Humble Beginnings
Chapter One: Origins
Forest Hills, Pennsylvania "Nice neighborhood," John Grant quietly commented, as he sauntered up the front drive of the two-story blue house with faded beige shutters, immediately lifting a hand to properly shield himself from the sudden onslaught of the bright morning sun. His tall, leanly muscled frame paused a moment to study the generic yellow crime scene tape that had been resolutely plastered around the front door, squinting roughly against the assiduously penetrating glare, while two uniformed officers casually made their way down the steps with extremely somber gazes etched across their faces. A small and tastefully managed flower garden that consisted of elegant yellow tulips provided a sharp contrast to the dull outer hue of the neglected living accomodations that stood before him, and he already knew the victim hadn't been chosen as a result of a robbery gone wrong, much less an attempt at hoarding valuable antiquities. "I'll bet they don't even see the need to lock their doors around here."
"You'd be correct in that assumption," Bailey Malone offered, as he followed a few steps behind him, briefly adjusting the sunglasses that sat across the bridge of his nose. "In fact, I'd say it's probably common knowledge at this point."
"What do we know about the victim?" Samantha Waters asked, as she took rather long strides to catch up while surveying the prevalent state of chaos, her arms planting themselves firmly across her chest, her blue eyes yearning to take in every last detail that came her way. She reached up to run her fingers through her long, thick blonde hair, and a meager frown transpired across her face, a troubled concern suddenly shadowing her demeanor.
"Her name's Rosemary Weatherby," the short man approaching them quickly added, eagerly responding to her request. He had a pale complexion with short, jet black hair, big brown eyes, and was clad in what appeared to be a reasonably inexpensive suit with a maroon tie. His shoes clapped noisily along the defective slab of concrete, and he came to a stop directly in front of them, a tiny notepad and pen enclosed within his grasp. A paper thin mustache resided above his upper lip, and one of his eyebrows was slightly more arched than the other, giving his current expression a somewhat animated appearance. "Detective Marc Tyler, homicide."
"Bailey Malone." Bailey briskly shook hands with him, and waited patiently as the detective proceeded to do the same with his colleagues. "Samantha Waters, John Grant."
"As far as we can tell, she lived alone," Marc continued. "Her daughter's already been notified. She'll be flying down from Maine this afternoon. The body was discovered this morning by a friend...Doris Flanders. They were supposed to meet for breakfast at the local diner, but Weatherby never showed. It's a tight knit community in these parts, so naturally she went to check on her. Needless to say, it probably wasn't the ending she'd hoped for."
Each of them entered through the front door, and set foot in the sparsely furnished foyer, where an evidence bag containing a cloth mask had been placed atop a tall and narrow wooden table. Pulling on a pair of white latex gloves, John reached over and slowly lifted it, a puzzling curiosity still gnawing away inside him. A silent chill gradually ran down his spine, as he began the intricate task of closely examining it, circumspectly noting the simple shade of white with deliberate gold hues encompassing the empty eye sockets and subtle specks of scattered glitter.
"It's a Venetian mask," Sam murmured, as she peeked over his shoulder, trying to get a better look.
"Venetian?" he repeated.
"Yes, although the proper name would probably be a Larva, which has been speculated to mean either mask or...or ghost in Latin. It was often thought to preserve the identity of the person wearing it, because it gave them complete anonymity from the people around them. The origins can be traced back to Venice, Italy, and some were probably used strictly for the sole purpose of committing crimes."
"So this guy obviously knew his stuff," John concluded, nodding. "I think I'm going to go out on a limb here, and say we're looking for a retired history professor or a grad student who was a little too bored with the curriculum."
"Not necessarily," she countered. "We only know that he didn't want to be seen. It's possible that his choosing of the mask was entirely random. He didn't seem to have any difficulty parting with it and leaving it behind, which tells us it really doesn't hold any kind of sentimental value for him."
"He also wanted us to find it, and that already makes him an arrogant bastard," he clarified, shrugging, as he placed the item down exactly where he'd found it. "It shouldn't be too hard to find out where he bought it from, though, which is likely his first mistake."
"Unfortunately, his handiwork doesn't stop there. I have something I'd really like you to see," Marc informed them, urging them into the living room, where a television screen had the volume capped to a complete standstill, while it energetically projected the various gestures of eager and willing contestants on a game show. A glass of wine was lying dormant on its side upon the carpet, the remaining contents having spilled out and harshly stained the once vivid sky blue coloring a vicious blood red, mingling with the metallic scented manifestation of the real thing. There were a fair amount of personal items that had in all likelihood been assigned to separate corners of the coffee table, and were not far from the position of the fallen glass, the different angles indicating they had been impetuously tossed about- faring no better than broken pieces of useless garbage. A number of yellow tulips were artfully constructed alongside the table's oval surface and had been forced together with mindful precision, a cream colored candle approximately two inches high residing in the very center of the spectacle.
"He used the flowers from her garden to show his own public display of affection," Bailey surmised, as he removed the sunglasses from his countenance, and crouched down a bit to study the exquisite pattern, his lips professing a disgusted sigh.
"Left the murder weapon, too," the detective confirmed. "Hunting knife, single stab wound. Probably got a real jolt out of watching her bleed out."
"Prints?"
"I'm afraid not."
"What a prince," John quipped sarcastically.
"How old was Rosemary?" Sam inquired, her attention focusing itself quite heavily on the symmetrically staged shape of the yellow heart, her expression somewhat unreadable.
"Sixty-nine, but she had a birthday coming up next week." Marc paused for just a minute, as he struggled to see where she was going with the proposed question, nervously scratching his head in confusion. "Wait. Damn, you don't think he actually knew that, do you?"
"The flowers clearly hold some kind of personal significance for him," she stated softly. "Look at how much trouble he's gone to arrange them this way. Yellow tulips often insinuate thoughts of hope and comfort, and these are in turn associated with the prospect of love, yet I don't think he even knew her that intimately. It's possible he watched her from a distance, and observed her routine, but-"
"You don't think they ever met."
"No," she agreed. "He understandably meant to cause her harm, but it wasn't because he was a scorned lover, or some kind of secret admirer. I believe he chose her because she represented something in his own life that he couldn't quite come to terms with. This woman was apparently well respected, right? She probably participated in bake sales, church functions, and other organizations within the town. I mean she certainly knew her neighbors well enough that she didn't always lock her doors. Rosemary was assumably very trusting and...and kind, and he knew he could play on that weakness in taking advantage of her when her guard was down."
"You think he may have seen her somewhere else," Bailey suggested hopefully, raising his brows.
"If she was that involved, it could have been somewhere she volunteered on a regular basis. Did he do anything like this in any of the other rooms in the house?"
"Not as far as we can tell," Marc affirmed, shaking his head. "Although, given what my men found on the mantel, he might have taken a little souvenir with him for the ride."
"He took something with him," she restated.
"Yeah, the picture frame was empty," he explained, pointing to the unoccupied wooden rectangle that was propped handily atop the fireplace mantel. It was a flattering honey maple composition, and stood seven inches tall by five inches wide, sticking out like a sore thumb upon the tidy shelf. "But we also need to consider the possibility that she could have moved it while she was cleaning. She may have just forgotten to replace it, and given her age, it's...well, it's not exactly as farfetched as it sounds."
"Bag it, John," Bailey instructed. "Odds are we won't find any prints on it, either, but her daughter may have some kind of idea as to what was in it. We'll also need access to any photo albums she has."
"Right away," the detective complied. "I already took the liberty of asking Mrs. Flanders about it, but she says she can't seem to recall anything at the moment. I realize death is usually an ugly affair that some have trouble accepting and rationalizing, but I guess they didn't have the time for tea parties and gossip in the comfort of hearth and home."
"Doris could have participated in a lot of the same events as Rosemary," Sam proclaimed. "They would have seen each other a lot outside of their meetings for breakfast. Maybe they didn't feel there was a need to allow their friendship to be anything more than it was."
"In any case, I'll go and get those albums for you," he acknowledged, as he suddenly excused himself and began heading up the long stairwell to the second level of the house, sharply disappearing from view when he reached the top and effectively rounded the corner.
"I think the poor guy was a bit intimidated," John inferred, his handsome face initiating a cunning half smile, while he went and sealed the evidence bag with the vacant frame inside of it. "Anyway, it's safe to say our perp came in through the back and went out the front. He didn't bother with the money or the jewelry, and he was smart enough to cover up. He thinks he's real clever, but I bet we still get him on that mask."
"Where's the body?" Sam asked.
"The body is going back to Atlanta," Bailey disclosed. "We've already been awarded clearance, so Grace will be doing the autopsy."
"Is there something I should know?"
He let out a breath, his visage brutally contemplating an annoyed scowl, as he reluctantly allowed his line of vision to collide once again with the horrific demonstration in front of him. "The M.O. is consistent with a string of murders dating back twelve years. He's killed seven times that we know of, and this makes eight."
"You never caught him," John put in.
"We were...unable to draw any connections between the victims. He didn't target a specific age group, and the killings weren't even exclusive to sex. He went after both men and women, and he chose each of them from different locations. There was never any indication as to where or when he would strike next, and after the seventh murder, he just stopped."
"Did you find a mask at any of the other crime scenes?" Sam questioned.
"No, but back then he was still using white roses instead of yellow tulips."
"Interesting," she remarked. "A white rose is typically more about modesty and innocence- purity. It doesn't even begin to hint at the level of comfort he's established with Rosemary. He's gotten bolder in his choices, and he's leaving things behind. He must have walked out of here showing the whole world his true face, but he also feels compelled to hide it when he's about to perform the act. Something must have changed in twelve years. He's shown tremendous regression where his identity is concerned, yet he's continued to progress and move forward in other ways."
"Yeah, he's a lot sicker now," John observed. "Then again, he certainly had enough years to perfect the talent."
"Bailey, where were the wounds on the other victims?"
"The last three were each stabbed a total of two times in relatively the same area. Why?"
"So he starts off slow, and...essentially eases into a more violent approach. I don't think he's going to break pattern now, though I wouldn't be surprised if he's already crossed state lines. He doesn't like to stand watch in a crowd and take pleasure in his kills. He prefers to retain what's left of his dignity before he leaves, and it's how he convinces himself he's not a monster- that he...still has some humanity left in him. Were his last three victims children?"
"Yes. Two girls and a boy."
"He left this candle burning because he believes he'll find the second victim before we can get to them. He sees it as a way of letting us know he's still in charge."
"Well, he won't be for long," John divulged. "George should be able to track down all the costume shops in the area, and we've also got the knife angle to work with." He turned the evidence bag over in his hands, and thoughtfully pursed his lips, his abhorrence substantially more pronounced. "You know, it's just too bad these guys can't come in and confess their penance to us. It would sure make our jobs a hell of a lot easier."
"Easier, maybe, but there's still paperwork," Bailey admonished, his features softening considerably, as he gave him a quick smile. "You can't get rid of that no matter how hard you try."
"Good point."
"Sam's right, though. We need to start compiling a list of the places she may have frequented. There has to be somebody who remembers seeing this guy around the facilities. He didn't integrate himself as a regular, so he would have stood out."
"Mrs. Weatherby loved the shelter," a young uniformed officer confessed rather quietly, as he warily approached them, tightly clutching his black cap against his chest. He was of a sufficiently tall stature with close cropped blonde hair and dark, green eyes, his long face displaying a great deal of sympathy in response to the recently deceased. "She was never quite the same after her husband passed, but she seemed to really enjoy helping people who had so little."
"The shelter."
"The homeless shelter about two blocks over? My mother is a volunteer there, and it's how she met Rosemary. She never had anything but good things to say about her, too. It's a terrible shame about what happened. I don't even know how I'm going to break it to her. I mean, you....well, I guess you just never see it coming, do you?"
"No. No, you don't," Sam concurred. "I'd very much like to see it, though, if it's not any trouble."
"The shelter? Sure, no trouble at all. I'll take you up there myself."
"Great."
"We'll catch up with you later, Sam."
She merely nodded to Bailey, and promptly began to depart in the direction the officer had gone, her brilliant mind becoming unexpectedly cluttered with another loss that still played much too close to her heart strings and struck even closer to the confines of home. Sam had initially entered the house with empathy brought on by the slaying of a victim who had incontestably dedicated her purpose in life to bringing others that were less fortunate together- if only because she'd been terribly lonely herself. Rosemary had desperately wanted to repair the void left immobile in the companionship she shared with her husband before he'd been taken from her in an untimely fashion, thus leaving her to seek out those around her who equally found themselves faced with the most prominent course of despair. She was all too determined to convince herself she was worthy of a higher calling. Sam didn't believe the old woman's killer had taken her grieving into account, nor did she readily accept any assumption that the crime had been committed out of a long standing desire for revenge. She supposed that was how it differed greatly from her own situation, and a part of her was actually somewhat relieved it didn't appear to have Jack's fingerprints written all over it.
"Hey, you think she'll be okay?"
Bailey only stood there, reflecting somewhat in silence, as he watched the door firmly shut itself behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Detective Tyler trudging tiredly back down the steps and juggling three thick photo albums in his arms, straining awfully hard in order to balance the chore of the additional weight. "She'll be fine, John, she's a big girl."
"Yeah, but you saw how-"
"She'll be fine," he added again.
"This is all of them," Marc uttered, seemingly anxious to be rid of the pile, as he wasted absolutely no time in dumping them right into John's gloved hands, unceremoniously wiping the sweat that had since accumulated upon his brow.
"This is everything?"
"Everything she had inside this house with her. You'll have to ask the daughter about the rest."
"All right, we'll take care of it."
"Uh, Malone?"
"Detective."
"Does Dr. Waters really...does she really think Weatherby became a victim because of her age?"
"At this point we're still trying to determine-"
"With all due respect, I'm entirely aware of the fact that she didn't exactly come right out and admit it or anything, but we have a lot of senior citizens who are pretty much used to doing what this woman did each and every night around here. Once word of this gets out, it'll only be a matter of time before some of them start to worry and begin barricading themselves inside their homes for hours on end. They'll be wondering which one of them is next, living in constant fear of their lives, and to be perfectly frank- I don't want to have to tell them there's a serial killer on the loose."
"If it's any consolation, Detective, we believe he's already moved on."
"He's still a serial killer."
"That's something we can both agree on," Bailey corroborated, "and my team's top priority right now is finding him and putting him where he belongs."
"You'll get him?"
"We'll get him."
1996