Fifteen Times a Killer Page 7

  At eight in the evening, frustrated at the lack of progress, she headed home. A body had been discovered under the two crossed sticks, but when it became clear that it would be a long time before it was exhumed, she saw no point in hanging around. Better to get started on the story, and she had a raft of notes to work from.

  The drive home took Jess over an hour. Her place was one of ten in a rental complex in Downey. It was a white-walled building with a terracotta roof, and her one-bedroom apartment was on the ground floor.

  Jess cursed aloud as she struggled to unlock her door. She’d been asking the landlord to fix it for over a week, and he’d promised to look at it today. She considered putting another letter through his door first thing in the morning, but she didn’t want to piss him off in case he decided to throw her out. It was the cheapest place she’d been able to find within ten miles of the Telegraph, and a new apartment would cost more than she could afford.

  If things got desperate, she could always ask her father for help. That would be an act of last resort, though. Kenneth Duffey’s plan had been for Jess to work for his business and eventually take it over, but she had no interest in making components for military jets and missiles.

  He’d been furious when she’d announced that she was majoring in journalism rather than business. He had warned that she’d struggle without his help, but she was determined to make it on her own. Now, though, she sometimes wished she’d listened to his advice. Surviving on a reporter’s salary in one of the most expensive cities in the States was a lot harder than she’d imagined.

  That would all change once she’d written this story, though.

  She struggled with the lock for another minute before it finally relented and let her into her home. Jess dumped her bag on the sofa, retrieved her notepad and grabbed a soda from the fridge. She took them to the small dining table and booted her laptop. While she waited for it to warm up, Jess scanned through her notes.

  They had to know. They had to suffer, to know the pain their actions caused. They had to feel it for themselves.

  What actions was he talking about? She wondered.

  On the drive home, she’d already decided how she’d approach the story. Just stating what the police had discovered wasn’t going to win her a Pulitzer. She had to make it personal, to delve into the killer’s motivations. What made him kill them? What had they done to offend him?

  Jess knew she wasn’t going to get that information from the police or the Feds. She would have to do her own investigation. Not into the murderer, but the victims. If she could paint a picture of their lives, it might help understand why they were chosen. That would mean interviewing family members, friends, acquaintances, and it would pose a problem. Traveling to San Diego and Pennsylvania required money, and Jess didn’t have much.

  That’s what credit cards are for.

  When the laptop was ready, she searched for flights to Scranton. From the little information she’d managed to squeeze out of Corrina Stone, the family of Kerry Swanson hadn’t been notified of the discovery, and they wouldn’t be until a DNA match confirmed that they had the right person. That would happen soon, and Jess wanted to speak to the family before they were informed that their daughter had been found. Once they were given the news, they would be less inclined to speak to the press. That had to be her first stop.

  She bought the cheapest economy ticket she could find, and on second thought decided to book a rental car. The flight would leave in the morning, which gave her time to pack a small bag, make a start on her story and get a few hours of sleep. She decided to start by getting some background on Kerry’s family.

  Jess did a search for Kerry Swanson and read half a dozen articles before she had the names of the father, deceased mother and a couple of college friends who were interviewed by the newspapers after Kerry had been declared missing. Jess then searched for addresses and contact details for all of them.

  She found the two friends on social media. Both had Facebook accounts, but there was no personal information apart from the fact that they both still lived in Scranton, both had studied at the University of Nevada, and that one of them once worked at a bar called The Venue.

  How to get an address for them?

  A private investigator could probably find the information within a couple of hours, but she didn’t have the money to pay for one. She would have to do it herself.

  A quick search found the number for The Venue. Jess planned what she would say before dialing. She had to wait for ten rings.

  “Venue.”

  Raucous music almost drowned out the speaker, but Jess could make out that it was male.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Cassandra Lawson.”

  “Who?” The reply was shouted, and Jess held the phone a little farther away from her ear.

  “Cassandra Lawson. She works there.”

  “Oh, Cass. Yeah, she don’t work here no more.”

  “Did she leave, or…?” Jess let the question hang. Either Cassandra left on good terms, or was fired. Jess had a play for each response. If the answer was that Cassandra left of her own accord, she would make up something about an inheritance.

  “I canned her lazy ass months ago.”

  Perfect! Jess knew she was more likely to make progress if her ex-colleagues had a beef with Cassandra. “Do you have an address for her? I’m from a collection agency and would really like to catch up with her.”

  “Sure. She lives over near Oakmont Park.” The man gave Jess an address, and she thanked him profusely before hanging up.

  She looked up Cassandra’s home on Google Maps and jotted down a route from the airport, confident that she’d be able get the address of Kerry’s other friend from Cassandra.

  Next, she began a search for Kerry’s parents. Several articles written about the girl’s disappearance named Anthony Leopold Swanson as the father. His wife Elizabeth had been dead for twelve years. A further search revealed that Anthony Swanson had been involved in a lawsuit a few years earlier. Curious, Jess clicked the link that took her to the Department of Justice website.

  According to the press release, Swanson had been the owner of a company that manufactured car seats. Three children who were in Swanson-manufactured car seats died after the cars they were in were hit from the side. Their parents sued Swanson for $30 million. Swanson’s lawyers had argued successfully that the defendant had all of the necessary safety certifications for his products, that side-impact testing wasn’t mandatory for the class of seat he’d made and sold, and therefore he wasn’t negligent.

  Jess looked for more information on the court case, but apart from a couple of blog posts, there was nothing. She did discover that Anthony Swanson had sold the company soon after, and he now manufactured and sold outdoor furniture. His head office was in Scranton, and Jess decided to visit him at work rather than waste time trying to find a home address.

  With her itinerary mapped out, Jess moved on to the family of the second victim, Joanne Perry. Once again, old news reports proved a treasure trove. Jess discovered that Vincent Perry, Joanne’s husband, was her only family. Her parents had died within three years of each other, both before she’d gone missing, and there was no mention of children in any of the media stories. However, a couple of the newspapers mentioned Vincent Perry’s background. They didn’t exactly portray him in a good light.

  Jess did a search for him and the name of his real estate company. There were plenty of hits. She clicked on one from the San Diego Chronicle and read the banner headline:

  Anger at Gentrification Plans

  Vincent Perry was accused of bringing agitators from out of state to torment the residents of a small community. The story claimed that a sustained campaign of harassment aimed at homeowners had left them with no choice but to sell their properties at well below market value. Every home had been purchased by Vincent Perry’s company. He’d then demolished them and had been in the process of building fifty new homes at ten times the value of the ones they
would replace. The previous homeowners had no chance of purchasing one, leaving them no option but to leave the area most had called home for their entire lives.

  Sounds like a first-class shit, Jess thought.

  The article, of course, didn’t directly accuse Perry of anything, avoiding the risk of a libel suit. His actions were “alleged” and “rumored,” and there were “suggestions.” Perry himself denied any wrongdoing, claiming he had no knowledge of any harassment and that the “happiness of the local community was paramount in his thoughts.”

  Jess wondered whether she should bring it up when she spoke to Perry, but decided against it. It would no doubt be difficult for him to talk about his wife’s disappearance, even after all this time. If she then started slinging mud at him, she wouldn’t get the background she needed, and she could rule out any future co-operation. She could always write a piece on his dubious dealings some other time.

  She made a start on the story. She still hadn’t settled on a headline, so she typed out 15X as a placeholder and wrote the first two paragraphs. She was about to start on the third when her email notification appeared in the bottom corner of the screen.

  She froze when she saw the subject.

  Fifteen Times a Killer

  With a trembling hand, Jess maximized her email client. She didn’t recognize the email address. It had to be from him, and a terrifying thought raced through her mind: he knows my personal email address.

  Jess rushed to the window to see if he was watching the apartment, then immediately felt stupid. What did you expect? He’s standing out there with a laptop waiting for your reply?

  She returned to the table and took her seat, telling herself that he probably got her email from her blog, or any of the other places she’d put it online, from job bulletin boards to her LinkedIn account.

  You’re just being paranoid.

  Jess took a deep breath, then clicked on the message.

  Hi Jess.

  Hope you had a pleasant stroll earlier today. Now that you know I’m serious, I’ll tell you why I contacted you.

  I want you to share my story with the world. I want you to let them know why I did what I did. I’m not going to spell it out for you; you’re a bright enough girl to figure it out. If you and Corrina work together, you’ll have the answer in no time.

  There are many more out there, just waiting to be shown the error of their ways. I can’t get them all myself, but once others see the nobility of my cause, they’ll take up the call.

  I’ve attached chapter three. It was my most disappointing kill, but you can’t always get what you want.

  The body can be found here: ///nasal.jerky.belongs

  Until next time,

  15X

  Jess’s heart skipped a couple of beats when she saw the signature. It was the same as the placeholder title she’d given her story.

  Was he watching her?

  She looked around her small apartment to see if there was anything out of place, something that might contain a camera, but her necessarily minimalist approach to interior design meant there were few ornaments of any kind. Still, she examined the air vents, the smoke alarm, the porcelain cat on the sideboard, and the two pictures that hung on the wall.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Jess wanted to believe it was a coincidence, but doubt continued to tug at her as she checked that the front door was locked before returning to her seat. She searched for the location on the What3words website and groaned. There was no vehicular access, just a trail cut into the hillside, and that meant yet another slog through the woods.

  That could wait, though.

  She clicked on the attachment, glad that she had an empty stomach.

  Chapter 10

  Chapter Three

  My third victim was a challenge, mainly because he was a fit male. I knew after my struggles with Joanne Perry that I would have to adapt my strategy, and that’s what I did with this one. His name was Thomas Crane.

  Thomas was a challenge in many ways. He looked like he could handle himself, and he didn’t stick to a set routine. Some nights he’d go out, but on the same day the following week he’d stay home. He had a gym membership, but went infrequently. I guess he did most of his workouts at home, only going to the gym to socialize. Whatever, he was a tough one to plan for.

  It took me weeks to make a move, but I’m a patient guy. I knew that if I was going to be in this for the long haul, I’d have to be careful, only striking when the right opportunity came along.

  That turned out to be a Tuesday.

  As it turned out, Thomas liked some of the same places I did. One of them was Angeles National Forest. The difference was that he liked to ride his mountain bike along the trails, while I preferred to bury the body parts of people I’d dismembered.

  The first time he went, I was unprepared. I followed his car in my van, but when he got to the trail head and took his bike from the back of his station wagon, I couldn’t follow him. All I could do was watch him ride away, a weak sun on his back and a smile on his face. From that day on, I kept my own bike in the van should the opportunity present itself.

  I had to wait almost two weeks.

  When I saw him head north out of Pasadena, my whole body tingled. I knew the time had come. I was as prepared as I’d ever been, but there were always butterflies as the crucial moment neared.

  I tailed him all the way to the Mount Wilson Observatory, where he parked and changed into his cycling gear. He was considerate enough to wear a pink jersey, which would make him easy to follow. As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary. There were few people around on what was a cold afternoon. From my van I could see him putting water bottles in a backpack, then he set off down a trail. As soon as he disappeared from sight, I got my own backpack from the van. Mine didn’t contain water, though. I got on my bike and set off after my target.

  Man, Thomas could ride! He flew down that trail like his life depended on it, and he was just a speck on the horizon by the time I got going. I rode like hell to catch up, but after fifteen minutes there was still no sign of him. Frustrated, I gave up. I got off my bike and sat on the ground, saving my energy for the ride back.

  Then it hit me: Thomas would have to ride back, too. This was the only track leading back to the trail head, so he’d have to come back this way to get to his car. All I had to do was find a spot to wait for him. I got back on my bike and rode on for another few minutes before I found the perfect place.

  Then it was just about waiting.

  After an hour, I saw him approaching me. I put my bike across the trail and lay down next to it. When he got close, I clutched my leg and rolled around like I was injured, moaning and groaning. Just as I hoped, Thomas stopped and asked if I needed help. He got off his bike, and when he did, I showed him my gun. A nice pistol with a silencer. He damn near shit his pants, I can tell you.

  “Pick up your bike and head down there,” I told him, nodding toward an area thick with trees and bushes.

  “Hey, man, if you want the bike, it’s yours. Not worth dying over.”

  “I don’t want it,” I said calmly.

  I could see him weighing up his options, but he didn’t really have any. I had the gun, he had Lycra shorts. It was no contest.

  He began wheeling his bike down the hill, and I picked mine up and followed him. We walked for about ten minutes, until we were a long way from the trail.

  “Stop here,” I told him.

  “What’s this about?” he asked me. He didn’t seem panicked, or nervous. Thomas looked like a guy who was used to being in control.

  “Take off your shirt,” I said.

  “Why? You bring me all this way just to fuck me up the ass?”

  I liked Thomas. He was funny.

  “No, nothing like that. Take it off.”

  He looked pissed, but he did as I said.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, tie it around your mouth.”

  Thomas threw the shirt on the gro
und. “Fuck you!”

  So I shot him.

  Not a kill shot, just a bullet to the knee.

  Did you know that silencers aren’t that silent? That gun made a big old sound. Not as big as Thomas, though. He collapsed to the ground and screamed like a real sonofabitch. Apparently getting shot in the knee hurts like a motherfucker.

  I didn’t think anyone would hear him, but just to be sure, I ran over and stuffed the shirt in his mouth. I stuffed it right in so he was gagging. Thomas tried to fight me off, but I shot him again, this time in the shoulder, and he stopped struggling after that.

  “I wish I could have spent more time with you,” I told him. “There are so many things I’d like to do to you.”

  Thomas was crying now. Maybe it was the pain, or maybe he knew he was going to die.

  Can you imagine how he felt? Can you imagine the sheer terror of knowing your time on this planet is no longer measured in years, but minutes? That your last moments will be spent in agony on the dusty, dirty ground in the middle of nowhere, with only a madman for company? Thomas didn’t seem to like it.

  I shot him in the other shoulder. Mostly to hurt him, but also to stop him from raising his hands to protect himself. I shot him in the other knee, too, so he couldn’t kick out.

  By this time he was babbling incoherently. I tried to listen, but the shirt stuffed in his mouth made it impossible to understand what he was saying. Doesn’t matter, anyway. He could have been calling for his mommy, or begging me to stop, but either way he was disappointed.

  I didn’t cut his toes and fingers off, much as I wanted to. There just wasn’t time, and I couldn’t bring all of my toys along. Instead, I took out my knife and sliced his belly open, from one side to the other.

  Then I told Thomas why I’d done it. I told him why he had to suffer, why he had to feel the pain. They have to know. It’s why I do it. If they don’t know how much anguish they cause, nothing will change.

  I’m not sure if Thomas agreed with my motive, or if he even understood it. All I know is that his last moments were unbearable. I stood over him and watched him pass away, sad that he’d gotten off lightly.