Killing Fear

ELEVEN

Theodore Glenn started visiting RJ’s a year before he killed Bethany.

He’d hit a low point in his life. The thrill of killing Dirk Lofton wore off after the investigators ruled that it was an accident caused by a poorly packed chute. No one even considered that someone might have messed with Lofton’s equipment. Why would they? There had been no threats on his life, there was no money at stake, and Lofton had always been arrogant about his jumps. He would have laughed at anyone who wanted to double-check his equipment.

Theodore went home after that week, the elation waning, completely gone by the time his plane hit the tarmac-his plane, because he’d obtained his pilot’s license a few years back. He still enjoyed flying, but not as much as he used to. There was no challenge in it, unless he was battling the elements, and no one cleared him for takeoff if a storm was expected.

One of the managers at the megacorporation where he served as the staff attorney had a bachelor’s party at RJ’s, a strip club in the gaslight district. Back then, it was still an area where hookers walked the streets and drugs could easily be bought, usually in the open. The police presence was nominal, or focused on encroaching gang activity, not streetwalkers and low-level drug dealers.

That first night, he’d watched the strippers with both fascination and disdain. What decent woman would remove her clothes, gyrate in front of horny men, all for a few bucks in tips?

But Theodore appreciated their beautiful, firm bodies and slick moves. He wondered what the women thought while onstage sending come-hither looks at the patrons. Did they get a thrill in turning men on and not giving them relief? Perhaps they were all a bunch of lesbians who got off bringing men to the brink and leaving them hot and bothered.

Theodore soon learned that some of the strippers were easier than others. Like Bethany. She latched onto bachelor boy Paul for the night, accepting his money in her teeth, with her toes, between her legs. Paul didn’t drink enough to cheat on his fiancee, and suggested Bethany move on to Theodore. They both tipped her very well.

That night Theodore went home with Bethany. He almost killed her then. He pictured himself wrapping his hands around her neck, squeezing, watching her face as she died. Watching her eyes lose focus. Would she be scared? Would she know what he was doing? What was the fun in killing her if she didn’t know she was going to die?

Instead, he just fucked her. Too many people had seen him leave with Bethany. It would be stupid to kill her now as he would most certainly be caught.

But the idea of killing her appealed to him. More, the idea of her knowing she was going to die appealed to him. Unlike Dirk Lofton at the Royal Gorge, who didn’t suspect he was going to die when he jumped, Theodore figured it would be much more thrilling to kill someone who knew he was going to steal their last breath. And better, know that he would enjoy every minute of their anguish.

The following week he drove to Los Angeles, picked a woman at random. Followed her home. Watched the house. Her husband came home at six. An hour later he left.

Theodore put on gloves, entered the house, and shot the stranger in the back while she stood over the stove.

Then he walked out and didn’t look back.

He’d listened to the news reports of the murder with growing fascination. Bought copies of the L.A. Times to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He even called the public information officer for LAPD and pretended he was a college criminology student doing a project on crimes of passion. The husband had been the primary suspect, but he had an alibi and there was no evidence that he’d killed his wife. No gun, no biological evidence on the husband, nothing.

While Theodore received a thrill from the initial kill-aiming the gun, pulling the trigger, watching the body fall and the blood spread-it was short-lived. He had more fun watching the investigation and knowing that the cops would never in a million years connect him with the crime. That was a heady experience.

But what if he had told the woman she would die? What would she have done? Would she have stared at him, disbelieving? Screamed? Tried to run?

He would never know.

Tonight, he did the same thing as he had with that housewife in Los Angeles. Only this victim was no stranger, he wasn’t cooking in the kitchen, and Theodore wasn’t killing for the thrill. Frank Sturgeon was passed out at the kitchen table, and killing him was too easy to be fun.

Will and Carina parked in the lot at the same time and walked toward the police station. Dawn barely crept over the eastern skyline.

Carina’s mouth was in a tight line and she stopped walking. Will turned. “What?”

“Did you have an affair with Trinity Lange?”

Will shifted. “We went out for a few weeks.”

“Dammit, Will, why didn’t you tell me?”

“When? When we became partners? Was I supposed to give you a list of all the women I’ve slept with?” Will didn’t like his ethics being questioned.

Even though perhaps they should have been seven years ago.

“You know that’s not-”

“Carina, I don’t announce to the world who I’m involved with. It’s nobody’s business. For what it’s worth, Trinity and I dated after the Kessler trial three years ago. We split amicably. I like her. She’s smart and fun. But it didn’t work out, okay? And that’s that.”

“You know I don’t care about your love life, but-”

“You don’t? You constantly make snide comments about my dating. I’ve let it go because we’re partners and friends.”

Carina frowned. “I didn’t realize it bothered you.”

Will shrugged. “Water under the bridge.” He paused. He considered telling Carina about his relationship with Robin, but right now it wouldn’t matter. She already knew what was important. The records reflected that he’d been across the street in the bar with Robin after hours when Anna was killed. He just never told anyone that they were in there having sex.

“Let’s focus on Glenn,” Will said, pushing back the encroaching emotion. “He had a purpose in seeking out Trinity.”

“She said he wants her to prove he didn’t kill Anna Clark.”

“And the evidence-the biological evidence-points to him. It was a righteous conviction. Theodore Glenn is a cold, ruthless killer. I don’t know what his game is, but I’m sure he has one.”

But even as he said it, Will couldn’t figure out Glenn’s angle. Why admit to a reporter that he killed three of four women?

“You don’t think that there’s something just a little-weird in this?”

He sighed. “Yes, something is off. When Gage has a few minutes, maybe the three of us can look at the evidence again. But I still think Glenn is trying to divert our attention to this instead of focusing on his recapture.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“We can work through the facts after we get him back into custody. He’s dangerous, Carina. And he will continue to kill until we lock him up.”

“What do you think if we give my brother Dillon a call?”

“Dillon knows about Glenn,” Will said. Carina’s brother was a forensic psychiatrist who had consulted with the police department and served as an expert witness for the district attorney until he moved to Washington, D.C., last year. “He didn’t work the case, but he knows enough and we can bring him up to speed quickly.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight thirty on the East Coast. Why don’t you call him?”

Carina asked what Will had been thinking since leaving Trinity’s. “What if Glenn is telling the truth about Anna Clark? What if he didn’t kill her?”

“Then we have two killers at large.” He still believed Glenn was the only one who could have killed Anna, but at the same time he couldn’t figure out his game.

Carina was dialing Dillon’s number when Will’s cell phone rang. “Hooper,” he said as they entered the building.

“Shots fired at 1010 North Highland. Neighbor phoned it in, officers en route. But the address is flagged.”

“Frank.” Will slammed his phone shut and turned to Carina. “Tell your brother we’ll call him back. Shots fired at Frank’s house.”