by Blake Pierce
A man emerged from the building on the opposite side of the street, breaking him from his thoughts. Watching, he sat there and waited patiently. He’d learned a great deal about patience over the years. Because of that, knowing that he must now work quickly made him anxious. What if he was not precise?
He had little choice. Already, Hailey Lizbrook’s murder was on the news. People were searching for him—as if he were the one who had done something bad. They just didn’t understand. What he had given that woman had been a gift.
An act of grace.
In the past, he’d let much time pass between his sacred acts. But now, an urgency was upon him. There was so much to do. There were always women out there—on street corners, in personal ads, on television.
In the end, they’d understand. They’d understand and they’d thank him. They would ask him how to be pure, and he would open their eyes.
Moments later, the neon image of the woman in the window went black. The glow behind the windows died out. The place had gone dark, the lights cut off as they closed for the night.
He knew this meant that the women would be coming out of the back at any moment, headed to their cars and then home.
He shifted into drive and drove slowly around the block. The streetlights seemed to chase him, but he knew that there were no prying eyes to see him. In this part of the city, no one cared.
At the back of the building, most of the cars were nice. There was good money in keeping your body on display. He parked at the far edge of the lot and waited some more.
After a long while, the employee door finally opened. Two women came out, accompanied by a man that looked like he worked security for the place. He eyed the security man, wondering if he might be a problem. He had a gun under the seat that he would use if he absolutely had to, but he’d rather not. He hadn’t had to use it yet. He actually abhorred guns. There was something impure about then, something almost slothful.
Finally, they all split up, getting in their cars and heading off.
He watched others emerge, and then he sat upright. He could feel his heart pounding. That was her. That was the one.
She was short, with fake blonde hair that bobbed just over her shoulders. He watched her get into her car and he did not drive forward until her taillights were around the corner.
He drove around the other side of the building, so as not to draw attention to himself. He trailed behind her, his heart starting to race. Instinctively, he reached under his seat and felt the strand of rope. It eased his nerves.
It calmed him to know that, after the pursuit, there would come the sacrifice.
And come, it would.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mackenzie sat in the passenger seat, several files scattered in her lap, Porter behind the wheel, tapping his fingers to the beat of a Rolling Stones song. He kept the car tuned to the same classic rock station he always listened to while driving, and Mackenzie glanced up, annoyed, her concentration finally broken. She watched the car’s headlights slice down the highway at eighty miles per hour, and turned to him.
“Can you please turn that down?” she snapped.
Usually, she didn’t mind, but she was trying to slip into the right frame of mind, to understand the killer’s MO.
With a sigh and shake of his head, Porter turned down the radio. He glanced over to her dismissively.
“What are you hoping to find, anyway?” he asked.
“I’m not trying to find anything,” Mackenzie said. “I’m trying to put the pieces together to better understand the killer’s personality type. If we can think like him, we have a much better chance of finding him.”
“Or,” Porter said, “you can just wait until we get to Omaha and speak to the victim’s kids and sister like Nelson told us.”
Without even looking at him, Mackenzie could tell that he was struggling to keep some wise-ass comment in. She had to give him a little credit, she supposed. When it was just the two of them on the road or at a crime scene, Porter kept the wisecracks and degrading behavior to a minimum.
She ignored Porter for the moment and looked to the notes in her lap. She was comparing the notes from the 1987 case and the Hailey Lizbrook murder. The more she read over them, the more she was convinced that they had been pulled off by the same guy. But the thing that kept frustrating her was that there was no clear motive.
She looked back and forth through the documents, flipping through pages and cycling through the information. She started to murmur to herself, asking questions and stating facts out loud. It was something she had done ever since high school, a quirk that she had never quite grown out of.
“No evidence of sexual abuse in either case,” she said softly. “No obvious ties between the victims other than profession. No real chance of religious motivations. Why not go for the full-on crucifix rather than just basic poles if you’re going for a religious theme? The numbers were present in both cases but the numbers don’t show any clear significance to the killings.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Porter said, “but I’d really rather be listening to the Stones.”
Mackenzie stopped talking to herself and then noticed that her notification light was blinking on her phone. After she and Porter had left, she’d e-mailed Nancy and asked her to do a few quick searches with the terms pole, stripper, prostitute, waitress, corn, lashes, and the sequence of numbers N511/J202 from murder cases over the last thirty years. When Mackenzie checked her phone, she saw that Nancy, as usual, had acted quickly.
The mail Nancy had sent back read: Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve attached the briefs on the few cases I did find, though. Good luck!
There were only five attachments and Mackenzie was able to look through them pretty quickly. Three of them clearly had nothing to do with the Lizbrook murder or the case from ’87. But the other two were interesting enough to at least consider.
One of them was a case from 1994 where a woman had been found dead behind an abandoned barn in a rural area about eighty miles outside of Omaha. She had been tied to a wooden pole and it was believed that her body had been there for at least six days before being discovered. Her body had gone stiff and a few woodland animals—believed to be bobcats—had started eating at her legs. The woman had a lengthy criminal record, including two arrests for soliciting sex. Again, there had been no clear signs of sexual abuse and while there had been lashes on her back, they had not been nearly as extensive as what they had found on Hailey Lizbrook. The briefing on the murder said nothing about numbers being found on the pole, though.
The second maybe-related file concerned a nineteen-year-old girl that had been reported as kidnapped when she did not return home for Christmas break from her freshman year at the University of Nebraska in 2009. When her body was discovered in an empty field three months later, partially buried, there had been lashes on her back. Images were later leaked to the press, showing the young girl nude and engaged in some sort of lurid sex party at a fraternity house. The pictures had been taken one week before she had been reported missing.
The last case was a bit of a stretch, but Mackenzie thought they could both potentially be linked to the ’87 murder and Hailey Lizbrook.
“What you got there?” Porter asked.
“Nancy sent me briefs from some other cases that might be linked.”
“Anything good?”
She hesitated but then filled him in on the two potential links. When she was done, Porter nodded his head as he stared out into the night. They passed a sign telling them that Omaha was twenty-two miles ahead.
“I think you try too hard sometimes,” Porter said. “You bust your ass and a lot of people have taken notice. But let’s be honest: no matter how hard you try, not every case has some huge link that is going to create some monster case for you.”
“So humor me,” Mackenzie said. “At this very moment, what does your gut tell you about this case? What are we dealing with?”
“It’s just some basic perp wi
th mommy issues,” Porter said dismissively. “We talk to enough people, we find him. All this analysis is a waste of time. You don’t find people by getting into their head. You find them by asking questions. Street work. Door to door. Witness to witness.”
As they fell into silence, Mackenzie started to worry about just how simplistic his view of the world was, how black and white. It left no room for nuance, for anything outside of his predetermined beliefs. She thought the psycho they were dealing with was far too sophisticated for that.
“What’s your take on our killer?” he finally asked.
She could detect resentment in his voice, as if he really hadn’t wanted to ask her but the silence had got the best of him.
“I think he hates women for what they represent,” she said softly, working it out in her mind as she spoke. “Maybe he’s a fifty-year-old virgin who thinks sex is gross—and yet there’s also that need in him for sex. Killing women makes him feel like he’s conquering his own instincts, instincts he sees as gross and inhuman. If he can eliminate the source of where those sexual urges come from, he feels in control. The lashes on the back indicate that he’s almost punishing them, probably for their provocative nature. Then there’s the fact that there are no signs of sexual abuse. It makes me wonder if this is some sort of attempt at purity in the killer’s eyes.”
Porter shook his head, almost like some disappointed parent.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “A waste of time. You’ve got yourself so far into this you don’t even know what you think anymore—and none of that is gonna help us. You can’t see the forest for the trees.”
The awkward silence blanketed them again. Apparently done speaking, Porter turned the radio up.
It lasted only a few minutes, though. As they neared Omaha, Porter turned the radio back down without being prompted this time. Porter spoke up and when he did, he sounded nervous, but Mackenzie could also hear the effort he was putting forth to sound like he was the one in charge.
“You ever interviewed kids after they lost a parent?” Porter asked.
“Once,” she said. “After a drive-by. An eleven-year-old boy.”
“I’ve had a few, too. It’s not fun.”
“No, it’s not,” Mackenzie agreed.
“Well look, we’re about to ask two boys questions about their dead mom. The topic of where she works is bound to come up. We have to handle this thing with kid gloves—no pun intended.”
She fumed. He was doing that thing where he spoke down to her as if she were a child.
“Let me lead. You can be the comforting shoulder if they start crying. Nelson says the sister will also be there, but I can’t imagine she’d be any reliable source of comfort. She’s probably just as wrecked as the kids.”
Mackenzie actually didn’t think it was the best idea. But she also knew that when Porter and Nelson were involved, she needed to choose her battles wisely. So if Porter wanted to take charge of asking two grieving kids about their dead mom, she’d let him have that weird ego trip.
“As you want,” she said through clenched teeth.
The car fell into silence again. This time, Porter kept the radio turned down, the only sounds coming from the shifting of pages in Mackenzie’s lap. There was a larger story in those pages and the documents Nancy had sent; Mackenzie was sure of it.
Of course, for the story to be told, all of the characters needed to be revealed. And for now, the central character was still hiding in the shadows.
The car slowed and Mackenzie raised her head as they turned down a quiet block. She felt a familiar pit in her stomach, and she wished she were anywhere but here.
They were about to talk to a dead woman’s kids.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mackenzie was surprised as she entered Hailey Lizbrook’s apartment; it was not what she had expected. It was neat and tidy, the furniture nicely centered and dusted. The décor was very much that of a domesticated woman, right down to the coffee mugs with cute sayings and the pot holders hanging from ornate hooks by the stove. It was evident that she had run a tight ship, right down to the haircuts and pajamas on her sons.
It was very much like the family and home she always dreamed of having herself.
Mackenzie recalled from the files that the boys were nine and fifteen; the oldest was Kevin and the youngest was Dalton. It was clear as she met him that Dalton had been crying a lot, his blue eyes rimmed with puffy red splotches.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked angry more than anything else. As they settled in and Porter took the lead, it showed perfectly clear when Porter tried speaking to them in a tone that was somewhere between condescending and a preschool teacher trying too hard. Mackenzie winced inside as Porter spoke.
“Now I need to know if your mother had any men friends,” Porter said.
He stood in the center of the room while the boys sat on the living room couch. Hailey’s sister, Jennifer, was standing in the adjoining kitchen, smoking a cigarette by the stove with the exhaust fan running.
“You mean like a boyfriend?” Dalton asked.
“Sure, that could be a male friend,” Porter said. “But I don’t even mean like that. Any man that she might have spoken to more than once. Even someone like a mailman or someone at the grocery store.”
Both of the boys were looking at Porter as if they were expecting him to perform a magic trick or maybe even spontaneously combust. Mackenzie was doing the same. She had never heard him use such a soft tone. It was almost funny to hear such a soothing tone come out of his mouth.
“No, I don’t think so,” Dalton said.
“No,” Kevin agreed. “And she didn’t have a boyfriend, either. Not that I know of.”
Mackenzie and Porter looked to Jennifer over by the stove for an answer. All they got in response was a shrug. Mackenzie was pretty sure Jennifer was in some sort of shock. It made her wonder if there might be another family member that could take care of these boys for a while, since Jennifer certainly didn’t seem like a fit guardian at the moment.
“Well, how about people that you and your mom didn’t get along with?” Porter asked. “Did you ever hear her arguing with anyone?”
Dalton only shook his head. Mackenzie was pretty sure the kid was on the brink of tears again. As for Kevin, he rolled his eyes while looking directly at Porter.
“No,” he said. “We’re not stupid. We know what you’re trying to ask us. You want to know if we can think of anyone that might have killed our mom. Right?”
Porter looked as if he had been punched in the gut. He glanced nervously over to Mackenzie but managed to get his composure back fairly quickly.
“Well, yes,” he said. “That’s what I’m getting at. But it seems clear that you don’t have any information.”
“You think?” Kevin said.
There was a tense moment where Mackenzie was certain that Porter was going to get harsh with the kid. Kevin was looking at Porter with pain in his expression, almost daring Porter to keep at him.
“Well,” Porter said, “I think I’ve bothered you boys enough. Thanks for your time.”
“Hold on,” Mackenzie said, the objection coming out of her mouth before she was able to think about stopping it.
Porter gave her a look that could have melted wax. It was clear that he felt they were wasting their time talking to these two grief-stricken sons—especially a fifteen-year-old that clearly had issues with authority. Mackenzie shrugged his expression off and knelt down to Dalton’s eye level.
“Listen, do you think you could go hang out in the kitchen with your aunt for a second?”
“Yeah,” Dalton said, his voice ragged and soft.
“Detective Porter, why don’t you go with him?”
Again, Porter’s gaze toward her was filled with hate. Mackenzie stared right back at him, unflinching. She set her face until it felt like stone and was determined to stand her ground on this one. If he wanted to argue, she’d take it outside. But it was clear tha
t even in a situation with two kids and a nearly catatonic woman, he didn’t want to be embarrassed.
“Of course,” he finally said through gritted teeth.
Mackenzie waited a moment as Porter and Dalton walked into the kitchen.
Mackenzie stood back up. She knew that around the age of twelve or so, the tactic of getting down at eye level with kids stopped working.
She looked at Kevin and saw that the defiance he had showed Porter was still there. Mackenzie had nothing against teenagers, but she did know that they were often difficult to work with—especially in the midst of tragic circumstances. But she’d seen how Kevin had responded to Porter and thought she might know how to get through to him.
“Level with me, Kevin,” she said. “Do you feel like we showed up too soon? Do you think we’re being inconsiderate by asking questions so soon after you received the news about your mom?”
“Sort of,” he said.
“Do you just not feel like talking right now?”
“No, I’m fine with talking,” Kevin said. “But that guy is a dick.”
Mackenzie knew this was her chance. She could take a professional, formal approach, as she normally would—or she could use this opportunity to establish a rapport with an angry teenage boy. Teenagers, she knew, above all, cherished honesty. They could see through anything when driven by emotion.
“You’re right,” she said. “He is a dick.”
Kevin stared back at her, wide-eyed. She had stunned him; clearly, he had not expected that response.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that I have to work with him,” she added, her voice layered with sympathy and understanding. “It also doesn’t change the fact that we’re here to help you. We want to find whoever did this to your mother. Don’t you?”