Compromised (14 page)

The two similar crimes had not been solved. The attack in New Jersey had taken place a year back, and the Queens assault happened the year before that. I decided to start with the fresher case. These were interviews I had planned to carry out when I first began investigating Serafina’s murder and certainly would’ve done so at that time had a bullet not embedded itself in my gray matter.

The Eldridges were broken people. Watching from within the SUV, they seemed like two adoring parents who’d been torn to pieces by the murder of their daughter. Not only was she murdered but also raped and abused. I could see distress in their postures as they got out of their car, a Volvo Cross Country that was still caked with winter salt and probably hadn’t seen the inside of a car wash tunnel in over a year—funny how simple little things like that cease to matter after the spirit is destroyed. I watched them trudge along the path to their front door with their heads hanging like branches on a weeping willow. It looked like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on their shoulders.

I’d picked a bad day to visit, the anniversary of their daughter Lara’s murder. I checked my watch and saw that it was approaching noon. I gave them fifteen minutes to relax and settle in before ringing the doorbell.

They were quite loud as they approached the door.

“Richard, you can’t blame your cousin for not coming to the cemetery. He has the flu.”

“He has the flu? This year it’s the flu, and last year . . . Christ, he missed our daughter’s goddamn funeral because . . . ah shit, I don’t believe any of the bullshit excuses he makes up.”

“He sent beautiful flowers to the chapel.”

“He can take the flowers and shove them right up his goddamn ass. Let him get off his fat keister and pay his respects like a loving family member is supposed to.”

The door flew open suddenly.

“Yes?” Richard Eldridge asked impatiently.

I was hesitant to say that I was on official police business because I wasn’t. But considering Richard Eldridge’s emotional state . . . I figured he’d throw me out on my ass if I told him I’d just come by for a friendly chat.
Oh well. Might as well bite the bullet.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Eldridge. I’m Detective Stephanie Chalice. I phoned for an appointment.”

“Right,” he huffed. “All right, come on in. I completely forgot. You picked a hell of a day to pay us a visit. This is the anniversary of—” His head dropped, and then he ushered me into the house without completing the sentence.

“Won’t you please come in?” Elaine Eldridge said, making a real effort to be pleasant despite the strain she was under. “We’re only home a few minutes.”

“Yes. I understand today marks the one-year anniversary of your daughter’s death. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”

“I’m surprised to see you here, Detective,” she said. “We read that you were shot by a sniper and that you were in a coma.”

I rapped lightly on the side of my head. “Thankfully we Chalices have hard heads. I received some truly excellent care from great doctors and bounced right back.”

“Thank God,” she said.

The parlor was beautifully decorated, and it was evident that one or both of them had a flair for interior design. Somehow, though, the atmosphere seemed gloomy. With the lights off and only gray daylight filtering through the windows, shadows darkened the color of the painted walls, transforming them from an eye-pleasing cedar green to a drab olive. We sat across from each other on opposite sides of a coffee table.

“Did he attack someone else?” Richard Eldridge asked.

I closed my eyes and nodded. “I believe so. It wasn’t shared with the press, but the MO was virtually identical to your daughter’s murder and the murder of Nina Stoffer in Queens.”

“Son of a bitch. So what now, they’re going to let him get away with this forever? Every television station has a dozen programs on CSI and true crime. With all that accumulated knowledge, they can’t capture the animal who murdered our daughter?”

“We’re doing everything we can to put him away, Mr. Eldridge.”

“Of course you are,” he said in a cynical tone. “Meanwhile the police department is going to waltz into our home once a year asking the same questions they asked when our Lara was killed. How many times are you going to rub salt in the wound, Detective? How many times are you going to put us through this misery?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine the pain you’re living with.”

“No. You can’t,” he stated emphatically. “So let’s make this fast.”

“No one ever thinks something like this can happen to them,” Elaine Eldridge said. “You read about this kind of thing in the papers and people talk about it, but you just can’t imagine a tragedy like this touching you or one of your loved ones, and then after it does . . .” She began to sniffle. “It’s as if your life has been stolen. You breathe, you eat, and you sleep, but you’re not really alive anymore. You just exist. In many ways, it’s worse than dying.” She dabbed at her tears with a tissue. “All right, dear, what would you like to know?”

“Your daughter attended Rutgers University, is that correct?”

“Dean’s list five semesters running, until some piece of garbage stole her life,” Richard Eldridge said. “Two years, three dead women, and they still have no idea who’s doing this?” He shook his head. “It’s a disgrace.”

“And it was there that her body was found?”

“Backstage in an auditorium.” He pointed to the coffee table, a lovely piece made of antique cherrywood with a tinted-glass center panel. “See that, Detective? We used to use an antique trunk for a coffee table, but we had to get rid of it because every time we looked at it we were reminded about what happened to Lara.”

Lara had been found in the same state as Serafina Ramirez, naked and bound in such a manner that she could not get off her knees. Her assailant had used a vintage actor’s trunk to prop her up. She was fixed in place, doggie style, as the playuhs call it. Instead of woven straps, her wrists had been bound with loudly striped silk neckties, which, like the trunk, had been used in the school production of
The Wizard of Oz
. The killer had a macabre sense of humor. He’d tied her up with the wizard’s neckties and bound her to the prop trunk that contained the cowardly lion’s medal of courage, the tin man’s heart-shaped clock, and the scarecrow’s university degree. The elaborate tableau left little doubt that the killer was severely twisted. I was surprised he hadn’t forced her to wear Dorothy’s ruby slippers. A third garish necktie had been used to fashion the tourniquet around her neck. Glinda’s star-topped magic wand replaced the broomstick that had been used to tighten the loop around Serafina’s neck.

It appeared that there was a link between the victims and the accoutrements the killer used to bind and murder each of them. Serafina’s mother was a cleaning woman, and he used a broom and common straps on her. He exploited Lara’s interest in theater by using stage props in his murderous montage.

“The killer is meticulous. He never leaves behind any DNA. In general, serial rapists have grown adept at concealing their identities. They cover their hair and wear gloves. They use condoms and dress in microfiber clothing.”

“What galls me is that this never should’ve happened,” Mr. Eldridge said. “They had a year to catch this creep after he attacked the woman in Queens. If the police had done their job, Lara would still be alive and you wouldn’t be here reminding us of our loss.”

“I understand that you’re bitter, Mr. Eldridge, and I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do to bring your daughter back, but I’ll try my damndest to prevent someone else’s daughter from suffering the same horrible fate.”

“Fine,” he said with anger in his voice. “What do you think we can tell you that will help you crack the case? We’ve been over this with the authorities dozens of times.”

“All right. Settle down,” his wife said as she patted his leg. “Try to be helpful, Richard.”

“I’m waiting to hear a question,” he grumbled.

“I understand that Lara and the others were in the auditorium rehearsing for an upcoming performance. Why didn’t her castmates wait for her before leaving for the evening? Why did they leave her alone? I mean, it was late at night, and I understand there are warning signs all over campus for students to avoid situations that might put them in harm’s way.”

“Because there was no such thing as good enough for Lara. She had to be the best. She had to be perfect. Her friends used to wait for her, but they got tired of waiting rehearsal after rehearsal, and after a while . . .” She shrugged, and I could see that she was trying not to cry. “It was hardly the first time she stayed after everyone else had left the auditorium. She was overzealous . . . fanatical.” She sniffled and looked into my eyes. “Do you know anyone like that, Detective?”

It was the last question I needed to be asked. I’d been feeling terribly guilty about disappearing on my family. Her question and the sadness in her eyes brought it all crashing down on me. I felt my heart begin to thump. “I see. So there was a pattern of her being there alone at night. Her attacker likely knew about her habit of working after everyone else was gone and had readied the trunk along with all the props he’d need for his assault.”

There are things that you hear over and over again but don’t truly grasp or see vividly until it’s offered in a particular way. It seemed that I had painted that vivid picture the Eldridges had not yet imagined, and it had evoked all manner of painful memory. Elaine Eldridge began to sob, and I could see that her husband was seething. He shut his eyes and clenched his fists, no doubt praying for the good Lord to place Lara’s attacker in front of him so that he could crush the man’s throat with his bare hands. He must’ve needed to channel his anger in a physical manner because he abruptly slammed his fist on the wooden edge of the coffee table with such force that the leg cracked, the table collapsed, and the center glass shattered.

“Richard,”
his wife shrieked. “Dear God. What are you doing?”

“Sorry. Sorry. I—” He was ashamed of his actions, but froze when he saw the expression on my face. “Are you all right, Detective? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I tried to answer him but couldn’t. My throat was frozen, and my body was twitching. It wasn’t just the shattered table that had set me off. It was the surge of guilt and . . . I suddenly realized that I’d forgotten to take my meds before leaving the hotel in the morning. My back tensed and I slid off the couch. I closed my eyes just before my face made contact with the crippled cherrywood table.

Thank God.
The Eldridges had called 911 and summoned an ambulance. Yes, the police responded to the call as well but only to assist and provide support for the EMS team. I’d been attended to in the ER for minor wounds, put through a battery of tests, sedated, and put to bed. I slept well into the evening only to wake up to find a visitor in my room. “Oh shit!”

“Busted,”
Gus said with a grimace on his face.

“You startled me.”

“Do I have to handcuff you to the bed, or are you going to be civil?”

He was clearly unhappy so I figured I’d jest in order to diffuse some of the tension. “You can cuff me if you’re planning to use a pair of those kinky, leather-laced
Fifty Shades of Grey
handcuffs, and you’ve brought along a cat-o’-nine-tails and a bottle of lube. I’ve been
bad
, really bad.”

“Not funny, Stephanie. Not funny in the slightest.”

“
I
thought it was humorous.”

“It’s hardly the time or the place.”

Got it. It’s not a laughing matter.
I nodded, expressing my understanding of the difficult situation I was responsible for creating.

“What
the hell
did you do to your hair?” he asked hotly.

His question took me by surprise. With all that had recently transpired, I’d forgotten that I now had short blonde hair, a look that must’ve shocked the hell out of my husband. “Oh, this,” I replied as I examined a golden lock of hair. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just trying to understand who the hell you are.”

“I’m still me, Gus, same old wacky Stephanie Chalice. I didn’t want to be recognized. I figured I’d be visiting crime scenes and conducting interviews and I didn’t want to be spotted.”

“Spotted by whom?” he asked angrily. “By me?”

“No. By . . . shit! Yes, by you,” I confessed. “I needed to see this through, and frankly . . . well, I knew you wouldn’t let me do it.”

“Wait until Max sees you,” he grumbled. “Christ, wait until Ma sees you. She’s going to take a fit. When the hell did you become Mata Hari?”

“I thought you’d like it. I thought it would make for some great role-playing sex after this cop-killer business was well behind us.”

“Ah, come on—don’t patronize me. So what happened, Stephanie?” he asked. “How’d you end up in the emergency room?” I could see that he was emotionally worn and ready to snap. His eyes were red, and he looked exhausted.

Christ. What did I put him through?

I shook my head woefully. “Somehow I missed a dose of medication. There was a bit of commotion during the interview I was on, and I guess the combination set me off.”

His jaw tightened. I think he wanted to cry, but he managed to hold back the tears. “What am I going to do with you?” He bent over and kissed me.

I put my arms around his neck and locked him in. “You can’t say I haven’t made your life interesting.” I kissed him on the cheek and let him go. “How did Ma take the news of me being in the hospital?”

“Your mother is the best, the absolute best. She hasn’t let anything come in the way of taking care of Max or me. I honestly don’t know where she finds the strength.” As much as he was lauding my mother, he was also giving me a dig because I had created the difficult situation. “How did she take it? More relieved than freaked out, I suppose. You do understand that we were both worried you’d turn up dead, either from the brain injury or from charging headfirst into a wolves’ den.”

“Gus, I really am sorry, but as I said, it was something I had to prove to myself, and I wasn’t going to sit idly by while Yana’s killer slipped through our fingers and disappeared forever.”