Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jackson
*Three weeks later*
I leave the crime scene with my heart heavy and my stomach in my throat.
The man my team dubbed *The beautician,* has struck again.
And with each kill, it appears as though he’s escalating. There’s been less time between each kill and he seems to be getting sloppier.
With Cecily, it was a simple murder— *as if murder can be considered simple*—he beat her, possibly raped her, took her life, bathed her, did her hair, makeup, and nails—beautified her, if you will—bound her hands and ankles and then left her naked in a ditch on the side of the road.
A month later with Corrine Rothschild, it was the same thing; instead of on the side of the road, it was the creek running through Mr. Potter’s farm.
She’d been beaten, again possibly raped—there’d again been signs of vaginal penetration, no semen, but whether it consensual is still unknown—killed, bathed, hair and make-up done up, unlike I had assumed, her nails were left bare but clean— as if he’d run out of time or had been interrupted—she’d been bound at her wrists and ankles and left completely nude except for a pair of black stilettos.
Although unlike with Cecily, gray fibers had been left behind that we were able to trace back to the interior of a late 2000s model Honda.
We haven’t been able to figure out more as of yet, as it’s a Honda is a pretty nondescript type of vehicle that’s perfect for blending in.
We’ve been able to trace all registered owners of that make of car, ranging from 2005-2009 but even with being able to narrow it down that much, there are still more than 300 people locally, and within the towns and cities within a two-hour drive from here, that own Hondas of varying models.
But of those over 300 registered owners, none of them are anyone who is currently on our radar, or rather, none of them are Brady Stevens or one of his family members.
But expecting Brady to have registered the vehicle under his name, or someone in his family, would be expecting too much.
He is a missing or possibly deceased person, after all.
We rolled up on this crime scene hoping that it wasn’t our guys' work but evidence showed the contrary.
This girl was dumped in a local park, right at the edge of the creek that runs through it.
A young woman barely in her twenties had taken the kids that she nannies, a boy who’s five and his 3-year-old sister, to the park. The three of them got the fright of their lives coming upon a sight like that.
This girl looked the same as the others, hair and eye color, complexion, similar height, the way the body was bound except for the heels, the only difference this time was she wasn’t done up or even bathed, making us question if this was even our guy.
But we can’t rule out the possibility one way or the other just yet.
“I want you guys scouring every traffic cam, CCTV, whatever you can get your hands on,” Morris orders as soon as we get back upstairs at the precinct. “Jones, I want you to check the cameras leading up to and at the park, see if we can get eyes on when she was dumped and by whom.” Then he points to Amriel and says, “I want you digging up whatever you can about our most recent Vic.”
Before heading back to his office, he places his hands on his hips and with a shake of his head, he growls, “I want to find this son of a bitch before he has the chance to hurt another girl.”
“We will do our best,” I say, speaking for the whole team.
Morris nods in acknowledgment, “I know you will. You guys are the best this city has to offer, that’s why you’re all on my team.”
With the pressure on and not wanting to let Morris or the three vic’s down, I turn to my monitor and get to work.
Hours pass as I stare at the screen in front of me, having first started at the park where the most recent victim was dumped and moving backwards, hoping to find something, anything.
She didn’t just show up at the edge of that creek on her own.
She was either attacked while at the park or murdered somewhere else and then dumped there.
My money is on the latter.
After about another hour, Amriel jumps up from her chair and rushes over to the printer before making her way over to the board that has the other two victims’ pictures displayed along with anyone who could be a possible connection between them.
So far, we don’t have many persons of interest but the few we do have are a start.
She’s placed the picture of who we identified as Creesha Rutherford up next to the images of Cecily and Corrine, along with a picture of a man who doesn’t look much older than I am, with sandy blonde hair, green eyes, and a look about him that just screams spoiled little rich kid.
“So, I was able to find out that Creesha was a call girl who worked for someone called ‘Madam Ruth’,” Amriel says turning toward the rest of us. Morris comes out of his office, waiting to hear what else she has to say.
“All three victims had been on quote, unquote “*dates*” with this guy here, Victor Stevenson,” she says, and then with a pointed look at me, she quickly adds, “I’m already looking into whether that’s his real name or if he’s had it changed and could be related to your guy.”
I nod, appreciating the thoroughness, and wait to see if there’s anything more before I go back to my footage.
“If my sources are correct, he was the last one to see all three of our vic’s before their bodies were discovered.”
“I want to know everything that you can find out about this Victor character. Who his parents are, where he works, and where he went to school. Hell, if he has a second cousin twice removed, I want to know about them.”
“Jones, anything on your end?” Morris asks, turning his attention to me.
“Not yes sir. I’ve scrubbed all the footage back until late yesterday evening, but so far, nothing.”
“Keep looking. There’s got to be something there,” Morris orders, frustration clear on his face. “And Amriel, good job.”
“Don’t thank me until I get everything, Sir.” An almost imperceptible smile pulls at the corner of Morris’s mouth but a moment later it’s gone and he’s turning back to his office and picking up the ringing phone sitting atop his desk.
With his answered, “Morris…” I turn back to my screen and the footage that’s waiting before me.
Ten minutes later, a car pulls into the parking area of the park, its headlights lighting up the whole area. I watch as someone, appearing as little more than a black figure against the dark of night, gets out of the front driver, goes to the back passenger door, and pulls, from the size of the person or thing, is our victim out before hefting them over their shoulder and moving around the back of the car, sticking to the shadows. I watch the barely there form move in the direction of the creek before I can no longer make them out. A few moments later, the person makes their way back towards the car, being sure to steer clear of the lights before getting back in the driver's seat, backing out of their spot, and taking off down the street, heading away from camera view.
I pull up the footage of a camera that the car should be passing if they stay on the same road, put in the time stamp of 21:34:53, and wait to see if that car shows up. Right on cue, I watch as a sedan, more specifically what turns out to be a 2004 silver Honda Civic, approaches and then drives past the camera, and hopefully the streetlights will give us a good enough view of the perp's face to be able to run in through facial rec.
Stopping the footage, I back it up a few frames, slow it down, and press play. As soon as the streetlights hit their face, I press pause.
“Son of a bitch,” I curse, shoving my chair back and quickly standing up, my hands going to my head as anger and fear begin coursing through my veins.
“Jones, what do you have?” Morris asks, moving out of his office only to stop at my desk, taking in the image of the person’s face paused on the screen.
“Make your calls. I’ve got my own to make,” he growls before sharply turning and quickly retreating to his office, this time closing the door behind him.
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