Killing Spree (24 page)

“If Valentina is number three, the shrinks on this case will really be scratching their heads,” Gillian recalled Ruth saying. “He’s breaking his pattern with the age and the race difference. It’s not like him to be indiscriminate, not when he outfits them in advance. If he chose this poor fifty-one-year-old Asian woman, he might be sending a message. This could be his way of saying, ‘Watch out. No one’s safe.’ He wants everyone scared.”

Valentina Tran was still missing when Gillian’s class convened that Thursday night. It was about forty minutes into the session, and Gillian was reading aloud a chapter from Edna’s historical romance novel, when they heard a commotion in the hallway. Gillian kept reading, but hardly anyone—except Edna—was paying attention. Through the window in the door, she noticed people running up and down the hallway, a couple of them policemen. Everyone was looking in that direction. Gillian heard sirens outside the school. “Okay,” she said, finally putting down Edna’s story. “Ruth, could you go check for us what’s happening out there?”

Nodding, Ruth got to her feet and headed out of the classroom. For a moment, while the door was open, they got a sample of all the noise in the hallway—and the fetid smell. Gillian tried to maintain a discussion on what she’d read from Edna’s bodice-ripper so far. After ten minutes, the chaos in the corridor had gotten worse, and Gillian thought about having someone go check on what had happened to Ruth. But then Ruth stepped back into the classroom.

She walked up to Gillian’s desk. “They found Valentina,” she whispered soberly.

In the second row, Shauna let out a gasp.

“The body’s two doors down—in the janitor’s closet,” Ruth continued under her breath. “She’s curled up under the sink. It’s the same MO. She was shot in the head, and dressed in the schoolgirl outfit—the whole getup, right down to the saddle shoes.”

Gillian remembered glancing out at the class, with everyone leaning forward in their desk-chairs, trying to hear what Ruth was saying. She remembered that Todd Sorenson was the only one who didn’t seem concerned. Slouched back in his chair, he stared out the window.

That following week had been the last time she’d seen him. It had been during the break in that session when he’d lashed out at his classmates and never returned to class.

She’d hardly given Todd a sustained thought since then. And now, as she stared out her front window, she wondered if he’d been stalking her all this time.

The Schoolgirl Killer and Gillian’s copycat were both planners, both incredibly patient. Were they both the same person? It took a hell of a lot of patience to stalk someone for two years.

Gillian moved over to her study nook. She switched on her computer. While it warmed up, she went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Chardonnay, and poured a glass. She didn’t turn on any other lights. The light from the computer monitor was enough; it bathed the little room in an eerie glow. She sat down with her wine, and her fingers started tapping on the keyboard.

She pulled up Google.com and typed:
Boyd Farrow, Seattle City College, Murders.

She hit Enter, and glanced at the item at the top of the list, a headline from
The Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

They’d arrested Boyd Farrow only a few days after the semester ended, around Christmastime. Gillian remembered how it had looked like an open-and-shut case. Apparently, Farrow had been at the college four years, teaching a class in World Religions. Kelly Zinnemann had been one of his students a year before her murder. Farrow had asked out the pretty twenty-two-year-old blonde, but she’d politely turned him down. Most everyone who knew Farrow said he was quiet, well-mannered, and friendly, the same description given to most serial killers—until people discovered their true nature. Police investigators took a hair sample discovered on Kelly’s madras “schoolgirl” dress, and it matched Farrow’s. They also found a match with a single strand discovered in the palm of Christine Cardiff’s hand. Another match came up with a hair sample discovered under Valentina’s corpse—on the floor of the janitor’s closet.

If there were any lingering doubts about Farrow’s guilt, a scandal in his past seemed to seal the deal. It certainly explained the killer’s penchant for schoolgirl uniforms. Fifteen years before the murders, Farrow had been a Catholic priest at St. Lambert Parish in Portland. He also taught religion at the grade school—until he was accused of molesting a fifth-grade girl during a school camping trip. Boyd Farrow left the parish and the priesthood. He moved to Seattle, and continued teaching courses in religion, but only at a college level.

Gillian remembered how they never found the .45 that had dispatched the three victims. Nor were they able to locate Farrow’s “hideaway.” The former priest had lived on a modest income in a small apartment building in Queen Anne, and all his neighbors knew him. There was no way he could have kept his victims alive—sometimes days at a time—without someone suspecting. So where had he kept his victims? Where had he dressed them and killed them?

At the time of his arrest, Boyd Farrow had maintained he was innocent. Many of his neighbors and friends talked to the press on his behalf. From everything Gillian had read about Boyd Farrow, the shy, modest man seemed a far cry from the Schoolgirl Killer, the monster with a flair for the dramatic who had made himself a serial-killing “superstar.” Ruth had said the Schoolgirl Killer had wanted publicity. But Boyd Farrow clearly loathed the headlines and all the attention.

Boyd and his friends hadn’t been able to post bail. Eleven days after his incarceration, Boyd had complained of an upset stomach. A guard at the jail took pity on him and gave him a bottle of 7-Up. Boyd broke the bottle and slit his own throat with the jagged glass. One of the newspapers reporting Farrow’s suicide mentioned that the guard was suspended for two weeks without pay. Gillian remembered the article quoting one of Farrow’s friends: “If Boyd had left a suicide note, he probably would have included an apology to the guard for getting him into trouble. Boyd was that kind of guy.”

The police still maintained that Boyd Farrow was guilty. After all, the Schoolgirl Murders had stopped once he’d been arrested.

Gillian had already read most of the news stories and articles listed by Google. She remembered many details. But what Gillian couldn’t remember was the name of Boyd Farrow’s friend, the one who had made the comment about him being the kind of guy who would have apologized to the guard in a suicide note.

Gillian scanned eleven articles—until she was blurry-eyed. Then she came across the quote in the second to last paragraph of an article in the
Seattle Weekly
. Funny, but she’d remembered it practically word for word:

Gillian got up from her desk, headed into the kitchen, and pulled the phone book out of the junk drawer. She found the listing:
Haworth, Timothy—2552 NW Market…. 206–555-1907.

She copied down the address and phone number, then sipped her Chardonnay. The clock on the stove said 3:42
A.M.

If this was the right Timothy Haworth, she wanted to meet with him tomorrow. She’d make time for him
and
Chase Scott if they’d see her. Gillian wasn’t sure what Boyd Farrow’s friend could tell her. But at dinner tonight with Ruth and her friend, they kept saying there was no connection between her copycat and the Schoolgirl Murders. They didn’t see that both killings took a meticulous planner, an incredibly patient man—so patient he may have even waited two years before starting to kill again.

Ruth and her friend had insisted that the Schoolgirl Killer was dead.

Gillian needed to talk with someone else—someone who didn’t agree with them.

“Yes, this is Tim Haworth,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“The Tim Haworth who used to be a priest?” Gillian asked.

“Um, who’s calling?”

“My name’s Gillian McBride. I was hoping I could—”

“Gillian McBride the writer?” he interrupted.

Gillian was speechless for a moment. She didn’t often run across strangers who knew her work. “Um, you’ve heard of me?”

“I certainly have,” he said. “I remember that newspaper article where you really slammed the police for their shoddy investigation into the Schoolgirl Murders.”

“Oh, that. Listen—”

“You spoke out and told it like it was. The cops really screwed that up. They arrested the wrong guy. Boyd Farrow was no killer.”

For once, that stupid article was doing her some good. “Well, I’m glad we see eye to eye. Listen, Tim, would you have time to talk with me today?”

“Sure. Are you writing a nonfiction piece about the killings?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Tim Haworth said he would be working all day in his plant shop, Ballard Botanical. The address he gave was the same one listed in the phone book. She could come in anytime.

After Gillian hung up the phone, she poured herself another cup of coffee and dug some bus schedules out of the junk drawer. She probably had to take a transfer to Ballard.

Operating on about four and a half hours of sleep, she was fatigued. At 8:30, she’d woken up to Vicki and Jason having another go at it upstairs. Later in the morning, she’d tried making amends with Ethan, but he’d said he just wanted to forget about it. He’d been listlessly polite and distant, passing on her offer to make him pancakes for breakfast. He’d fixed himself a bowl of Alphabits, and studied the back of the cereal box while eating.

Now he was in the bathroom, getting ready for the football game. The bus was due to pick him up soon.

Gillian had gotten dressed an hour ago: khaki slacks and a black sweater. There hadn’t been any calls or messages. No response from her friend Dianne in Chicago, and nothing from Chase Scott.

From the bus schedules, she figured the ten-mile trip to Ballard would take her over an hour each way. Gillian considered springing for a cab. She still had a bus schedule in her hand when she heard someone knocking on the front door.

She glanced out the front window, and balked when she saw Jason Hurrell standing on the front porch. He wore a fisherman’s sweater and jeans. His hair, when not wet, was light brown, almost a gold color, and wavy. For someone who had been having sex all night—and this morning—he looked disgustingly fresh and well-rested right now. Gillian felt the snarl already pulling at her upper lip as she opened the door.

“Hi, Gillian,” he said. “I hope I didn’t disturb you—again. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about giving you and Ethan a scare last night.”

“We’ve gotten over it,” she said coolly. “No need to apologize.”

“Do you or Ethan need a ride someplace?”

She squinted at him. “What?”

He nodded at the bus schedule in her hand. “You don’t need to take a bus. I happen to have a car, and lots of time on my hands. Vicki’s at this spa appointment she didn’t want to cancel. She’ll be gone all day until four. I’m looking for something to do. I’d be happy to give you a lift if you’re going someplace.”

Gillian hesitated. She saw the chartered bus pull up for Ethan. “Just a minute,” she said. Then she ducked back inside. “Ethan, your bus is here! Do you need any money?”

She heard the toilet flush, then he emerged from the bathroom. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, making a beeline to the front closet, where he took out his jacket.

“What’s the name of this new friend you’re going to hang out with at the game?” she asked.

Throwing on his jacket, he seemed to have to think for a moment before he answered, “Jim Munchel.”

“Well, stick close to Jim today,” she said. “I don’t want you going off by yourself at any time. Understand?”

“Yeah, sure, Mom,” he said, heading for the door.

She started outside after him. “What time are you supposed to be back?”

“I dunno, three-thirty or four,” he called over his shoulder. “Bye.”

Jason Hurrell had moved off the porch. He now stood by the curb, talking to the driver through the bus’s open door. A boy on the bus had his head half out of the window. “C’mon, Tanner, move your ass! C’mon…”

Gillian saw Ethan’s stride suddenly falter. He tripped and hit the ground hard.

Laughter erupted on the bus. Gillian came down the porch steps to make sure Ethan wasn’t hurt. But her eyes met Jason Hurrell’s, and he was shaking his head at her. She stopped in her tracks. She realized he knew better. Ethan would have been doubly humiliated if his
mommy
had helped him up.

“Nice going, spaz!” the same annoying kid called from the bus window. He was cackling.

While Ethan got himself to his feet, Jason Hurrell stepped over to the boy with his head out the window. “How would you like to shut the hell up?” he muttered.

Gillian just barely heard him. But Ethan obviously caught the whole thing. Brushing himself off, he paused for a moment, and glanced at Jason Hurrell. A smile flickered between the two of them, a look that used to pass between Ethan and his father.

The wise-ass kid ducked his head back inside, then quickly shut the window.

“So long,” Ethan said to Jason Hurrell.

He nodded. “See you, Ethan.”

Ethan boarded the bus, and the door shut. As the bus started down the street, Jason Hurrell turned to Gillian. “So—can I give you a lift someplace?”

“Vicki told me how you two met,” Gillian said, sitting in the passenger seat of Jason’s rented Taurus. At the wheel, Jason Hurrell wore sunglasses, so she couldn’t quite read his expression whenever he took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. They were driving on Westlake Avenue along Lake Union. “She said you were a passenger on one of her flights, and you tracked her down through some friends of yours with the airline.”

“That’s right. I’m a charter pilot out of Missoula, so I knew some people.”

“Missoula, Montana? Do you fly to Billings often?”

Staring at the traffic ahead, he nodded. “Often enough. Why? Do you know someone in Billings?”

“I might,” Gillian said.

“Anyway, I was able to track her down.”

Gillian stared out at the boats docked in Lake Union’s harbor. “Well, Vicki certainly seems to like you,” she said tonelessly.

“She’s a lot of fun, a great kid.”

What a horse’s ass,
Gillian thought. She just shook her head and continued to look out the window.

Jason cleared his throat. “I asked Vicki about your husband, and all she said was, ‘He’s been out of the picture for a couple of years.’”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“Are you divorced?”

“No.”

“Two years, that’s a long time for a beautiful woman to be alone.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. “I’m not alone. I have Ethan. Plus I’m very busy with my writing.”

“So there aren’t any boyfriends in the picture? You’re not dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” he asked quietly.

“It passes,” Gillian replied. She turned toward him. “Listen, why are you so interested in my personal life?”

He glanced at her, then let out an awkward laugh. “I’m just making conversation here, that’s all.”

“Well, if I knew you were going to get this personal, I’d have taken the bus.” She pointed to a sign posted over the roadway. “Take the left lane to the Ballard Bridge—please.”

Gillian felt bad for snapping at him, and she could see he looked slightly wounded. But she didn’t trust him. He was Vicki’s boyfriend. Why was he so interested in her? And she didn’t like the way he was trying to get chummy with Ethan.

For the next few minutes in the car, she endured the uncomfortable silence, punctuating it with an occasional direction. They found Ballard Botanical on Market Street at the western edge of downtown Ballard. It was a sad-looking little stucco house with a big picture window on which
BALLARD BOTANICAL
was written in fancy silver script. Buckets of flowers and some plants placed around the door seemed to brighten up the depressing edifice.

Jason found parking in front of the store. He insisted on waiting for her.

“Well, that’s very sweet of you,” Gillian said. “But I might be a while. I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Jason.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “If I get tired of waiting, I’ll honk my horn, and then wait a couple of minutes before driving off. That will give you a chance to catch a ride, if you want one.”

He shut off the engine and started to open his door. Gillian figured he was going to get the passenger door for her. She didn’t want him doing her any more favors. “Thanks.” She quickly opened her door. “Really, please, don’t bother waiting.”

A little bell attached to the door rang as Gillian stepped inside the store. For a flower and plant shop, it was rather gloomy. The tall, standing plants created a dense little jungle in the middle of the store. There were a couple of spin-racks of tacky-looking cards. Along one wall were the roses, in a refrigerated case, and the open door to a small greenhouse. It looked much brighter in there. She didn’t see anyone behind the counter.

Gillian heard a car door slam, and an engine started up. She turned and looked out the picture window. Jason Hurrell drove away in his Taurus.

Once again, she had mixed feelings about the way she’d behaved with him. Clearly, he was trying to be nice to her, but why? What was he after? The fact that he worked out of Missoula, and spent time in Billings, where they’d found that mutilated hitchhiker, was reason enough to be wary of him. But then, if he were the copycat killer, he wouldn’t be giving out that information so freely. Or maybe he would. This killer seemed to enjoy pushing the envelope a little.

“Gillian?”

She gasped, and swiveled around.

Standing in the doorway to the greenhouse was a slightly pear-shaped, pale man with receding blond hair and a goatee. He wore a blue sweater, khakis, and blue Converse sneakers. He looked so gentle, Gillian immediately felt silly for being frightened. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Hi. Are you Tim?”

Nodding, he shook her hand enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gillian. I think what you’re doing is great. Are you writing an article or a whole book?”

She shrugged. “I’m not quite sure yet. I’ve done some research, but you’re the first person I’m interviewing. I thought I’d start with someone who believes Boyd Farrow was innocent. How long did you know him?”

A sad smile danced across his face, and he rested an elbow on top of the cash register. “Twenty-four years. He was my best friend. We met in the seminary back in 1980.” He squinted at her. “Aren’t you going to take notes or anything?”

“Um, not this time. I thought I’d just get some general background information for this session.”

“Well, you know, after we spoke on the telephone, I got very nostalgic—I mean, about Boyd’s and my days at the seminary. I started going through some old photos that used to belong to him. Would you like to see them?”

Tim Haworth opened the door behind the counter, and led her down a short hallway—past a bathroom and some stairs. Apparently, the rest of the living quarters were upstairs. But the kitchen was on the first floor. Tim said they could hear the bell ringing on the store’s door just fine from there. The kitchen had a worn linoleum floor, an old, yellow dinette set, and over the sink, a crucifix. Tim Hawkins started to make a pot of coffee. A mangy-looking cat he called Oscar wandered in.

Gillian sat at the table and looked through a pile of old photographs. She’d seen photos of Boyd Farrow at the time of his arrest. She remembered him as a fairly attractive, middle-aged man who appeared more priestly than dangerous. Looking at photos of Boyd Farrow in his twenties, Gillian realized how his friend remembered him. “Isn’t he handsome?” Tim asked.

“He’s a stunner,” Gillian murmured.

“And he didn’t have a clue how good-looking he was.”

She was staring at a photo of Boyd Farrow with his arm around Tim. They wore their priest collars and black jackets. With his wavy black hair, intense blue eyes, and a killer smile, Boyd Farrow looked like a model. He was even better-looking than Barry—and Jason Hurrell. And that was saying a lot.

“That was taken around the time I decided to leave the priesthood,” Tim said, peeking over her shoulder. “It’s when I told him I was gay. He wasn’t. Believe me, I know, because three quarters of the guys at the seminary wanted him. But he wasn’t interested. And he wasn’t judgmental either. He understood why I had to give up the priesthood. I know a lot of priests who have their fun and rationalize their way around the celibacy issue. But I couldn’t. Boyd, he had women coming on to him in droves. But he didn’t give in to any of them.”

He set a cup of coffee in front of her. “Cream or sugar?”