Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  A few minutes in, I can see that this isn’t the girl’s first rodeo. Pamela may be the dominatrix, but this girl is in charge, that’s obvious. She knows exactly what she wants or is it likes. It’s hard to tell when she spends most of the time squealing. I have to fast-forward when Pamela starts connecting croc clips to the girl in places croc clips just shouldn’t go.

  I get to the end and as before, it finishes with the young girl still cuffed to the bed iron. I freeze the last frame and scrutinize the girl. Thin, short-cropped black hair. A nose-pin with what looks like a skull on it. I can tell she has dark eyes, but can’t tell the color. I would guess ninety-five pounds, five foot six. Pale skin. She doesn’t look healthy.

  I study her expression in that one frame. This is one I’ll print and consult my favorite shrink with next week. My interpretation includes pleasure for sure, but there’s something else. Something less positive. Perhaps even dangerous. Maybe this is the femoral slasher?

  I capture this frame and send it to the printer nearest my desk, close the Galaxy S8, and head to the printer to pick it up before taking it back to my cubicle.

  I put the picture in a file I’ve created for Miss X and turn my attention back to the Galaxy S8. There are some documents in there I haven’t yet looked at. Being me, I start with the first and work down. Orderly.

  The first dozen mean nothing to me at all. Some relate to music, others to meetings she either attended or was planning to. The only thing of interest is that the events are all from three years ago, which ties in to when Pamela hung up her dominatrix outfit and retired. It also matches to the Galaxy S8 being the most recent device released. I’m now confident this was her last client.

  Further down I come to a folder and open it to find a collection of files within it. Each has a name. There are eight in total. All male.

  Arden Kotnik

  Terrance Frazier

  Laurence Spencer

  Paget Vicic

  Josh Ransom

  Coleman Kaler

  Jon Smith

  Joseph Wright

  I open the first. Arden Kotnik. Polish, living in West Palm Beach. Twenty-eight, single and employed as a groundsman at the Breakers Ocean Golf Club.

  Then the next. Terrance Frazier. Yugoslavian, twenty-three, single and living in Fort Pierce on the East Coast. A waiter at the Thirsty Turtle.

  And again. Laurence Spencer. Born in Florida, twenty-five, single, living up in Tallahassee. A porter at Florida State University.

  I keep going, but a pattern is forming, and the rest all conform. They’re all single. All in their twenties, and all live and work in Florida, although widely spread from north to south.

  Why would this young teenage girl have files on these men? Why would she have researched their details? Did she know them? If so, how?

  I then think back to what I’ve seen on the video. I made her around sixteen, and if I’m right about her being Pamela’s last client, then she must now be around nineteen, maybe twenty. But I also remember thinking she wasn’t new to the game. So, I dread to think what age she might have been when she picked up her previous experience. And what is it that makes her seek pain for pleasure?

  There’s another problem rattling around in my head. I know I can tie all of Pamela’s other clients to her career choices. And each of her clients are senior enough to afford her blackmail charges. Where does this young girl fit in?

  More questions than answers. I’ve been there often enough. All I can do is start looking into these eight names. See what I can turn up.

  I start with Motor Vehicle and License status. The easiest way to find both date of birth and a photo. All eight are registered. Their DOBs agree with the ages in the girl’s files, as do their photos. The only odd thing I come across is that three of their licenses have expired. Then I remember during my time as a State Trooper, how many people drive not only with expired licenses, but no licenses at all. Not to mention insurance. So, maybe not that odd.

  Next I try the old faithful criminal arrest records. They’ve prosecuted two for sexual abuse of minors. The others have accumulated a few misdemeanors, but there are no red flags. They seem mostly like regular citizens on the up-and-up.

  Looking into more detail about the two sexual abuse cases, they both involved seventeen-year-old girls, and the men had been barely older. Illegal, but the case files read more like boyfriends and girlfriends to me, which explains the light sentencing - community service, which I’ve never come across before. They must have both come in front of a detective’s nightmare - a liberal-minded Judge.

  Thinking about the rest being regular citizens makes me look into immigration status. Again, there are only three immigrants, and they’re already green-card holders with two of those already US citizens. More evidence to say they’re just regular guys.

  Now it’s time to get more personal. Look into the backgrounds of the eight men and their families. Births, marriages and deaths.

  I’m still working through them in the same order, so start with Arden Kotnik. Born in Zabki on the outskirts of Warsaw, Poland. Moved to America with his parents. He was ten then. No marriage. Died four years ago.

  Now I’m not expecting that. So, on one of these detective hunches, I try his name in the system and come up trumps.

  Arden Kotnik. A homicide case - open for the past four years. Someone stabbed him to death at his home in Kenwood Estates, Palm Springs.

  I’m now getting a nervous sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I skip the family research on the next name and type it straight into our system. Up comes the answer I feared. A homicide case in Fort Pierce further north on the east coast of the State. Open for two years.

  One after another, I type the names, and quickly find that six of them are open homicide cases, spread around Florida, all in the past six years. All knifed to death. Either this girl was collecting data on knife killings from press articles, or she’s a killer. I don’t know which, but I know where I would put my money if I had any.

  The oldest open case is for Laurence Spencer up in Tallahassee six years ago. If my estimate of the girl as sixteen in Pamela’s video is correct, she would have only been thirteen then. Fuck.

  I need time to let all this sink in, and am just thinking about a fresh brew, when I check the time and remember my promise to attend Joey’s spirit-passing with my family. I still have no car and it would be an expensive cab ride, so I grovel on hands and knees in front of the duty sergeant until he takes pity on me. A patrol SUV isn’t the ideal vehicle to take to a spirit-passing ceremony, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  26

  Joey’s ceremony is taking place at my Aunt’s home. I think Mama and Papa get a kick out of arriving in the patrol SUV. I’m tempted to put the light-bar on for them, but any complaint might cause a problem if I need to borrow it again, which I probably will at some point. Still, it’s an impressive enough entry.

  Fortunately, our family is not large by Native American Indian standards, so we manage to squeeze all two dozen relatives into my Aunt’s modest home. The incense burning and chanting have already started when we arrive. I find Mama a seat close to her sister and stand at the back with Papa.

  Joey’s elder brother tells us about some fun times they had growing up together, then his sister follows.

  Listening, I don’t recognize the person I’d just seen the week before. I guess times like these, we focus on the good bits and let the rest go by.

  We sing songs and speak prayers. Chant and then pass round the ceremonial pipe to inhale. I’ve done this before and know how to avoid choking and coughing.

  It’s a happy ceremony. Childhood stories. Funny moments. Joey’s papa even recalled some of his son’s more troublesome moments with a tinge of humor.

  Overall, I think the family have done him proud.

  It’s late by the time I take my parents home and I agree to stay over. It will be easy enough to nip home early to change before going to the offi
ce.

  Mama shows me to my childhood room. Other than having a larger bed, everything else is the same. It’s comforting. Little do I know it’s the calm before the storm.

  I’m on I75 driving south by five-thirty. I’ll be home by six, showered, changed and in the office by seven. Today, I’m going to talk over my most recent findings with Dan. We need to decide how best to approach the investigation from here on. This is going to be State-wide. Someone is going to have to lead, and I have a funny feeling I know who that’s going to be.

  I give Dan a five-minute brief of the highlights and he stops me in my tracks. Lifts the phone and asks if the Sheriff is free. Apparently he is. And that’s where we head next.

  I’ve rarely ever seen the Sheriff out from behind his desk, and today is no exception. The Under-Sheriff is already there when we arrive and nods his welcome. He’s in his usual position. Couched on the arm of a sofa, giving his massive girth room to hang on either side. Dan and I get the two plastic chairs. My butt isn’t pleased.

  The Sheriff asks me to start from the beginning, so I start right back at the death of one of our own. Mark Jason. I give them to the full lengthy story, and am glad when Bill Putinski asks if we can get some fresh coffee before we continue. I think I’ve found a kindred spirit.

  Ten minutes later, we’re back in the office, with everyone discussing their views.

  Dan says it sounds like I’ve stumbled upon a State-wide serial killer.

  Putinski says that it’s still possible this young girl is only following the stories in the press for some reason we don’t yet understand.

  The Sheriff asks me if I think this girl is responsible for Pamela Wilson’s death. I tell him I don’t know. He then asks how old I think she was when the first victim on her list was stabbed, and I tell him thirteen plus or minus a year.

  He’s clearly finding it hard to see a thirteen-year-old as a vicious serial killer.

  I think everyone agrees with that.

  Putinski asks me if I have any theory why the girl might be acting this way. I tell him I don’t, but that I intend to ask a consulting psychiatrist that same question as soon as I can.

  A few minutes of silence passes, then the Sheriff looks at Dan and asks him how he intends to proceed. I feel a wave of relief wash over me. He has asked Dan, not me. The relief is short-lived.

  Dan’s response is that I’ve gotten this far. It seems reasonable to have me push onwards.

  ‘State-wide,’ says the Sheriff.

  ‘State-wide,’ agrees Dan.

  The Sheriff turns towards me. ‘You haven’t closed Mark Jason’s case yet?’

  ‘No, Sheriff. Without being able to find the stiletto, I don’t think we can make any more progress.’

  ‘You’re telling me we have a detective homicide that will go unproven?’

  ‘I’ll keep it under review a little longer,’ I promise.

  The Sheriff grunts, then asks. ‘You up for this serial-killer case detective? You ain’t been back in the saddle long.’

  I nod, afraid if I speak he might notice the tremble in my voice.

  ‘Okay, then. Get to it and keep me in the loop.’

  Back in Dan’s cubicle, he asks if I’m okay with his suggestion. What can I say? No, I can’t handle it. I’m still dreaming about the baby I terminated and scared to draw my Glock in case I shoot a young child? You just picked me up off the floor at EJ’s and drove me to a psychiatrist. I didn’t say any of that.

  ‘Sure, Dan. I’ll go get started.’

  Instead of going to my cubicle, I head out of the building. I need to clear my mind. Mid-February around these parts is about as nice as it gets. The temperature towards midday is in the low to mid-twenties, with a light breeze blowing in over the gulf. Perfect.

  We’re lucky where the office is. There’s Baker Park out the back and it backs onto the inlet from Naples Bay. Across the water, there’s plenty of open grass, but beyond is the drone of the airport. If you can tune the noise out, it’s a beautiful spot to think. And I’ve a lot of thinking to do. This will be a big case, and I need to get my head on straight.

  I sit on a bench at the waterfront. There’s a dedication plaque. I read it. The bench is in loving memory of James Daly, who died too young. Doing the math, I reckon he was only twelve when he died. Just about the same age as my potential serial killer when she started on her killing spree.

  I try to quieten my mind and put some structure into my thoughts, while I watch the sail-boats and power launches go by, their owners with not a care in the world.

  First, there are still things I haven’t finished while investigating the deaths of both Mark Jason and Pamela Wilson.

  Then there’s my commitment to Jerry to support him in finding whoever is responsible for the abomination at the Project. This isn’t just a commitment to Jerry. It’s also a commitment to my cousin Joey. I failed him and let him down when he came to me for help. This isn’t something I can just give up.

  I have to figure how to continue to follow up on the details, while leading a State-wide hunt for a serial killer.

  27

  Knowing my day is likely to get even more crazy, I head for Subway a couple of blocks away. If I’m to be busy, I need to eat. I attack and demolish a steak and cheese sub, then walk back to the office. Figure out how to close both the Jason and Wilson homicides, then get started on the serial killer case. That’s my plan. But it won’t happen like that with me in charge? I think not.

  The System has already flagged my earlier enquiries on unsolved homicides across the entire State, and when I get back to my desk, I’ve enquiries from four other Counties already waiting for me.

  It’s clear I can’t do this on my own and have to get some help, so I make a bee-line for Dan’s office. He isn’t there, but I can hear his voice in the background. I look around and spot him towards the back of the office. He’s in the middle of a group of three detectives. Good detectives - I know them all. I work my way round towards him. He sees me coming.

  ‘I was just coming to find you Sammy. I want you to meet your new team,’ he tells me, indicating the three figures beside him.

  ‘I’ve asked them to hand over all current investigations to others and dedicate themselves one hundred percent to your case. I was going to discuss this with you first, but you had stepped out for lunch.’

  I’m a little fwrong-footed. I’ve gone from pissed he has thought this out before me, to feeling guilty for sitting in the park, to super-pleased at have a team to work with - all in a matter of seconds.

  ‘No, that’s great Dan. Thanks. I was just on my way to talk to you about something like this.’

  Then turning my attention to the three newly assigned detectives, I welcome them and tell them I couldn’t have chosen any better. That I’m grateful they’re going to be sharing the case with me.

  We agree to a first get-together around three that afternoon in the larger conference room. That will give them time to off-load their current work and start reading up on the case. I leave with Dan, feeling a lot better than just thirty minutes before. I’ve got some serious horsepower now.

  With a couple of hours to spare, I do a little digging. I want to know which homicides occurred in which County. I pull up the list of names, and this time I want to stay under the official radar until the team are fully up to speed. If I start talking with half a dozen other Counties, I’ll get all their future calls personally. I don’t want that. So this time I use a website I’ve used many times before - Truth-finder. It searches Federal, State, and Local Government databases and organizes them into easy-to-read reports.

  It’s a website available to the public, not guaranteed to be one-hundred percent accurate, but it’s a great first step when you’re looking for someone. It checks online profiles, weapons permits, bankruptcies, phone numbers, court records, relatives, mis-demeanors, judgements, assets, sexual offenses, felonies, traffic offenses, arrest records and addresses.

  I try one of the ei
ght names, who may still be alive. I choose the local one and type in Jon Smith. It couldn’t have been a worse name to search for. It turns out there are twenty-eight Jon Smiths. But then I look into the background detail and see there are only three in Collier County. I note their details and keep going with the list.

  Homicides

  Arden Kotnik (1) - West Palm Beach - Palm Beach

  Terrance Frazier (1) - Gainesville - Alachua

  Laurence Spencer (1) - Tallahassee - Leon

  Paget Vicic (1) - Miami - Miami-Dade

  Josh Ransom (1) - Orlando - Orange

  Coleman Kaler (1) - Jacksonville - Duval

  Still Alive?

  Jon Smith (3) - Naples - Collier

  Joseph Wright (2) - Tampa - Hillsborough

  By the time I’ve made it this far, it’s already time to meet with the team. When I told them I was pleased to have their support, that wasn’t bullshit. If I had to pick three, I would pick each of them in a flash.

  Jamie Samson has been here twenty-plus years. Never made it through the promotion board, but most of us reckon he never tried. He’s a solid investigator. Good at the details.

  Dene Winscome is different. Joined the department around the same time as me, three years ago. More of an intuitive guy. Prone to jumping to conclusions then trying to work backwards. Not an approach recommended by district attorneys, yet he’s had plenty of success with it.