Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank. “You’re still here,” he said, bouncing the ball against the wall. “Too hardheaded for your own good.”
“You ready to talk about the tantrum you threw this morning?”
“You ready to talk about the tantrum you didn’t throw on July 22, 2001?”
Jazz flinched at the mention of that day. She almost choked on the lump that formed in her throat. She had the sensation of a broken fingernail running down her spine. Beneath her black, oversized clothing her skin rashed with goosebumps. Bile crept up her throat like a prowler. But all she could taste was despair, tasted regret, tasted excruciating physical and mental pain. Sweat beaded her brow as a taut silence kidnapped and strangled the room. She staggered on her feet, fighting desperately to maintain equilibrium.
“You look a little woozy,” Jaden said. “Seems like you need to take a seat.”
“How do you know?” she whispered.
“You’d be surprised at what I know.” Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
Jazz crumpled into the chair of the computer workstation nestled in the corner of the room because she had to. Her long brown legs were no longer reliable. Her blank stare fell to the window and the clear blue sky beyond it. She looked into a vision of what was supposed to be the happiest day of every woman’s life. But for her, that day her self-esteem was torn into two irreplaceable pieces. Her self-worth was stolen forever. The horrific memory played across her mind like a video clip.
• • •
Over fifty law enforcement officers of various agencies gathered in a large conference room on the third floor of the Justice Center. A timeline was drawn on a dry-erase board to keep track of case developments since the discovery of Yancee Taylor’s mutilated corpse. The main blue vein of the timeline had several arteries branching out in various directions and colors. At the end of a green artery, written in Aspen’s ultra girly handwriting, was the message the Hieroglyphic Hacker had carved into Yancee’s body. She underlined Eubanks’ name twice because the threat bothered her twice as much. A large city map was tacked to a bulletin board. A blue-headed stickpin marked the spot where Yancee was found.
County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport walked in with a hell of a strut. The collective chatter stopped. She turned every head in the room. Her smile was easy. The scar on her face made her look like a beautiful battle-ready warrior. She wore a classy Oscar de la Renta number with a metallic gray python Nina bag thrown over her shoulder and matching shoes. She looked more like a Show magazine centerfold than a prosecutor. She took a seat in the front row next to Chief Dwight Eisenhower.
The corners of Hakeem’s mouth turned up to a stupid grin. Aspen elbowed the silly smile off his face. She knew then and there that she didn’t like Scenario Davenport.
FIFTY-FOUR
Jazz had done everything right. Believed in God and saved her virtue for her husband. She stood tall and proud like a princess in their Marriott suite. She felt beautiful in her long floor-skimming wedding gown. She felt worthy of standing before such a wonderful man, but she was a huge ball of nervous energy. Most she’d ever done was kiss a boy and done some exploratory touching. But now she was about to go all the way. She slowly turned around—imaging his tender touch—so Leon could unbutton her wedding gown. Nervous giggles poured from her as his fingers freed each clasp.
Her dress hit the floor, exposing her slender frame, the sensual bra and panty set she picked out especially for him. She felt safe and sexy revealing herself to her husband. As his gaze eased along the length of her back, she prayed that she could please him sexually. What she didn’t know, she promised herself to be open-minded so she could learn.
Leon turned up his nose with transparent disgust. “You should really be grateful for me. Life did you a favor.”
A stone dropped in the pit of Jazz’s stomach and ripped the lining out. The condescension in his tone was a brand-new being. One that she never witnessed within their union. She precariously faced him, afraid that if she tipped too far either way, her nausea would hit the floor. Jazz was vulnerable and visibly trembling. “What…what do you mean?”
“That someone like me felt sorry for you and actually married you. You owe me.”
Those words knocked more than the wind out of Jazz. They tore out her beating heart. She was taken aback. Instinctively her mind retreated and her feet followed close behind as she stepped away from him.
Leon clenched a sturdy grip around her wrist, yanking her back in place. “Stand here and don’t move again.” Then: “And wipe that look off your face. I’m doing you a favor. Look at you, you’re ugly and too skinny. Nobody in their right mind wants you. No tits. Your ass is flat. What am I supposed to do with any of this?” He snatched her bra off and shook his head.
Jazz wanted to cover her crawling flesh. This wasn’t the respect Leon vowed to less than an hour ago in front of their minister, family, and God. The first time she showed her body to a man, he responded to it negatively. This wasn’t what she dreamt her first time would be like. This was nothing like the beautiful description she internalized from the numerous romance novels she read. Jazz always imagined fireworks, shooting stars, an indescribable pleasure. She always thought her first time would allow her to experience the meaning of ecstasy. She never entertained the thought that she would be made to feel unloved and ugly.
She said, “What was all that lovey-dovey stuff you were whispering in my ear before we got married? If you felt like this, why even marry me?”
Leon reared back and smacked her face swollen. Jazz existed somewhere between shock and confusion. This betrayed the protection he promised her. Her eyes were frozen wide with fear. Without thinking of her actions her fingertips found the raw skin of her face.
“Don’t ever question me, and don’t you ever fix your mouth to talk back to me,” Leon said through his teeth. “Those are the first rules you’ll learn to comply with, the easy way or the hard way.” He squeezed her wrist to give her a true taste of his strength and dominance. “You’re mine now. Good wives live according to their husband’s rules.” He appraised the value of her features again with unmixed disgust. “Your eyes are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen in my life. Stop looking at me with them.”
She downcast her gaze and cried.
“I’ll get you a pair of sunglasses so I don’t have to see them again.”
A cold emptiness of continental proportions surged through her veins like ice water. No, this wasn’t love and honor; it was tyranny. She sobbed and covered her body with her arms as best as she could. Instantly she became self-conscious of her feminine attributes. No other soul would see her so exposed for as long as she lived.
“And do yourself and the entire world a favor,” he said. “Don’t hop your ass in another picture. You have no right. Ugly doesn’t photograph well.” Then: “Have I made myself clear, wife?” He loosened his tie.
Jazz was too horrified and too everything else to say anything. She was hoping to wake up and find that she was an unwilling participant of a nightmare.
Leon got pissed and raised his voice. “Am. I. Making. Myself. Clear?” He raised his hand, threatening to strike her if she didn’t answer correctly.
Jazz flinched and nodded in one motion.
“Trust me when I tell you that I’m the only person who has the heart to attempt loving you. No one else cares about you. No other man will tolerate the likes of you.”
She sobbed like never before.
“You are no longer allowed to speak with your family without my permission. I’m your mother, your father, your sister, your brother.” He flung his tuxedo shirt to the bed. “You will keep my house spotless at all times and have my dinner prepared by four o’clock every day.” He kicked his shoes off. “When your chores are done, then and only then can you write your imaginary stories. All your royalty checks come to me.” He unzipped the fly of his tuxedo pants. “When I allow you the special privilege to be seen with me in public, you walk two paces behind
me—always on my inside. I pray that you like to learn the hard way. That would really turn me on, because my rules have several consequences when broken.” He stepped out of his pants, then took off his underwear. “Now let me see if this pussy satisfies her husband. It better if you know what’s good for you. Take them panties off, bend over the bed, and hide your ugly face in the pillow while I break you in.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
The ideal companionship Jazz shared with Leon died the moment she stood at the altar gazing into his seemingly innocent eyes. It all died the moment she said “I do.” Getting married and losing her virginity were the two worst and most painful things that had ever happened to her. On her honeymoon she learned what the consequence was of not satisfying Leon in bed—his fists while he was inside her.
After the brutal ripping of her hymen, he cleaned the mess of blood from his penis with her sparkling white wedding gown, then beat her and told her it was a wedding gift. Through fear, intimidation, and the threat that her family would be harmed if she ever spoke a word of her abuse, Jazz became a submissive and obedient wife over the years. She had the trial-and-error scars to prove it. When Leon divorced her because she had snapped and gone crazy, all he left behind was a hollow shell of a woman.
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank. “Read about people like you. You’re the classic definition of a functional dysfunctional.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
“I know you sublimate hurt and pain into bestsellers.” He spun the ball on his finger. “You pretend to be happy living in a self-deprecating vacuum.”
“Is that what you think is wrong with me?” Jazz raised a brow above her sunglasses.
“I know you have little regard for your worth. Be yourself—your real self. Not whoever this imposter is hiding behind dumb ball caps, ugly sunglasses, and those dark clothes that are way too big for you.”
Be herself, she thought. If only Jazz knew whom herself really was. Ever since her wedding night, she no longer had use for an identity.
“Know what your problem is?” Jaden said.
“Nope, but I’m sure your smart ass has a theory.” Jazz dismissively waved a hand and stared back out the window into the sky. She wanted to be pissed because he hit home and had read her true, but she couldn’t zero in on the emotion. In the few minutes she had been in his room, he’d stripped her bare and left only her nerve endings exposed.
“You’re afraid to live, afraid to love someone again. You compensate real life for fiction. The real you hides beneath the layers of your characters because you’re running from yourself. Your real story. You pour so much emotion and love into your books, but you’re afraid to express those feelings in real life where it counts. Pathetic.”
“Watch how you talk to me.”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank. “Or what? I’m not the person you should have taken a stance with. You know I’m right and that’s what keeps you awake at night.” Then: “And what scares you even more. Every time you look at me, you see the face of your greatest fear.” Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
Jaden brought back memories too frightening to explore any further, but too intrusive to ignore. Jazz wanted to trust and feel safe and beautiful. She wanted to outwardly express love and know she would genuinely receive it in return. But her only relationship didn’t support any of those notions ever being a possibility. She no longer believed Twin Flames existed. Happiness was a hot commodity that left her bankrupt when she’d invested. The only happy endings she’d ever known to be true were the ones she penned into bestsellers; the ones she imagined and fantasized for herself; the ones that didn’t magnify her fear of death.
FIFTY-SIX
Scenario’s skin crawled. She had an eerie feeling she was being watched; a feeling she couldn’t shake. The short hairs on her neck stood like pine needles. She felt the heat of a familiar gaze on her. She jerked around in her seat—heart pounding—to the faces of complete strangers.
Brenda McGinnis, a sharp FBI profiler from Quantico’s Investigative Support Unit, stepped to the front of the room. She was one of the few ISU agents who traveled the country profiling serial killers and giving professional advice to law enforcement agencies on how to apprehend them. Brenda got right down to business painting a psychological portrait of the unidentified subject.
“The unsub fits historical homicidal models like the Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, Unruh, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Ted Bundy to a tee,” she said. “That means we can catch him because we can predict his movements, his state of mind. He’s impulsive. Lacks normal anxiety. He has no behavioral control. His emotional deficit is his central flaw. He’s a risk taker. The unsub is definitely a white male from a middle-class background with an above average IQ. The fact that he has targeted all African Americans suggest that he’s either a member or supporter of a hate group or aberrant ideologies.”
Scenario felt the sharp gaze tighten its focus on her. She rubbed the back of her neck hoping her hand would break the ray of heat.
Detective Aspen Skye spoke up: “The authorities in Denver haven’t found any connection among their victims. It’s too early in our investigation to know if Yancee Taylor has any connection to either of the Denver victims. So how do you think the unsub is selecting these people? Is it a build? A look? A particular act?”
“Among the two females and five males,” Detective Leonardo Scott said, “none of the Denver victims are similar in build or complexion.”
“An act?” Brenda McGinnis’ brows pinched. “Interesting. That’s an angle worth taking a thorough look at. It’s highly probable that the victims offended the unsub in some way and he’s seeking revenge through homicidal rages.”
“That would mean he knows his victims,” a uniformed officer in the crowd said.
“Not necessarily.” Detective Hakeem Eubanks loosened his tie. “I turn on the news every day and get offended by people and their acts who I don’t know.”
Brenda McGinnis jumped back in: “If the unsub doesn’t personally know the victims, he uses one hell of a credible ruse to lure people from safety to danger.”
“Not just people,” Detective Skye said, “risky people. He isn’t killing addicts, runaways, or street people who won’t be reported missing. He’s killing taxpayers with solid family structures. People who start to be missed when they’re an hour late.”
“Are you implying that the unsub is using disguises, Agent McGinnis?” Hakeem said.
“I believe his ruse is his profession, which we know has roots in the medical field.” Brenda McGinnis paused to sip water from a Dixie cup. “Maybe he’s a doctor who treated abused children and now he’s killing off their abusers.”
For some reason Scenario’s thoughts were tugged toward Chance. That gave her the creeps on top of the weird feelings she was already having. Was it a coincidence that Chance and Yancee were friends and now… She shut that mental picture down before it grew into something unruly. Chance wouldn’t hurt a fly outside of a boxing ring. She was certain that Chance would be devastated when he caught wind of Yancee’s death.
Detective Eubanks’ voice pulled her from her reverie. “Whatever the case,” he said. “In each killing, the Hieroglyphic Hacker has spent a lot of time in private settings writing on the victims with a scalpel without fear of interruption, certain that he could pack up his murder kit and walk away from the scene of the crime.”
Chief Eisenhower stood up, his belly straining against the fabric and buttons of his shirt. “This is the first of many gatherings of this cross-jurisdictional task force until we nail this guy. And there will be no sleep until that happens, I promise you. We have established a tip hotline. County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport will make the number available to the public in a press conference within the hour.” He had a brief coughing fit and then continued. “Brenda McGinnis will remain charged with advising us on how to nab this crackpot. Representing Denver, Colorado, is Detective Leonardo Scott.”<
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Detective Scott tipped his Stetson in a “Howdy” fashion like a real-deal cowboy.
“Through him Denver’s task force is coordinating their efforts with ours. And the press isn’t in this room for one goddamn reason.” Chief Eisenhower burned a hole in Hakeem with a laser stare. “Because they don’t have a goddamn dog in this hunt.”
A hand went up in the back of the room.
Brenda McGinnis said, “Go ahead, Officer…”
“Officer Raygor,” the officer said, gesturing to the timeline on the dry-erase board. “It seems like we’re overlooking the obvious. Find the unsub’s connection to Detective Eubanks and we will find our killer.”
That voice shot a cold chill down Scenario’s spine.
FIFTY-SEVEN
A deluge of cops gushed out of the conference room and spilled into the guts of the Justice Center. Office Raygor didn’t walk too fast or too slow. He stepped at just a smooth enough tempo to go unnoticed. The afternoon sun washed over him as he came out the building and stepped onto Ontario Avenue.
He carefully maneuvered—never a backward glance—around a growing mob of media people and eased down the avenue to his car. His police uniform was crisp and squeaked with each step. The squeaking abruptly stopped when he saw a parking ticket under the windshield wiper blade of his Infiniti M37. The meter still had two minutes to the good. Some fucking meter maid was trying to reach a quota, he thought.
He plucked the ticket from the windshield as a burst of lakefront wind blew it from his fingertips and into four-lane traffic. He watched the ticket ride the anxiety-free wind like a surfer planted her feet on a Ron Jon board and rode a crisp six-foot wave. That damn ticket could pose a serious fucking problem. He had a decision to make: chase it down, drawing attention to himself, and risk being filmed by the media thirty feet behind him or let it roll and hope the dice landed on a winner.
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