The Christine Murders (14 page)

Kinsella had felt a chill go up his spine at the mention of the blue scarf on Alyson’s neck. Nobody knew about the scarves. It was the one main piece of evidence that had never been mentioned anywhere. Yet here was a similar murder of a young blonde woman that had occurred years ago.

He picked up the picture. Alyson was standing near the Coit Tower, striking a model’s pose. As Mrs. Bauer had said, she was truly lovely, with long blonde hair and a delicately beautiful face. She did indeed resemble the current murder victims.

Mrs. Bauer spoke up, pointing to the picture. “That’s what hit me when I first saw the pictures of these girls, the resemblance to Alyson. Then I read about how they had been killed, that they were all strangled. Maybe there’s no connection whatsoever, but I couldn’t rest until I told you about Alyson Merlott,” she said.

Kinsella was still looking at the photograph. “Mrs. Bauer, what else happened? Did anybody ever locate the boyfriend?”

“No. Alyson left no trace of him, not so much as a photo or a phone number scribbled down somewhere, unless he had cleaned out her apartment when he killed her, because her address book and a few other items were gone. Things had been cleaned too, wiped down, we were told.

“And it was all so odd in so many ways. I was her best friend, so if she hadn’t confided in me it’s not likely that she would have told anyone else.”

“What about her landlady? Had she ever seen anyone?”

“Well, yes, but just a dark-haired tall man, but she saw him from above, from a window, once or twice. She never saw his face. It wasn’t much to go on.”

She lowered her head. “Alyson was very kind to me. She was a good friend. I always wished that I could have done something to help find her killer. Because you see I’ve felt responsible. I think he killed her after she told him she’d found another boyfriend, and that had been my idea. It must have set him off, since she said he was getting strange and violent anyway.”

“The entire experience must have been terribly disturbing for you, Mrs. Bauer.”

“Oh yes, it was. I was so distraught over it that I quit my job, which I’d loved, and went back to Sacramento to my parents. A few years later I met Richard, my husband, however, so that turned out for the best. We moved back over here to the Bay Area, to San Bruno, and eventually we started a family. But I never told anyone else about Alyson, only my parents, who had met her once. Until today.” She stopped, finished now and obviously relieved to have shared it with someone after keeping it to herself for so long.

“Do you think there might be a connection, Lieutenant?”

What to tell her and what not to say? “I don’t know, Mrs. Bauer,” Kinsella answered. “But I would like to keep this picture, for a while, if that’s okay? The rest you can take back now. I’ll give you a receipt for the picture.”

“Yes, of course.” She pulled a small pastel card from her purse and handed it to him. “This is my business card. I now run a small gallery in San Bruno with my sister-in-law. My home number is on there too, plus my email. Should you need me for anything, I’m home most afternoons after three-thirty, when the kids come home. And evenings, of course.” She rose to leave. “Thank you very much for listening to what I had to tell. Without a name, without some identity, I know it still isn’t much for you to work with.”

Kinsella escorted her to the elevators. “Actually, you’ve told me more than you realize. I can’t discuss all the aspects of these murders with you, you know that, but you’ve helped me considerably, so I’m extremely grateful that you came in. You’ve been a big help. And Mrs. Bauer, it wasn’t your fault that Alyson died. Please believe that. You can’t blame yourself. Only the guy who did this is to blame, not you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, I appreciate that.” She took his hand, smiled and nodded, and stepped into the elevator. Kinsella turned and walked slowly back into his office.

A blue silk scarf knotted around the neck of a murdered woman, twenty-plus years ago? A scarf her obviously violent and unbalanced boyfriend had given her? A coincidence? As scanty as this information might be, it just might prove to be another important piece of the puzzle.

Kinsella was excited about what he’d learned today, yet at the same time disturbed. If Alyson Merlott had indeed been a victim of the current killer, how many other women might have fallen prey to this clever and solitary madman over the intervening year?

Or if he had remained dormant until now, another question needed answering. Who or what had pushed him over the edge now and onto another vicious killing spree?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kinsella combed through every file he could find on the Merlott case, coming away with only slightly more information than Antoinette had already given him. Surprisingly little had been known about the victim or the circumstances of her death. It was determined that she had been killed in her apartment, since signs of a struggle had been found there. Her body, in poor condition after being in the ocean for several days, did indeed have a blue silk scarf knotted tightly around her neck.

No trace was ever found of Alyson’s boyfriend. A search of her modest apartment had turned up some expensive art objects, several pieces of jewelry, and a fur coat.

Investigators had no luck tracing the jewelry, yet someone had discovered that her fur coat was purchased from a Beverly Hills furrier, but once again the trail died since it had been paid for in cash by a “tall good looking man”. Just as now, this guy was extremely clever about covering his tracks well and leaving no paper trail behind him anywhere.

Kinsella turned to the medical examiner’s report. The cause of death had been strangulation. Her neck had been broken, and she had been dead when dumped into the water, where she’d remained about three days before being found. It had not been possible to determine if any sexual assault had taken place. The body was bruised severely, but how much of that had been caused by the sea and how much came from a possible beating at the hands of her killer had also been impossible to know.

Disappointed, Kinsella closed out the files. He looked at Alyson Merlott’s picture. The resemblance to Kelley Grant, Ann Heald, and Susan Sayles was indeed uncanny. The women were all frighteningly alike. So until he had definite proof otherwise, he was going to consider Alyson Merlott a possible victim of the same killer they were looking for now.

Kinsella had searched all unsolved killings that had taken place in the city in the last twelve years, beyond his initial request for any that had been done with a silk scarf. He had also searched the FBI’s VICAP Web, entering all the details of his current killings – especially the blue silk scarves used. Now he wondered why Alyson Merlott’s murder had not come up immediately. Angrily, he could only surmise that nobody had seen fit to enter the crime at the time.

That thought alone made him dread searching any farther back into the past, fearing he would find even more women who looked like Alyson and the three new victims. Yet, it could be that Alyson was this killer’s first and perhaps only killing until now.

Yes, that was possible. He certainly hoped that was so.

But then the most important question still remained unanswered. If so, why now? If he was looking for the same man who had killed only Alyson Merlott, what had triggered him to start killing again?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

WEDNESDAY – OCTOBER 19
th
- TAHITI

On a humid morning filled with the scents of tuberose and jasmine, Bill Arnett’s crew checked into their layover hotel on Maeva Beach outside Papeete. As soon as he’d settled into his room, Bill prepared for a swim. He was tired after the all-night flight from San Francisco, yet he could never resist an early morning swim in the hotel’s lovely pool.

He dove cleanly and swam several laps before turning onto his back to float. It was so early he had the pool entirely to himself.

Bill loved coming to Tahiti. It was always a restful layover. Sometimes, he would spend his entire day reading beside the pool or on the soft white beach nearby. Other times he would ride into Papeete, to Boulevard Pomare along the waterfront, where he would browse among the shops and cafes.

He swam across the pool one last time before returning to his room. It was time for some rest. Later today, he would go into town to see the cruise ship several of last night’s passengers were boarding. The ship would leave Papeete in the evening, and Bill thought it would be fun to watch the departure.

Bill was feeling very good. Monday night he had met up with a classmate from flight training, a man he had not seen since his days in New York. Peter Breen had just transferred to San Francisco. During their conversation, Bill learned that Peter had been alone for some years. The two made plans to meet for dinner when Bill returned home. They had always been good friends and had dated casually; now Bill was optimistic about a relationship with Peter. He was damned tired of living alone, and he still had a secret crush on Peter.

He took a cool shower and went to sleep until early afternoon, when he ordered a sandwich and coffee from room service and settled himself in the warm shade on his patio to catch up with his reading while he ate his meal. In the distance, the island of Moorea was mistily outlined against a tropical blue sky and puffy white clouds. It looked like a watercolor, lacking only the frame. Bill snapped a photo with his smart phone. Beautiful! This would be his Facebook cover photo for next month.

Tuesday had been a busy day, so Bill had had no time to look at his newspapers before reporting for the Tahiti flight in the early evening. He had stuffed Tuesday’s paper into his tote bag, planning to take a look at it during his break time during the flight last night. There had been no time, however, so now while he ate his lunch, he spread the day-old newspaper on the patio table next to his food.

The biggest story was the serial killer. Three victims, so far. But the police had a suspect. Yes, he’d heard something about that on the radio, and there was a composite drawing of the man on page one.

He looked at the picture, sipping the strong French coffee blend that he always drank too much of when he was in Tahiti. There was something about that face. He had a feeling that he recognized that face, that he had seen that man somewhere. But where? He met so many people.

He sat back, coffee cup in hand, glancing frequently at the lovely view of ocean and sky and Moorea such a short distance across the water. The clouds were obscuring part of the island now. The lush watercolor scene had become a blend of pale misty blues and grays and dusty whites.

And then he remembered where he had seen the face in the newspaper. It was Luther Ross-Wilkerson, of the spilled coffee incident on the flight from London, the man now harassing Christine. Could it really be the same person, or was he imagining a resemblance?

He studied the drawing carefully. He could never forget that face. Certainly this drawing was a very good likeness of Ross-Wilkerson, or someone pretty damn identical to him.

There was a description of the suspect. When seen by witnesses with the last two victims, he had been well-dressed, expensively dressed.

Bill read on. Nowhere was there any mention of a British accent. He relaxed slightly. Although the accent had not been overly heavy, Bill was sure that anyone who had spoken to Luther Ross-Wilkerson at length would surely have noticed it. So perhaps he was being overly imaginative.

He turned the page and looked at the pictures of the three poor victims. Kelley Grant, Ann Heald, M.D., and Susan Sayles all smiled up at him from his newspaper.

He felt suddenly sick. The tropical warmth which had felt so good seemed stifling. The humidity pressed in on him, and his body was suddenly wet and clammy. He pushed his unfinished sandwich aside and got up, stumbling back into the room and hoping he would not get sick to his stomach. He drank in deep gulps of the cool air inside.

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t wipe those women’s faces from his mind. He tried to ignore what he had recognized just now, but it refused to leave him, refused to yield to any type of comforting logic he might try to apply to it. He was forced to admit that each one of those lovely blonde women looked like Christine. Too much like Christine for this to be a coincidence or fanciful thinking on his part.

This was insane. He began pacing the room, trying to reason himself out of this nonsense. Was it just the heat here? Was he overly tired? Going crazy? On the face of it, what he was thinking was simply too mad to be true. Yet could it be? Stranger things had happened.

He remembered his feelings the first time he had met and spoken to Luther Ross-Wilkerson. He had instantly disliked the man, something he was not used to doing with people he met. But something about the guy had unnerved him, repulsed him even. Christine had felt it, too.

Now he thought about the phone calls Chris had received, and the crazy expensive gifts of roses and crystal and silk. He’d told her she should report Luther to the police because he was harassing her. But he really doubted she would when it came down to it.

Christine! Where was she? Tokyo? Yes, that was it. She had left early Tuesday morning. Taking the International Date Line into consideration, Bill tried to figure out where she would be today. It would be Thursday, and she would probably leave for home tonight, bringing her back to San Francisco also on Thursday. In his confused state, Bill was not sure if he was even calculating his dates and times properly.