| Chapter 5
“I can’t believe you made it,” Detective Key said, gripping her outreached hand tightly. “And just in time, too. We got the search warrant about an hour ago and just finished our preliminary. The medical examiner is on his way.” He gave her a once-over, his eyes fixed on her crutches and rigid posture. “Why don’t we go sit on the bench over there and I’ll give you the rundown?” “Sounds good,” she said with more than a little relief. She was damned lucky she’d skipped her nightly Vicodin dose, or she wouldn’t have been able to drive to the scene. But without the painkiller, she was starting to feel miserable. Only one more week, she recited mentally over and over again as they made their way to a bench near the apartment complex’s office. Only one more week and the cast that went inches above her knee would be downgraded to one that went half-way up her shin. So she’d been told, anyway. And she prayed it would make a difference. “Better?” the detective asked with a note of concern in his voice. “I’m fine,” she lied. “So what’s the deal with this one?” She pointed at the apartment guarded by uniformed officers. “Your message said it sounded similar.” He fixed her with cop eyes that clearly said he didn’t believe she was “fine” but let the issue go after several seconds of silence. He pulled off his purple latex gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, retrieving a tiny notepad. His eyes scanned it for a few seconds. “Yeah, it’s very similar,” he finally said, looking back up at her. Angie had her notepad out and pen ready. “Here are the similarities: Our vic is male, in his early thirties -- 33 to be exact -- his throat was slit clean, he was gagged and bound with silk scarves, and looks like he was beaten. He also wasn’t found right away, we’re guessing he’d been dead for about two days or so, though we haven’t confirmed that yet. The ME will tell us in a little while. He was also gay, apparently single -- we’re still checking on that -- and lived alone.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes briefly, his brows furrowed and angry. He took a deep breath as Angie stopped writing and watched the expressions flit across his face. His eyes opened and she dropped her look back to her notepad. “The differences are troubling,” he said slowly, drawing the words out. “Our vic’s car is missing, unlike the other case. The indications are that this is another hate crime and I still can’t elaborate.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper, though no one was standing nearby. “But the indications in this apartment are much worse than in the last -- more violent and aggressive. It seems the killer wants to get his point across more urgently.” “You think the cases are linked? I mean, definitely linked -- not just in a maybe kind of way?” Angie whispered back, her tone alarmed. “Yes,” he said and stood up, and began to pace. Three strides right, three strides left -- scowling. He looked over his shoulder at the other officers and forced himself to stop, resuming his seat next to the reporter. His left foot began to tap agitatedly on the concrete. “I wish I could tell you it was a copycat murder, Angie, but there’s no way. You know that guilty knowledge thing I told you about? The reason why we can’t just give you all the gory details? Well, there are certain things a copycat couldn’t possibly have known. I was very careful with the press and our guys don’t blab about shit like that. They know better. And there are signs in that apartment that make it look almost exactly like the other one.” He sighed and took a sharp breath, releasing it between grinding teeth. “Angie, it is my belief that we have a serial killer on the loose. Sure, we only have two bodies -- for now. But it took a while to find this one. And the last one. Who the fuck knows how many more there are?” Angie almost dropped her pen. “Jay,” she began, questions racing through her mind, but she tucked them away for the time being. She put a hand on his shoulder. He’d told her this would happen. And he’d been right. His shoulders sagged and she wasn’t quite sure why she knew that he felt responsible, but she knew it with certainty. “What are we going to tell people?” She’d never used that question before. The answer had always been simple: Tell her readers every single little detail she could pry from the cops -- use the facts and weave the tale as tragically or as coldly as the facts dictated. But as she combed her brain, she couldn’t remember the last time a bona fide serial killer had been on the loose in Fort Worth, aside from Henry’s thug, John Carpenter -- who’d had help with the killings, a different situation altogether. They sat in silence for several seconds. Then Detective Key cleared his voice and said, “This is what I want you to print. I know it’s up to you and your editor, but if you can fit it in, write this: There is a serial killer on the loose. He’s targeting single gay men in the Fort Worth area. According to our investigation, the killer seems to be meeting his victims in bars -- at least that may have been the case in Whittaker’s murder. Gay men should be extremely careful who they take home with them.” “Okay, I’ll do my best,” the reporter said and took special care in jotting down what he’d said to the tee. No paraphrasing. She’d try to get it in as a direct quote. And just maybe, it might help some guy out. They talked about the details for another half hour. Angie was just about to get up and make her way back to her car, where her laptop lay waiting under the front passenger seat, but a woman in a red Chevy pickup pulled up. She got out and ran toward the cops, her face ghostly white. “Oh my God, no!” she yelled, ripping straight through the crime scene tape. A uniformed cop caught her around the waist and she struggled. Two more cops took her arms, trying to calm the woman as she began to wail, shaking her head. Angie flinched at the scene, knowing exactly what had just happened. It was only a matter of whether the woman was family or a friend. The reporter remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away. Detective Key told her to sit tight and took quick strides toward the screaming woman, who began to slap at officers wildly. The detective laid an arm around the woman’s shoulders, whispering words into her ears, and ordered the uniformed officers to let go. He gently steered her away when she sagged against his side. Her knees buckled, but he held her up. They went around a corner and disappeared. Angie stood up weakly, balancing on her crutches. She limped back to her car and unlocked her passenger door, dragging out her laptop. She sat down in the seat and booted it up, forcing the image of the distraught woman from her mind as she spent the next half hour composing her article. When she was done, she checked for nearby wireless Internet signals and pirated an unsecured signal from what she assumed was either the front office or a nearby apartment. After she e-mailed the story to her boss, she checked her watch. 7:03 a.m. Well, if she wanted to beat television, she’d just have to brave his wrath. She counted to ten, steeling herself, and punched in Tom’s home number. “Who is it?” a sleepy voice asked, alarmed. “Tom, it’s Angie. Did I wake you?” “Hell yes, you woke me up. It’s the freaking weekend. The world doesn’t exist before 8 a.m. on the weekends, dammit. This had better be good.” “We have a serial killer in Fort Worth. I typed a story. It needs to get online ASAP.” Silence. Then she heard rustling that she assumed meant her boss was getting out of bed. “Say that again,” he demanded, his voice much more alert. Angie repeated herself and waited. She heard more rustling and the distinct sound of a computer booting up. Her good foot started tapping impatiently as she waited for him to open his e-mail and say something. Just as she was about to break the silence, he let loose a long string of profanities. “Sonofabitch,” he finally finished. “I’ll call Jake, get his ass out of bed so he can put this shit up.” She was promptly put on hold. The sun was starting to beat down stiflingly and she felt a trickle of sweat run down her back. After a few minutes, Tom was back on the line. “Okay, it’ll be online in a few minutes. What the hell are you doing out there this early, anyway?” “Got a call form Detective Key at 3 a.m. Didn’t check it till five and came straight here. I was having trouble sleeping.” “Is there a crowd like last time?” “No. A woman just showed up, though. But that’s it.” “Okay, I’ll wait an hour or two before sending a photographer. Give me a call when you have another update.” “Will do,” and she hung up, now desperate to get out of the sweltering car. She wandered back over to the bench and waited. An hour passed. People started to gather at the crime scene tape -- neighbors that she wandered over toward and interviewed. Another half hour passed as she typed up the new info and sent it to her boss to include in the online story. It was the only way they could beat television, really. And the Tribune, of late, had put a strong emphasis on pushing for more and faster online updates. The detective still hadn’t returned and the photographer Tom had promised showed up, quickly snapping pictures. It was nearly 11 o’clock before the first television crew pulled into the parking lot. They approached Angie, hoping she’d share some information. But she remained tight-lipped and referred them to her online story. Grumbling, they wandered off and set up camp three feet from the crime scene tape. The reporter called her lover and told her where she’d slipped off to, promising they could meet downtown at Starbucks at four o’clock and that she’d call if anything happened that would force her to cancel. Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but picked up anyway. “Angie, it’s Jay. Listen, you need to meet me downtown as soon as possible. Call me when you get there and I’ll come get you,” and he hung up. What the hell? Sighing, she tucked her laptop under the passenger seat and hopped in her car. The television crew watched her with narrowed eyes, wondering why she was leaving so early. She shot them a dirty look and pulled out of the complex, hitting the gas hard. She made it to the police station in ten minutes flat and called Detective Key. He met her in the lobby and led her down white, sterile hallways and back behind a heavily secured door. She started to ask what this was all about, but when she rounded a corner and stepped into a conference room, she suddenly knew. The woman from the crime scene sat in a chair, eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. “Miss Lockett, this is Angie Mitchell.” The reporter walked around the conference table and held out her hand. The woman accepted with trembling fingers and dropped her hand quickly, eyes darting around the room. Angie took the seat next to the woman and the detective stood by the door silently. “You’re the reporter who got shot, aren’t you?” the woman muttered, her eyes still fixed on the table. Angie shot a look at the detective, completely at a loss. Then she cleared her voice and said, “Yes. That’s me, unfortunately.” The woman nodded and said nothing else for several seconds. Instinctively, Angie knew she’d have to let the woman speak first. She waited, her hands resting on the table politely. The reporter took a closer look at the woman, noticing how young she looked -- not much older than Angie herself. A tear trickled down Miss Lockett’s face and splattered on the table. She brushed it away angrily and finally spoke, voice shaking. “Do you care about your stories as much as they said on the news?” Angie blinked at the unexpected question and swallowed hard. She considered it and chewed her lower lip. “I’m not supposed to, but yeah. I do.” Blue eyes fixed on her and searched the reporter’s face for several more seconds. “And do you care about this crazy motherfucker who killed my brother?” Angie nodded silently. “Mister Key said you’ll treat this right. And I want to say something to that crazy sonofabitch who killed Chance.” Again, Angie simply nodded and put her notepad on the table, plucking a pen from behind her ear. She looked up expectantly. “You better quote me on this shit, too,” the woman said forcefully. “I can’t promise …” Angie tried in her most patient tone but was cut off. “You promise, dammit!” the woman’s voice rose threateningly, but Angie didn’t flinch against the sharp words. “I promise I’ll tell my boss how important it is. I swear I’ll type it in my story. But I don’t control the paper. You have to understand that.” The woman’s hands started shaking uncontrollably and she shook her head, fighting. “Fine,” she finally agreed, forcing her voice to lower. “If you give it your best shot.” The reporter agreed and took the woman’s name and age, then some other random information -- easing her way into more complexities, hoping it would give the woman some time to calm herself down a little more. Sandra Lockett, it turned out, was probably the last person to hear from her brother while he was still alive, aside from the killer. He’d called to cancel a movie date with his sister four days prior in the evening, telling her he had to help some guy out and would be over late that night. They’d fought about it. And then she didn’t hear from him and was pissed off about it. She waited a couple of days and tried calling him but couldn’t reach him. She went by his apartment but got no answer when she hammered on his door. The next day, she filed a missing person report. The cops waited a twenty-four-hour period and then conducted a welfare check at the apartment at 2:30 a.m. Saturday. They ran plates on the cars in the lot but none of them matched his. Finally, they decided to bust down the locked door. “Enough,” she finally shut the conversation down. “Here’s what I really want you to write. My brother was a decent, loving man and how dare anybody cut him up. The cops are going to get you, I know it. I’m going to pray every night that they do. I’ll help them any way I can. And by God, you’ll pay for this, you sick, twisted …” and she let loose a long string of profanities before her voice cracked and she broke down in tears. “Thank you,” Angie said softly, giving the woman’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing up. She pulled out a card and placed it on the table. “Here’s my business card. My cell phone number’s on the back. Call me if you think of anything else.” She paused. “And I’m very sorry about your loss.” Sandra didn’t respond and Angie stepped around her quietly and left the room. Detective Key joined her outside and walked her to the lobby. “I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” he said earnestly, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop. “So don’t ever expect it again. She asked for you specifically, repeatedly, and I finally just gave in because she refused to answer any more questions until I called you up. Beats me what she thinks this will accomplish, but thanks for coming so quickly. Maybe now I can get some more information out of her. Call me in a couple of hours and I’ll give you the guy’s name and some updates.” And just like that he dismissed her and brusquely strode off. Angie stared after him, not knowing whether he was pissed at her or not. Then she stared down at her notepad -- pages of scribbled comments in blue ink -- an unbelieving look in her eyes. The reporter shook her head and left the police station, still baffled. Still unnerved — the look of pure hatred on Sandra’s face blocking out all other thoughts, still swimming before her eyes as she pulled into the apartment complex on Arlington Court. *** The skin on Angie’s arms and face was painfully tight and had turned a deep shade of pink hours ago. It was almost time to leave the scene. She’d updated the story six times already, and Sandra’s comments had made it online without protest from her boss — would make it in the next day's paper, too — though they’d chopped off the last words that were simply unprintable. “Almost there,” she muttered, happily accepting a bottle of Gatorade the Tribune’s photographer handed her. She rubbed the cool container across her face and neck. And just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, a familiar car pulled in the parking lot and she fought the urge to shout excitedly. Sandy-haired Mark Thompson strode up, a fresh notepad in hand. “Thank God,” she said, and started to give the Tribune’s night police reporter the rundown, but he cut her off, pulling a couple of printed out articles from his pockets. “Unless there’s something you know that’s not in your stories, don’t bother. You need to get the hell out of the sun, Angie. I knew you were stubborn, but damn. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” he said and shook his head. “Go on, I can handle it.” He gave her a dismissive wave and she nodded, hobbled over to her car and slid into the scorching thing, immediately cranking up the air conditioner and rolling down her windows. Hissing, she took the steering wheel, touching it only with the tips of her fingers. It may have been September, but it felt more like August -- a digital sign she passed on the highway reading 106 degrees Fahrenheit. She found a parking space on Third Street near Starbucks -- practically a miracle for a Saturday afternoon in Sundance Square -- and actually made it to the coffee shop on time to meet Lauren, who was waiting patiently. Angie almost cried with relief when the air conditioner hit her full blast as she stepped through the door. Lauren waved her over and stood up in alarm when she saw her lover’s flushed skin. “Dammit, Angie,” she muttered and rushed off toward the counter, returning seconds later with a large cup of ice water. “I think I have something for that in the car,” and the taller woman jogged out of the shop and down the street, returning minutes later with a bottle of car-heated Aloe Vera gel that was a bit more liquid than it should have been. Despite the reporter’s protests, Lauren started spreading the stuff on Angie’s face and arms, and along the base of her neck, her throat, and the part of her chest that the low-cut blouse didn’t cover. The dark-haired woman was still in the process when they were interrupted. “Isn’t that sweet,” a familiar voice said and chuckled, the speaker sliding into the booth. Angie looked up, startled, and swatted Lauren’s fingertips away from her, smiling sheepishly at her boss. "Got bored at the office?" she asked, trying not to smirk at his hideous Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. He looked like Santa taking a vacation at the beach. Just take away the beard and add a touch of geek and he certainly looked the part. "Going casual today?" "Like you should talk — nice pink shirt, by the way — goes well with your sunburn, doesn't go so well with the green skirt." He paused. "Good updates. Good story. Looks like you've got your work cut out for you next week. I have a feeling this won't go away anytime soon. And I was thinking …" he paused again, his eyes darting to Lauren. He looked like he was debating whether to continue, but then he said, "We should do our own investigation. What do you say?" Angie's heart rate picked up. She couldn't help it. Every time someone mentioned investigative reporting that happened. Her eyes, too, darted to Lauren, whose polite look of interest had suddenly turned a touch darker. "Er … I think it'll be interesting," she said. "This isn't going to be like last time, is it?" Lauren demanded. "Oh no," Tom said, his eyes a tad wider than before. "No, no, no. It had better not be. I don't think any of us want to go through that again. No, I'll assign a couple of reporters to help you out, Angie, go to places with you if for nothing other than to provide support. And you won't be going to any seedy parts of the city. At least not alone." Her first thought was to protest, to say she could do the damned story alone. It was different, right? Right. So she tried to convince herself. But her throbbing leg was a painful reminder and not easily shut out. Very slowly, she nodded. "Okay," Tom said, clearly relieved. Angie was pretty sure he wouldn't have been so hesitant without Lauren sitting across the table, the singer's lips a thin line. Angie's second thought was to be annoyed, but she squashed the feeling as soon as it popped up. The concern was real and definitely justified. So she'd be working in a team. Journalism shouldn't be about getting front-page glory by one's self anyway. "So we'll have a meeting Monday morning, discuss ideas." He slid back out of the booth and said his goodbye's before picking up an iced green tea and heading back to the office. Angie and Lauren sat in silence for several minutes — the reporter playing with her napkin; the singer staring out the window. The aloe vera started to work and sent pleasant tingles along the blonde's skin. She sighed. "I don't want you pulling any stunts," the dark-haired woman whispered, taking her lover's hand and squeezing it gently. "I don't want to be overbearing or anything, but I have a bad feeling about this." "I'll be careful, I promise. This is not like last time. Sure, there's another whacko running around, but I'm sure Tom will come up with some ideas that won't require me to go into any dangerous areas. We'll probably just do background reports on the victims' lives and their last days, maybe some in-depth pieces about gay bars, that sort of thing. It's not like we're going to take over the detectives' jobs or anything. Don't worry, sweetie. It'll be okay." "You're probably right," Lauren sighed. "I shouldn't worry. Didn't you once say it would drive me crazy?" "Yeah, I think I did say that once or twice." Angie chuckled and shook her head. After they left Starbucks, they spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around the apartment, their cuddling only interrupted by Angie's insistence in watching every news broadcast to see what the television crews had gathered, just to make sure she hadn't missed anything. They checked out the Web site Jimmy had built for the band and listened to the CD he'd produced on his home computer from the band's practice recording. And despite Lauren's list of criticisms of each and every song — "If I'd known we were going to hand this out, that we were recording, I'd have insisted we do such-and-such!" — it wasn't half bad in Angie's opinion. She burned herself a copy and stuck it in her car happily. She'd popped a Vicodin the second they made it back to her place, which made her feel a hundred times better and slightly goofy. She prank-called Jimmy several times from her home phone, a number he didn't recognize, and didn't figure out it was her until the seventh call, when Lauren couldn't contain herself anymore and burst out laughing. Angie got a colorful lecture, which made her laugh even harder, until Jimmy threatened to come over and teach her a lesson. She hadn't believed he would do it and called his supposed bluff, which resulted in her getting doused with a water gun when Lauren let the red-faced man into the apartment half an hour later. He wasn't that mad. Angie suspected he just wanted an excuse to come over. And she didn't mind that a bit. The fresh crime scene had erased the mental picture of a red envelope stashed away for Lauren until it suddenly popped into her head late Sunday evening. She'd jumped out of her lover's cuddling arms and hobbled over to the filing cabinet. But once she opened the bottom drawer, her fingers had trembled with nervousness. She couldn't come up with a good enough excuse as to why she'd sprung up like that when Lauren wrapped her arms around the reporter's waist and looked over her shoulder curiously. Angie had held her breath, wordlessly handing over the envelope on which she'd sloppily scribbled, "Happy Birthday." The two women had looked at each other for a long few seconds — Lauren wondering what could possibly be inside that would make her lover so anxious; Angie mentally berating herself for buying what the other woman would surely feel was completely inappropriate. Then the dark-haired woman's eyes had dropped to the envelope in her hand. She tore it open quickly. Her long fingers slid inside and retrieved a couple of airline tickets — roundtrip, Dallas to New York City, set for mid-December. The singer's lips parted to say something, shut, opened again, and she finally managed a simple, "Wow." Angie hadn't noticed the flitting expressions but heard the single word. She was studying her tightly clasped fingers. She muttered something, shook her head and cleared her voice, trying again. "I, um … I thought it would be nice to get away," she whispered. "Just the two of us, you know — just for a weekend. I hope that's okay." The next thing she knew, she was pinned against the wall, lips curling around an earlobe, a hungry voice whispering hoarsely, "It's a wonderful idea. A few days with you in a hotel far away sounds like a lot of fun …" And her raven-haired lover proceeded to show her all the devilishly devious things she intended to do in a hotel far from home. The demonstration left them both gasping for air — breathless in a heap on the floor hours later. It had been one of the best weekends Angie had had since before she'd gone to the hospital. And by Monday, she felt so good, so utterly relaxed, that she was ready to tackle her new assignment. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Thanks for reading! I expect to complete this novel by April 2006. If you really must know how it continues, perhaps I could be bribed into sending you further chapters by e-mail. But you'd have to be pretty creative. ;) Or maybe you could just sign up for my newsletter. Feedback? E-mail me at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. |