Glimpse of Death: A Riveting Serial Killer Thriller Read online

  A long minute with no answer. She took the on-ramp and shot him a glance as soon as she hit the highway.

  “Okay, I guess,” he mumbled.

  She frowned a little, but then decided to kindle the conversation herself, to try to reconnect with him, to entertain and show him the two of them could still have fun.

  “I have some interesting work these days,” she said, forcing a smile. “There’s a fed in post-op, she was stabbed in the line of duty. She’s something else, that woman!”

  He showed a faint glimmer of interest, so she continued.

  “She’s a high-priority case, and I can see why. She’d been out of surgery for two days, and cops are already lining up at her door with questions about serial killers and rapists and such.”

  She focused on the eighteen-wheeler she was passing, and waited for a reaction from Derek, but none came.

  “This woman works on stuff that makes your skin crawl, and she’s not much older than I am. You won’t believe the things they can do these days. DNA, all sorts of evidence, even the rope the killer used—they know everything about it, just like that TV show you liked to watch, CSI.”

  Derek shot her a quick glance, then resumed staring at the road ahead. She fell silent, and sadness crept up on her brought by his indifference, his disengagement. She repressed a long, pained sigh that fought to escape her chest and focused on driving. A few more minutes and they’d be home, where they could both resume their barely shared routine and she could go back to feeling numb.

  Unyielding memories still troubled her, reminding her of how it used to be, not so long ago when she’d drive them back home from a night out and he’d had a couple of drinks. He’d sit half-turned toward her, with a loaded grin on his face, while his hand caressed her knee. Then, inch after painfully slow inch, that warm, promising hand traveled north, seeding fire in her body. Sometimes they didn’t even make it to the bedroom, scattering their clothing all over the floors and landing on the soft carpet in front of the fireplace or on the couch, for spells of passionate lovemaking. That was the man she loved and missed terribly. The quiet, dark figure riding in the car with her was but a ghost of that man, a distant stranger who no longer wanted her.

  She pressed the garage door opener and pulled inside, grateful that it was over. They entered the house without a single word spoken, and just as silently prepared for bed. She let him go first, and then took her time in the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror and wondering about the future, about the present.

  She straightened her back and braced herself. She’d promised herself she’d give it one last chance, and she was going to do that all the way, no matter how painful rejection might end up being. She slipped on a silk nightgown and found her way under the covers, at a distance at first. Then she gently touched his back, as it was turned toward her, and caressed it slowly, holding her breath. She felt him getting tense under her touch, his breathing now heavier. She pulled herself closer to him and wrapped her arm around his body, feeling him get hard in her hand.

  Without warning, he turned and grabbed her, landing her roughly on her stomach, with her face buried in the pillows. He shoved the covers out of the way and pulled her nightgown up, then grabbed her hips and lifted, forcing her legs apart with his knee.

  “Is this what you want, huh?” he grunted as he penetrated her mercilessly. The pillow stifled her screams, and she clenched her fists on the sheets, reaching, grabbing, trying to pull away from him. His grip was strong, burning painfully where he’d grabbed the flesh on her hips.

  Several minutes later it was over, and he pulled away from her without a word. He turned his back to her again, and quickly fell asleep. She tiptoed to the hallway bathroom, closing the door behind her, and sought refuge in the shower, to let the running water cleanse her aching body and hide the sound of her sobs.

  20

  Another Crime Scene

  The upper, uncovered level of the mall parking lot was flooded with light, coming from countless powerful generators, spread throughout the concrete-paved space. Crime Scene Unit techs scrambled in all directions, examining the area in detail, and snapping photo after photo of every piece of evidence, every pebble, and every speck of dust that seemed out of place.

  Detective Michowsky crouched next to the victim and looked around, using the palm of his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding lights. Toward the south, a high-rise had a prime view of the crime scene, and numerous balconies were crowded with onlookers, some equipped with powerful telephoto lenses. Distant camera flashes constantly flickered in the dark, representing the morbid interest that people have for capturing and collecting morsels of other people’s suffering.

  He beckoned a couple of CSU techs. “You finished here?”

  They briefly looked at each other, then nodded. “Yes, we’re done with this area,” one of them confirmed.

  “All right, then pull up a couple of your vans right here, to block the view.” He pointed toward the high-rise, and the two techs acknowledged, then trotted away.

  Michowsky watched them pull the vans forward and obstruct the line of sight, then saw Fradella just as he was getting out of his car.

  “Good, you made it,” he said, and led the way back to the body. “We need to hurry. Rain’s about to start, any minute now.”

  “It’s Sarah Thomas, right?” Fradella asked.

  “Yeah.” Michowsky’s voice was filled with sadness and frustration. Up until receiving the call earlier that night, he thought they stood a chance to find the young woman alive, to save her. They’d been defeated.

  The woman’s body lay under one of the parking lot light poles, and, even without the crime scene projectors, would have been very well lit. She was completely naked and posed, this time with her arms and legs spread apart and straight, in a posture that reminded Michowsky of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

  Thunder crashed nearby just as a big drop of water splashed onto Michowsky’s forehead. “Let’s bring a piece of tarp over here, make sure the rain doesn’t wash away any evidence,” he said, raising his voice to cover the blowing wind.

  The techs hustled and extended a foldable canopy over the body.

  “Not only did he kill her,” Doc Rizza said, appearing out of nowhere, “but he wanted her humiliated after death. Exposed like that, for everyone to see… how despicable. The human race never fails to impress, in both directions. For each act of such gruesome cruelty, fortunately, we see daily wonders, acts of kindness that people bring to other people, and that helps preserve whatever faith I still have in humankind. Although, on a day like this, I must confess I struggle with that very concept.”

  “Doc, no offense, can we please focus?”

  Doc Rizza smiled. “You mean to tell me to shut up, because I am working, quite focused, as fast as I can, you know. Liver temp is 30.7 degrees Celsius; that puts time of death between four and five hours ago.”

  Michowsky checked his watch, then wrote down the time of death as 6:00 to 7:00PM, on February 20.

  “Preliminary cause of death is ligature strangulation; I see the same markers as on Lisa Trask,” Doc Rizza continued. “See here, the pinched skin on her throat, right under her chin? The strangler pulled the rope sideways and upward. We have the same imprint abrasions, and I’ll swab for transfer DNA.”

  Doc Rizza’s fingers danced on Sarah’s throat, following the shape of her trachea. “The rigor’s starting to set, so it’s difficult to feel in depth, but I can tell you this strangulation was executed with greater, more abrupt force than in Lisa’s case. The right superior horn of the thyroid cartilage is fractured, and several tracheal rings were also fractured. Probably the hyoid bone too.”

  “He was angrier than before,” Fradella commented. “That means his timeline might collapse.”

  “Katherine might not have ten days, like Lisa and Sarah did. She’s been gone two days already,” Michowsky added, then mumbled a long, detailed curse under his breath.

  “Ah, and th
ere’s the cheap ring,” Doc Rizza added, holding the evidence bag in the air for Michowsky to take a photo. “When you see her husband, if you please, check to make sure this isn’t hers.”

  “I will, don’t worry,” Michowsky replied, as he snapped the photo with his phone.

  “We see ligature marks, more pronounced than on Lisa,” Doc continued. “Same livor mortis pattern as before, indicative of her being tied up on some high table or bench. I’d venture to say she was raped repeatedly during the past ten days, considering what I see in terms of bruising. Some of the bruising is almost completely healed, showing that yellowish discolored edges.”

  Doc Rizza hailed his assistant. “Time to move her to the morgue. I’ll start her postmortem tonight. Let’s step on it, it’s pouring already,” he nudged AJ, although the young man was moving as quickly as he could.

  Fradella looked around, making note of surveillance camera locations.

  “This one was disabled,” Michowsky said. “It can’t be a coincidence. Mall security told us it went down at 9:02PM, just as the mall was closing and all their people were sweeping every corridor to make sure no customers got locked inside.”

  “It’s convenient,” Fradella agreed. “I’m guessing not many cars came all the way up here at that time. We’ll catch him on the other cameras.”

  “No, we won’t,” Michowsky said, and kicked the curb in a gesture of frustration. “Security office already screened the videos going back half an hour before closing time. No one came up here, not a single car. They’re going back further, but then it could be anyone.”

  “You’re saying this unsub brought the body with him earlier, and waited in the car until everyone left?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. If it had been a quick body drop, he would’ve come here right before posing her, and we know he did that as soon as the last car on this level pulled away. But if he was here earlier, there’s no way to tell when he arrived,” Michowsky said, and rubbed his wrinkled forehead forcefully, then ran his hand over his buzz-cut hair.

  “Maybe there is,” Fradella said. “I have an idea,” he added, and rushed toward the ME’s van. “Doc, can you measure the livor mortis somehow, to estimate how much time she spent tied to that bench, and then how much time she spent in the car?”

  “I’ve seen it done,” Doc replied, seemingly a little unsure of himself. “It’s done through photometric measurement of color changes in livor mortis,” he added, rubbing his chin. “It’s not all that precise, you know. Livor mortis is the blood pooling in the tissues after death, and if the body is moved several times before the final location, some of that pooled blood shifts, and it becomes even harder to estimate.”

  “We need ballpark, Doc,” Fradella insisted. “We need to know the time frame when the killer drove his car here, going through the areas covered by surveillance cameras. It wasn’t right before he dumped her; we already know that. But this is a mall; there are hundreds of vehicles coming and going. We have to narrow it down somehow.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Doc Rizza replied.

  “Let’s get going,” Michowsky said. “Chances are some of those rubberneckers over there might have taken photos of the body, and that means soon they’ll be online. We have to notify next of kin tonight. Now.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they watched Matthew Thomas, a thirty-year-old dental hygienist and Sarah’s husband, as he broke to pieces when he heard the news. It was the worst part of the job, delivering such devastation to families, and Michowsky hated doing it, probably just as much as every other law enforcement officer out there who cared about people.

  He rushed to the kitchen and brought the sobbing man a glass of cold water, and helped him to the couch. Then he sat next to him and gave him a few more minutes to regain his composure.

  “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Mr. Thomas,” Michowsky repeated. “What can you tell us about Sarah? Anything you were holding back, and haven’t told Detective Buchanan when she spoke with you last week?”

  “She… was sad, depressed after Chelsea was born. I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  Fradella frowned, and Matthew quickly clarified. “Our four-year-old daughter. My wife was never the same after she had her. I don’t know why, and she said she didn’t either. She kept saying her life was over. Then she took to drinking for a while,” he added hesitantly, probably embarrassed for having to disclose that fact about his wife. “But she’s strong; she battled that for a few months and got sober, stayed sober since.”

  “Any problems at work?”

  “No, she liked her job. She helped people, and it was important to her. She was a human resources manager, working on outsourced recruiting, so she found jobs for people.” He looked away, averting his eyes. “It was here, at home, where she was hurting, and I tried my best to fix that, to help her. I… couldn’t.” He hesitated a little, then continued. “Don’t get me wrong, she loved Chelsea, but… she wasn’t happy anymore.”

  “Was she wearing her wedding ring when she disappeared?” Michowsky asked.

  “She never took that off her finger.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “It’s a swirl with two diamonds mounted in platinum, like a yin-yang symbol. It was way above my means, but I never regretted it, and she never took it off since the day I proposed to her, six years ago.”

  “Any personal enemies you can think of, feuds with girlfriends, maybe?” Fradella asked.

  “No, nothing comes to mind.” He cleared his throat and drank a sip of water. “How did she die?”

  The two detectives looked at each other for a split second. There wasn’t anything they could say to make it easier for the grieving man. Anything, except maybe one merciful lie.

  “She died quickly, Mr. Thomas.”

  He nodded a couple of times in lieu of a thank you, keeping his tearful eyes riveted to the floor. Then he looked at Michowsky, letting him see the depths of his pain.

  “How will I tell my daughter her mother’s never coming home?”

  21

  Alone

  Katherine kept her eyes closed, afraid to look at that dreaded window. She hadn’t moved since they’d killed Sarah. Backed into the corner of the room, she still hugged her knees, and felt completely numb, except for the throbbing in her jaw where the man’s fist had left its mark.

  The rational part of her brain told her repeatedly this wasn’t any of her fault. They’d been abducted by killers, and killers kill. It wasn’t her doing. It couldn’t have been. And yet it haunted her, the thought that Sarah’s death could have been a punishment for her unwillingness to comply, for her stubborn and reckless defiance.

  That was the thought she couldn’t bear; it ripped her heart open, as if taking a knife to her chest. She couldn’t erase from her mind the image of Sarah drawing her last breath, and she was terrified of looking through that window again. Would her body still be there? Would the light still be on? Would she be able to see her again?

  Slowly, she pushed herself to open her swollen eyes, and squinted against the intense fluorescent light. The sight of that empty room made Sarah’s absence feel more palpable, more unbearable.

  She summoned her courage and stood, dizzy and unsure on her feet, then ventured a glance toward the window. It was dark again, and the absence of light obliterated all evidence of what had taken place in there. Was Sarah’s body still in there? The obsessive question wouldn’t leave her weary mind, although there was no answer.

  Katherine felt as if she was losing her mind. Under the circumstances, her clinical judgment told her it could be expected. Everyone had their tipping point, that point of no return beyond which changes cannot ever be reverted, beyond which trauma becomes irreparable. She knew that all too well, but before letting that different kind of darkness engulf her, she wanted to see one more thing.

  She slowly walked the few steps to the wall, holding on to objects, trying to stabilize her nauseating dizziness. When she finally got nex
t to the bedpost, she kneeled on the floor in front of the wall, and looked at the scribbled names behind that bedpost. She looked for Sarah’s, and there it was. Sarah Thomas, 27, she’d etched it sometime, unseen and unheard, probably when Katherine was sleeping.

  She touched the name with trembling fingers, and a burning tear made its way down her cheek. They were the same age… but how little she knew about Sarah! She’d been so absorbed in her own despair she didn’t stop to get to know her companion. That opportunity was forever gone.

  She looked around and found a penny on the floor. She picked it up and saw traces of drywall on its edge, confirming it was the tool Sarah, and probably many others before her, had used to leave their names on that wall for posterity. It made sense to write her name there. At some point in the future, the bastards who took them would be caught, and that very room would be swarming with cops, looking for evidence. At least then she’d want her family to have some closure, in case they never found her body.

  It felt strange to think of herself as a dead body. Surreal. Petrifying.

  Yes, one last thing left to do before they killed her.

  A shudder brought chills to her blood, and her hand trembled slightly as she began to write, scratching letter after letter in that grayish drywall, right under Sarah’s name.

  Katherine Nelson, 27.

  22

  Battle Plans

  Melissa woke with a start when Derek scampered into the room. She’d fallen asleep on the downstairs sofa, unwilling to return to their conjugal bed. She couldn’t find the strength to go back there, not after what happened. She doubted she’d ever be able to sleep in that bed again.

  “There you are,” Derek said in place of a greeting, and gave her a disapproving look.