A Dark Mind (3 page)

A noise at the bedroom window caused a prickling down her spine.

She stood there for a moment…staring…watching…waiting.

She took a step toward the window. Her legs felt like heavy weights, her heart racing and her palms clammy and shaky as she reached for the blinds. Fear could be such a subtle yet sinister emotion. It clogged her throat and scraped its tiny fingernails across the back of her neck.

“Dinner’s ready,” Jared said, stepping into the room.

She put a hand to her chest and let out the breath she’d been holding.

She’d hoped that moving in with Jared would help in some way, but she’d been wrong.

The fear she’d been working so hard to control was back with a vengeance, eagerly spreading terror with every noise, and pumping panic through her veins. Only this time it had no name, just an evil, shapeless face covered in blackness and despair. It was influencing her daily activities: her dreams, her thoughts, her relationship with Jared.

“I scared you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, surprised by the normalcy of her voice. “I’m fine.”

He came up next to her and drew her into his arms. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine. Really,” she said again as she stepped out of his arms and headed out of the room.

He followed her down the stairs and to the kitchen. He stood close as he watched her open a cupboard and pull out a wineglass. “Wine?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She found another glass and then found herself fixated on Jared’s profile as he opened a bottle of Selene Cabernet. He had a strong jaw and a straight nose. His hair was dark and thick, curling a tiny bit around his ears. He looked handsome, as always, and tired.

Forgetting about the wine, Lizzy raked her fingers through her damp hair. She’d hardly said hello before running upstairs to the bedroom to take a shower. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked him about his day. “How are you doing?”

He didn’t look up, not a twitch of his eyes to serve as a clue that he’d even heard her. He remained focused on what he was doing. But she knew his mind was churning away as he carefully chose his words, probably afraid of saying the wrong thing.
What do you say to a crazy woman?

She’d been living with him for two months, and nothing was working. The terror, the nightmares, and the constant feeling of alarm were all there, worse than ever, thick and tangible, beckoning her with their familiarity. It was no use. She’d been fooling herself into believing the anxiety and panic would magically vanish.

A sigh escaped his lips as he turned toward her, his dark eyes searching, probably hoping to find something worth fighting for—a pinch of optimism, a dash of hope, anything that might stop them from tumbling down another muddy hill. Rolling about in the mud for a while wasn’t so bad. It was the climb back up that could be a real bitch.

“Are you sorry you asked me to move in with you?” she asked.

“Never,” he said, forcing a smile. “I like having you around.”

“I work late most nights,” she said. “I come home and hardly say two words to you before hopping into the shower. I find it difficult to focus, and I jump when you enter a room. I’m not getting any better. It’s getting worse.”

“You just need time to adjust to your new surroundings.”

“It’s been two months.”

He shrugged. “Two months, two years, there’s no time limit, Lizzy.”

“Linda Gates said the same thing.”

“She’s a smart woman.”

Her therapist was right. Jared was right. She needed time to adjust.

He poured the wine. She took the glass he handed her and followed him to the couch. The news was on and a reporter announced that the Lovebird Killer had struck again. In a distressed tone, the reporter delivered fear through the screen and across the airwaves, no doubt sending more than one million people in Sacramento County into a panic as she talked about two more bodies found.

Lizzy sat on the couch next to Jared and tucked her feet under her. “Another double homicide?”

“Two bodies found miles apart, one strangled, one stabbed. Too soon for the media to assume it’s the work of the Lovebird Killer. These two were not married, but they were childhood sweethearts who recently reunited. They were also living together. The man reported the woman missing a week before their bodies were found. If these killings are the acts of LK, then we have our work cut out for us. Every couple found has been killed in a different manner. No pattern, no particular style of murder. The only consistent factor is that the victims were in relationships.”

“So you don’t think this is the work of the Lovebird Killer?”

“It’s too soon to tell. The task force is on it. We’ll be able to compare preliminary reports in a few days, but it’s highly unlikely that the string of homicides in the past few years were the acts of one single psychopath.”

“What about the older couple who went missing last year? Were they ever found?”

He shook his head. “Maureen and Charles Baker are still considered missing persons.”

As Lizzy sipped her wine, she looked at him over the rim of her glass. Jared had been assigned to the Lovebird Killer task force nine months ago. He was working closely with a National Center for Analysis of Violent Crimes coordinator in Virginia.
Working with the NCAVC meant a lot of traveling, yet the stress and fatigue rarely showed.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Work on some of the most horrific murder cases in the country and still keep your upbeat, encouraging attitude?”

“It gets to me at times, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. How do you stay sane in an insane world?”

“When I come home, I try to leave it all behind. I do the best I can. That’s all anybody can do.”

“That’s the difference between people like me and people like you,” Lizzy said. “I can’t seem to let it go. Logically, I understand that’s what I need to do, but all of those horrid memories pop into my mind when I least expect it.”

“I try to find criminals and stop them before they find another victim. You were a victim. It’s not the same. You’re too hard on yourself. You know what I hate most? Offenders get caught and they go to jail. Perhaps they die,” Jared said. “But even in death they are still inflicting pain on their victims.”

She knew he was talking about her, but there was nothing she could say to make either of them feel better, so she said nothing.

“I’m not telling you to let it go or get over it, Lizzy. It makes me sad that one evil man has the ability to continue to hurt someone I love from his grave, but you’re the only person who can fix whatever it is that’s broken inside you. I’m here for you, though. I can lend an ear. I can hold you during the night and tell you everything will be all right, but only you and you alone can fight the demons within.”

Setting her glass on the coffee table, she slipped her arms around his waist. She wasn’t ready to talk to him about moving back to her apartment. In fact, she might never be ready. She wasn’t sure what their future held, and she had no idea how long she could live in his house or sleep in his bed without crying out in the middle of the night. She knew he would find a way to deal with whatever life brought their way, but she didn’t know how she would…or if she could.

My first murder was thrilling because I had embarked on the career I had chosen for myself, the career of murder.

—John Christie

Rene and Harold Lofland

Sacramento

March 2012

Sometimes he hid within fields of tall grass, stayed low behind the wheel of a stolen vehicle, or—as he was doing now—tried to get comfortable amid thick shrubbery. Sharp branches kept biting into his arms.

As he watched and waited, his thoughts drifted from one thing to another, from the past to the present and on to some of the people he’d met along the way. He liked to think about the people he’d killed and the gravesites he’d visited. He loved to rewatch the videos he’d made. He especially enjoyed reading books about behavioral profiling and stories about other serial killers. He collected famous killer quotes and watched true-crime shows.

He did get annoyed by the ex-agents who considered themselves experts on profiling a killer. The idea was absurd. These
guys talked about facing some of the most notoriously mad criminals. But they sat in a room with murderers who were chained and cuffed while security guards lined up at the door, waiting to pounce if the killer so much as lifted his hand.

Big deal.

These so-called profiling experts didn’t have a clue. It was the everyday people like Mr. and Mrs. Lofland, the couple he was watching right now and had been watching for months, who got to truly look into the eyes of madness. They were the ones who saw evil firsthand. Not some pansy-fuck investigator or profiler sitting behind a desk, talking to a guy in cuffs.

He shook his head at the silliness of it all. Those guys probably made a lot of money from their books. He should know, since he’d bought and read most of them. What a joke.

One of the reasons the FBI would never catch him was because he knew how to change things up every once in a while. He killed young and old, married and not married. He shot, stabbed, and strangled. And yet, despite the fact that he considered himself a man of many names, the media had managed to label him with just one: the Lovebird Killer. He shrugged. In the beginning, he had killed randomly, but as his skills improved, so did his reasoning for doing what he did. He now chose his victims more carefully. It wasn’t just about choosing couples in relationships, but more about love itself.

If he couldn’t love and be loved, why should anyone else?

He’d thought about sending a letter to the media explaining why he did what he did, but the killers who sent clues and letters always got caught. Although the idea of teasing the police force did hold a certain appeal—especially since he enjoyed screwing with people’s minds—he had ultimately decided against it. He dealt with them enough already.

How, he wondered, would he be described after he was dead? Although he didn’t plan on getting caught, there was no getting around dying since everybody died eventually. Would they perform an autopsy? If so, would the report be straightforward or exceedingly complex? Perhaps he would be reduced to a physical description: five foot ten, 150 pounds of gangly limbs. Big round hollow eyes—blue, the same color as a robin’s egg—and humongous feet. When he was much younger, the girls in school used to dance around him on the playground and call him names like Pick-Up Stick or Skinny Freak or Big Foot. The girls always looked happy when they held hands and skipped in circles around him, which made him happy. He didn’t care what they called him as long as they kept hopping up and down. He liked to watch their newly blossoming bodies forming beneath their shirts. Not too many girls in sixth grade wore bras, which had been a definite plus.
Call me any name you want, girls, just keep dancing
. That’s what went through his mind. He couldn’t help but wonder, if they’d known how much he enjoyed the show, would they have kept the gig going day after day?

He exhaled and focused on the house in front of him. He’d been watching Rene and Harold Lofland for six months now, along with a few other potential couples.

He’d never gone that long without killing before. Most people, including the “experts,” had no idea how much patience and skill it took to do what he did. Many believed that killers suddenly snapped one day, grabbed their gun, and shot the first random person on the street. Hell, what fun would that be? People who went ballistic for a minute and then regretted it later were not killers. They were just stupid.

His only worry was that Rene Lofland was a big lady. It would take at least two doses of his usual tranquilizer to get her down,
but it would be worth it. He’d knocked out and beheaded a cow before and then raped the carcass. He figured it would be sort of like that.

Thunder boomed, making him shiver and giving him an adrenaline boost. He wouldn’t have come out tonight if he’d known it was going to rain. And he might have left if two bright headlights hadn’t lit up the driveway.

He knew the house as if it were his own. But he also knew that the cleaning ladies had been there today. Rene Lofland was anal about the carpet, and there would be no moving around inside without her knowing someone had been in the house.

He had chosen the Loflands because a) he always selected complete strangers, and b) the Loflands were so damn syrupy with each other. When he’d first noticed them at the nursery all those months ago, he’d known right away that Rene wore the pants in the family. The whole idea of Rene being the boss caused him to pass them right by. But thirty minutes later, fate stepped in when Harold had a heart attack right there in the middle of a path next to a bunch of fruit trees. Harold went down like a newly cut pine, and Rene fell to her knees and wept like an infant before coming to her senses and shouting orders like “Call 911!” and “Somebody do something!” and “HELP!”

Not only did he follow the ambulance to the hospital, he made sure he ran into Rene every chance he got while Harold was being cared for. Rene figured he was at the hospital visiting a relative. She didn’t really care what he was doing there, which made everything perfect. He helped her and she helped him. She just hadn’t questioned his motives yet. But she would understand his intentions very soon. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he told her who he was and why he was there.

Her expression, no doubt, would be priceless.

Sacramento

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Lizzy had meant to leave the office before 5:00 p.m. to deliver papers to Michael and Jennifer Dalton, the owners of J&M Realty. It was almost seven when she pulled up next to the curb. J&M Realty was lodged between a dry cleaner and a boutique on a quiet street located in downtown Sacramento. She planned to leave the envelope in their drop box and call it a day. She turned off the engine and got a whiff of new-car smell. After her last car died, she’d picked out a brand-new Ford Escape. It was a brown four-door, environmentally conscious, with aerodynamic design.