“And you claim that she’d been on your boat voluntarily, is that correct?” Hawkins asked.
“Yes. It’s like Jessica told the news people. I’m a good husband. I didn’t do what she claimed. I had her out for a drink on my boat once. We had a good time. We didn’t even have sex; she wasn’t interested in that. Which was fine. I wasn’t even upset with her for being a fu—for being a tease—acting like she was interested when she wasn’t. I guess she just wanted to take advantage of my hospitality. She had been fucking my friend. A married professor. She likes to do that, you know?”
“Do what?”
“Ruin marriages. Seek out married guys. She lied about that congressman back east. I forget his name. She made it so he had to retire.”
“You don’t think he was responsible for the situation as well?”
“Well. I’m not saying she raped him, of course. But it’s mostly her fault. We are men, right? If someone that beautiful is showing off and being all flirtatious, it’s not as if we should be blamed for going for the goods.”
“Let’s talk more about your time with her, not about your opinion of her with your friend, or the congressman, but your time with her. How did she make you feel?”
“At first great. She was kind and funny; we had a good time. We were drinking—okay—we smoked a little weed. She seemed like she was having a great evening and I thought we were both enjoying each other’s company. I didn’t think she’d get all cold and cruel all of a sudden. But she did. Like maybe she disassociated and changed into someone else. First, she was hot, and then she was cold. I was frustrated. But that doesn’t mean I hurt her.”
“Okay. I’m not accusing you of anything, Ryan. Go on.”
“You saw the news. I ended up having to get a restraining order because she wouldn’t stop stalking me. And then, last Friday, she was at it again. I should have called the cops on her, but she called them on me.”
“She called the cops on you?”
“Yes. They showed up at my boat again, but I had the last laugh. I was with a female friend who had come to party with me, so the cops left, and that was it. I complained to the police the next day—they told me that the caller was anonymous—so there was nothing they could do. I know it was her. That bitch! She can’t let it go.”
“Can you?” Hawkins asked while he pointed to Ryan.
“Can I what?”
“Let it go,” he said.
Ryan became silent; then he asked to be excused to refill his coffee.
Randy Hawkins sat in his office and waited. He closed his eyes for a moment and then he felt a sudden cold chill run up his body. He sat up straight and rigid, looked up, and saw Ryan in the doorway with an expression devoid of emotion.
“You know what, Dr. Hawkins?” Ryan asked.
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to get that fucking bitch and make her pay.”
...................
Randy Hawkins knew he was in a gray area. After Ryan had gone, he called his own therapist. He wanted a quick phone call to affirm he was going to do the right thing; a second opinion was prudent and professional in these situations. It was several hours before he received a return call.
“Randy, how are you?” his mentor asked.
“Doing well, thank you. I’ve a bit of a dilemma that I don’t think can wait until after the weekend. Do you have ten minutes?”
“Yes, of course, go on.”
Randy explained in brief, without details, the situation he faced: he felt that a specific threat had been made by the words Ryan had used.
“So, this client said, exactly, I’m going to get that bitch?”
“Yes, and I believe he means it. But the word get is a bit ambiguous, do you think I’m in good standing if I report this?”
“I’d back you. If you believe that the threat is real, then you don’t need to have a specific action for the word get. It’s clear by the context he means criminal violence. I’d say you’re in the clear. You might lose a client. I understand the horns you’re caught on, but I think the law is clear. I believe you’re duty bound to make the innocent third party, who is at risk, the priority.”
Randy ended the call with his mentor and dialed the non-emergency number for the San Diego Police Department. Like all bureaucracies, it took time to find the right person to help him. Eventually, he was transferred to a detective named Jerry Turner, but the detective wasn’t answering his calls, so Randy left his number on the voice mail recording after explaining the reason for the contact.
It was nearly eight at night when he had finished dealing with his predicament; he had one last client before his weekend started, and as much as he hated scheduling late appointments on Friday evenings, it was part of his life as a therapist who wanted to serve at least some clients who had nine-to-five jobs.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Investigators are not bound to accept the first answer given. Questioning is not unfair merely because it is persistent.
~Principle 6, Online College of Policing
Don’t talk to cops. Don’t talk to cops. Don’t talk to cops. Don’t talk to cops.
~ George Abramo
...................
Turner hated being in Los Angeles even on a good day, after working with a partner who wore on his nerves, and spending time in the San Diego county jail processing an arrest and following up on leads, he was burnt out, irritable, and he just wanted to be home for the start of the weekend.
He and Beck checked into the Los Angeles County jail and waited for their suspect, Jason DeLong, to be brought to an interview room.
“You think this fucker is good for the Wistern chick?” his partner asked.
“She’s not a chick. She’s a dead woman. Show some respect.”
“Yeah. Okay. So, what, you think he’s good for it?”
“I don’t know, but we are going attempt to find out. Fuck, try not to wear me out even more. Seriously—here’s the plan—you go in there first and show him pictures. Tell him we’ve got his fingerprints.”
“Got it. Do we have anything at all or this a stroke job?”
“Didn’t you read the fucking file?” Turner took a deep breath and then exhaled, he shut his eyes for a moment and wished for early retirement.
“Sure. Nothing. Jack shit. I don’t even know why we drove all the way the fuck up here. A waste of time if you ask me, I—”
“I didn’t ask; I don’t care. Just go in there and play bad cop. Be yourself.”
“The fuck you mean?” Beck gave him a dirty look.
“Just do like I said. Be an asshole and tell him we’ve got fingerprints. We’ve got his fingerprints at the scene and if he cooperates, blah, blah, blah. Jerk his chain for half an hour; I’ll come in when I’m ready.”
“Alrighty, then.”
“And David?”
“Yeah?”
“When I get in there, shut the fuck up.”
...................
Jerry watched and listened as Beck berated and belittled Jason DeLong. His partner could, apparently, do one thing very well, so he let him go for forty-five minutes before entering the room.
“Detective Beck, why don’t you go get Jason a cup of coffee.”
“You got it, boss.” Beck stood, glared at Jason DeLong, and left the interview room.
Jerry Turner sat.
He didn’t speak. Five minutes went by. Then six.
“You think your partner got lost?” DeLong asked.
Turner remained silent.
“You think I could use the restroom?”
Turner stared.
“Hey man, you gonna talk to me?” DeLong asked.
Turner looked him in the eyes but didn’t speak.
“I didn’t kill that woman,” he said. He sounded sincere, but they always do.
“Tell me why I should believe you,” Turner said.
“I’ve been in LA this whole time. I wasn’t anywhere near San Diego. If I hadn’t g
ot tripped up by the fucking pi—cops up here—I’d be in Mexico right now. Goddamn bad luck and shit. I didn’t kill no girl. I ain’t a killer. That underage bitch got me busted before was a lying cunt, I never fucked her until after her birthday. I swear to fucking god.”
“Says here in my file you raped her.”
“Fucking lying bitch. I ain’t fucking raped nobody, ever. Ain’t killed nobody, either. Wasn’t anywhere near that case of yours. I was up here; I swear it.” DeLong had raised his voice and sounded angry, a sign that he was either telling the truth or that he was just another good liar.
“Do you have something I can use to verify that? Did you use an ATM? Did you use a card at a bar? Anything?” Turner asked.
“Ain’t got no fucking bank account.”
“What about a reliable citizen? What about a liquor store with a video camera? Give me something, and I can go home.”
DeLong was silent. He played with this fingers. He looked up and asked about his coffee. He hummed to himself. He looked at the two-way mirror in the room and mouthed, “I need to take a piss.”
Jerry stood and left the room. He instructed a deputy to take DeLong to the men’s room.
“When he gets back, Beck, give him his coffee and give him a little shit. Not too much, but try and rattle his cage a bit more. Fuck. My gut feeling is that he’s telling the truth, but let’s work him long enough to shake whatever shit we can out of his system.”
“I need to let someone know I’m going to be late,” Beck said. “What do you think? We’ll be here another few hours, won’t we? Then the fucking traffic on the southbound five...”
“Won’t be much traffic that late.”
“Oh, well, silver linings then. Jesus Christ!”
...................
Turner was getting tired.
They’d been around and around again for a couple of hours. He’d received help from the locals. A black and white had been near a Korean liquor store in Compton which DeLong claimed he’d been to a few times during the period that Laura Wistern had disappeared. Copies of video files had been emailed to the evidence department, and someone was looking at them for him. Apparently, a few phone calls had been made between FBI field offices and local politicians.
DeLong was a dangerous sex offender parolee who had cut off his GPS ankle bracelet and had come to Los Angeles to hide. Nobody in law enforcement or politics wanted that kind of news coverage if it turned out he was a serial killer.
Because he’d violated parole, DeLong was going back to prison; everyone knew that. But going to prison for a parole violation was a far cry from being charged with capital murder.
“Have you ever seen this woman?” Turner showed DeLong a picture of McCormick.
“Looks familiar.”
“And?”
“Is she famous?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. She just looks familiar, you know?”
“No. I don’t know. Tell me how you know her.”
“I don’t,” DeLong said.
“She’s still a missing person. Maybe you spent some time with her?”
“Nope. I’d remember something that—that pretty—you know?”
“Nothing strikes a chord? Maybe she came in to get a nail out of her tire?” DeLong had worked at a discount tire warehouse before he skipped town.
“Could be. I fixed a lot of tires. I don’t remember every customer. I don’t have one of those photogenic memories.”
“You mean photo—never mind—look you should have stayed there working. If you’d followed the program: work, the group home, getting clean, following the rules; you’d have been checked in during the times in question. Maybe you’d have been working, maybe you’d have been in your bed, but the bottom line is that if you’d left the GPS alone, we wouldn’t be in this room right now.”
“If I was good at making life choices, Officer Turner...” DeLong’s mouth opened into an ironic grin.
“Point taken,” Turner said.
He knew that DeLong was no stranger to the system, he could have asked for an attorney. The fact that he didn’t ask for representation was a good indication that he wasn’t worried about facing capital murder charges for being a serial killer. However, on the other side of that coin, as a smart con, DeLong knew that if he didn’t lawyer up right away and played it cool instead, he’d be sending the signal that he shouldn’t be a suspect in the first place and the cops were wasting their time looking at him.
It’s all a big fucking game.
There was a brief knock on the door and a deputy entered the interview room. “Excuse me, Detective Turner,” the newcomer said, “there’s a phone call, duty officer from down south, he says it’s important.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Psychopaths feel it is legitimate to manipulate and deceive others in order to obtain their “rights” and their social interactions are planned to outmaneuver the malevolence they see in others.
~ Robert Hare
He a chico bueno, I think.
~ Mateo Garza
...................
Ryan was angry. He plugged his smartphone into the auxiliary port on his car’s stereo, selected his Dark and Twisted playlist, and turned up the volume. Fisherman’s Heaven, his favorite bait and tackle shop, was on the way home; so he stopped, purchased supplies, and then arrived at home a little after eight.
“You’re going to try again tonight?” Jessica asked him when she saw he’d been shopping for tackle.
“Yes, I was so disappointed last weekend. The weather report changed at the last minute.”
“I know, you pouted like a child all weekend.”
“Well, this weekend will make up for it, I’m sure. I’ll be in a great mood when I come home Sunday night—you’ll see—I’m bringing fresh fish home, count on it.”
“You always do, honey. You’re a great fisherman.”
Ryan packed two extra shirts, a pair of blue jeans, a pair of cargo shorts, and more underwear and socks even though there were enough extra pairs on the boat. A dark windbreaker, a baseball cap, and sunglasses were put into a separate gym back. After eating a late dinner with Jessica, he kissed her on the cheek and pulled out of his driveway. It was a little after ten. Driving at the speed limit and keeping his eyes forward, Ryan sensed her watching him, but realized it was probably his mind playing tricks. He calmed his nerves by imagining what he was going to do to her when he caught her. The bitch.
Arriving at The Tavern, he parked in the front, opened his glove box, removed a multi-purpose emergency tool, a handful of zip ties, and a small roll of duct tape. He placed those items into the small day pack that held his windbreaker, cap, and sunglasses, and walked into the bar.
Sitting at the bar and ordering a beer, he became a patient hunter, like a spider. Lingering anger tormented him, but he reminded himself that the Good Lord rewards those who are patient and cunning. A second beer helped an hour pass, and then a third beer accompanied him past midnight. People watching was one of his favorite hobbies; he relished picking out the weakest women in a group. Then, among the weakest, he would pick one, that in his estimation, was the most vulnerable.
Inventing his own mind games was another favorite hobby. Imagining how he could isolate the weak, how he could feed his needs on their vulnerability, and how he would escape any situation, used up hours of his daydreaming time.
The most vulnerable coed that night was a pale-skinned woman with brown hair, not exactly his type, but she couldn’t control her drinking, and that made her available prey; even though blondes and red-heads were preferable. Ryan followed her to the women’s room at twelve forty-five, and before she opened the door, he reached out and touched her bare shoulder.
“Kendra? Kendra, is that you?”
The woman turned and stared for a moment with a blank look on her face. She blinked. “No. I’m Molly.”
“Oh, excuse me.”
In the men’s restroom, after t
ouching her skin and discovering her name, the hunter entered a stall and touched himself with the fingers that had been on Molly’s skin. Speaking her name in a whisper, and closing his eyes, he entered an alternate reality.
...................
He followed Molly into the women’s room. He said, “Suck my dick, bitch. Now!” She dropped to her knees. He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head down onto his throbbing cock. “That’s it, Molly. Suck me, Molly. Fuck me. Fuck me!”
...................
Coming back to the present, he cleaned himself with a tissue, pissed, and flushed the toilet. The restroom was still empty, so he took his time washing his hands and face. For a long while, he stared into the dirty mirror, past the graffiti and scratches, and looked himself in the eyes. Two loud drunks entered the restroom, shocking him back to the present, and for a brief moment, he contemplated going home and telling Jessica the weather had changed. But then the image of Drew Stirling popped into his consciousness, and his anger confirmed that the plans for the rest of the evening were worthy ones.
After finishing the beer he’d left at the bar, Ryan paid his tab and observed players at the pool tables. Molly was watching her friends play pool, sitting by herself, drunk, uncomfortable, and alone. Her vulnerability triggered him to consider following her, stalking her, isolating her, using her, making the fantasy a plan of action.
No, that bitch is out there.
“Dave,” he said to the bartender, “Do you mind if I go out the back? I want to sit and have a cigarette before I drive home.”
Ryan always tipped well; he was a planner, and he knew what people wanted and needed to bring their guards down.
“Yeah, no worries, boss,” the bartender said.
He went through the double doors, past the little kitchen, and he nodded a friendly hello to the Mexican dishwasher.
Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2) Page 28