THE AMBUSH
Monday, April 17th 6:54 a.m.
The stage in the television studio portrayed a cozy, comfortable atmosphere, which was in direct contrast to the bleak feeling in the pit of Dr. Jessica Bentley’s stomach.
She’d done nothing but grieve since she’d buried her brother just one short week ago, and she wasn’t quite sure yet how she was going to get through this interview without collapsing into tears.
She agreed that journalism’s first loyalty was to the people--to ‘tell the story, tell the truth,’ and by all ethical standards, she, as head profiler on this case, needed to let the citizens of San Diego know what kind of demon was still loose in their city.
Maybe if she helped save just one person, one innocent woman, then maybe someday she could start to forgive herself for living, for promising to save a five-year-old child who’d never stood a chance against the man who had abducted her. If Jessi hadn’t failed her, Emma Abigail Sebring would have turned twenty-one this year.
Jessi tucked the sadness away and glanced uneasily around the set.
She wasn’t so sure the higher-ups had picked the right program format. This was a hybrid morning show, basically a combination of chat and news. The only thing the show had going for it was incredibly high ratings. And high ratings equaled high visibility, which meant Jessi would reach a wide audience. The biggest problem she foresaw was the morning show’s hostess, Gina Marshall. Gina had a reputation for being sneaky and manipulative and Jessi absolutely did not want to be on the receiving end of anything Gina might decide to pull out of her trendy, Fendi hat.
Surely Gina wouldn’t bring up Jessi’s past.
No, of course not. That was old news and not at all relevant.
Jessi had just been sound-checked, and as she straightened her clip-on mike, took a deep breath. Became calm. Then did her best to conjure up a smile for her hostess, leaned forward and said, “We’re keeping this professional, right? Nothing said about my past?”
Gina gave her a bright smile and said, “Of course. On topic.”
Jessi nodded politely and straightened in her seat, still feeling guarded.
The show’s producers took their positions; the technical crews were ready on the floor and had just gotten the green light from the control room.
Sound dimmed into silence.
As the technical director began the countdown, Jessi wondered just how bad a twenty-minute interview could go.
Fine.
Everything’s going to be fine.
As long as Gina kept her word.
“And we’re live in five...four...”
The technical director stopped talking, held up three fingers...two...and pointed to Gina.
“Hello, and welcome to San Diego Today. I’m your hostess, Gina Marshall.” Gina leaned forward, her dark hair swinging around her chin, and the expression on her face became grave. Her brown eyes became solemn. “Imagine if you will, an ordinary night, clear and cool, no fog, no swirling mist, nothing out of Hitchcock to warn you something horrible is about to happen. You go about your nightly routine--getting that last drink of water, turning off the TV, brushing your teeth, setting your alarm, and then you snuggle deep into the comfort of your own bed. A safe haven from the rest of the world. You expect to wake up pleasantly refreshed and ready to start the next day.
“Only you don’t. Instead, you’re beaten, raped and butchered.” She paused half a beat for emphasis. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a monster loose in San Diego and he’s killed at least seven innocent women. At night. In their own beds. The most recent murder being that of Ashley Grayson, just last night.”
Gina’s expression changed from grim to solemnly hospitable. “With us today to discuss these horrifying acts is Dr. Jessica Bentley, San Diego’s top forensic psychologist and expert consultant working closely with the detectives assigned to this case. Dr. Bentley has been following what the media has recently tagged the Missionary Murders, and has published several articles covering the atrocities that have been committed over the last six months.”
Gina leaned back in her chair and swiveled toward Jessi. “Dr. Bentley, welcome to our show.” Jessi nodded in greeting and Gina continued, “All good journalists are taught to cover the who, what, why, when, where and how. Can you give our viewers some detailed answers to these basic questions?”
Jessi clasped her hands in her lap, still feeling apprehensive. “Thank you, Gina, I’ll do my best. First, understand that the normal script in a serial homicide investigation follows a fairly formulaic course. The local police force doesn’t want a city-wide panic, so they do their best to downplay the linkage of murders. In this case, however, the killer forced their hand by sending numerous letters to the media, much like the Zodiac Killer, which made headlines instead of getting a small paragraph on page two of the local paper.”
“I see,” Gina said with a nod. “Very shrewd.”
“Killers are getting smarter by leaps and bounds. They’re watching CSI, Forensic Files, Criminal Minds, they’ve got unlimited access to the Internet, and they’re learning what the police are looking for. In turn, they’re also learning how to eliminate evidence. And how to get attention. By going public with his letters, the suspect--dubbed by the media as the Savior--is demonstrating his one-upmanship.”
Gina didn’t comment, so Jessi continued, “This isn’t the Savior’s first round at killing. He’s believed to be responsible for four other murders which took place two years ago. His most notorious being the murder of supermodel Cassandra Taylor. No one knows why the Savior took a two-year hiatus, but investigators are certain the same man is responsible for this latest killing spree.”
Jessi glanced at Gina, relieved the other woman hadn’t interrupted with one of her world-class verbal curve balls. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Jessi crossed her legs and kept going. “The detectives working this case, along with myself, believe the man who’s committing these crimes is probably a white male from a middle class background, more than likely in his late twenties to early thirties. Possibly older. He’s smart, he knows how to blend in, and he’s well educated in the liturgy. He’s a mission-oriented signature killer working from a long-familiar mental script.”
“Wait,” Gina said, and sat back with raised brows. “You’re saying a serial killer can blend in? Into our cynical, suspicious society?”
The question was a no-brainer and Jessi wondered where Gina was headed. She answered anyway. “Most people want to believe the best of others. For example, Ted Bundy was a decent looking law student who worked for a rape crisis center. John Wayne Gacy, Jr. excelled in business, and was admired and liked by those who knew him. He volunteered at hospitals and was a member of the Jaycees. Jeffrey Dahmer was articulate and had a job he prized. He’s been described as a good neighbor. All of these men were charming and persuasive. They led somewhat normal lives and functioned in society. They blended.”
“What exactly is a signature?”
“A signature is a physical or psychological calling card. The MO, or process, if you will. In this case, each of the Savior’s victims is blonde, unmarried, and pregnant. It’s obvious the victims have some sort of symbolic value to him and yet he hates what they symbolize. The killer has forced intercourse with each woman, then strangles and mutilates her, and lastly, he places a dried white rose and gold cross on her body. He’s performing a formal rite, a visual act of moral significance, executed in what he perceives to be obedience to the command of Christ.”
Gina nodded and asked, “Why single, pregnant, blonde women and what do roses and crosses represent?”
Jessi turned and spoke to the audience. “We believe the killer has a delusional disorder, that he’s profoundly spiritual, and for some reason he’s killing women as some sort of a symbolic act to cleanse their souls from the impurity of sin. A dried white rose symbolizes that death is prefe
rable to loss of virtue. The cross speaks for itself.”
Gina narrowed her gaze and said, “Basically what you’re saying is that he hears God talking to him. That he’s doing what the voices are telling him. Don’t you think all this ‘God Speak’ is a little cliché?”
“Not at all. Hearing voices is a common trait among serial killer profiles. Keep in mind, this isn’t a movie script. Just because we’ve seen it a million times on TV doesn’t mean it’s trite or passé. Also, please remember that I’m a mental health professional here to discuss a mental illness, to give San Diego a glimpse of a man who’s become an escalating danger to women. I’m not here to judge or to--”
“What do you feel on a personal level?”
Personal? Jessi’s hands started to tremble. Not ten minutes ago, Gina said she wouldn’t bring up her past. Okay, so maybe by personal, Gina meant something else. Maybe she wasn’t talking about Jessi being named Lucky Number Twelve. Jessi folded her hands together, and proceeded with extreme caution. “I think, to a certain degree, the suspect deserves our pity. He’s obviously sick and needs help. He’s--”
“Pity?” Gina gave Jessi a derisive smile that set Jessi’s teeth on edge. “Come on, Dr. Bentley, the man’s a monster, a bully, a poor excuse for a human being. He deserves our contempt, and in the end, a lethal injection.”
The cynicism of that last remark sparked Jessi’s temper, which, she was sure, was what Gina Marshall wanted. Anything for ratings. Jessi kept her tone neutral, her voice even, and said, “If I thought taunting him would get him out into the open, I suppose I’d call him all those things. But it’s my professional opinion that--”
Gina cut her off yet again and said, “All seven of the deceased were blonde, pregnant, and unmarried.” Gina’s manner went suddenly smug. “You fit the exact profile the killer is after. Aren’t you nervous, even scared?”
And there it was. Not the past, but a current day, up-to-the-minute ambush. Jessi’s personal life, her most precious secret, had just been broadcast to thousands of people in less than ten short minutes. Amazing. She should have felt frozen, disjointed, thrown off. Shocked or afraid. But somewhere in the back of her mind she’d expected something like this because all that hit her was a tired kind of rage. As anger swept through her, she clenched her fists and asked, “What, exactly, makes you think I’m pregnant?”
“Surely, Dr. Bentley, you don’t think I came to this interview unprepared?”
Jessi managed to push her anger aside long enough to say with cool dignity, “I suppose I thought you were a fellow professional. My mistake.” And up until a minute ago, I thought only two people knew I was pregnant--my doctor and myself. Now most of San Diego knows, including the killer if he’s watching. So, yes, now that you’ve pointed out how well I fit the killer’s profile, I suppose I am a little nervous, you malicious bitch. “This interview is over.”
Gina ignored her. “What do you think about what Nicole Edge said to the press last night? She certainly held nothing back. Do you think the killer is going to--?”
Jessi cut her off, furious. “I said I’m done.” With resolute self-control, she clamped her jaw shut before she told Gina what she could do with her show, then calmly un-clipped the microphone and strode off the set. Gina Marshall might be a first-class bitch, but she wasn’t stupid. Her ratings were going to soar.
Jessi had just gone from a simple forensic psychologist to serial killer bait. The press was going to love it.
And, God help her, Jake was going to hate it.
1 Corinthians 6:19-20: You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price. So you must honor God with your body.
The monster in Sidney’s closet was back.
He snapped off the television in fury. Names, faces, swirled in his brain like hornets. Bentley, Edge, Marshall. Bentley, Edge, Marshall. Bitches. Whores. He hated them all.
And now, dammit, he was going to be late.
Maybe if he hurried--
No.
It took time, patience, and skill, to become who he was. He would not hurry. He would maintain his routine and if he showed up for work late, well, fuck them. He’d never been late in all these years and one day’s tardiness wasn’t going to mean jack.
They’d never even suspect. He’d simply tell them a lie. A flat tire. Too much traffic. Didn’t matter, the freakin’ morons he worked with would never know.
He started with five hundred crunches. Then two hundred push-ups. Took one minute to flex in the mirror. A comfort gel to soften the stubble. A hot, foamy shave. A shower finished in exactly six minutes, which included exfoliating with a peppermint body scrub. He brushed his teeth then moisturized with SPF. Patted on some aftershave and wondered if he had time to jack off one more time.
Yes.
He sat on the toilet and pictured Jessica Bentley’s face. Yes. Oh, yes. She was going to be his very soon.
Less than ten minutes later he donned a suit and left the house, leaving Sidney Matthews behind.