A Killer’s Wife

by Methos, Victor

  Another officer said, “You sure there was no rape? I mean, people can hide that sort of thing.”

  “No, there is no indication in either Mrs. Olsen or Mrs. Dean that there was any sexual assault, which is the major difference between this copycat and Eddie Cal.”

  “I mean, why do it, then? Aren’t all these guys just crazy perverts?”

  Baldwin said, “I think maybe Ms. Yardley from the US Attorney’s Office can better answer that question and give us an outline of what we’re probably looking for. Her advanced degrees in forensic and clinical psychology and experience prosecuting sex crimes make her a valuable asset in this investigation.”

  Yardley knew he had thrown in the line about her education and experience to establish her authority for the male officers. Still, she wished he hadn’t asked her to address them. She could tell them nothing about who did this.

  She stepped forward. “We used to believe that the murder itself was the sexual act. In this case, a profiler, even from just ten years ago, would say this unknown subject is likely impotent. Either it’s purely psychosomatic, or he’s suffered some sort of injury that prevents him from attaining an erection. The knife was a surrogate for his sexual function. He’s probably Caucasian and in his early to late thirties, and an alcoholic or drug abuser with extremely high intelligence.”

  She glanced at the officer who’d asked the question. “That type of profiling, through massive data accumulation by everyone from the CDC to the WHO, has been proven false. The fact is we don’t really know why these men do what they do. The latest research suggests an organic origin: for example, a malformation in the amygdala—the region of the brain responsible for regulation of emotions—that leads to a misfiring of the sexual and violent impulse. According to one theory, these men quite literally believe that sex and violence are the same thing.”

  She glanced to Baldwin, who was watching her.

  “On the other end of the spectrum, you have Dr. Daniel Sarte, a professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and probably the world’s most respected authority on violent psychopathology. He believes the origins are not organic, that these men very willingly choose to do what they do, and that they are adept at separating themselves from their actions. That they—again, quite literally—believe they are passengers watching the suffering they inflict, that they’re not the ones doing it. Many serial sexual murderers have reported a ‘dark voice’ that whispers to them and tells them what to do. In both theories, the offenders are typically, though not always, of high intelligence. Which is why they’re so difficult to catch.”

  “What?” another officer, a man with a buzz cut, said. “You think he’s smart?”

  “The crime scene is spotless in terms of forensics, and the clever way he distracted them with the alarm, whether to ensure no one was near the garage when he entered or for some other purpose, shows logical, systematic thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in one of the technical or medical professions, like an engineer or medical doctor. Many serial murderers that display this type of complex thinking come from those backgrounds.”

  The watch commander said, “Do you think we have a couple weeks to find him before the next one?”

  “While these two sets of murders were three weeks apart, the cycle typically accelerates.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “Serial murderers of this type kill in cycles. There’re six phases. The first is the aura phase, where the killer loses his connection to reality and begins living purely in the fantasy world in his mind. The fantasy leads him to the trolling phase, where he begins to actively search for victims, and then into the luring phase, where he plans how to entice the victim into a vulnerable position. Then the capture phase, which in this instance is his invasion into the home. Followed by the actual murder phase, and finally a severe depression phase after the high of the murder fades. There are many instances of serial murderers committing suicide in the depression phase.”

  “Shit yeah, let’s hope,” one of the officers said to chuckling.

  Yardley grinned. How relieved she would be to have this case resolve in such a clean way. It wouldn’t be, though. Monsters like this could cling to their diseased lives with manic desperation. What Eddie Cal had done after being caught was proof of that.

  As though her thoughts were transparent, another officer raised a hand. “You’re the ex-wife of Eddie Cal, aren’t you?”

  The officers went completely silent, all eyes glued to her.

  Every so often, freelance paparazzi selling photographs to the highest bidder would show up in her life, and her photo would circulate again. She recalled one headline—“Bride of Frankenstein”—above a photo of her going into a grocery store. She had caught Tara reading that particular article on her laptop.

  Yardley could feel their stares on her skin and had to resist the urge to turn away.

  “I am.”

  “So is that why you’re on this? Because you know so much about it?”

  “I’m here,” she said, “because this is the type of case I handle at the US Attorney’s Office.”

  “But you’ve gotta have some thoughts on why this guy is doing it, right? You were married to it.”

  Baldwin tried to say something, but Yardley spoke first.

  “The psychopathology of copycats is massively different from that of the perpetrators they copy. The copycat is more similar to a stalker than what we would consider a serial sexual predator. The killing, for them, is a means to an end, whereas for a true sexual sadist, the killing itself is the end. So I’m afraid my . . . past doesn’t come to bear on this. We’ll have to catch him with just good old-fashioned police work.”

  Baldwin said, “That’s why it’s so important for us to make sure we share everything we have. I know all about the pissing contests we could get into and the who did what when. I don’t care about credit for this. I don’t need or want my name in the papers. I want one of you to catch him, or for him to kill himself or, shit, get struck by lightning. I don’t care. I just want to stop him. So please, please, please, don’t hog any leads. Let’s get this bastard and watch him fry for this.”

  Several of the officers nodded along. The watch commander took over from there and fielded a few questions. They would canvass the Olsens’ neighborhood again, going a few blocks farther this time, hoping a neighbor had seen someone they didn’t recognize.

  Yardley knew it was pointless. Cal had only gone out at night. He would kiss her before he left and tell her he felt inspired and had to go to his studio to paint. Once, his mother had called late at night, and they’d had a conversation about what a hard worker Eddie was. She still took Tara every year to the Cals’ ranch to see her grandparents. She wondered if the memory of that conversation made his mother feel a dim nausea as well.

  How many times did he crawl into bed with me after butchering a family? Did he shower first in our bathroom, the blood washing away in the same tub I took baths in?

  An image forced itself into her mind: her nude body in a bathtub overflowing with dark blood.

  Yardley noticed her hands trembling, and she pressed them together and held them low so no one would see.

  The briefing ended, and the watch commander shook Ortiz’s and Baldwin’s hands and nodded to Yardley as the officers filed out.

  “Have you checked the sex offenders?” Yardley asked Baldwin.

  “Interviewed everyone in North Las Vegas and was going to start today in Washington County.”

  In serial murder investigations, registered sex offenders were a treasure trove of potential suspects. The man power needed to question everyone in an area was enormous, but with the FBI’s resources and the incentive for local law enforcement to avoid causing public panic by labeling this the work of a serial predator, she had no doubt it was a priority.

  “I want to help,” she said.

  He watched her a moment. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jess, you don�
�t have—”

  “I’m fine, Cason.”

  He watched her a second longer and said, “Oscar is going out in a couple hours after he checks with some parole officers. I have a meeting with the SAC to give him some updates, and I’ll meet up with you guys after.” He paused and glanced to the officers filing out. “If it ever gets to the point where you can’t take it, there’s no shame in that. No case is worth your mental well-being.”

  “If he is a copycat, then Eddie is as responsible for these murders as he is for his own. There was nothing I could do before, but I can now.”

  Baldwin put his hands in his pockets, his lower lip tucking behind his top lip, an expression he made whenever he was mulling something over. “Okay, but just don’t forget that this isn’t Eddie Cal, and you don’t owe these victims anything.”

  “Explain that to Isaac Olsen.”

  9

  By evening, she and Ortiz had conducted eight interviews. Yardley’s back ached, and she was starving. Most of the offenders had decent alibis, and the few that had said they’d been home alone didn’t fit the picture Yardley had in her head. They would be cleared, too, once their internet usage and cell data on the nights of the killings had been verified.

  She liked Ortiz. During their drive, he’d talked a lot about his new baby daughter and about how he’d come into law enforcement. It made her curious if he knew more about Baldwin’s childhood, about his mother’s murder, than she did, but he said Baldwin never spoke about it.

  In the car on the way to their last interview of the day, Ortiz said, “There’s been somethin’ I been dyin’ to ask you and I don’t know if it’s appropriate or not.”

  “Really? This should be good. Go ahead.”

  “Eddie Cal. Did you ever feel like somethin’ was off? You talk to neighbors of guys like that, and they all say the same thing, that somethin’ just never felt right about him but they could never say what. I just wonder ’cause I think we all got instinct to help us survive. You ever read The Gift of Fear? See, fear is a gift to us—it helps us stay away from danger even when we don’t know danger is there. I’m just curious if you ever had that.”

  Yardley stared out the window at the passing stores in a strip mall. Liquor stores, smoke shops, and now a marijuana dispensary. A relatively new addition to Las Vegas.

  After a good ten seconds, she finally said, “No, never.”

  “Not ever?” he said. “The entire marriage?”

  “Not even once. He was, objectively, the sweetest, most charming man I have ever met. There wasn’t a person that Eddie ever said a harsh word to.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s finish with this fool and then grab a burger. There’s this awesome burger place like three blocks from his house.”

  They pulled up to an apartment complex on the outskirts of town. One-story buildings with flat roofs. Yardley thought they looked more like storage units than apartments. Behind the complex a hill led up into the sand dunes.

  “Dilbert Morgan,” Ortiz said as they parked. “You believe that? Dilbert? That just sounds like a sex offender name. It’s like a hundred bucks to change it.”

  Ortiz knocked on the door as Yardley glanced around. The apartments had small patios and yards in back, most of them filled with old patio furniture and dying plants.

  “Dilbert, open the door. This is Oscar Ortiz with the FBI. I need to talk to you. You’re not in any trouble, but we gotta talk.”

  He pounded again.

  “Not home, and he don’t work. His PO said he didn’t answer when he called him yesterday and today, too.”

  “Might’ve gone out camping or something.”

  Ortiz shook his head. “He’s new on the registry. He’s not allowed to leave the city without his PO’s approval.”

  Yardley heard something from the back patio. She stepped around the corner of the building and saw a man opening the gate in the patio’s fence. He looked at her for a second and then sprinted down the alley behind the buildings.

  “He’s running.”

  “Shit,” Ortiz said, booking it after him.

  Yardley phoned Baldwin, who told her he’d have police down there ASAP. He told her to get in the car and stay put.

  Yardley walked to the back patio. She couldn’t see the man or Ortiz, and she didn’t hear them either. The gate was still open. She pushed it wider and peeked inside. Sliding glass doors led into the apartment. She glanced around and then went in.

  The apartment was quiet and smelled like sweat. She felt her pulse pounding in her throat. Maybe it was best to wait outside like Baldwin had suggested. There was no good reason for her to be in here; she wasn’t an investigator. Still, the curiosity was too much. Most sex offenders had been conditioned to cooperate with law enforcement fully. For one to run meant that potentially getting shot struck him as a better prospect than what would happen if he were caught. Whoever had killed the Olsens and Deans wouldn’t let himself be taken alive.

  On the coffee table in front of a worn brown couch were piles of marijuana and an ashtray filled with used cigarette butts. The kitchen light was on. Bottles of whiskey and vodka lined the area behind the sink. Yardley leaned around into the hall that led to the bedroom and said, “Hello? Anyone here?”

  A bathroom was to the right, dirty and smelling of urine. The sink was filled with old shavings and crusted toothpaste. Several amber pill bottles lined the sink, and she took a quick look. Some of them were antipsychotics.

  A text arrived from Baldwin that said, They’re on their way. Talked to Oscar. He lost him up a hill.

  A noise came from the bedroom.

  Yardley froze.

  She tiptoed to the doorway. The bed wasn’t made, and the sheets were filthy with cigarette ash and stains. The closet doors were closed. She was about to turn away when she heard it again.

  A slight shuffling. Like shoes on carpet.

  “Hello?”

  Yardley reached into her purse and took out her canister of Mace. She didn’t hear any sirens outside.

  Yardley swallowed and stepped closer to the closet. “Is someone there?”

  Slowly, her heartbeat deafening in her ears, she held the Mace up with one hand and opened the closet door.

  A young woman lay on the floor, her hands and feet bound. Duct tape covered her mouth. Makeup mixed with tears ran down her cheeks.

  Hysteria overtook the woman. She started sobbing and thrashing, and her shoulder hit Yardley in the cheek as she tried to help her to her feet. Yardley wrapped her arms around her, using all her strength to keep the woman from striking her. She felt the woman’s heartbeat against her chest: it felt like the hammering of a fist.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay . . . I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The woman wept uncontrollably, and Yardley felt her body give up and collapse. The woman tossed her head back against the wall, unable even to breathe. Yardley pulled the duct tape from her mouth.

  “Please . . . please get me out of here. Please!”

  “I know. I know,” Yardley said, trying to calm her. She removed the rest of the duct tape and called 911, requesting an ambulance.

  “We can wait outside. Come on. The police and ambulance are on their way.”

  They exited onto the patio and turned toward the parking lot just as Ortiz came back. His eyes went wide, and he said, “Holy shit.”

  Yardley leaned against Ortiz’s Cadillac and watched the paramedics evaluate the woman in the back of the ambulance. Several uniforms were there along with Ortiz and Baldwin, who were interviewing neighbors and going through Dilbert Morgan’s apartment. Baldwin came up to her and said, “I shouldn’t have let you come out. This was really stupid of me.”

  “I’m fine, Cason.”

  “Yeah, but you might not have been. What if he decided to circle back? I put you at risk, and I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything. I chose to go into that apartment. I could’ve sat out in the car. It wasn’t your choice.�
�� She motioned toward the woman with her head. “Who is she?”

  “Rachel Miller. Dilbert’s girlfriend. She said he lost it last night. She came over and he was pacing the apartment, mumbling to himself. He said something about her being in on it and tied her up and stuck her in the closet.”

  “I found antipsychotics in the bathroom. He might have had a psychotic break. Any luck finding him?”

  Baldwin shook his head. “He ran into the sand dunes. I’m sure it won’t be long.”

  “Did you find anything in his apartment?”

  He exhaled and glanced back at Rachel. “Nothing yet. No weapons, not even kitchen knives. Probably doesn’t keep them around because of his condition. He left his phone and I’m having the tech with the St. George PD unlock it so we can see what’s there. What do you think, though? He fits your profile pretty well.”

  “It’s not a profile. Just some broad guesses I gave to the police because you put me on the spot. I have little idea what the man we’re looking for is like. You should consult with Daniel.”