Love Me to Death

FORTY

Sean had not felt so helpless since he was fourteen and his parents were killed in a plane crash.

He’d fallen asleep at his desk late—four? Five?—and woke at dawn. Dillon was asleep on the small couch in his office, his long legs hanging over the armrest.

Sean went downstairs and made coffee. He was surprised to find Hans Vigo asleep on his couch. The table was littered with files and papers.

They’d been running property searches, talking to the prison warden where Miller had been incarcerated, analyzing the WCF files on Miller—not just here, but everyone at RCK West was working on it, too. They’d had more than a dozen people—smart people—working almost nonstop since seven last night and now, twelve hours later, they still didn’t know where Lucy was.

Sean sat at the table and looked over Hans’s notes. His prison files—Miller was too perfect, a model prisoner. Polite, even-tempered. During his trial, he had been well-mannered and courteous.

Hans had written across a legal tablet in block letters:

Victims were seduced. All virgins between 14 and 16.

Fear of sex—stemming from an obsession with cleanliness, i.e. only has sex with virgins/“clean” girls.

Required victims to address him as “Teacher.”

Taught girls to be submissive. Used reward and punishment system. Competitive—girls wanted to earn rewards for being the most “obedient.”

Became physically violent with one victim. Bruised her—she hid the bruise. Why her and not the others? What made her different?

At trial—refused female lawyer. Called her “unfair.”

From staff interviews at school—Miller was “chauvinist,” “sexist,” “egotistical.” One female teacher said, “Peter once called me ‘female’—like it was my name. I steered clear of him. Some of the staff thought he was just a nerd, but I didn’t like how he looked at me.”

Sean wished he hadn’t read any of it because now he couldn’t rid his mind of Lucy’s face, beaten and bruised. He bit back a cry of frustration.

What was he missing? He should have been able to find this one guy—what good was he if he couldn’t find one man? They knew his name. His parents. His schooling. Noah said they’d have something by morning. Well, it was morning now—7:11 according to the digital clock on the microwave.

Sean picked up a flagged page of the trial transcripts. Hans had underlined key words and phrases.PROSECUTOR: How long were you sexually involved with the defendant?JANE DOE TWO: Four months.PROSECUTOR: Did he force you to have sex?JANE DOE TWO: I don’t know.PROSECUTOR: You don’t know? Did he hurt you?JANE DOE TWO: Yes and no. I didn’t tell him no, if that’s what you mean.PROSECUTOR: Did you believe that it was wrong to have sex with your teacher?JANE DOE TWO: Yes—but I was chosen. That’s what he said. I was chosen to be a perfect woman. At first I liked the idea of being what a man wants. My parents are divorced and fight all the time, and I hated it. Teacher made me feel like I could be different, that if I learned how to be perfect, I’d make my husband happy. I wanted that.PROSECUTOR: Did you always want that? After your sexual relationship began?JANE DOE TWO: No. I got wrapped up in the idea that I could be special. Then after the first time, he humiliated me. I couldn’t talk until he told me I could speak. He didn’t hit me—but I thought he would, so I did everything he said. I just wanted to get it over with.PROSECUTOR: Why didn’t you come forward sooner? Why wait four months before telling your mother?JANE DOE TWO: He told me I was trainable, like a dog. I was scared and didn’t know what to do, but told him one day after school that I wouldn’t go to his house anymore. The next morning my dog was dead. The vet said Sunny ate something poisonous, but I knew Teacher had done it. That’s why I came forward. If he could kill my dog, he could kill me. I don’t want to die.

Hans sat up on the couch. “Sean, maybe you shouldn’t read that.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He wasn’t fine. “Miller is a nut job. How could they let him out of prison?”

Hans didn’t respond. He stood and walked over and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

“Dammit!” Sean bit back his anger. His fear wasn’t going to find Lucy.

Be brave, Lucy. I will find you.

“He’s a chauvinist?” Sean said, tapping Hans’s notes. “He does this because he thinks he’s better than women?”

“That’s a bit simplistic, but yes,” Hans said. “I think it’s more that he believes that women are by nature weaker and should be subservient to men, and thus must be properly trained. One thing about all his victims, according to a psychologist who worked with them after the attacks—they all had low self-esteem. They felt they were unattractive to the opposite sex, that they were too fat or too skinny or too ugly. He preyed on the outcasts. They would be far more vulnerable to the charms of an older, nice-looking man who was in a position of authority.”

“Lucy doesn’t fit that profile,” Dillon said.

“No, she doesn’t.”

Sean’s head shot up. He heard something in Hans’s voice. “What?” he demanded. “What are you thinking?”

“What have you learned about his mother?” Hans asked.

Sean frowned, not liking where this conversation was going. “Christina Lyons. She went back to her maiden name after the divorce. Was a successful realtor in San Francisco, and an artist. She owned an art gallery, sold her own work plus that of other local artists.”

“Have you found her obituary?”

“I have it, but I haven’t read it—” Sean flipped through his computer files. “Here it is.” He skimmed it. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“Read the last two sentences. That’s usually where they put the next-of-kin information.”

Sean glanced at the bottom and read, “Christina is survived by her partner of twelve years, Nikki Broman. Donations in lieu of flowers should be sent to the National Breast Cancer Society.”

Sean frowned. “He’s angry with women because his mother was a lesbian?”

“No, not exactly. I think he’s angry with women because his mother was successful without a man in her life. Moreover, since her son wasn’t acknowledged in the obit, he was essentially disowned. What about Paul Miller’s obituary? What did he do?”

Sean brought up the father’s obit and skimmed it. “Retired electrician.”

“How old was he when he died?”

“Forty-nine.”

“A little young to retire.”

“He was living in a crappy neighborhood in Baltimore. Survived by a son, Peter Miller of Baltimore—” Sean looked up. “I don’t have any property owned by him in Baltimore. Just the house in Wilmington.”

“If he was living in a crappy neighborhood, maybe they didn’t own.”

“A rental.”

“Did the father ever own a house?”

Sean checked. “Yes, but lost it … six months after Christina left.”

“She was supporting him.” Hans looked up at the ceiling. “She supported him, she left, he moved to a cheap rental in a bad area. Why didn’t she take her son with her?”

“He was fourteen. Maybe she thought he would be better off with his father?” Sean suggested.

“Or she was scared. Fourteen—puberty. I wonder if he was exhibiting early signs of a serial killer.”

Sean jumped. “What? Where did that come from? He’s a rapist—a manipulator. Where does ‘he’s a serial killer’ come from?”

“The dead pet he left for the girl who didn’t obey. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to kill someone’s dog. He had to have done it before. Killing animals is one of the triad of serial killer traits. Can you run arson fires in Baltimore during the time Miller was aged ten to eighteen? And map it?”

“No, but Jayne can.” Sean sent her an email, hoping she was at the computer even though it was 4:30 a.m. in California.

Sean asked, “What does this mean for Lucy? If she doesn’t fit the profile for his rape victims, does that mean he’s going to kill her?”

“Yes,” Hans said.

Sean paled. “You don’t know—”

“But not tonight. And not tomorrow. He wants to teach her something. I—” He stopped himself.

“Tell me!” Sean said. “I need to know.”

“I need to call Noah.”

Lucy didn’t know how long she tried to get the woman to talk. When she’d about given up, the young woman spoke, her voice a raspy whisper.

“My name is Carolyn.”

Lucy sighed in relief. Finally. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute, then whispered, “He’ll hurt me.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Shh!”

Lucy whispered, “Days? Weeks?”

“I think six days. Maybe seven. He killed a woman in the barn. Shot her in the back of the head.”

Carolyn’s voice cracked and she huddled in her corner.

“I’m next.”

Lucy almost didn’t hear her. “What?”

“Shh. He told me when he brings another female home, I’ve failed him. He will kill me tonight.”

“Did he rape you?”

She shook her head. “He hasn’t touched me at all.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I was walking to my car after work and felt sick. I was sitting in the driver’s seat, closed my eyes—and woke up here.”

“Where are we?”

Carolyn shrugged. “I live in Greensboro.”

“I’m from Georgetown. Listen. We’re going to get out of here. You were in the barn? What else is around here?”

“Nothing. No other houses. I couldn’t even see the road.”

“I’ll find a way.”

“No shoes.” She gestured to their feet. “There’s snow.”

“I’d rather die out there than live in here,” Lucy said. She stared at her handcuff. Getting out wasn’t going to be easy.

* * *

I hate that female.

She is defiant. Others had been defiant on occasion, but there is something in this one that grates on me.

I walk through the snow to the barn. The cold clears my head. Memories of punishment relax me.

I want to break her. I do not know if it’s possible. The way she looked at me … something in her eyes. She is not like the others.

I knew all along that she was different. For years I had picked very specific women. Of the twelve, ten were broken before they died. Two died during training.

I suspect this new one will not get to training. I do not like her.

My father may have been right. Some women should never have been born.

My father tried to act like a man, but he wasn’t. He let his wife get a job, and where did that get him? She left. She left because she didn’t need him.

I remember that morning. She woke me from sleep and told me to pack. That we were leaving Dad. I asked why. She said he’d hit her and she was afraid of him. I told her she deserved it. She thought she was better than Dad and that’s why he hit her. She cried and told me I was not her son.

I wish I were not. She was an aberration. She used to be happy cooking dinner, cleaning the house, walking me to school. Then she got a job. And made friends that didn’t include me and Dad. She left us in her heart before she left us in life.

Good riddance. I’m glad she died. The cancer ate her heart, ate her soul, took her body and made it hurt.

I went to the funeral and told her bitch that I was glad she was dead. The woman screamed at me and tried to have me arrested. I walked out.

My father was weak. Drinking. A foolish man’s elixir. Had he been a real man, he would have kept his job and provided for his family. Mom would never have worked; she would never have left me.