by Willow Rose
I blinked a few times to see better. "What's that?"
"Three cases," she said.
I was suddenly fully awake. "Three?"
She nodded. "Look."
She moved the laptop so that I could better see what she had been working on.
"I didn't even have to hack," she said, smiling. "Nothing illegal. I just found the stories in old online newspapers."
"Details, please," I said.
Emily sent me a smile. "First case I found was from 2010. A young girl, Laurie Roberts, age twenty-four, was found floating in a pond. She was white just like Ella and Nancy, and…her tongue was cut out."
"And tattoos?"
"The articles don't say anything about tattoos. We'll need to get to the autopsy report to find that out."
"Okay, and what about her origins? Where did she come from?"
"She was American," Emily said. "From California. She was backpacking with a friend when she disappeared. Staying at a hostel in Nassau."
"Any connections to Lyford Cay?" I asked.
"It doesn’t say. But it does say that her friend said she had met a man while they were here and that she was supposed to meet up with him when she disappeared. The authorities never found out who the man was."
"A man, huh? Does it say if he was Bahamian or American?" I asked.
Emily shrugged. "Nope."
"Okay, but it still gives us something. What else have you got?" I asked, taking notes on my pad.
"Second victim I found was in 2013, three years later. Also a young white girl, age nineteen, found by a fisherman in the ocean, tongue cut out. Annie Turner was visiting from Mississippi on her high school graduation trip. She was scheduled to fly home on May 30, 2013, but she never showed up at the airport. She was last seen by her classmates outside of Hard Rock Café in Nassau. They said she was hanging out with a couple of local residents. When the three men were questioned, they said they dropped Annie off at her hotel later that same night, and they had no idea what happened to her afterward."
Emily looked up at me and our eyes locked. "One of the men who was questioned was Mr. Sakislov."
I wrinkled my forehead. "Henry's dad?"
She nodded.
"What a strange coincidence," I said.
"Sure is."
43
Nassau, Bahamas, October 2018
"And the third case? You said there were three," I asked. I didn't feel tired at all, even though it was after three o'clock in the morning. This case had just been blown wide open for me.
Emily bit her lip, then nodded.
"Yes. Three years ago, in 2015. Jill Carrigan, age twenty-one, also white, from Arizona was found murdered. She was visiting with a group of college friends on spring break when she disappeared. They were partying downtown, and she met a guy in some bar that she went home with, her friends explained. They never saw her again, and none of them could identify the man, even though they were taken in for a line-up. Jill was found floating in a pool a few days later. Her tongue had been cut out."
"Just like the others," I said. "Whose pool was it?"
"It was at the clubhouse at Lyford Cay."
My eyes grew wide open. "What?"
She nodded.
"Did they have any suspects?" I asked.
"They arrested a man, Juan Garcia, an illegal immigrant who worked as a gardener in Lyford Cay. He confessed to having murdered all three girls. That's probably why the police haven't been talking about the old cases. But get this, according to the toxicology report, all three of them had hydroxybutyric acid in their blood. Also known as liquid ecstasy. It's a date rape drug. The report concluded it was somehow injected into the girls, probably in their thigh where they all had the same puncture wound. The drug was also found among Juan Garcia's possessions."
I rubbed my forehead. "Oh, wow. So, they did believe they had a serial killer, but that he was arrested?"
"Yes."
"So, someone is in prison for committing these three murders, and we believe he's innocent?" I asked. "A scapegoat."
"Just like Sofia. They could easily have planted that drug to make him look guilty."
"Wow. This is getting bigger than I would have ever imagined," I said, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
But it all made a lot more sense now. The police feared for the American tourism, and therefore they quickly found a scapegoat so that they could close the cases, and people felt safe enough to come visit their little piece of paradise. Then, when a new girl showed up like one did seven months ago, they quickly found someone they else could get to confess. They didn't want to accuse any of the inhabitants at Lyford Cay since their business here was too important and their pile of money too big. So instead, they closed their eyes to the fact that one of the world's most lucrative places to live also housed one of the world's worst serial killers. It had to be someone from the inside. No one else had access to the community. You had to be on the list even to visit.
The question remained, who was he and why was he committing these brutal crimes? I had to start by finding out who the guy was. Several of the girls, it was mentioned, had met some guy. And what did Mr. Sakislov have to do with all this? Had he been a suspect in any of the other cases but the public just didn't know?
I looked at Emily. She gave me one of her most endearing smiles.
"You want me to hack, don't you?"
"I never thought I would hear myself say this, but could you…please?"
She chuckled. "My pleasure. I'll see what I can find in the police files. You go back to your beauty sleep."
44
Nassau, Bahamas, October 2018
"Jack, wake up, wake up."
I blinked my eyes. It was light outside. Emily was looking down at me.
"W-what's going on?"
"I got the files," she said. "I copied them and downloaded them to my laptop."
I sat up. "And you're sure no one can track you?"
She scoffed. "They don't have any security at all to protect their information. I could walk right in…so to speak. I left no trace. I’m sure of it."
I got up from the bed and yawned, feeling exhausted. I couldn't quite grasp how Emily managed to seem so alert and like she wasn't tired at all. Was it an age thing? It made me feel old.
"It's your turn now," she said and handed me the computer.
I grabbed it and sat by the small table. Emily stood close to me, looking over my shoulder as I opened the first file, the case of Laurie Roberts. I read the description of how she was found, then opened the photos taken at the scene. I zoomed in on them, then read the autopsy report and wrote things down on my pad. Emily was still staring at me, and I looked up.
"How about you get yourself some sleep?" I asked. "You didn't sleep at all last night."
She bit her nails. "I don't think I can sleep. This is too exciting."
I chuckled. "That wasn't a request. You need your rest. Detectives need to be on full alert, and you can't be that if you're exhausted. Take a few hours, and then I'll tell you everything I’ve found out. When you wake up."
"Right," she said. "We work in shifts."
I chuckled again as I watched her crawl on top of her bed and fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. I listened to her light snoring for a few seconds, then shook my head, feeling overwhelmed with love for her. Whatever was going on with her these days, I liked it. A lot.
I returned to the case, wrote some more notes on my pad, then opened the next case. I read through the autopsy, looked at the photos, and wrote down the list of suspects that were taken in for questioning, then continued to the third case and did the same. When I was done, Emily was still deeply asleep. I felt my stomach growling, so I ran down to the restaurant, grabbed us a few plates of scrambled eggs and bagels, along with a pot of coffee and some cups, then hurried back to the room with it all on a tray.
As I walked inside, Emily had woken up. She was rubbing her eyes, her hair standing out in all directions.
&
nbsp; "Where were you?"
"Got us some breakfast," I said.
I saw her put a hand to her stomach, then watched the fear creep into her eyes as she spotted the food on the tray.
"This was all they had," I said. "There was no more fruit. I know you like fruit."
She glanced briefly at her suitcase containing the scale and notebook. I didn't know if she had been on it the past few days or if she had kept track in her book, but I hoped she hadn't.
"Do you think you might be able to eat this?" I asked cautiously.
She grabbed her stomach, and I could almost sense how she scolded herself for having lost control. She looked up like she wanted me to take over, like she was afraid to make the decision herself.
"It won't hurt you," I said, a sadness growing inside of me. It was brutal to see your daughter fight within herself like that. To see how she looked fearfully at something so ordinary as food. Food that was meant to keep us alive.
She contemplated for a few seconds before making her decision.
"I'll just have some coffee…for now," she said.
45
Bahamas, October 2018
Her head was pounding heavily. It started while she was still passed out and sneaked into her dream. But as the pounding grew worse, Coraline finally opened her eyes with a loud gasp. As she did, she looked into a set of familiar eyes.
Feeling confused, Coraline looked around and sat up on the couch.
"W-here…am I…w-wh…what happened?"
The person bent over her and removed a lock of hair from her face. Coraline didn't like it and pulled away. Maybe it was the way this person was staring at her; maybe it was the place or the dream; she didn't know what it was. But something made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"I should get…going."
Coraline rose to her feet and stood for a few seconds while trying to maintain her balance. She tried to remember what had happened but couldn't recall anything after she had gotten dressed at the club and looked at herself in the mirror. She wondered if she had gotten drunk, but to her surprise, she didn't even remember a second of the date. Had she gotten anything to eat? She was starving, and her mouth was so very dry. Had they gone to a restaurant? She couldn't recall. Not even a little piece of it.
"How did I get here?" she said and looked around in the windowless room. "What time is it?"
The person sitting on the couch sent her a smile that gave her the chills. Coraline ignored it, then walked forward before she stopped and looked around.
"How do you get out of here?"
"You don't," the person answered.
"Excuse me?" Coraline said.
"You don't."
"B-but…I have to…go."
"No, you don't," sounded the answer, eerily calm.
"But…I…"
The person rose and approached Coraline with fast steps. The look in those deeply angry eyes made her wince and back up.
"W-what do you want from me? W-why am I here?"
"Because I want you to be," the person said.
"I…I want to go home," Coraline said. "Please."
She backed up further till she felt the stony wall behind her. The person came closer and closer, then lifted a hand up, almost threateningly, and Coraline winced again, her eyes locking with theirs.
To her surprise, the hand touched her cheek gently, then caressed it, and her shoulders came down once again. Maybe this person didn't want to harm her after all? Despite the look in those deep-set eyes. Despite the fact that this was a room with no windows or doors. Despite the fact that she felt much like a prisoner.
Coraline exhaled, relieved, just in time for the fist to slam into her cheek so hard she knocked her head against the stony wall before sliding to the ground. The next punches that followed felt like a rain of pain, and soon she didn't feel anything anymore.
46
Nassau, Bahamas, October 2018
Emily was holding her cup between her hands. I felt like a pig sitting there eating my bagel and scrambled eggs, while she had nothing. I kept wanting to ask her again if she was certain she didn't want anything, but I didn't want to ruin the mood. We were doing so well.
"So, what did you find out?" she finally asked, breaking the ice. "While I slept?"
Happy to talk about something else, something that interested both of us, I pulled out my notes. I wiped egg off my lips with a napkin, then started to read out loud.
"First of all, I found tattoos on all three of them. They all looked to be recently made."
"That can't be a coincidence, then," she said and sipped her coffee.
"Exactly," I said, then continued, "All three victims had their tongues cut out as well."
"Which tells us the tongue must have some significance to the killer," she concluded.
I gave her an impressed look. "Yes, but what?"
She shrugged. "He wants to deprive them of the ability to speak, maybe? To silence them?"
"Sounds plausible," I said. "It could also refer to a traumatic event in his early life. In all three cases, it was done while they were still alive. The cause of death in all three cases was suffocation as the lungs were filled with blood.”
Emily looked up from her cup. "So, they choked on their own blood?"
I nodded. "I am afraid so."
"Yak."
"I know. It's nasty."
She took another sip. She had that pensive look in her eyes like a million thoughts were running through her mind at once.
"So, he kidnaps them, cuts out their tongues, and lets them bleed to death. Anything else? Sexual abuse?"
I shook my head. "Not according to the autopsy."
"So, the mutilation itself is what gets him off. That's the reason he keeps doing it. He's perfecting it, doing it over and over again. Plus, he has a type; all the girls are similar-looking and have the same origin; they are all American. That must mean he's killing the same person over and over again. Maybe because the real person who is the subject of his anger can't be killed or already has been killed."
"How do you know so much about this stuff?" I asked, quite surprised.
"I’ve been reading a lot. You have many books around the house about this stuff, and then there is a lot about it online."
"So, you've been reading about profiling serial killers just for the fun of it?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I guess."
"I see," I said, impressed, and looked down at my notes, then back at my daughter. "And what do you make of all this, then?"
She chewed on my question a few seconds, then said:
"The tattoos. I think we need to take a closer look at them. At first, I thought it was because they had all been with the same tattoo artist before they were kidnapped, and that was where he had spotted them, but Nancy Elkington's mom said that Nancy would never go into such a place and her friend confirmed that. I don't think that they had them made willingly. I say the key is in the tattoos."
I leaned back in my chair, feeling one of those proud dad moments. I couldn't believe my daughter was so good at all this stuff.
My stuff.
"Then let's do just that," I said and grabbed the laptop.
47
Bahamas, May 1984
It was time for Dylan's bath, and Carla asked the girl to help her out. She was busy in the kitchen getting a big dinner ready for twenty guests that The White Lady had invited that same night. Even though Carla had all the girls in the house working on it, there were still not enough hands, she complained.
So, the girl drew Dylan's bath, filling the tub in his bathroom upstairs, carefully testing the temperature to make sure it wasn't too hot or too cold. Dylan was sitting on the tiles where the girl had told him to sit, staring at his feet. His toes were dirty from playing outside, something The White Lady hated when he did, but he ran out there anyway. The White Lady had seen him out there and screamed for the girls to make sure he was cleaned up for tonight when all her important guests arrived.
<
br /> The girl didn't really understand why the son seemed to be more important than the father, who wasn't there and wouldn't be joining The White Lady for dinner with the important guests. Come to think of it, he hadn't been around for months, and several of the girls in the kitchen were whispering about him, saying that he had left, that he finally had enough of all her yelling and bossing him around.
"Do I have to?" Dylan asked. "Do I have to take a bath?"
The girl nodded. "Your mom says so."
Knowing there was no way to get around his mother's orders, Dylan got undressed and stood naked in front of her. The girl looked down at that thing between his legs, then chuckled. It was the first time she had ever seen one of those, and it was quite tiny and wrinkled, she thought. Nothing much to brag about in her opinion.
Seeing her amusement, Dylan covered himself up and blushed, while she helped him get into the warm water and sink his body down.
The girl then grabbed the soap and started to scrub his back and, lifting his arms, she cleaned his armpits and stomach, rubbing them roughly while images of Gabrielle's dead body being carried out of the shed rushed through her inner eyes, like a movie of deep horror.
The girl tried not to, but every time she was near The White Lady, she would think about it. She could feel that anger rise inside of her and found it hard to hold it back. A couple of months earlier, she had ended up losing it and screaming at her at the top of her lungs. The White Lady had stared at her, eyes wide, when Carla had rushed in, grabbed her by the hand, and dragged her out of the living room, apologizing to The White Lady, telling her she would take care of it and punish the girl properly.
Back in the kitchen, she had scolded the girl and told her never to do that again, never to raise her voice at The White Lady again if she wanted to stay alive. The girl had listened to her words, but they hadn't taken root. She couldn't help herself. Every time she was near her, she was filled with such anger, she wasn't sure she would be able to hold it back much longer.