Humble Beginnings
Chapter Two: Victims
Samantha Waters entered the local shelter in step behind Officer Patrick Franklin, carefully tucking her hands into the well worn pockets of her long, gray coat, her blue eyes actively contemplating her surroundings with a keen sense of interest. A haggard and reclusive face eagerly glanced up at her from a small, round table to her right, and the man in question gradually began to consume the steaming bowl of hot tomato soup that sat directly across from him, savoring each drop with as much intensity as he could possibly muster. She guessed his appearance put him at no more than thirty years of age, and his rumpled, curly red hair was a sharp contrast to the dull gray hue of his large, expressive eyes. He was clothed in a black sweater that sported a single hole near the shoulder, and a pair of faded brown sweatpants, his feet occupied by a pair of cream colored sneakers caked in mud. A short distance away from him, two young girls sat comfortably on the bare floor in the corner, energetically playing a game of war with a dilapidated deck of cards, while a stack of empty plates waited patiently to be collected and washed clean from use. They whispered to each other in rather hushed tones, and it was almost as if they fought to protect and guard against some kind of strangely valuable secret, entirely disregarding any requests in terms of outside influence. A volunteer in the small, compact kitchen was enthusiastically serving lunch to a line of about ten individuals, her progress indicating she had already become quite accustomed to performing the repetitive task.
"Most of them usually don't stay long," Patrick began, casually hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his slacks, "so I can't guarantee they'll remember seeing anything out of the ordinary. But if you want my opinion, it obviously doesn't hurt to try. Some are certainly more open to conversation than others."
"How well do you know the regulars?" Sam inquired, as she continued to let her gaze wander around the room, eventually stopping to settle upon an elderly couple sharing a meal at a lengthy rectangular table to her left. The man had thinning snow white hair, and a pair of wire rimmed glasses sitting neatly atop the bridge of his wide nose, a loose fitting red button down shirt with a pair of baggy tan trousers completing his fragile frame. The woman, on the other hand, was surprisingly petite, and she wore a faded dress that was decorated in a fairly random floral pattern, a wedding band still present upon her frail finger. Sam paused to examine the effulgent shade of gold a moment longer, effortlessly securing a place for the image inside her gifted mind, as another compelling thought delicately wove its way into the realm of possibilities. Rosemary's killer was discernibly presented with a number of options concerning the elderly women who chose to bide their time at this particular facility, yet he distinctly chose to bypass those with the easiest access available to him, which transparently indicated the subject of age hadn't been a prominent factor in the cause of death. She surmised that the murder must have mattered in terms of the notoriety he appeared to be seeking from it, and a homeless woman wouldn't exactly have made front page news, let alone a spot reserved for local reports across household televisions. A homeless woman would have meant so very little in the grand scheme of things, because many already viewed her as a nobody to begin with, and refused to award her with the social status someone like Rosemary Weatherby had already managed to accomplish years ago with flying colors.
"Well, it's not me so much as my mother," he explained. "But...hey, you know what? You may actually want to talk to JoAnn over there instead. She's the volunteer on duty this afternoon, and she might just be able to be of some help. From what I hear, she's actually pretty good with faces, too."
"Did Rosemary spend most of her time here?"
"I can't say for certain that she did," Patrick added. "Though I'm convinced it probably became a big part of her life after Carl died. They were a wonderful couple, and you could tell they really cared for each other. Hell, I saw them at church every Sunday, so there was no denying that they were good people." He offered a prolonged sigh, his hand tiredly placing itself upon the back of his neck. "I suppose she's in a better place now, right? I mean at least she didn't have to suffer."
"He watched her as she bled out," Sam initiated, "and it's likely she suffered more than she wanted to. I...I'm actually starting to think it was the location that may have meant something. He had his choice of various women here, yet he decided to go with and choose Rosemary, because he immediately knew she'd be greatly missed. Maybe not by her husband, since he was already gone by this point- but by others around her who'd come to know her for her hospitality. She was someone special to these people, and he played upon that likeness to generate his own kind of chaos. It wasn't necessary to gain the victim's respect, as she wouldn't have seen his face, so consequently she actually meant very little to him."
"He demeaned her role in society."
"Yes," she stated quietly, as she carefully tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, "but he miscalculated, because this place, everything about it, reveals more about him than he intended it to. If anything, the twelve years he abstained from killing have caused him to become sloppy. She was a stranger to him, though in all likelihood, she represented someone he may have been acquainted with at some point in his life. There's certainly nothing sexual about it, and he doesn't even draw out the attacks. He does what he originally came to do, leaving with an almost smug satisfaction, all the while convincing himself it's only temporary."
"Okay, who's dead?" JoAnn Parks questioned impatiently, when she was finally able to spare a free moment and approach them in the midst of her busy schedule, her slender arms crossing themselves rather stubbornly over her chest. She was a pretty young woman with bright, straight red hair that fell below her shoulders, and a visage that was tainted with a few mindless freckles, her green eyes piercing and yet managing to convey an almost calm and oddly collective kindness at the same time. She was marginally above average height, and her delicate frame bore a white tank top beneath a short violet t-shirt, the ensemble promptly concluding itself with a loose pair of blue jeans and crisp white running sneakers. "Pat, c'mon, who's dead?"
"JoAnn-"
"Look, I know you aren't here because you want a free meal, so what's up?"
"Can we, uh...can we talk somewhere a bit more private?" he quickly suggested, already cautiously gesturing with his hand upon the small of her back, deftly attempting to lead her away from the commotion and into a more appropriate setting.
"Hey, whatever you've got to say, you can say it right here," she retorted somewhat obstinately, despite the fact that her brave facade was already starting to show signs of being on the verge of crumbling. She promptly began to avoid and safely distance herself from him, her entire body growing progressively tenser with every proclamation of denial, as she fought to maintain her repose. "I don't have any reason to keep secrets from these people, Patrick."
"It's about Rosemary," Sam gently intervened. "From what I understand, she volunteered here, and was a friend of yours."
"JoAnn, this is Dr. Samantha Waters," Patrick started. "She...well, she works for the VCTF, and-"
"VCTF?" she repeated.
"Violent Crimes Task Force," he explained lightly, a bit of reluctance finding its way into his voice. He instantly regretted it, yet he also knew there wasn't any easy way to confess the reason behind his visit, his heart nearly breaking on behalf of the sullen realization. "Listen, I honestly don't think it's a good idea to do this in front of all these people. Maybe you could call someone to fill in for you, and we can try this down at the station instead. It shouldn't take long- Dr. Waters just has a few questions for you."
"Is she hurt? Is Rosemary hurt?" JoAnn demanded. "Did she have an accident?"
"She's dead," Sam softly set forth.
"Dead?" she whispered weakly, a hand instantly enclosing itself over her mouth in utter shock, her green eyes widening in genuine disbelief. "Rosemary's dead?"
"Doris found her this morning," Patrick admitted, taking a deep breath. "She was stabbed, JoAnn."
"Oh God, oh God," she mumbled, her words nearly bordering on incoherent, her fingers reaching out for something with which to urgently steady herself. She tightly grasped the flimsy wooden back of a narrow, threadbare chair, her heart pounding swiftly against her ribs, her feet providing her with a clumsy sense of foreboding as they strongly threatened to give way beneath her. A single, solitary tear fell from the corner of her eye, and she distractedly wiped it away, perilously close to surrendering to her cries. "I don't understand. I just...I mean I just saw her the other day. We were having fun, and it was a good day- a real good day. She was happy, you know? She was talking about how much she was looking forward to Vicky's wedding, and what she was going to wear. Everyone was just so thrilled she was coming." She stopped a bit abruptly, as if to confirm the validity of what she had just heard, her conscience plagued with signs of uncertainty. "Are you sure it was her? Are you absolutely sure?"
"Do you remember who else was here when you were discussing the wedding?" Sam tried constructively, as she handed JoAnn a napkin from the dispenser located directly in the middle of the white, rundown table that housed the shabby chair.
"Who else was here?" JoAnn returned, while she gladly accepted the paper thin cloth, proceeding to blow her nose without drawing too much attention to herself, her hands shaking a bit from the attempted maneuver.
"Officer Franklin told me you're familiar with most of the people who come to the shelter on a daily basis. We...we think whoever killed Rosemary was watching her for some time- that he may have noticed her when she was volunteering here with you. If there's anyone in particular that you can recall, anyone who stood out or generally seemed out of place, it might just help us find the man that did this to her."
"Have you told her daughter yet?"
"I realize this is-"
"Rosemary was my friend, Dr. Waters."
"Yes."
JoAnn allowed herself to fall into the chair she'd been clinging for dear life to, and chose to remain silent for a good, long moment before she professed an unintelligible murmur, folding her hands neatly in front of her upon her lap. "There...there might have been a guy. I probably should have picked up on it right away, but after awhile, he...well, I guess you could say he just stopped coming. When I didn't see him anymore, I figured there really wasn't a reason to make much more out of it. No muss, no fuss. I assumed he was searching for a daughter or a girlfriend or something. It's not the first time someone has walked in here asking us if we've seen their child, brother, sister- even a husband or wife. People get left out in the cold all the time, whether it's of their own free will or someone else's. I can empathize with that. I mean, I've been there, okay? There's nothing clean cut about it, and you're seriously lost for as long as you let yourself be. It's a cruel world when you're convinced you've got nothing to show for it. Anyway, the point is, Rosemary made me believe I could prove myself useful to society again and become somebody. I have her to thank for my position here, and I've never forgotten that."
"Did this man ever talk to anybody? Did he appear anxious at all?"
"Not that I saw. He was just...he was just kind of there."
"Can you describe him?" Patrick asked.
"He was tall, maybe a little over six feet, um...medium build. I'd put him at middle age, because he had some gray coming through his black hair. His eyes were this really light shade of brown with some green in there. Hazel, I suppose? I remember that because they gave off this seriously cryptic presence, almost like he was mentally somewhere else at that point." She swallowed hard, and tried to further envision it in her head, patiently waiting for her memories to unravel themselves to reveal pieces of the truth. "He was decent. Not too handsome or downright hideous, but someplace in between. He was just dressed so ordinary, and...I mean, I...at first glance, he would have blended right in with the others. We're not in the habit of judging around here, and we usually don't deny visitors on account of how-"
"But he didn't," Sam concluded.
"No, he didn't," she agreed. "He was obviously full of the creep factor, but nothing that ever screamed he was capable of doing what you said was done to Rosemary."
"Thank you, JoAnn, you've been a lot of help."
"Should I have told the police about him sooner, Dr. Waters? If it would have made a difference, I need to know. If I could have saved her life in any way, I really need to know. She was my friend," she reiterated.
"You did just fine," Sam assured her, as she gave her an amiable pat upon the shoulder, acknowledging her with a small smile.
"We'll have her work with a sketch artist," Patrick submitted. "It should be able to give your team a better idea of who we're dealing with. While we can't promise this is your guy, everything she said-"
"Seems to indicate it is," Bailey Malone finished, easily letting himself into the establishment, and coming to a nice and even halt beside them. His expression was initially plagued with a rather grim intensity, but it imperceptibly began to soften again when he spotted Sam just as they'd left her, actively conversing with the same officer she’d departed from the house with.
"Did you find out anything?" she requested, ardently awaiting some kind of commentary in response to their progress.
"Oh, boy did we ever," John Grant chimed in, his countenance projecting a somewhat amused demeanor. "George got us our surprisingly short list of costume shops, and let me just say that every day around here might as well be Halloween. They mistook us for tourists posing as CIA, and one of the women thought we were getting into the spirit a little early. She then proceeded to ask me if I wanted to take her into protective custody because she'd been awfully-"
"It was an honest mistake, John," Bailey interrupted.
"The point is, nobody can remember this guy coming or going, let alone buying himself that mask. We even questioned a few of the local customers, and came up with absolutely nothing. So he either stole it, didn't buy it here in town, or he may have already had it long before he happily decided to resume his little killing spree. Personally, I'm going for the last one, because that's just the kind of thing you set aside for a rainy day, right? I mean, when you take a good, hard look at his history, Mr. Venetian really doesn't strike me as the partying type."
"The victim's daughter will be meeting us in Atlanta. I've already informed Detective Tyler, as we've currently got priority on this case. We'll go over the older files and determine if his more recent attack has any similarities we might have missed."
"So he's done this before?" a weak voice spoke up, a decent amount of trepidation overwhelming her tone.
"Bailey, this is JoAnn Parks," Sam prompted. "She's a friend of Officer Franklin's. She worked with Rosemary and might be able to give us a fairly accurate description of who we're looking for. But I'd like to have George run a comparison on the locations. If this guy is traveling in an east to west pattern, we might be able to pinpoint where he's headed. You said before about how he had no specific targets, and that may have been true. However, I think he chose this last victim in part because of her social economic standing. He may not have been so meticulous when he first started out, but I think he's trying to make it more interesting now. If anything, he's...he's failed to realize how well it could end up working to our advantage."
"Okay, so this piece of garbage graduates from serial killer school, and he's convinced he's no longer a novice," John concluded. "Why didn't he just go ahead and choose another victim to satisfy the curiosity? I mean if what Sam is saying about Rosemary is his reason for doing what he did, it's not like he wouldn’t have been able to have his pick elsewhere."
"His time away didn't do him any favors," Bailey joined in. "He's older now, but it doesn't necessarily mean he's wiser."
"He's really getting to you, isn't he?"
"He's just warming up. The last three murders had him jumping from Texas to Nevada, and up into North Dakota. His unpredictability is probably the one thing that remains consistent."
"So he's basically all over the Goddamn map. I guess that shoots the east to west theory straight to hell."
"He's expecting us to fail, John. But we have more to go on this time. We have something he doesn't have."
"Which is what, exactly?"
"Sam," he said simply.
"Oh, c'mon, Bailey, he has to know we're not exactly short on manpower these days. Twelve years is a long time, and if we're going by the amount of damage he's already done, I doubt he's sitting there stressing about whether or not we've finally got somebody smart enough to catch him. You heard what Sam told us back at the house- he's actually counting on it. He doesn't fear it, he welcomes it, and right now he's out there looking for victim number two. It's not doing us any favors waiting around here while he's on the prowl."
"It's different now, John."
"How?"
"If you have to ask that question, maybe you're not in a position-"
"Then help me to understand, because I still fail to see why a sketch is going to open our eyes if the guy doesn't have any priors," he instantly shot back. "I mean, sure, with a little bit of luck, I'm not going to argue that it might change. But the truth is, he's gone long enough without being detected, and continuing to play those cards right is not going to make any difference anytime soon."
"Maybe not. He was never short on patience, and we have it on good authority that he likes to-"
"Then we make him watch," John responded. "We broadcast what we have on him to the public, and we sell him his life story. It's what he wants, isn't it? He wants somebody to listen, to feed his damn ego, and I say we give it to him."
"He's expecting that," Sam incited. "I'm not disagreeing that what happened to Rosemary was a tragedy, but if we do something now, we don't stand a chance in reaching his second victim. So yes, it could very well be what he wants at this point, and the one thing we can’t do is give it to him. It's essentially giving him way too much credit for his absence, and it's still too early to contemplate him coming out of hiding."
"Look, as much as you want to believe that, he's clearly had a taste of it for years now. If we’re going to consider anything- it’s that we're probably already too late."