he said.
“Yep. And I visited the crime scenes in person.”
“Thorough.”
Loshak fell back into the bed with a groan.
“Well?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow at him, not sure what he wanted.
“Your thoughts?”
“Oh,” she said.
She hadn’t expected him to want to hear her take. After all the talk about him being difficult, he seemed neither surprised nor particularly bothered by her presence. Maybe a little curious. She’d come prepared for a fight. In the absence of conflict, she felt a little shy.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and began.
“Based on the race and age of the victims: white male, between the ages of 25 and 35.”
“Uh-huh. What else you got?”
“Alright,” she said, swallowing. “The fact that there are extensive stab wounds present lends itself to an anger-retaliatory profile. These crimes are first and foremost expressions of rage, a fetishization of power that finds its voice in excessive displays of force. In this case, stabbing a corpse fourteen times and just about cutting off the head.”
“So he’s not a sadist?”
Darger felt her shoulders jerk, some involuntarily twitch of the muscles there.
“No.”
She realized how visceral her reaction had been and made an effort to loosen up. Did he think the killer was a sadist? Or was he testing her? She started to worry she’d missed something.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because aside from the fatal wound, the medical reports suggest almost everything else is post-mortem. If he were a sadist, he’d keep them alive for that. Looking at the probable timelines we have, he probably kills or incapacitates them quickly after the abduction. He displays no particular interest in making them suffer.”
“Agreed. Go on.”
So he was testing her. Darger bit her lip a little and continued.
“I found it interesting that the most recent victim had her head almost sawed off. Makes me wonder if he was interrupted.”
“Or gave up,” he commented. “Why do you think that’s significant?”
“He’s taking the dismemberment further. Wants it to last longer, wants to be more elaborate… with the time he spends defiling the corpses.”
For a moment, it was a little too real, this monster they were hunting. She tried to imagine the type of person who would find enjoyment in butchering a human body. She almost missed what Loshak said next.
“And so far, nothing’s missing, if you know what I mean. But I doubt that’ll l
ast.”
Darger flashed back to the motel room.
“You think he’ll keep a body part as a souvenir?”
“Yep.”
It would make sense, she realized. Like so many other serial killers — Bundy, Dahmer, Kemper, Gein, Kearney — much of the obsession was focused on the dead body itself. The product the killing rendered rather than the process of the killing itself. Many of these types wound up keeping body parts. Maybe even most of them.
“What else?” Loshak asked.
“He’s not stupid. The precautionary measures — choosing dump sites that ensure evidence contamination, the bleach to degrade DNA — those suggest at least average intelligence.”
Suddenly Loshak held up a hand, and Darger worried she’d made an error.
“Wait.”
Again he got up and made for the bathroom. When he returned, he fell back onto the bed with a sigh.
“OK, continue.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “We can do this later.”
He ignored her.
“You don’t think the public dump sites might suggest that he’s a dum-dum? I mean, there are an infinite number of places out in the woods he could dump ‘em. Places where they might never be found.”
“It’s risky, yes,” Darger said. “But it’s clearly calculated. It’s a territorial display. These are his trophies, and he wants everyone to see them. He’s brazen enough to do it. Confident enough that he thinks it won’t get him caught. He likes taunting us.”
“Us?”
“Society at large. He’s a loner. He feels persecuted. Like society is shutting him out. Keeping him down. Dumping the bodies in public places is a way to direct the rage at everyone.”
Loshak nodded.
“That’s pretty good, actually. You know, the lower intelligence, disorganized types are less apt to move the bodies. If they make any attempt to conceal their crimes, it’s usually near the scene and a poor attempt — a shallow grave, shoved under a porch, or in their basement. They do the bare minimum. Like a kid who spills grape juice on mommy’s white couch and covers it with a pillow. They know they have to hide it. They just don’t put a lot of time and effort into planning it. I guess they can’t.”
A sound like sandpaper on wood came from Loshak’s face as he rubbed at his unshaven cheeks.