Garden of Evil (8 page)

“Look, Althea. I really think I've gone as far as I can go with this. I don't think you're in any danger, anymore than any of us on any given day.”

“But Britt, surely you're not—”

“Hear me out, please. You got a raw deal in a lotta ways, but look at the big picture. You are still a helluva lot better off than ninety percent of the people on the planet, and certainly better off than most people I write about every day.”

“You don't believe me either.”

The raw pain in her voice made me feel like shit.

“Althea, murder is a big deal.” I glanced up at the map as if for confirmation. “People go to prison forever for murder, or to the electric chair. A lot of times we hear the reason for a homicide and shake our heads because it sounds so stupid and trivial, but trivial or not, most killers have some sort of motive. Nobody has a motive to kill you—unless there's something you're not telling me.”

“No, there's nothing, that's what makes this—” Her voice broke.

“You see? Sometimes terrible things happen to us, a death, divorce, illness, and when more bad things follow we tend to take it personally and maybe get a little paranoid. What you need to remember is that life is cyclical, tides turn, good times come back again, sometimes bigger and better than ever, if you just hang in for the long haul.”

“If you survive,” she whispered hopelessly.

“You're smart, healthy, attractive. You'll be fine,” I enthused, with all the gusto I could muster.

My cheerleading did not produce the desired effect. She said nothing.

“I met your daughter, Jamie. A lovely young woman, all wrapped up in being a wife and a new mother right now, but she loves you and cares about you.”

“You saw the baby?” she asked eagerly.

“No, I didn't, but if she looks like the rest of the women in the family, she must be gorgeous.”

“She is. Thank you for trying to help. I'm sorry I troubled you.”

“No trouble. Just take care, don't allow yourself to feel or look vulnerable. Go on out there, chin up, determined
to break this bad cycle. Maybe you should see somebody, a counselor or a therapist, just to talk things out.”

“I wish it were that easy. Goodbye.”

 

The mention of a therapist motivated me. I made a call, then drove downtown, stopping to pick up half a dozen jelly donuts on the way.

Dr. Rose Schlatter met me at her office door. She wore her usual dangly earrings and low-cut blouse over a tailored skirt. With her bright blue eyeshadow and thick smeary lipstick, she looks more like a faded stripper or aging cocktail waitress than a well-known forensic psychiatrist who specializes in sex offenders. Her eager eyes settled immediately on my offering.

She took the Dunkin Donuts box, lifted the lid as though expecting pearls, and reacted as though they were diamonds. “Jelly!” she exclaimed, in her breathy Marilyn Monroe voice. She smiled. “You remembered.”

We poured coffee from a pot in a tiny cubicle near the unmanned reception desk and carried the cups into her office.

“Where's your secretary?” I asked.

“I sent him out on an errand that will take some time.” She winked, displaying her eyeshadow, took the first bite, and crooned softly with pleasure.

I must have looked puzzled.

“He watches me like a hawk,” Dr. Schlatter explained, patting powdered sugar from her lips with one of the pink-and-white paper napkins. “Saves me from myself. He's tough as nails. Wouldn't let me near these things. Wouldn't allow them in the office.”

“Why not get a new secretary?” I said.

The mascaraed eyes above the rapidly diminishing jelly donut widened. “But that's part of his job description,” she said, chewing. “I assigned him to stop me. It's a question of health. I have to lose weight because of my high blood pressure.”

“Oh, okay.” Now I felt guilty.

She held on to the donut box while pushing aside a thick folder.

“Just refreshing my memory on an old case coming up again soon. You may remember, Siegfried Olson.”

“The shoemaker. If his plumber hadn't been nosy, they might never have discovered the body parts in his septic tank.”

“Yes, he had such a fascination with victims' shoes that he sometimes left the feet in them. You have a good memory.” Nodding in approval, she sank her teeth into another donut.

“I'd like to forget him. He still writes to me.”

“Jail mail.” She sighed. “I guess you would get it too. It makes sense.”

“All the time.”

“Ever answer?” she asked.

“Never,” I said. “Despite our publisher's policy. You?”

Coyly she sucked the powdered sugar off her lower lip. “Depends a lot on the case.”

“Why is Siegfried coming up?”

“Doctors at the state hospital say he's competent now and quite harmless, as long as he remains on his medication. Since he was found not guilty by reason of insanity, he's coming up for release.”

“Oh, swell. And who will insist that he take his medication if he's released?”

“Not if.” She swallowed, patted her lips again, and smiled. “When. But I'm sure you're not here to discuss him. What's on your mind today, Britt?”

Her eyes lit up when I mentioned the Kiss-Me Killer. “I've been following the case in the news media. Absolutely fascinating. Now
she
is someone I'd certainly like to meet.”

“What do you think makes her tick? She may be coming this way. She could already be here, for all we know.”

“Yes,” Dr. Schlatter said, nodding slowly. “A glittery big city like Miami, widely known for sex, drugs, alcohol, and violence, would attract her. Hunters like to go where the game is—the wild life, so to speak. As for what makes her tick, that's more difficult to answer. Historical records on female serial killers go back for centuries, but their murders were most often poisoning or baby killing.

“Most modern serial killers of the female persuasion have been health care workers or companions to the elderly, not women out trolling the highways and city streets for victims like the men do. Remember the woman in South Miami who took in elderly boarders, buried them in her backyard, and continued collecting their Social Security checks?”

I nodded.

“And the teenage baby-sitter who smothered half a dozen or so infants—all attributed to
SIDS
—before somebody finally took note that she was present every time? Others have been the more passive partners in couples that kill for cash or thrills. And then there are the Black Widows—like Florida's own Rita Lee Hutton.”

“I remember reading old stories about her.”

“Oh, she was a piece of work, that one.” She absently bit into a fresh donut, the red jelly oozing out onto her fingers and crimson fingernails. “Charming and quite likable, actually, the girl next door. I got to spend some time with her. Poisoned her father, a husband, a fiancé, a son, and, I believe, a couple of neighbors, one of them a nosy retired cop. Total lack of conscience, no guilt, no remorse. Managed to justify everything until the day she died. She might have been capable of something like this, except in those days it just wasn't done. A woman's choice of weapons was most often poison.”

“What about this one?” I asked impatiently, as she licked her fingers.

She paused, eyes resting fondly on the cardboard donut box.

“There's so much we don't know. So little research has been done. Most serial killers are white men in their twenties and thirties. We know their numbers are proliferating and that most of their victims are white women. But this is something new. Do the backgrounds and psychological afflictions common to male serial killers apply equally to females with similar violent patterns?” She shrugged. “She's fascinating.”

“But the MO, what we know so far, what does that tell you? Apparently she's attractive.”

“Of course, so many are.” She smiled. “Rarely do they resemble monsters, which is what they are, of course. That's how they manage to get away with it long enough to become serial killers.”

She whisked crumbs from her sleeve and leaned back in her chair.

“Probably intelligent in a street-smart way, even though she didn't do particularly well in school. Suffers from an inability to relate sexually to others in a normal way. Likes the publicity. Most likely follows her own exploits in the press. May even save news clippings, keep a diary; perhaps she even risks revisiting murder scenes, though this one certainly seems to stay on the move.

“One common ritual in serial murder is the taking of keepsakes—either as trophies, to commemorate a successful hunt, or souvenirs, used later to fuel masturbatory fantasies. Would this apply equally to a female? I don't know.

“Mutilation, damage to the face and genitals, is often inflicted to depersonalize the victims. The way these bodies are left exposed apparently is to make a statement—either to society at large or to the authorities. It's interesting,” she mused. “Male victims of homosexual killers are often found with their pants down.

“It's dangerous to theorize. Generalizations are always risky, you know. This country makes up five percent of the world population, yet we account for nearly seventy-five percent of the world's known serial killers. Twenty
years ago, an estimated thirty or so roamed the United States. Today the FBI estimates there are about five hundred. What's going on out there, in the suburbs, the malls, and on the highways? What are we breeding here? She is totally new turf. I've been wondering if she is an aberration or a harbinger of things to come.” She smiled dreamily and reached for the last donut as chills rippled down my spine.

“If you should meet her first, Britt, would you give her my card?”

She was joking, of course. Or was she? She plucked a few business cards off her desk and dropped them in my jacket pocket on the way out.

“One other thing, Britt.” She frowned as she followed me to the door. “Are we certain our killer is a woman? Has the possibility been ruled out that she could be a female impersonator?”

“I don't know. No hint of that from the police.”

She shrugged. “I doubt it too, but it would be comforting if she were. Just a thought. Spell my name right. Thanks for coming by. And Britt—” she smiled—“bring a dozen next time.”

She was busily disposing of the evidence as I closed the door, sweeping crumbs off her desk and crumpling the distinctive box and paper napkins.

I STUDIED THE MAP AGAIN BEFORE LEAVING THE
newsroom that night.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
I projected the message as my eyes drifted idly up the narrow peninsula. When would she be caught—or would she? What if she repents, I wondered, finds Jesus and becomes a model citizen, leaving her crimes unsolved mysteries like D. B. Cooper or the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa?

Or what if she is here now, strolling the Miami Beach boardwalk, flirting with tourists, wriggling painted toenails in the sand or shopping the big sale at Saks in Bal Harbour? She might be rubbing elbows with the Moran women at this very moment.

I called Miami homicide. Detective Ojeda picked up. “The Kiss-Me Killer,” I said. “Have you heard any bulletins on where she last used her stolen credit cards?”

“Why? You hear something?”

“Thought you had. I heard that's how they're tracking her, working with credit card security, keep coming up just a step behind her.”

“They're putting a
BOLO
out now,” he said. “You must be psychic—or psycho. I can never figure out which one.”

“Very funny. Where'd she use them last?”

“The Seaquarium, right over here on Key Biscayne; stocked up on souvenirs like a regular tourist. Bought a plastic alligator, a giant orange beach ball, a dolphin mug, and pink flamingos.”

“Are you ser—? Damn it, Ojeda!” I nearly believed him for a moment.

He chortled. “Had you going, didn't I?”

“Where? Where'd she use it?”

He dropped his voice. “Fort Lauderdale. Yesterday.”

“Lauderdale!” My heart skipped a beat. Twenty minutes away.

“Yep, pumped 'er own gas at a Chevron.”

“Is she still driving the Trans Am, the last victim's car?”

“Correctamundo. Then whipped out his card at a Big Daddy's. Bought four bottles of tequila—Jose Quervo Gold—and a six-pack of Coors.”

“What's your plan if she shows up here?”

“The plan is, her ass goes to jail. We don't mess around, like those rubes and rednecks upstate. She shows up here, she's ours, and the minimum that's gonna happen to her is jail.”

“She's got chutzpah. How'd she get this far driving a cherry-red Trans Am the whole world is looking for?” I said.

“She's lucky, and she hasn't run into me,” Ojeda said. “I hope she makes a big mistake and shows up here.”

 

I alerted the slot and our police desk, where an intern named Jerry monitors more than forty law-enforcement radio frequencies in a small soundproof alcove outside the newsroom, and then called our Fort Lauderdale bureau. They said the adjacent county had had three homicides in the last thirty-six hours: a domestic fight to the death, a dice-game stabbing, and a terminal fit of road rage. Nothing remotely connected to the Kiss-Me Killer. I pushed a blue pin into the map at Fort Lauderdale to designate the
sighting. I'd replace it with red if a body surfaced. Then I called the Miami/Dade County Medical Examiner's office to inquire if any male victims had arrived with bullet wounds to the genitals and/or face.

“You talking about that woman leaving bare-assed bodies all up and down the state?” the night-shift attendant asked. “She coming here? Tell me she ain't.”

“Just checking,” I said. “You never know.”

I searched traffic for a red Trans Am on the way home. Restless and tense, I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and walked Bitsy, wearing my portable police scanner clipped to my belt so I didn't miss anything. The sky was overcast, the heated air thick and suffocating. I stood the scanner on my kitchen counter while I fixed dinner.

Police radio traffic was relatively routine, yet there was a tension, an electricity in the air. I heard cops check out several Trans Ams, none the right car. I wanted to make a sandwich, but the bread was stale and the mayo expired. Could it really be that old? A jar of what appeared to be long-frozen soup had sprouted an icy beard. I held the jar up to the light to better scrutinize its contents. What were those green things? Maybe it wasn't soup. Could it have been a sauce? Something brought by my Aunt Odalys? A butcher-wrapped package beckoned. I could eat McDonald's steak. Serve him right if I did.

I stared bleakly into the frozen wasteland and then closed my eyes and simply inhaled the frigid air. A
media noche
was what I craved. Warm and fragrant cheese, ham, and pork on crisp bread. A cup of chicken soup on the side, Cuban style, with carrots and lots of noodles. Then silken flan, sweet, smooth, and syrupy.

Cono,
I thought, why didn't I stop at that little Cuban restaurant near the Boulevard? The more I thought about the enticing aromas from its kitchen and the flaky
pastelitos
on a covered tray atop the counter, the more ravenous I became. Was it worth venturing back out into the
heat and driving across the causeway? Yes. My mouth watered.

No stars in sight, the moon in hiding, a thick wet blanket of muggy air pressed down on South Florida as though Mother Nature, like a homicidal baby-sitter, was trying to smother us all. Heat lightning leaped madly across the horizon, pirouetting like a ballerina on speed, as distant thunder rocked and rumbled ominously. If it did rain, the weather story would lead the morning paper.

La Estrella glowed, a beacon for hungry, lonely, and displaced people seeking a taste of home. Cubans dine late, and the tables were busy. Two Miami patrolmen sat at the counter, their uniforms a comforting sight. Robbers rarely hit places with police on the premises.

“Uh-oh,” they chorused on seeing me, “we know nothing”—my second most frequent greeting from cops. They sipped their Cuban coffee and rehashed the Marlins' fall from the top while I studied the menu and other people's plates. Everything smelled so good. One of the cops raised his walkie and amid the crackle and hiss of static, I heard him instructed to change frequencies, to “car-to-car” transmission, which cannot be monitored by outsiders.

“Need you here right away.” The tinny voice sounded oddly familiar; the address, the Jolly Roger Motel on the Boulevard, not five blocks away. “We got us a dead big shot, a VIP homicide. Get over here on the double.”

The cops exchanged glances, avoiding my eyes, hoping I hadn't heard.

“Hey, wait a minute!” I said, but they ignored me and left in a hurry, without finishing their coffee.

The motherly waitress stood before me, order pad in hand. “Never mind,” I said, already on my feet. “I'll be back.”

I made a U-turn, followed their flashers, and pulled into the motel parking lot right behind them. Another patrol car and an unmarked were already there, along with some other cars, one of them a red Trans Am. Breathless, I
followed the cops up an outside open staircase to the second floor.

Halfway up, a deafening crack of thunder rattled the building, the wind gusted wildly, and a fat wet drop spattered my cheek. Rain, or condensation from a room air conditioner?

Ojeda answered the door, tie flapping in the sudden burst of wind. “How the hell did you get here?” he demanded. “You bring her with you?” He scowled at the two cops.

“I was driving by and saw their car pull in,” I said quickly. “What happened?”

His face looked odd. I saw a rumpled bed in the dim light behind him.

“'Member what we talked about a few hours ago,
chica?
” He studied me for a moment, then took a small step back. “This is big,” he said. “Really big. The world is about to descend on this room. You were never here, Britt. We'll all swear to that.”

“It's her, right? Did she kill another one?”

“See for yourself.”

I stepped gingerly across the threshold, knees shaking.

“That's it.” He stopped me with a cautionary gesture. “No farther.”

A single step into a space that small was enough. The room reeked of sickening cigar smoke—and something else that churned my stomach.

“Guess who? Your friend and mine.” Ojeda gestured, as though politely introducing me to the remains on the floor beside the bed.

“
Dios mio!
” I breathed. No introduction necessary. The corpse had a familiar face. Sonny Saladrigas looked astonished, mouth open in surprise. Naked from the waist down, his penis resembled a bloody flower, its stem broken. The gaping wound dead center in his forehead added to the bewilderment of his expression.

His wife smiled warmly, as did their three small daugh
ters. Their wallet-size color photos had been spread out over his skin. The picture of his smallest child, wearing pink and clutching a teddy bear, was stained, propped against what was left of his penis.

“Did she get away?” I whispered.

“That she did,” the detective said. “Sick bitch.”

“What is that smell?” My eyes watered and I swallowed hard.

“Looks like somebody shoved Sonny's cigar up his ass,” Ojeda said. “A lotta people been wanting to do that for years.”

“How do you know a copycat didn't kill him?” I asked, certain it was really her.

“We don't. But it's her,” he said, slowly turning to the grisly tableau behind him. “Ballistics will say for sure.”

“And what is that?” I squinted in the poor light. Sonny's dress shirt, unbuttoned and open, exposed his thick, dark, curly chest hair in which something small and blue nestled.

“Not that I have any personal knowledge or intimate acquaintance with such things, but I think that's gonna turn out to be a Viagra tab. We're gonna be holding back on that for now, so don't mention it till we give the okay. And that”—he gestured toward the dresser top—“appears to be crack cocaine. Not unusual for Sonny, from what I hear, except that this little party got rough at the end. This is a major cha-cha.” He nodded grimly. “The chief, the brass, the mayor, the city manager, and all their advisers are on the way. No way we can keep the lid on long. Once the press runs with it, it's showtime, a three-ring circus. Now you're outa here, Britt.”

A hulking shadow loomed in the doorway: Ojeda's partner, Charlie Simmons. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, my number-one most frequent greeting from cops.

“Who?” Ojeda said. “She ain't here, never was.”

Simmons grinned at the others. “Guess this shit-cans
the chief's memo on no more overtime.
Ka-ching! Ka-ching!
” he crowed. “Unlimited OT! Who'da thought Saladrigas would turn into a cash cow?”

“What'd you get?” Ojeda asked impatiently.

“Good news,” Simmons said. “They had tape in the security camera. The bad news is the quality. You can hardy see 'er. But maybe the lab can enhance it. That's not for publication.” He turned to me. I was still staring at the corpse.

“You still here? Out! Now!” Ojeda's walkie squawked persistently. “Be cool,” he muttered. “And don't say I never did you any favors.”

Grateful to breathe fresh air again, I didn't even notice the pounding rain as I ran down the stairs to my car. The oppressive high-pressure system that had hovered motionless over the state for weeks, its westerly winds inhibiting the sea breezes that deliver thunderstorms, had shifted and begun to drift away. The heavens had opened.

The dry spell that had kept me off the front page for weeks was over; the weather would not be the biggest story in the morning paper. Summer rains had finally arrived, but so had something else.