Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

Liam didn’t respond right away, and I could tell he wasn’t convinced. He cocked his head like he was considering the theory. “But why not just kill her? That’s a lot of work—and a lot of killing—for her to remain alive in the end. Plus, I thought you said you looked through your mom’s cases and no one fits the profile of this guy.”

“That’s true,” I said, throwing a cold fry to a seagull.

“What if this guy is just some crazy psycho who gets off watching you kill? Like that Jigsaw guy from Saw . He believes these guys deserve to die, too, and he thinks this is some game. Maybe he has a connection to one of these guys and that’s what drew him to you. ”

Or maybe Liam watched too many movies.

He flipped through the third file. It was Father Michael McMullin’s. Seven suspected child molestations, two suspected child abductions, and five dropped charges. And that was only in the State of California. He’d been a priest in Michigan and Florida before that. District Attorney Jane Rose’s press release blamed the failure to convict on the witnesses refusing to testify.

I took the fifth file on Stanley “The Violent” Violet—a sadistic video game genius, porn addict, and lover of small women with even smaller self-esteem. His “alleged” crimes consisted of binding, torturing, and killing innocent college-aged women.

My dad had dropped Violet with a through-and-through shot to the shoulder seven years ago during a standoff-hostage situation in a mall parking lot. Violet had gotten sloppy and tried to force a freshman coed into his Lamborghini. A search warrant produced four thoroughly bleached trophy keepsakes (small trinkets of nondescript jewelry that couldn’t be linked to any missing person) from presumably four other victims who were never positively identified. His computer game success bought him a media-mongering hotshot attorney who convinced a jury that Violet was “legally insane and incapable of knowing right from wrong” because he thought he was in a video game. He got five years in a mental facility, then the bare minimum in parole supervision in the two years since he’d been out.

I glanced through the photos. I didn’t have one of those two-foot lenses, so the pictures I’d taken were pretty low quality—mostly shots of Violet going in and out of bars, strip clubs, gas stations, and the odd videogame store. I don’t think either Liam or I knew exactly what we were looking for, but it was better than doing nothing.

I opened the fourth file. Roger Vay—the worst of the worst. He’d literally gotten away with murder at least a dozen times. He was by far the smartest, slimiest, and scariest offender on my list. He studied his victims. He chose the isolated loners, the irresponsible partiers, and the professionals who worked long hours. By the time anyone noticed they were gone, so was any evidence connecting him to the crime.

The only reason we knew he was such an accomplished killer was his signature—a unique antique key he would later mail to the closest person in the victim’s life. Each victim had his or her own handmade key. The thought of Vay creeped me out to the core. And how evil to mess with the family’s minds, making them think that if they could just find the locked door to where their loved one was being held, maybe they could save them.

After years of fumbling around, the police finally figured out the glaring piece of “key” evidence and linked the cases—all twelve of them, spread out over twenty years. They started calling him the Key Killer.

Finally, someone got the idea to run a search on locksmiths in the criminal database, and they found the only one with an old rape arrest. They closed in on Roger Vay, gathered some damning forensic evidence tying him to the mailed keys, and put him on trial. During Prosecutor Jane’s presentation of evidence, another woman went missing and a copycat killer sent another key. It was enough to create reasonable doubt, and the real Key Killer was set free. The justice system at its finest.

I stared down at the pictures in the file. Remarkably, Vay looked clean-cut, owned his own small business, and even had a wife and two kids. He also hardly went anywhere, so there were far fewer pictures of him to study.

“Hey, check that out.” Liam pointed to one of the photos I’d put down. It was of Stanley Violet outside his gas station talking to someone in a vehicle. “See that black cargo van? It’s the same one from this picture.” He grabbed the photo I was holding and slid it next to his.

I gasped, my heart thumping in my ears. Could this be true? “Oh. My. Mother.”

“It’s the same vehicle, right? And part of the license plate shows.”

“Liam, I can’t believe this,” I said, leaning in to him to see the photos better. “I totally missed that. But is that a D or an 8 ?” I pointed at the plate.

“Are you blind? First of all, a D looks nothing like an 8 . And anyway, it’s neither—it’s a zero .” He was clearly enjoying his breakthrough.

I squinted at the image, scrunching up my nose as though that would make the image suddenly clear. “It’s definitely a D .”

“Whatever you say,” he said, imitating my expression. Mother Jane would be dismayed to know that a boy had caught me looking so unattractive. I didn’t care. This was huge.

“Come on,” I said, shoving the files into my bag. “Let’s get back to my place before my mom gets home. I want to get on my dad’s computer and check the plates.”

I didn’t go into my dad’s office very often. Only to do some research on the “official ongoing investigation” into his death, and some digging on the Filthy Five. Otherwise, it had been virtually untouched since he died—his gun case securely locked, the minifridge stocked with Corona Lights, and his dearly beloved semper fi flag hung on the wall. If I didn’t know better, it felt like he might be coming home any minute to skedaddle me out of his man cave.

This time, as I prepared to do research with Liam, I noticed a large coin on the mouse pad. I picked it up to move it aside and realized what it was—my dad’s Challenge Coin. What was it doing here? He’d always had it on him, and it wasn’t here the last time I’d come in. Had he accidentally dropped it under the desk before he died, and the cleaning lady found it recently and put it somewhere we’d see it?

“What’s that?” Liam said, as I turned it over in my hand.

“A coin that everyone in my dad’s SWAT unit had,” I said, trying to remember its significance. “It says ‘Loyalty. Courage. Commitment.’ Though, I’m pretty sure they just used it for bar games. When someone taps it, it’s supposed to alert everyone to a challenge. The last person in the unit to pull out their coin and start tapping has to buy everyone drinks.” I shook my head. “Like they need any more drinking in SWAT.” I put the coin in my pocket anyway. It instantly made me feel closer to Dad.

I wiggled the computer mouse, and the last program used popped up. The large screen lit up with a photo from my sixth birthday party—my dad and me smiling at each other over a massive plate of sizzling fajitas and fruity drinks with umbrellas. My heart sputtered at the sight. I didn’t remember looking at these photos the last time I was in here. My mom must’ve used the computer, which surprised me since I was under the impression that she hadn’t stepped foot in here since his death. Maybe she missed him a lot more than she let on.

I closed the files and closed off my heart. No time for weakness now. Instead, I opened the license plate database, silently thanking Liam for not asking me any questions about the picture.