J. Ellison: All the Pretty Girls

“First officer on the scene knocked on the door, didn’t hear or see any movement from inside. No signs of forced entry. The landlord gave him a copy of the key, so he proceeded to open the door. It was locked from the inside, but only the push button, not the dead bolt. The officer went in, looked around. Things didn’t look out of place until he hit the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, biologicals all over it. Crime scene kids are about finished with it. We’ve done a canvas, too, no one remembers seeing her last night or today. Doesn’t look too good.”

They’d reached the door to the apartment and ducked under more crime scene tape. There were only a few people left in the room. Taylor nodded to them as she assessed the scene.

Shauna Davidson lived well. The apartment was tastefully decorated with a modern flair. A flat-panel television took up one wall, surrounded by high-end stereo equipment. A tan leather sofa dominated the room, buttery soft fawn suede cushions piled high. A good place to relax. There were adjacent chairs in dark brown suede, and a slate coffee table that drew all the colors together. Not a thing was out of place, as far as Taylor could tell. Magazines were lined up with precision on the corner of the coffee table. There were no errant drinking glasses or cans, no used newspapers. Good taste and a neat freak. Interesting for a young girl.

To the right, Taylor could see a small kitchen and a short hallway that led off the living room. She followed the hall, seeing an unused guest room, an office and, finally, the master bedroom. Here, things were not so neat.

The bed’s comforter was lying on the floor, the sheets a tangle at the foot of the bed. Blood soaked the mattress. Taylor looked to the crime scene tech standing deferentially to the left side of the bed, waiting for her.

“Do you have any Polaroids that show exactly how you found it?”

“Yes, ma’am. We tried to take the samples without disturbing the scene too much.”

“You’ve put things back in order then? Matches the Polaroids?”

“Yes, ma’am, this is pretty close to how we found it. We came in, saw the blood, backed out and started taking pictures. Then we took all the samples. It’s not as much as it looks, and the biologicals were desiccated. Been there for at least a day. Dusted the bed and side table for prints, came up with a few. We’ll get it all into the system, let you know. Soon as you’re ready we’ll finish bagging and cart it out.”

Taylor nodded her thanks and the young man left the room. She turned to Baldwin and Fitz. “Well?” she asked.

Baldwin took in the room, the blood. Taylor could see the signs of recognition on his face. She waited him out. He crept around the room, making notes, taking a few of his own pictures.

Taylor watched Fitz out of the corner of her eye, he was getting impatient. She was, too. “Baldwin, talk to us. What’s up here?”

He closed his notebook, slung his camera over his shoulder. “It all looks familiar. This is similar to what I’ve seen in the other girls’ apartments. The unmade bed, the blood. I think he charms them, gets them to invite him home and into their beds, then strangles them and cuts off their hands. Transports the body to wherever he’s picked next.” He shook his head. “Shauna Davidson. I don’t know where we’ll find her, but she makes number four. He’s speeding things up.”

Baldwin paced around the room. “See, there’s no sign of forced entry. That’s consistent with the other three girls. I think he picks them up somewhere, a bar, a library, who knows. They invite him back to their place. Maybe things get out of hand, maybe the sex starts out consensual, but just as quickly, they’re dead. There’s no real signs of a struggle. We haven’t found any drugs in their system. I think he must tie them up.” He circled to the head of the bed. “Hey, get your crime scene guys back in here.”

Fitz disappeared and came back with one of the crime scene techs. Baldwin motioned the man over and pointed to the headboard on the wrought-iron bed. “You missed something,” he accused.

The tech turned red, realizing he had missed something. A pale fiber was attached to the frame of the headboard. He quickly collected it, apologizing. As he left, Baldwin clapped him on the back.

“Probably from a rope. We found it at the other scenes, as well. That’s why there isn’t much sign of a struggle. That he would tie them up fits. See, this kind of killer is excited by the helplessness. Anger, excitement, pleasure, they all come from the same place for this guy. He has a thing for their hands, which I haven’t figured out yet. The fetishistic elements are all there, I don’t think he’s doing it to hide their identities. He’s highly organized, plans in advance. The fact that he parts with any of his trophies is interesting. It’s a clue, a trail of bread crumbs that he’s leaving for us. He wants to sensationalize the killings. Taking the bodies over state lines, the mutilations, all were calculated efforts to make these crimes heinous and splashy. A surefire recipe to get the FBI involved. He wants us to know him. To be sure that it’s him. He won’t deviate from this pattern, it’s become his signature. Now we just have to figure out who he is. VICAP doesn’t have a match to this MO in their system. Other than the forensics, we don’t have any other information to go on. Witness statements are thin to nonexistent. He’s a real ghost, which is part of his plan.” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program would guide them to corresponding murders if the system had a match. Baldwin had been watching for a hit, a fruitless endeavor thus far.

He stopped pacing, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s a challenge. He enjoys the fact that he has us stumped. We can’t predict where he’s headed next, it assures that we’re on our toes. Mark my words. He’s begging for us to try and find him.”

W hitney Connolly sat at her computer in her home office, tapping out e-mails to people around the country. It was her usual morning ritual. Regardless of the day, she got up from her lonely bed, ran to Starbucks for a latte, greeting people she knew and those she didn’t with a humbled smile, returned home and turned on the computer. She had a vast network that she communicated with, and the mails were sorted by priority. Friends came first, because that category had the fewest mails to go through. And since they were generally the kindest of the lot, she entered the next grouping with a sense of peace. The fans. They came in all colors, shapes and sizes. Female and male, young and old. Pleasant and not so pleasant. The messages were hard to escape; the network broadcasted all reporters’ e-mail addresses on the screen as they gave their reports and posted them next to their pictures on the station’s Web site so they’d be accessible to the viewing public.

Whitney felt it was important to answer, thanking those who had enjoyed her work the night before, being courteous to those who hadn’t. Being the top reporter in the Nashville market had its upside, that was for sure. Inevitably she pissed some viewers off, and she felt a sense of responsibility to acknowledge their displeasure and attempt to set things straight. Community relations, and all that.

Today was a good morning though. She had forty fan mails and only five weren’t happy with her performance. She read the comments carefully, disregarding the wackos with a simple “I’m sorry you weren’t happy with the broadcast. I’ll make every effort to correct the problem.” She effusively thanked those that sent generous, loving comments and seriously answered questions from those who thought they knew better than she did about the world they lived in. That done, she took a long drink from her cooling latte and set to work on the next group. The important group. The one that really mattered. The tipsters.