Fit to Kill
A Novel
by Donnie Ray
Whetstone
Copyright © 2012 Donnie Ray Whetstone. All rights reserved.
For more info visit his websites
at:
http://www.donniewhetstone.com
Published by StoneCart Books at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To my grandmother, Pricilla Cole, rest in peace Grandma
To my parents, Otis and Ophelia Whetstone
To my siblings, Alvin and Kenneth Whetstone and Rausilune Gillespie
To my kids, Troy, Tia and Torian Whetstone, David Salang and Mary Lou Sandler
To my wife and inspiration, Diane Whetstone
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 3 - Careful What You Wish For
CHAPTER 4 - Witnessing History
CHAPTER 5 - A Wall or a Mirror?
CHAPTER 9 - Are You About to Kill Again?
CHAPTER 10 - Thank You for the Head
CHAPTER 11 - La Florians Live in Fear
CHAPTER 12 - The Light Comes On
CHAPTER 15 - Shopping for a Trainer
CHAPTER 18 - Daniel’s Next Move
CHAPTER 21 - Daniel on the Low
CHAPTER 28 - Lunch at Dimitriou
CHAPTER 29 - The Night Matriarch
CHAPTER 32 - Circumstance … Terminal
CHAPTER 33 - Slipping Into Fantasy
CHAPTER 35 - The Interesting Piece
CHAPTER 1 - La Flore
The sun creeps over the horizon, its beams piercing the cloudless summer sky, waking the city of La Flore. This sprawling scenic city of four hundred thousand has had a good year. Forbes magazine ranks it fifteenth on its list of best places to live. Better Health magazine has La Flore top five on its list of healthiest cities. Two of its five high school sports teams, the La Flore Bears football team and the Woodland Hills Pirates women’s basketball team, won this year's 5A State Championships.
Its towering skyline stands majestically in the morning sun while the hustle and bustle of downtown life begins its daily cycle. Shops ranging from Mom & Pops to those found at the ever-popular Mega Mall, open their blinds to invite the new day. Humble homes and apartment complexes on La Flore’s Lower East Side along with the lavish homes and condominiums of Woodland Hills, nestle lazily in the morning as equals. Gilder Park, the most popular of the city’s scenic parks is dotted with early morning fitness buffs jogging, cycling and power walking its manicured trails and roadways. They are seen in fitness clubs, gyms and private training studios scattered throughout the city. Being listed in the top five healthiest cities by Better Health magazine is well deserved by its sheer number of fitness facilities. Well-known gyms like 24 Hour Fitness and Gold’s Gym exist along with local generic brands like the hardcore Iron Man’s Gym, and the Roman Health Club. Those seeking plush surroundings with every amenity frequent the lavish Woodland Hills Athletic Club where an annual membership for a single La Florian will set them back three thousand dollars, sales tax not included.
Other popular fitness venues for La Florians are private personal training studios. They provide personal service and fitness disciplines that their larger counterparts cannot match. Pilates by Monique, Kevin’s MMA and Chad’s Pro Fitness are just a few among the hefty list of private training studios La Florians flock to.
These trainers are as unique as their studios. While trainers at a typical gym vary in skill level, they are the industry’s foot soldiers, while the owners of La Flore’s private studios are the fitness elite with the experience, skill level, business savvy and confidence to customize, personalize and oversee workouts that demand the top dollar La Florians willingly dish out.
One such studio is located on the La Flore’s west side. It is in a lush secluded area where scores of private offices and a few tall buildings dot the landscape. Of modest size, the studio sits next to Baker Brothers BMW Auto Sales. A simple but immaculate sign mounted next to the entrance with red block letters against a white background reads, “Fit Now Private Personal Training.” Inside is a small waiting area with a front desk that is unattended since Becky, the receptionist, is not due to arrive until nine a.m. The cardio room houses a treadmill, an elliptical machine and a stationary bike with each piece parked in front of its own wall-mounted flat screen TV.
An office, a single coed bathroom and change room separates the plush cardio room from the training floor. Waist level mirrors run along three of the four walls of the enclosed main training floor making the room look much larger than its nine hundred square feet. The training floor has an array of free weights and machines. An abused heavy bag hangs at the far end of the room. Speakers are mounted on all corners of the training floor and provide a perk that sets La Flore’s private studios apart from their counterparts; theater grade surround sound to a client’s favorite satellite music station or CD.
Speakers transform the music from Aerosmith’s Greatest Hits into a live concert with front row seats. It is Wanda Brooke’s second consecutive month playing the CD. She assaults the plate loaded leg press for a grueling fifteen reps while the song “Just Press Play” and the firm barking of her trainer give her inspiration. She is ten minutes into her thirty-minute gauntlet, otherwise known as leg day. Anyone who knows her would not be surprised that leg day, loathed by many clients, is her favorite. Wanda had been a highly driven athlete all through high school and college. Family life plus a thriving career as a drug rep has not slowed down the trim well toned thirty-eight year old brunette.
“Is it time for that surprise you promised?” she asks, between heavy breaths while laying semi limp on the leg press machine.
“No, not yet…but we’re getting there,” her trainer responds.
The workout continues and the duo are now in full throttle with the trainer in his zone and Wanda pounding out one demanding set after another.
“Give me more Wanda! C’mon! I want more!”
The tone of the trainer’s voice, along with the heavy breathing and grunting from his client, could easily mislead a person not privy to what was happening, into believing that trainer and client were engaged in unbridled sex, rather than a training session.
Later, Wanda lays sprawled out, face up on the training floor drenched in sweat with arms and legs stretched out; a common posture for her after a leg workout.
“That was a great one. I take it we’re at that time now,” she says, exhausted. The endorphin rush makes her oblivious to her surroundings. The trainer observes his client with an unwavering stare from a bench he is straddling.
“Yes, Wanda, I believe it is.”
“So, what is it you’re going to do that you promised me?”
“Don’t worry; you’re going to love it. Close your eyes.” he says with an air of confidence. Wanda, feeling euphoric, closes her eyes, exposing near perfect teeth, smiling in eager anticipation. After a time of darkness and silence, “Are you ready?” she hears the trainer ask. Wanda responds, still in her euphoric state, “Yes, I’m ready.”
Overtaken by curiosity, she opens her eyes. A surge of adrenaline instantly kills her endorphin high. Her mind cannot relay the input to her muscles fast enough to avoid the fifty-pound dumbbell dropped lengthwise from a height of six feet, now hurling towards her face. The heavy metal projectile slams dead center on its intended target, delivering a crushing blow followed by a loud distinct crunch, as if someone had stepped on a large insect. The dumbbell, now stained with blood, rolls harmlessly to a stop leaving a gruesome trail. Wanda’s body spasms while expelling urine and feces. Her head, once that of an attractive woman, now resembles a broken vase with its parts and contents scattered about the training floor. The trainer casually kneels over his victim to examine the carnage left by the deadly collision. The smell of fresh blood, exposed flesh and brain matter is pungent, filling his nostrils. He kneels and his gaze traverses the body from toe to what was once his client’s head. The trainer stares keenly at the fragmented mass. He smiles after a moment, and then confidently says, “See Wanda, I knew you’d love it.”
CHAPTER 2 - Sheridan Park
The morning dew covering the woody terrain of Sheridan Park located on La Flore's north side gradually dissipates as a crime scene slowly unfolds. Bands of yellow tape begin to form a thirty square foot perimeter around a lifeless body. A middle-aged couple and their golden retriever discover the body of a woman lying within a cluster of trees and brush while embarking on their ritual morning walk. The husband embraces and consoles his wife. Her blank stare and ashen skin tells him she is in a state of shock from the grisly discovery. An officer, observing the severity of the wife’s condition, calls for an ambulance to attend her as he waits for an opportunity to interview the husband.
Later that morning, the crime scene is abuzz with activity as additional squad cars, an ambulance and a CSI van arrive. Many park patrons are curious about the ominous activity and abandon their morning doings to become spectators. Although La Flore is not immune to homicides, they do not happen very often. Mayor Myron Hondo Saks, affectionately referred to as Hondo, along with La Flore’s “Top Cop” Vince Nirez, proudly boast the city’s violent crime rate is among the lowest in the nation. They have vowed it would remain that way on their watch.
Two unmarked cars arrive, trailed by a news van. Emerging from the first car is Detective Calvin McVey, a thirty eight year old, six foot former Marine MP Captain with a fresh crew cut and beach boy looks. He holds the distinction of serving five consecutive tours of duty in Iraq at the height of its bloody insurgency. Hunting elusive killers and seeing a degree of bloodshed that would severely damage the psyche of most, more than makes up for his mere three years of experience as a detective. He stands and waits by his vehicle. With blue eyes, deep set and piercing, he observes the controlled chaos ten yards in front of him.
The second detective joins McVey. Detective Bob Cummins is a La Flore native and former standout quarterback for the La Flore Bears back in the day. He received the MVP award in their second State Championship win when his team miraculously demolished an undefeated opponent that was the unanimous favorite. A full ride scholarship to Boise State and a high probability of playing football on Sundays ended tragically with a career ending knee injury. As a result, he abandoned his lifelong dream of fortune and fame to pursue law enforcement. Cummins, now forty-two, a fifteen-year veteran detective and a full inch taller than McVey, looks around, reminiscing. This is where his team had their private post state victory party. It is here where the hottest members of the cheerleading squad fulfilled their promised rewards for the miracle victory.
“Where’s Tanner?” Cummins asks scanning the area.
“I don’t know,” McVey replies. “Personally speaking, I don’t care,” he says sarcastically under his breath.
The two walk casually toward the crime scene. Passing them is a news team consisting of a camera operator and reporter Carol Chase of KAPO 7 News. They scurry to the scene to set up a live report. When the two detectives approach the crime scene, an officer meets them and seeing their detective badges, escorts them inside the perimeter.
Soon afterward, a third unmarked car appears and parks a few feet behind the news van. Inside, Detective Tara Tanner sits for a moment gazing at both of her hands in a firm grip on top of the steering wheel. She fixes her dark eyes on the crime scene that is finally starting to lose its frenzy. After a long sigh, she emerges from her car. Tara’s eyes stay glued on the crime scene. Her five foot eight athletic frame strolls past the vehicles of Cummins and McVey.
It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of these, she thinks.
Although the forty year-old detective grew up on La Flore's Lower East Side, she is not a native. Her family, a rather dysfunctional one, moved to La Flore from Hueytown, Alabama, a small town just outside of Birmingham, when she was eleven years old. Her father, who she loved dearly, was a functional alcoholic with a rapacious thirst for Seagram 7. Her mother, who she blamed for his affliction, was a philanderer with a rapacious appetite for younger men. Nearly thirty years as a La Florian has all but eroded the heavy southern drawl she was often teased for as a teenager; but enough remains to spark curiosity in listeners during a conversation. At twenty, Tara attended La Flore’s City University as a single mom working two jobs after going through a bitter divorce after only eight months of marriage. Although she prides herself as having a keen nose for bad souls, which greatly influenced her decision to become a detective, it often failed her in matters of the heart. Tara went through a string of abusive relationships throughout her twenties. She met her present husband, Dale, when she was twenty-nine and they married a year later. A nine-year veteran, Tara’s tenure as a detective in La Flore is a mixed bag. Her keen intuition has been instrumental in putting away some of La Flore’s most notorious criminals. She has earned several commendations including the city’s prestigious Medal of Valor award presented by Mayor Hondo Saks himself for solving La Flore’s biggest criminal case in recent times.
Tara was grief stricken upon the death of her father, affecting her instincts. She was the lead detective in a controversial case shortly after her father died. The infamous Sexton case resulted in the deaths of two people, one, a four-year-old child. As a result, Tara felt she had lost her intuitive touch and wanted to resign, even though an extensive inquiry cleared her of any wrongdoing. Tara’s decision whether or not to resign became a highly controversial topic within Division. Her decision to remain a detective was encouraged by her long time boss Commander Robert Johnson, a six foot seven former NBA player with the Portland Trailblazers.
Arriving at the tape of the crime scene, Tara encounters the same officer who met McVey and Cummins and upon flashing her glaring gold ornamental shield of La Flore’s Detective Division, is escorted inside the perimeter. She dons a pair of surgical gloves she had retrieved from her trouser pocket. She immediately sees Cummins and McVey, and then fixes her eyes on the gruesome sight at their feet, a female body with virtually no head.
“This is some piece of work.” Cummins says as Tara approaches within earshot of the two detectives.
“Yeah, to say the least,” McVey adds.
“Hey Tanner, glad to see you could make it this fine morning,” Cummins exclaims in a lighthearted tone.
Tara joins her colleagues and intensely scans over the victim.
“So, give us an expert opinion, Sherlock,” Cummins says.
His obnoxious humor draws a cynical grin from McVey that she catches. Not in the mood to deal with him, she lets it go.
“Well, it’s not a decapitation, her neck is not severed,” Tara says.
“You’re right,” a voice intrudes.
The voice comes from the CSI leader and acquaintance of the three detectives, Nolan Sumner.
“From a preliminary standpoint, the victim died of blunt force trauma to the face and a violent one at that.”
“So simply put, she got her brains bashed in,” Tara concludes.
“I’m afraid so,” Sumner replies.
“We’ll confirm the ID once we’re at the lab, but judging by the tattoo on her left ankle, I’m positive the victim is our missing person.”
The small tattoo depicts a pair of doves in flight over a banner. Engraved on the banner are the letters “BFFL” meaning "Best Friends for Life". The tattoo is identical to the one worn on the left ankle of Sophia Palomar, who reported her missing. Sophia has been the victim’s best friend since grade school. She asserts they both got the tattoos together, as sophomores in college, to signify their undying friendship. The missing person, Terri Gibson, is a thirty-six year old assistant manager at one of La Flore’s high-end clothing stores. Terri, along with Sophia, coach the Lady Hawks, a girls league soccer team.
“I can’t imagine anyone having enough of a beef with this woman to do this,” Detective Cummins says.
“Apparently somebody did,” Tara responds, looking upon the carnage spread out before her. She looks around to observe the picturesque splendor of Sheridan Park with La Flore’s scenic skyline standing in the background. Then, a sense of foreboding snatches her back to reality when she gazes once more upon the unfortunate victim.
She does not get a chance for a word or thought as to the wayward soul responsible for such an unspeakable act before a stern voice speaks for her.
Detective McVey boldly proclaims, “Or… whoever did this, is just one evil son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER 3 - Careful What You Wish For
Thelma Carson epitomizes what an unwavering commitment to training, a healthy lifestyle, great genetics and a little help from a gifted cosmetic surgeon, who happens to be a close friend, can accomplish. At sixty-one, her five foot six inch frame can easily rival that of an exceptional looking woman in her forties. With silky brown hair, an alluring smile and her trademark green eyes, many local women’s magazines praise Thelma. Their accolades give her a great deal of happiness and sense of accomplishment, but it is her ability to spawn the arousal of men less than half her age, that pleases her the most.
She and her husband Bob own a number of businesses inside and outside of La Flore. They are a part of La Flore’s elite, residing in Woodland Hill’s most exclusive area. Raising three kids, building a small empire and occasionally, running across a perfume scented phone number or a hotel stub in her husband’s coat pocket, have taken their toll on her. At times, when she’s feeling down, Thelma ponders the notion, with all of the accoutrements she and her husband have accumulated over the years that they have actually lost far more than they have gained. She is a far cry from feeling that way this evening. Bob is out of town for another week and the staff is gone for the day. The sounds emanating from her bedroom are unmistakable.
Thelma’s pelvis works her partner’s tool as she moans uncontrollably.
“Now?” he asks with remarkable composure.
Thelma does all she can to convey to him what she wants.
“Ok then.”
Her partner slows his rhythm, causing her head to thrash gently.
“I want you to hold it,” he says calmly. “I want you to hold it longer than last time.”
She cannot speak and is fighting a losing battle of containing a category five orgasm.
“Just a little longer; you can do it,” he says encouragingly.
Her head now thrashes violently as the attempt to contain herself becomes unbearable.
“See, Thelma, you did it. Now let it go.”
Her cry echoes throughout the enormous house. She succumbs to the massive release of dopamine and endorphins that engulf her. After her release, her body goes limp, overwhelmed by passion and exhaustion.
Later that evening, she lies face down on the sturdy king size oak bed. A white satin sheet covers her from the waist down. With her eyes closed, she basks in the afterglow of her intense experience.
“I don’t know what’s better, your training sessions or your sex,” she says.
Thelma’s eyes open, and she finds herself lying in bed alone. Looking around, she sees her partner, standing nude at the foot of the bed, leaning on the heavy footboard with muscular arms outstretched and unreadable eyes focused on her.
“How long have you been there?” she asks.
“Just a few minutes,” he replies.
She reaches out her hand and he capitulates. He lies in bed with her and she rests her head on his well-developed chest. There are no illusions in her mind that this will go beyond sex; he has made it quite clear. Though she has more than one stud in her stable, Thelma feels the hundred and fifty thousand dollars she invested in his training studio is well worth the physical fulfillment he gives her.
Silence fills the room as they lay together. Soon, a question that has been eating at her breaks the quiet.
“Did you, you know, cum this time?” she asks, trying not to be offensive.
Her partner answers her question with stoic silence.
“I’m not saying you have any hang ups, but other guys can barely last five minutes with me. I just want to know if I’m pleasing you as much as you’re…”
“Do you want me to?” he asks, in an abrupt tone. “I will, if that’s what you want.”
Thelma’s head has stopped spinning but her body has not fully recovered. Still, the opportunity to satisfy the only partner to take her to such sexual heights is too strong to turn down. What she does not realize with this partner, is there are times, to be careful what you wish for.
“Yeah, it’s what I want,” she replies.
It does not take long for his member to respond, to her surprise, fuller and harder for what awaits.
“Come,” he gestures softly, holding out his hand, wearing a placid face.
He gently positions her on all fours in the middle of the bed, facing the headboard. From behind her, he slowly runs his hands along her back and upon reaching her shoulders, presses her gently onto a pillow, with her hips vaulted and exposed.
Thelma becomes aroused again, A little to her surprise, as she is still spent from their last bout. Her breath becomes heavy as her heartbeat quickens. The two moan as they join together. He penetrates her deeply; gently working his hardness while strong hands caress her back. She can tell her partner is far more aroused than earlier.
“Is this what you want?” she asks in a seductive tone.
“Yes. This is what I want.”
“I want you to cum for me,” she says, starting to lose herself.
In a voice not nearly as controlled as the previous session, he replies, “I will, real soon.”
He places a hand behind her head and presses it firmly into the pillow. His movement gradually becomes intense, then painful, finally, brutal. Thelma emits agonizing screams but her face lodged in the pillow muffles them. More ominously, she soon realizes it also inhibits her ability to breath.
Thelma tries to lift her face away from the pillow. She meets stiff resistance from her partner’s talon-like grip. White satin sheets begin to stain with blood as she is mercilessly assailed with violent thrusts. Out of instinct, she reaches behind her head trying to pry away the hand locked on the back of her head to no avail. She begins flailing her arms frantically in a final attempt for precious oxygen.
“I’m almost there,” says a voice that is now impassioned.
Her flailing arms soon go limp, then still. As life leaves her body, a deafening scream echoes throughout the house. In a single powerful contraction, a massive load of semen floods what is now a bloody grotesque wound. Exhausted, he gently lies on top of Thelma’s lifeless body. He is breathing and sweating as if he has just finished an hour of cardio at top speed. Thelma’s head remains lodged in the pillow as his breathing soon slows and returns to normal. He looks down upon what is now a lifeless corpse.
“My…you are a sadistic one,” he says aloud, referring to himself. He gently turns her head to one side, pushing back her hair to expose an ear. Kissing her softly along the neck, he reaches her ear and calmly whispers,
“See Thelma…I knew you could make me do it. Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
CHAPTER 4 - Witnessing History
The investigation of Terri Gibson’s murder is only two weeks underway and sadly already starting to look like a random homicide.
“There is a killer in La Flore, to say the least,” Tara’s mind concludes. “The person that brutally ended Terri Gibson’s life is probably watching TV, reading a book or enjoying a hot cup of coffee right now. They’re doing all the things Terri Gibson no longer can. This cannot and will not go unpunished.”
Curiosity grips Tara as she drives to La Flore’s Central Precinct thirty minutes early, avoiding much of the morning traffic. The Central Precinct is one of four located throughout the city. It is by far the largest and serves as LFPD’s headquarters. The body of a woman found late last night on La Flore’s south side, is at the Forensics and Pathology Division. Tara arrives at the large gated compound. Parking, she approaches the three storey main building and goes to a side entrance. She opens a large metal door and enters the building. A long hallway and two flights of stairs later, she arrives at the precinct’s Pathology Division. Agent Nolan Sumner is in his office at his desk, thumbing through a stack of papers. Walking past the open doorway, Tara sees the agent, stops mid stride, and enters.
“Agent Sumner,” Tara says, stepping in gingerly.
“Detective Tanner,” the agent replies, “Come in.” He gestures her to a seat. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, no thanks,” she answers, sitting down on a well-used armchair.
The forty-four year old pathologist has been at Division for fourteen years. He has a plain face with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and a closely cropped beard to match. His responsibilities as head of LFPD’s Pathology Division leave him little time for exercise. Tara notices by the increased fullness of his face since their last meeting, and thinks that her close associate could stand to lose a few pounds from his five foot nine inch frame.
Tara feels he senses her eagerness to know about the victim in his examination room.
“Well, we just cleaned her up for a positive ID this morning. A family member should be here shortly.”
A team member interrupts, “Boss…He’s here…The husband.”
“Proceed,” Agent Sumner says along with a nod of his head.
Tara and Agent Sumner watch the team member and the victim’s husband walk past the office doorway. A tall, husky man, Marcus Vogel moves like a death row inmate taking his final walk to the death chamber. Silence fills the office for what seems like an eternity as detective and agent brace themselves. The memory of Sophia’s heart wrenching ordeal, the day she learned her lifelong friend was the Sheridan Park victim is still fresh on Tara’s mind. She recalls thinking no one should ever experience what Sophia had to go through when:
“No, no. God no! Who would do this to my baby; who would do this?” Marcus immediately succumbs to gut wrenching sobs. Tara and the agent remain silent. Weakened with grief, Marcus is escorted away by two team members. Agent Sumner has an empty look on his face as he stares at his desk. In a solemn tone, the agent speaks.
“I’ve been in this business nearly twenty years, and despite all that I’ve seen, I can never get used to that; probably never will.” He looks at Tara, “Shall we proceed, Detective?”
“By all means,” she replies.
The two head towards the examination room. Upon entering, the intense energy released by the husband assails Tara. She cast her eyes on the metal table where the body lay, covered by a thin blue sheet.
“Who found her?” she asks.
“The night road crew found her off of Old Highway 77.”
Standing over the examination table, the agent carefully folds back the sheet, exposing the victim’s head and shoulders.
“She’s been identified as Kelly Vogel, forty-four, mother of three, and I have a strong hunch, she was happily married.”
“She’s very pretty,” Tara says, observing the deceased’s face.
“She’s a very popular figures competitor who recently earned her professional status, and you will soon see why. One of the road crew recognized her; that’s how we got the initial I.D. She did some personal training on the side to fund her competing. She really didn’t need to. Her husband runs a successful catering business.”
“What’s the cause of death?” Tara asks.
“Suffocation by smothering. The crewmen found her nude, faced-down. My team swept the area but couldn’t find any clothing.”
“Was there a sexual assault?”
The look Tara’s colleague gives her answers her question. He gingerly pulls back the sheet. She is amazed at the magnificent body of the deceased, validating the agent’s prediction. More so, she is appalled at the gaping obscenity that was once her vulva.
“Any ideas what caused this?”
“Well…not even a well endowed porn star could cause this type of damage,” he replies, as if an expert on the subject. The comment produces a puzzled scowl on Tara’s face, knowing her colleague’s virtuous demeanor. She shakes off his peculiar remark.
“The evidence tells me it was a large blunt instrument of some sort, large enough and used forcefully enough to do this type of damage. Judging by the lining of the vagina, it was also very abrasive,” the agent says.
Detective McVey joins Tara and the agent. “So, I assume we have a positive I.D.,” McVey says.
“Yeah, the husband identified the body,” Sumner respond.
“I heard all about it. Is he going to be ok?” McVey asks.
“Let’s hope so,” Tara interjects.
McVey gives her a look bordering on contempt and total disgust.
Tara, emotionally charged from the husband’s outburst and remembering the detective’s expression at Sheridan Park, sees the look and this time, doesn’t let it go.
“Detective McVey … I don’t know what your beef is with me, and at this point, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m not going to continue to take this shit from you simply because you don’t have the balls to man up and spit it out!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa…settle down, Detective,” Agent Sumner says in an inflated tone.
McVey stands with both hands on his waist with piercing blue eyes focused on her like a drill sergeant about to pounce on a lowly private.
This has no effect as Tara stares back with dark defiant eyes, refusing to back down.
After a moment, “I’ve seen enough here,” McVey says.
“Agent Sumner,” he says dismissing himself, then briefly looking at Tara before walking away.
“What was that all about?” Sumner asks.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies, reeling from the altercation.
“Where was I?” the agent rambles, trying to collect his thoughts. “Oh yes, we did find semen at the scene but oddly, it wasn’t present inside any of the body cavities. We’re running tests to see what comes up.”
“The question is how could someone do this?” the agent asks.
Tara, now recovered from her dispute with McVey, weighs in.
“Agent Sumner, someone did this because they’re just one evil son of a bitch,” she says, ironically paraphrasing McVey.
They look at each other and Agent Sumner immediately knows what she is insinuating.
“I wasn’t sure until I saw that,” she says, having a flash of genius. “That wound is more than just a wound, it’s a signature. The same signature we saw at Sheridan Park.”
Tara gazes upon the victim and speaks softly as if she expects an answer.
“Terri Gibson’s murder was not just a random homicide; you saw her killer too, didn’t you, Mrs. Vogel?” She faces the agent. “We’re witnessing history here,” she says with certainty, and remorse. The nodding of the agent’s head tells Tara he sees the validity in her argument.
“Agent Sumner, I’m afraid our great city has its first serial killer.”
CHAPTER 5 - A Wall or a Mirror?
Dusk settles upon the city as Tara drives to her suburban home located on La Flore’s south side. Her mind is in recap mode, replaying the stirring scene at Pathology and the emotional interviews with Kelly Vogel’s clients and friends.
A serial killer is in La Flore. For once, I hope I’m wrong…but I don’t think I am.
Despite her confidence, Tara senses her argument will meet resistance by some in Division, who two years since the Sexton case, still have little confidence in her.
It’s a bit premature, other than the shocking wounds there is no solid MO, she asserts, playing devil’s advocate with herself. All I’ve really got is my gut…I just feel it.
There was a time when Tara’s gut would have been more than sufficient to eliminate any doubt in her mind, along with the unwavering support of the entire division.
Later, she turns onto Follett Drive and cruises the windy roadway through the well-kept upper middle class neighborhood and approaches a cul-de-sac, veers to the right and enters the driveway of a two-storey adobe-style house. Tara enters the quiet, cozy home and quickly sets her sights on Jeezra; her babysitter, lounging on the den sofa, engrossed in a sizable book simply titled “Enlightenment”.
“Sorry I’m late Jeezra,” Tara says, noticing the piece nestled in the 16 year old’s lap.
“Oh its fine Mrs. T,” the bi-racial teen responds.
Immersed in her read, Jeezra lost track of time and never noticed Tara’s tardiness.
“You’re a far better person than I am,” Tara says, eyeing the book she judges to be at least seven hundred pages.
“It’s really a good book, Mrs. T,” the teen responds, knowing that to the average person, reading such a lengthy volume would be equivalent to watching grass grow.
“I will take your word for it,” Tara says in a shrewd tone while retrieving a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet. The teen graciously takes the easy money.
“Tell your mom I said hi,” Tara says as the teen gathers her things.
“I will,” she responds. “I have been known to read tabloids from time to time,” the teen says out of nowhere.
“Then I have to say stop hanging around Sara.” Tara’s rebuttal gets an instant outburst of laughter from the teen.
Afterwards, Tara heads up stairs. She enters a bedroom and finds her daughter Megan, lying face up on her bed. Her ears are connected to her iPod and her eyes are honed in on the cell phone screen as she texts at breakneck speed.
“Meg…Meg!”
Megan is interrupted from her intense texting session when she sees her mother standing in the doorway.
“Oh, hi Mom,” she says disconnecting herself from her iPod.
The eleven year old is Tara’s daughter with her husband Dale.
“Has your sister called today?”
“Hmm...let me see, she doesn’t need money and she’s not fighting with her so-called boyfriend. So no…she hasn’t called today.”
Tara eyes Megan sternly to show disapproval with her sarcastic tone.
“Did I tell you how wonderful it is to see you, Mother dear?” Megan asks with a gleaming smile. Finding humor in Megan’s silly spectacle, Tara holds a poker face.
“Don’t talk that way about your sister,” she says, knowing there is much validity to her daughter’s claim.
If you only knew the scary similarity in the early lives of Sara and Tara, her mind asserts.
“You’ve got another thirty minutes to stay up.”
“Forty minutes, oh please! Please! Please!”
“Alright, alright, you’ve got forty minutes and then you hit the shower and get ready for bed.”
“You know you’re the world’s best mom?”
“Why, absolutely child,” Tara responds, with a big smile and a southern drawl.
She approaches the stairs and hears, “Mom! We need more Hot Pockets!
And milk! And cereal! Frosted Mini Crisps!”
As her daughter yells her wish list, Tara hears the clunk of the heavy oak front door. Walking downstairs, she gazes upon her husband Dale, who looks as if his day was no better than hers. The fifty year old is one of three partners of Sentinel Security, a small security firm they started after leaving law enforcement together, and while he and Tara were dating.
Of average height, he looks younger than his fifty years, but the stress of a competitive industry is starting to wear on the former two-time high school 145 lbs. State-wrestling champion. Barring the loss of her father and the Sexton case, Dale met Tara at the lowest point in her life. He introduced her to something she had never known until that point…sanity.
“I owe my life to the man I love,” she often says in spite of the landmark achievements she has accomplished at Division.
For Dale, it was love at first sight and nothing has changed for him ever since. His previous marriage lasted five grueling years and produced no children, which he desperately wanted. After his divorce, he occasionally dated but vowed never to remarry, immersing himself completely into law enforcement. Meeting Tara changed all that, despite her being unlike anyone he typically dated, and having considerable baggage at the time. Tara became his one true love and the mother of the only thing more precious, their daughter Megan.
As much as Tara loves her husband, at times she sees glimpses of her parent’s relationship. She promises herself her marriage will never end up like theirs. However, flashes of the possibility creep up from time to time and gnaw at her.
Dale perks up seeing his wife at the top of the stairs. “Sunshine still up?” he asks, arriving home a little later than normal.
“Yeah, she’s in her room, but you better hurry.”
Dale strolls upstairs meeting Tara halfway and walks into a kiss.
“Have you eaten yet?” she asks.
“Uh huh, I grabbed something on the way home.”
“What?” Tara asks suspiciously.
“That’s the scary part. I forgot. Something healthy no doubt, or I’d still remember.”
“You’re hopeless, you know that?” she says with a tender smile, shaking her head at Dale’s trademark humor.
“I’ve been trying to tell you that for years,” he says, continuing upstairs.
Later that night, Tara sees her husband is in the nether regions of consciousness as they lie under the plush comforter of their bed.
“You know, that’s going to be a tough sell,” he mumbles, after hearing Tara’s serial killer theory. Dale’s eyes are closed and he sinks deeper, on the verge of sleep. “It’s going to be tough…way too early.” Dale’s voice fades into a light snore. Tara is wide-awake and looks at her sleeping husband. She lays back and focuses on the textured ceiling, which in time, becomes hazy.
A girl, less than school age, wakes in the middle of the night. Wearing a nightshirt, she walks out of her tiny room and into the dark hallway. She walks across the hall into a room where she sees her father sprawled unconscious on a bed, and an empty Seagram 7 bottle lying on the floor. She looks in the direction of the muffled sounds that brought her out of her sleep. The girl walks down the long hallway towards a dimly lit living room. She stands in plain sight at the entrance of the living room and stares at the sofa. Her mother lies nude on the floor. The sofa blocks the girl’s vision from the waist down. Her mother’s firm breasts bounce abruptly from repeated thrusts. Her head thrashes rhythmically on a thick bed of dark hair. She bites her lips to muffle her pleasure as she works her lover with authority. A handsome young man with thick black hair is on top of her with long muscular arms extended. Sweat glistens from the lean, faintly hairy body of the man at least ten years the mother’s junior.
“Baby…I’ve never had any this good…Oh Yes!” he says passionately in a low voice. He looks toward the hallway and sees the dark haired girl with her eyes fixed on the spectacle. He looks down upon his lover. Seeing the stunning resemblance, and that the mother is oblivious to the girl’s presence, he turns his sights again to the girl. Their eyes meet. The young man works the mother with even greater purpose, triggering an immediate response.
“Oh yes, that’s it!” she moans.
He smiles at the girl before turning his full attention to her mother, working her madly, triggering an orgasm that exhausts him. He stares into his lover’s face, and then makes eye contact again with the girl, who has stood motionless the entire time.
A grin fills his face and he gingerly puts a finger to his mouth exhaling a gentle, “Sssshhh, it's our little secret.”
Tara emerges from her sleep as the ceiling comes into focus. Like nights before, her sheets are moist. Slowly, she feels her heart rate and breathing returning to normal. Blood, which just moments earlier was pooled between her legs, flows elsewhere and her nipples, previously erect, are receding. Dread hits her as she realizes what has happened. Worse, Tara is unable to stop it.
“I am not like you. I will never be like you,” she whispers assertively.
She looks over at her husband, lying in a fetal position facing away from her, then looks at the flaming numbers of the digital clock on her night stand to see that it is three a.m. Tara turns to Dale and gives him a gentle rub on the shoulders. She rolls over and assumes her own fetal position.
The dark-haired girl is in early puberty. Her long lean frame, with a hint of womanhood, wears a white sleeveless nightshirt that falls just above her knees as she walks through the dark abyss. A heavy fog blankets the floor, shimmering as far as the eye can see. In the distance, she sees the radiant figure of a woman staring at her. Unafraid, the girl walks towards the woman as she sees the woman doing the same. Soon, the girl realizes the alluring figure, wearing a white silk slip, is her mother. The two finally meet, stopping less than a foot apart. They stare at one another as mother and daughter, yet strangers. The girl raises a hand to touch her mother and the woman mimics her movement. As their hands come together, the girl realizes that she is not touching her mother’s hand but the smooth, cold surface of a reflective barrier. She moves her hands slowly in a circular motion and the woman’s movements emulates her daughter’s.
“Tara,” the mother’s voice echoes in a soft southern tone, prompting the girl to stop. She looks into her mother’s dark piercing eyes with a face void of expression.
“Tara, child, is this a wall…or a mirror?”
CHAPTER 6 - The “S” Word
Tara, Dale and Megan walk outside the front door of their home into a gorgeous clear morning. Tara and Dale kiss before they head off to work.
“I don’t know how late I’ll be tonight,” Dale says, walking to his car. He stops and looks back at Tara standing with Megan. “Hey!” he calls out getting her attention. “I hope you’re wrong about your theory…But if you’re not...” They stare at each other, understanding the gravity of a serial killer in La Flore and the foreboding possibilities if her theory is true. Tara and Megan watch Dale drive off when she sees her neighbor Faye Woodard, who she has not seen in several weeks, walking to her car.
“Faye!” Tara exclaims, astonished, almost not recognizing her. Faye turns to her with a beaming smile and a well deserved sense of accomplishment and rightfully so. The sleek size ten dresses she wears are far from the snug size eighteens that were the staple of her wardrobe several months earlier. The drastic reduction in clothing size is not the only change for the forty-seven year old real estate agent. Faye’s doctor took her off her high blood pressure, cholesterol and diabetes medications. However, the change she considers the sweetest happened yesterday when a hot young bag boy graciously offered to bring her groceries to the car…tip free.
“Faye, you look fantastic!”
Megan interjects. “You really look great Mrs. Woodard.”
“Now you’re going to make me cry,” Faye responds, fanning her face as tears well up in her eyes.
Tara approaches Faye, giving her a big hug.
“Thank you, Tara and thank you, Meg,” Faye says trying to regain her composure.
“Well, my goal is to get into a size eight, but my clothes were getting so baggy I had to buy something in the meantime. I can’t remember the last time I wore a size ten.”
“Well, you’re in them now and there is no time like the present!” Tara says with great admiration for Faye’s stunning new look.
Later, Tara drops Megan off at a local youth center just a few blocks from their home, then skillfully maneuvers through the morning traffic, finally reaching the precinct. At her desk, she sifts through piles of documents, footnotes and photos with a different mindset. Instead of investigating two random homicides that lead nowhere, she is now looking for links connecting them. Detective Cummings interrupts.
“Hey, I heard what happened at Pathology yesterday with you and McVey.”
Tara pauses for a moment. “Please…Not now,” she says in a low tone while continuing to thumb through the heap of material in front of her.
“I’ll get with you later. I think I know what’s up with G.I. Joe,” he comments in a devious tone. Tara looks up to find Cummins wearing a sly grin. Her look tells him that she is not amused. She continues her daunting task when a towering mass catches her peripheral vision. She looks up to see her boss, Commander Robert Johnson, walking towards his office.