Of Guilt and Innocence (17 page)

He reclined in his desk chair in the small office and turned the television on. He once again thought back to this most recent victim. He thought about her son. A grown man, close in age to himself, who still relied on his mother for everything. Carlos couldn't imagine it. Miguel would never have allowed Carlos to be so dependent. He would have beaten it out of him. Carlos had never met Anne's son, but he wondered what kind of person he was and how he would cope with losing his mother. From what Dr. Morris had told him, Anne's son showed little or no compassion toward her and was very selfish. Carlos suddenly felt a strange sense of accomplishment that he had never felt after killing one of his victims. He felt that maybe this would be what Anne's son needed to finally grow up. Maybe this would make him a man and force him to take care of himself. Maybe he was actually doing him a favor. He smiled and closed his eyes.

 
 

CHAPTER 12

 

 

As the morning sun spilled once again across the open pullout couch, Louis tried his best to roll over and turn his back in hopes it would go away. After a couple minutes of trying to go back to sleep, Louis opened his eyes and composed his thoughts. He wasn't sure what he would do with his time today, but he knew he was low on gas and money. He would need a replenishment of his funds from his only source of income, his mother, before venturing out to either a park or a mall or a beach boardwalk. Or perhaps he would just stay in his apartment all day. He really did not feel like dealing with his mother, with her whining about her hip and upcoming surgery. The desire he had to spend time with her just two days before had passed. Maybe he would just stay in and surf the internet, which was what he did the majority of the time he was alone in his apartment.

He got up and went to his kitchenette looking for something to eat. He regularly grocery shopped in his mother's cupboards and had just done so Sunday evening when he was over for dinner. To his dismay he had already eaten the entire box of Pop Tarts that he had taken, which fueled his decision for the days plans. If he had to go in and see his mother in order to curb his hunger, he may as well get some money so he could go somewhere later on.

He struggled down the ladder and out of the garage, lumbering to the back door of the main house, his mood starting to sour. It was a hot morning already and he was sweating. He grabbed the door handle and tried to rip the back door open, but it was locked. He looked quizzically at the door. His mother always unlocked the door in the morning, prepared for the rare occasion he wanted to come in for breakfast. She was always up before he was, so why was the door locked? He banged on it and shouted to her but got no response. He turned around and went back up into his apartment and got his keys.

His anger toward his mother for the extra work she was causing him so early in the morning was now boiling over. His breaths were heavy and deliberate. He grabbed the handle once again, put the key in and turned. He flung the door open and burst into the kitchen. “Ma, where the hell is breakfast?” He shouted as he stood in the kitchen, looking at the empty breakfast table. He got no answer. His fuse was lit. Unbelievable, he thought to himself. How the hell is she so lazy? She'll probably blame that hip, he thought again. He sneered as he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. He stopped abruptly and gasped. His mother was lying on her stomach on the floor, and her head was turned facing him. Her eyes were open. Louis could see that she was dead. He crouched down beside her not sure what to do, not wanting to believe she was gone. “Mom . . . mom . . . MOM!” He cried. He placed his right hand on her shoulder and shook her. That's when he saw the red ring around her neck. He knew that indentation. He realized what had happened. Someone had taken her life while he had been so close by, sitting at his computer in his apartment. He swept the hair back from her eyes and touched her forehead. Her skin was cold. He was suddenly struck by the sobering feeling that her killer may still be in the house. Fear gripped him and he stood back up and began looking around. His eyes caught the staircase. He was convinced the killer was still upstairs. He went back into the kitchen and grabbed the telephone from the counter then went back outside.

“I need the police. Someone broke into my mother's house and killed her,” he told the 9-1-1 operator while trying to catch his breath. “Please hurry. I think he's still in the house.” The call wasn't for her as much as it was for him. Fear had overcome him and he could only think about being protected from this monster, this animal who had taken his mother's life and would no doubt take his.  He needed to feel safe and did the only thing he could think of to get that assurance, losing track of what the police would bring with them when they came to his rescue--an investigation.

 

Louis stood outside the backdoor and was kept from going back into the house by the plethora of officers who funneled in and out of it. He was now sweating profusely, alternating from leaning against the car in the driveway, to standing, to lying on the grass. He didn't say much, didn't ask many questions. He just sat there. One of the officers assigned to stay with him finally asked if he would like to open up the garage and sit in the shade.

“NO!” Louis quickly shouted as the officer approached the garage door. “I . . . uh . . . I'm fine, it's fine. I could afford to sweat away a few pounds anyway,” he said with a chuckle. That was his standard joke when trying to ease suspicion away from himself for something. With his fears of his own safety eased, he was consumed with fear of something else. That they would somehow work their way into his apartment and discover who he really was.  

About an hour had passed since Louis had found his dead mother on the living room floor. Police had arrived in swarms anticipating a killer being found inside the home. The house was now overrun with men in suits and uniformed police officers thoroughly searching the property, as well as crime scene technicians. The property surrounding the house had been taped off with yellow crime scene tape.

Finally, two of the men in suits exited the back door of the house and approached Louis, who sat in the grass of the backyard. The men introduced themselves as detectives and confirmed to Louis what he already knew: that his mother had been murdered.

Louis just nodded and frowned, stating, “Yeah, I know, it's terrible,” in a soft, barely audible voice.

The detectives looked at each other, then back at Louis. They told Louis they needed him to accompany them to the station to answer some questions so they could find the person who was responsible. Louis froze. A panic flashed in his eyes. He didn't want to leave his apartment vulnerable to an intrusive search. How could he have anticipated this would happen? He had thought of every possible way to cover his tracks, except for this. He cursed himself for calling the police, for inviting this into his life. But what was he supposed to do? he wondered. Let her lay there to rot? How was he supposed to know her killer wasn't still in the house, waiting to take his life as well? Why did she have to be so weak? Why did she have to let herself succumb to this? She had ruined everything. God damn her, he thought.

“I'd prefer not to go at the moment,” he said, looking down. “I'm still very much grieving for my mother.”

“Sir, it isn't really a request. It won't take long,” one of the detectives responded rather forcefully. Louis stood up and followed the detectives to their car. He thought for certain his days were numbered. He began thinking of options, if he was even ever released from police custody. He thought for certain they would find something. He was no crime scene technician, no computer scientist. No matter how hard he tried to scrub away any evidence his crimes had left behind, he knew if they looked hard enough they would find something.

He considered fleeing; as soon as he got let go he would go back to his apartment, gather his things, and drive. But he had no bank account of his own. All the money he ever had he got in cash from his mother—who always carried inordinate amounts of cash on hand because she didn't trust the banks—but he would have to ransack the house to try to find where she kept it, and that was if the police didn't find it first and confiscate it. He was stuck. How could he have anticipated this would happen? he kept asking himself. It wasn't fair; he had been so careful.  

The detectives brought Louis into a small interview room and told him they would be right in. They were both anxious. They knew his demeanor at the crime scene was off. He didn't fit the image of a grieving son and he had been too nervous for their liking. They wanted to let him stew for a few minutes before they set out to methodically break him down. As they waited and rehearsed the questions they wanted answered, one of them got a call on his cell phone. After a short conversation, they rehearsed no more, but remained at their desks, continuing to leave Louis alone in the room.

 

Back on J Street, the large police presence was making the neighbors curious. A crowd began forming out on the street, and news stations were showing up. Word that the South Florida Strangler had finally struck again was already spreading. In law enforcement circles it had been apparent almost instantly. Jorge and the two other members of his task force group, John Youngers and Kristin Mora, had just arrived at the house themselves. Jorge sized up the scene from entry to exit. It was the typical modus operandi for the South Florida Strangler. No sign of forced entry. No real sign of a struggle, nothing noticeably missing.  

First responders to the scene had told Jorge that the son was acting strangely and they strongly suspected he could be involved. Jorge recalled the FBI's profile of the killer being a white male, in his late thirties, who chose women who represented something. They had suggested the women may have reminded the killer of his mother. It did seem to fit.

Jorge moved onto the body. It was typically the way the South Florida Strangler would have laid out his victims, although he never posed them. He just set them down after strangling them from behind. Jorge noticed the usual carpet soaked with urine and feces beside the body and stood up from his squatted position.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of the crime scene technicians. “I would like a swatch of this whole area when the body is removed. I would like it checked for DNA and hairs,” he explained. “Oh, and also, when you check the body for DNA, could you really focus on the back of the victim's neck and see if you can recover anything from her neck or the back of her hair or head?”

It was something they had tried with previous victims but were never successful with. Being that the killer did not sexually assault his victims, DNA had always been hard to come by. But Jorge knew eventually he would leave some behind. The strangler had to perspire or blow some saliva outward inadvertently while in the process of choking his victim. Eventually, they had to be able to find some in useable quantities. At least he hoped they would.      

“Wait a minute,” he said as the crime scene technician began to walk away after acknowledging that she would adhere to Jorge's requests. “Does this look like a footprint to you?” He squatted down beside Anne's body and examined an indentation in the saturated rug to the left of her legs. It was indeed a footprint, the outline of which was just visible to indicate the size of the shoe belonging to the person who had made it. The crime scene technician laid a ruler beside the impression and photographed it. She then continued on to other tasks with the advisement that she would email Jorge a copy of the picture as soon as she was able.

Jorge and his partners continued to examine the crime scene and tried to get statements from some of the neighbors, but found them all to be uncooperative. Jorge checked the exterior of the house and property but found nothing that could be considered noteworthy. He stopped in front of the garage, which was closed. He asked the officer who had waited outside with Louis if anyone had been inside.

“No, but the son freaked out when I suggested he sit inside the garage to get out of the sun while he waited.”

“What do you mean?” Jorge asked, eyeing the old blue car parked in front of the garage.

“I walked over to it like I was going to open it up and he panicked and said he was fine, so I walked away. It was odd.”

“Good thing you didn't open it. It's not covered in our search warrant. Anything you would have seen inside of it could have been tossed in court. We are working on a new search warrant for it now.” Jorge turned away from the garage and patted the officer on the shoulder as he left.

Jorge, John, and Kristin headed back to the police station to speak with Louis. John had been the one who had called the detectives and stopped them from interviewing Louis. They had wanted to interview him, and probably would have, even though both knew this was a South Florida Strangler case. But when John called and told them not to speak with Louis, they knew they had to pass up their opportunity at cracking the case and making a name for themselves.   

 

Kristin watched through the two-way mirror as Jorge and John entered the small interrogation room. Louis just looked at them, said nothing, and smiled. He had been waiting for forty-five minutes at this point and his thoughts were consumed by what the officers might have found in his apartment. He fully expected to be arrested for his crimes at any moment, and when Jorge and John came in his heart began beating as fast as it ever had.

Jorge introduced himself and John and asked Louis some very basic questions, such as the last time he had seen his mother and if she was expecting anyone to stop by last night. Louis remained on edge, concerned that at any point they would hit him with the news that they had found something he had inadvertently overlooked, but he answered the questions as calmly as he could. He then walked the detectives through his morning up to the point at which he found his mother dead on the living room floor. The more time that passed the more comfortable Louis became and the more he felt like he had once again caught a lucky break. He tried to mask his relief and excitement at that realization, but he found it very difficult not to joke or smile at times.