Twisted Innocence

By Joanne Wickenburg

Three teenage girls have been found dead, their bodies disposed of in trash cans behind well-kept homes in the northern section of Seattle. The only clues Detective A.J. Pearson and his partner Michelle, AKA Mike Brockman, have are the confusing handwritten notes containing the names of country-western songs that have been left hidden on the bodies of the young victims. It seems the detectives have exhausted every possible lead and still have nothing to show for their efforts--no solid evidence to help them find the killer.

After Mike visits an astrologer at the recommendation of a friend, she tries to convince her partner to approach the woman and ask for her help.There is no way that A.J. is going to agree to work with a “fortuneteller,” who he thinks is nothing more than a con-artist out to prey on the mentally gullible. Finally, to get Mike to stop harping, he reluctantly agrees to meet with Rachel, the woman who will eventually change his way of viewing not only astrology, but his life. After Rachel researches the horoscopes of forty-three serial killers, they are all amazed at what she finds.
Be prepared to take a journey into the twisted mind of a disorganized serial killer, to participate in A.J.’s conversion process as he learns that astrology is more than pure ‘parlor entertainment,’ and to laugh at the ‘police humor’ that Mike and other officers use to offset the depression that goes along with the job.

The research the astrologer does on forty-three horoscopes of serial killers is based on the actual statistical research done by the author.

Twisted Innocence is the first of a series that professional astrologer and author, Joanne Wickenburg, intends to write, using the same three protagonists and, of course, she will be incorporating astrology into all of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joanne Wickenburg
• Release date: Nov 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310633171

Joanne Wickenburg

Joanne Wickenburg http://www.joannewickenburg.com Joanne Wickenburg was one of the first authors to develop the psychological dimension of astrology in straightforward language. A practicing astrologer for over 40 years, she has conducted classes and workshops throughout the USA and Canada, and has also designed and still offers an internationally recognized Home Study Course in astrology. She has just published her 1st novel, Twisted Innocence, which is available as an ebook. Astrology Books by Joanne “A Journey through the Birth Chart” “In Search of a Fulfilling Career” “Your Hidden Powers - Intercepted Signs & Retrograde Planets” Co-author of: “The Spiral of Life”- now available www.joannewickenburg.com as an e-book “The Digested Astrologer” available on the above site as an e-book “When Your Sun Returns” – currently out of print Special Achievement Awards Regulus Award in Education - 2002. "The Education Award recognizes the work of teaching through the published and spoken word, or the founding of schools and study programs. The recipient's work inspires and guides others to master astrology, and thereby encourages future generations of astrologers." Dr. Marc Edmond Jones Award -2000. "The Marc Edmund Jones Award is one of the most prestigious awards in astrology. Named after Marc Edmund Jones, who created this award to honor innovative excellence of benefit to all astrologers." Dr. F. Sims Pound Award- 1996. The best speaker at the American Federation of Astrologers Conference 1996

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Everything was in a state of chaos and disruption at the precinct. Sergeant Alexander Jacob Pearson, better known as A.J., and his partner Michelle Brockman, AKA, Mike, were investigating a grueling homicide, and almost everything they needed to help them work on the case was unavailable.

The C&C call, cop and coroner, had come in at six forty-five on a dreary March Seattle evening. It had rained most of the day, but even though the sky had cleared there was still a chilly dampness in the air that went all the way to the bone.

A sixteen year old girl had been found dead. A.J. and Mike had come to the conclusion that the person who had done it either had a real grudge against the girl or they had just witnessed the birth of a new serial murderer. The investigation, to date, gave them no reason to suspect family, friends or close acquaintances of the girl. Both A.J. and his partner had a bad feeling about this one. The detectives knew that murders with this type of M.O. too frequently came in groups.

They had identified the girl as Tammy Jenkins. She had been an attractive, smart and friendly high school sophomore. No problems, no jealous boyfriend. In fact, she hadn’t even started to date. She came from a stable, middle class family. No clue as to who'd want to kill her.

She had been reported missing forty-eight hours before they found her small body stuffed into a garbage can in the alley of a semi-affluent residential district in the northern quadrant of Seattle. A dog had knocked over the trash can. Mrs. Wendell, the homeowner, was in the kitchen washing dishes when she heard the racket. She ran out her back door to shoo the pest away.

The garbage had been collected two days before, and no one had used the can since. Mrs. Wendell expected it to be empty. Her only concern was in up-righting the fallen can to prevent a neighborhood car from hitting it. What she had found would change her life forever. She would probably never again be able to take out the trash. She would probably see the young girl’s body every time she closed her eyes. Images of violence would invade her nighttime dreams.

When Pearson and Brockman arrived on the scene the area had already been cordoned off. Two uniformed officers had been the first to respond to the call, but within minutes the alley was filled with police and curious bystanders. The homicide detectives immediately took over.

Sergeant Pearson ordered two of his men to canvas the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen anything unusual, heard any strange noises or noticed any unfamiliar vehicles in the area. Nothing. The family living in the home where the girl's body had been dropped hadn't gone out back since they'd taken out the trash the night before last. The body could have been dumped any time during the last forty-eight hours.

Detectives Pearson and Brockman began searching the surrounding area, taking notes of anything that could be used as evidence to help identify the killer. Crime scene investigators shared their findings as they began the process of marking and collecting hair, fibers, cigarette butts, and other substances that most people would never notice lying in the surrounding area. Everything would be numbered and eventually bagged. Before any evidence had been moved, the police photographer had taken as many pictures as possible of the surrounding area, taking care not to disturb anything that might be critical to the investigation.

When the medical examiner, Stan Rigley, arrived, he brushed the photographer aside to move in and take a closer look. Without touching the body, Rigley could see the girl had been raped. He suspected that she had been killed at another site, transported and dumped. Very little blood was present other than what was caked in the young girl’s hair and around the mouth, as well as minute flakes on the inner part of the trash container. Blunt-force wounds to the head often didn’t cause much external bleeding.

Once Rigley got the body to the morgue he would look for evidence of all injuries inflicted either before or after death. He would check the blood type and look for evidence of alcohol or drug abuse. He would look for hairs that didn't match the ones belonging on her body. He would also look for fibers, needle-pricks, anything that might leave some clue to what had happened to the girl. Of course he'd determine the actual cause of death. It was possible that some of the injuries to the body had been inflicted post-mortem. He'd know the answers soon enough.

The medical examiner immediately put bags over the victim's hands to prevent contamination of evidence. Later, when he had her at the morgue, he would check under her fingernails for any sign of a struggle. If she had managed to scratch her assailant, she could have unknowingly identified him by getting a piece of his DNA.

When he got down on his knees to view the body more closely, he noticed that one hand was grasping a small piece of paper. It looked as if it had been shoved into her clenched fist after death. Using tweezers, he pulled the paper out. In bold printing, letters all in caps and slanting dramatically to the left, the note simply said: I Fall to Pieces. He showed the paper to Sergeant Pearson before carefully depositing it in a paper bag.

Is this some kind of a sick joke? the sergeant asked, not really expecting an answer. Rigley just shook his head.

Almost an hour had passed between the time A.J. and Mike arrived at the scene and when they next spoke to each other. Mike finally broke the silence.

God, she said, who would do something like this? What kind of a maniac would do this to an innocent kid? It wasn't a pretty sight. The girl's body had been dumped into the can head first, causing ghastly facial distortions. Blood had drained to her face causing a creepy, bloated look.

They did what they could before returning to the precinct. A.J. checked with Missing Persons and within minutes was able to tentatively identify the girl. A picture of a young, attractive sixteen-year-old child had been submitted by her family when they reported her missing two days before. Her name and physical description had been dispatched over all of Seattle's police frequencies, although Missing Persons had not yet taken any aggressive steps to find her. She'd been listed as a possible runaway, even though the family had adamantly argued that she had no reason to run away from home. She was a happy girl, they insisted. She was content and did well in school. She loved her family and they adored her. Detectives had taken her picture and told the family that they would keep their eyes open. In the meantime, they advised the parents, please let us know if she comes home, and until then keep calling her friends. Someone may know where she's gone.

Murders involving kids were always hard to deal with. What little remained of A.J. and Mike's emotional strength was totally spent by the time they finished talking to the girl's parents. Of course her family had been devastated. At the father’s request, A.J. drove him to the morgue to officially identify the body, but the girl's face was almost unrecognizable. The medical examiner would have to check dental records to confirm the identity.

A.J. had interrogated the father at great length, however there were no indications that he had anything to do with the death of his daughter. His distress was so intense and sincere that A.J. didn’t keep him away from his family any longer than necessary. He felt confident that the family was completely innocent of any wrongdoing.

It was nearly midnight by the time he and Mike called it a day. Howya doing? You okay? he asked his partner.

Not really, Mike answered. Who could be okay after having witnessed what we've just seen. It's like your worst nightmare come true. That poor family. Someone just killed that little girl and threw her away like she was trash. She paused, momentarily lost in grief.

I guess this one has hit me harder than most, she finally said. She was so young and innocent. Everything her family and friends told us indicates that she was a really good girl. I'm exhausted, A.J., but I can't even think of going home. I'm wound too tight; my head's too full; my soul's too empty.

Let's get some decaf coffee, or you could have hot chocolate. Maybe it will help a little. A.J. was worried about Mike and, truth be known, he wasn't ready to go home either.

Mike agreed. What do you think about driving to Edmonds, getting some mocha to-go, and sitting on the beach for awhile? she asked. I know it's a blustery night, but we have some blankets in the trunk. Just hearing the sound of the water ...

I should have thought of it myself, A.J. replied. Underneath all of his gruffness, A.J. was a good guy. He cared, not only about her, but about all of the victims for whom he fought to find justice. He held out his hand. She took it.

*****

The next twenty-four hours seemed totally non-productive. Everywhere they looked turned up a blank. To make matters worse, the precinct had been installing new software on the computers, and one glitch after another caused the computers to be down off and on for over a week. Some of the reports submitted on cases earlier in the week hadn't been properly backed up on the system. They would have to review their notes and re-enter them into the computer once the technicians found and fixed all of the problems. Some of the interviews with witnesses would need to be repeated as well. So much for progress had become the new mantra in homicide.

On top of that, several detectives were out with a wicked flu that had reached near-epidemic stages in the greater Seattle area. Just that morning, on the way back from an interview, A.J. and Mike's car had broken down. Of course it had to break down on one of Seattle's rainy days. Murphy's Law had been working as much overtime as they had. A day hadn't passed in the last two weeks when something hadn't gone wrong. And now this.

Seattle was a major metropolitan city so they frequently dealt with tragedy and death, but somehow this case was different. Not only had Tammy Jenkins been a young, innocent teenage girl, but the brutal way her body had been treated made a statement that no one wanted to hear. Killings of this nature could only be committed by the workings of a demented, twisted individual. A.J. had a sinking feeling that the killer would strike again. The anticipation of what could be on the horizon left the vibes at the precinct more uncomfortable than they had been in a long time.

Even Detective Brockman, called Mike by her friends and coworkers, was getting irritable. She was generally relied upon to keep spirits at the precinct high. Her despondency over the Tammy incident, combined with the Murphy’s Law development, left the other detectives with no one to turn to for help in digging out of the dense fog of frustration that had invaded the precinct.

*****

She'd been called Mike for as long as she could remember. An older brother had dubbed her such when she was just a toddler and the name had stuck. Her mother had been appalled. Of course just about everything about Mike appalled her mom. She'd wanted a daughter to pamper and dress up in frilly clothes. Instead she got a headstrong tomboy with an unmatched competitive streak, and an intellect and vocabulary as acute as appendicitis. Mike had made it clear to her mother at a very young age that lace and frills were simply not going to happen, and she did not want to be called Michelle.

Even though she was a tomboy, she was by no means masculine in appearance. She could only be described as cute, not beautiful, and certainly not sophisticated. Her naturally curly light brown hair fell slightly short of her shoulders. She had a petite, yet feminine figure that was usually attired in jeans and a sweatshirt. At thirty-two, she still sometimes got carded when she ordered a drink.

Long dark lashes framed unusually light brown eyes that were flecked with glittering gold. The color was so unique that many people thought she wore tinted contacts, but her vision was exceptionally keen. A friend once told her that her eyes were deserving of a great artist's appreciation; their remarkable color deserved display. Mike only laughed, claiming she wished they were blue.

At work, Mike was an enthusiastic team player and had an uncanny way of getting just about anyone to smile. She also had an innate ability to get people to open up and talk. She was a gifted manipulator, and she was too cute to truly intimidate anyone, even though she had a black belt in karate. She used it all to her advantage.

A.J., on the other hand, had a knack for irritating and often terrifying those he interrogated, regardless of whether they were suspects, victims or witnesses. He was one hundred percent cop, obsessed by his work. Any show of emotion was unacceptable.

At 6’ 2," and weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds, not many people tried to mess with the barrel-chested cop. His dark brown hair was almost black, except for a few steel-gray strands that stood out in contrast. His rugged, leathery-lined face seldom cracked a smile when he was working on a case. Because his dry sense of humor was often misunderstood, several of his fellow detectives harbored some dread when forced to confront him. But not his partner, Mike.

She loved to tease him about his severity. She saw through his macho facade. Admit it, Shithead, she once told him, you're nothing more than an overstuffed teddy bear. Your problem is that they stuffed you with something unmentionable. Look at you! Your eyes used to be blue! She had laughed hysterically at her joke, and he’d simply grumbled.

They lived to harass each other, but underneath it all both of them knew they would risk their own life for the other. Whenever things got intense on a case they merged in perfect harmony. To witness them working together was like watching two dancers performing a perfectly choreographed ballet. They had some uncanny link that had paid off on more than one occasion.

The police force had taken priority over A.J.'s marriage, and his wife had taken their daughter and walked out eight years before. He'd gone through the expected binge with booze for about two years after his wife split. When he finally pulled himself together, he wrapped himself up even more tightly in his job. There had been no significant relationship since, although there had been several women.

At forty-four, A.J. had been a cop for over seventeen years. He was a vet. Mike had just celebrated her tenth anniversary on the force. Both had worked their way up from traffic cops to their current status as homicide detectives. Neither of them knew it yet, but they were about to embark on one of the most bizarre cases they had ever investigated.

CHAPTER TWO

By late Friday afternoon, the coroner's preliminary report was in. A.J. stayed at the precinct all night organizing the various officers' reports in preparation for presenting the case at the group meeting scheduled for eight o'clock the next morning. There would be no weekends off until the killer was found, and it was imperative that everyone be kept abreast of all aspects of the case. It was possible that all of them would be called in to assist at some point.

He was a perfectionist, obsessed with his work. Seldom did he stop working long enough to acknowledge that he had no life outside the SPD. Mike frequently accused him of being in constant denial. It wasn't unusual for A.J. to work around the clock, even though it was against the department's policy. Whenever the lieutenant or captain insisted he go home, he simply made copies of everything and took it with him.

While he was always concerned that nothing of importance was overlooked in any investigation, this case drove him even harder. Kid cases were always bad. By reviewing the records over and over again, he hoped to get a sense of the perpetrator. He wanted to get a feel of this guy. He wanted to get in his head, to know what motivated him, what drove him to commit such an atrocity. Of course, the person responsible for the killing could be a female, but it was highly doubtful. Until they knew more, however, all possibilities needed to be left on the table for consideration and investigation.

He sat at his desk, sometimes reading, sometimes lost in thought. The more he reviewed the information accumulated to date, the more he felt certain that the killer was not a jealous student or anyone who was closely connected to the girl. Fear began to gnaw at his gut—he felt sure that the man would kill again, and his intuition was seldom wrong.

Maybe, if they were lucky, the suspect was a drifter just passing through town. Maybe he would move on before he made his next kill. Maybe. There were no leads, no thread of evidence to help him weave a web to trap the guy, no clear-cut point at which to begin the search. All they could do was keep asking questions, keep looking for anything that might give them a clue.

At four A.M. he got up from his desk to get another cup of coffee. It was bitter but it was hot, and somehow the acidity of the thick, black brew was comforting, simply because he could always count on it being bad. He liked things to be constant. Familiarity kept him grounded—the constant hum of activity at the precinct, the steady rumbling of traffic outside the building. Even the abrasive sounds of drunks and addicts screaming for their lawyers or their constitutional rights were somehow comforting to A.J.'s ears.

He'd never done well at social events. He’d never learned how to lighten up. Whenever his ex-wife had insisted that he accompany her to a party or the theater, he felt like a booger on a pretty lace hanky. He was a cop. The precinct was where he belonged. He smiled as he gulped down the wretched coffee, thinking about his partner, Mike. She'd be coming through the door in a few hours. Once she finished lecturing him about staying up all night, maybe they would walk across the street and get a latte at Starbucks. They didn't do it often; usually they drank the stuff at the office or stopped at Denny's, where officers of the SPD were given free coffee to fuel up for their days. But this morning some latte with vanilla sounded good.

Seattle had long been called the espresso capital of the world. Small espresso stands could be found on almost every corner. Latte with vanilla or almond extract, mocha topped with whipped cream, cappuccino with steamed milk were just a few of the vast assortments of java. Even most 7-Eleven’s offered espresso to-go.

He was starting to feel the affects of doing an all-nighter, so he put his head down on his desk, just needing a few minutes to rest his burning eyes.

*****

He awoke to someone shaking his shoulders. God, Shithead, you need a mother, Mike said as he struggled to open his bloodshot eyes. You look like hell. Go splash some cold water on your face and comb your hair. It's seven-thirty in the morning and we have a meeting in exactly thirty minutes. I just talked to the captain in the parking lot, and he’s on his way to the office. If he knows you've been here all night, you're history.

His mouth tasted like baby poop, and his back hurt from sleeping slumped over his desk. Musta fallen asleep, he mumbled.

Coulda fooled me, she responded sarcastically. By the way, you were drooling.

Was not, he said as he put his hands behind his head and stretched, trying unsuccessfully to crack his neck.

Were too, Mike insisted.

He looked down and saw the dampness on the blotter on his desk. Musta spilled my coffee.

Drool, Mike argued with a devilish grin on her face.

He looked again. Guilty as charged, he finally admitted with a grimace. Mike just shook her head.

Do me a favor and run across the street while I get cleaned up, and get me a double latte with vanilla, will you?

Pearson, she said, shaking her head, you are pa-the-tic. You’ve probably already had enough coffee to last all day, but I'll go get it. Don’t ask my why.

Because you love me.

Is that it? she laughed. You owe me one, Pearson.

Story of my life, he said as he stretched his aching back again, tried unsuccessfully to touch his toes, groaned, and started walking toward the restroom door.

*****

First, A.J. told the group, "I should say that I believe this case has all of the signs of a repeater. For this reason, we need to move fast. There will be no free weekends until this situation is resolved. Everyone is on call. I'm going to go through this step by step in case any of you know of some detail that has been left out of the reports. If that’s the case, speak up. Here's what we have so far.

"The nude body of Tammy Jenkins, age sixteen, was found at six forty-five Wednesday evening outside the Wendell residence, located just south of the Shoreline district. No idea what happened to her clothes. Her family says she was last seen leaving their house Monday afternoon. She came home from school, changed her clothes, and told her sister that she was going to a friend's house. Tammy was wearing a dark blue sweater with red stripes. Her sister said that Tammy bought the sweater at The Bon in the Northgate Mall three weeks ago.

I received a call from the sister late yesterday afternoon. She went to the mall to see if they had more sweaters like the one Tammy had recently purchased. They did. She copied down the name of the manufacturer, which was One-Step-Up. A.J. looked up from his notes to interject a personal thought. The poor kid is only thirteen. She idolized her sister. I think it was important to her to feel as if she could give us something that might help us find the killer. Who knows, it might be useful if we find a sweater that matches the description.

A.J. continued with his report. "When last seen, Tammy was also wearing blue Levi's. According to the sister they were size five, in petites. She had on white socks and white Nike tennis shoes with a blue stripe on the side. No jewelry as far as anyone in the family knew.

"We have no idea what happened to the victim's clothes. The M.E. says she was dumped after being killed somewhere else. There was no indication at the site indicating that a struggle had occurred.

"Rigley says that the instrument used to kill her was a large, blunt object, possibly a rock, which caused some brain trauma. There were indications that she regained consciousness for a period of time after the first blow. He believes that two more blows occurred sometime later. Either one of those would have killed her instantly.

"A crudely printed note was found shoved into the victim's left hand. Rigley says it was placed there after death. Appears to be standard paper and standard ink; not anything we'll likely be able to trace. The note said: I Fall to Pieces. One of the young detectives raised his hand. That’s the name of an old country-western song."

Yeah, A.J. acknowledged. The suspect could be a fan. Make a note of it.

A.J. referred back to his notes and continued with his report. "The homeowners at the location where the body was dumped claim that their garbage was collected early on Monday morning. Detective Brockman called Waste Management, and they confirmed that their truck was in that area at about seven-thirty in the morning. No one living in the Wendell household had a reason to use the garbage can after the last pickup.

Mrs. Wendell claims that she didn't touch the trash can or anything around it, nor did she see anyone in the alley. We dusted the can for prints and got a few good ones, but unfortunately most of them belong to family members. We did find some other prints, but nothing showed up in the system when we ran them. Rigley found some hairs and a few cigarette butts, but nothing more than what one would expect to find in an alley around garbage cans. Still, everything was bagged and sent to be analyzed in case any of it can help us when we get a suspect. Blood on the victim was typed, along with what little blood was found at the scene—which was determined to be the victim’s. There were no traces of drugs or alcohol in the bloodstream.

"Rigley says the girl had been dead for at least twenty-four hours when she was found. From the condition of the body, he believes she hadn’t been in the can for very long. For this reason, we figure she was dumped the same day Mrs. Wendell found her—probably when the neighbors were at work and the kids were in school.

"Rigley also found fibers in the victim’s mouth, suggesting that she had been gagged. It looks like he used a standard white washcloth and taped it across her face. Also, there were rope marks on her wrists and ankles. The degree of abrasion indicates moderate struggle took place. He checked under the nails in case she scratched the guy, and in doing so got a piece of his DNA that we could use to identify him, but unfortunately nothing was found.

"He found a few foreign pubic hairs entangled with the victim's. Because of the hairs, and the nature of the vaginal wounds, he’s convinced that she was raped by the perp. Unfortunately, no semen was found in the vagina or anywhere else on the victim's body. Either he used a condom or he couldn't finish the job. Rigley sent samples of the pubic hair to the lab for further testing, but he says we're looking for a white guy. He also says she was raped post-mortem.

"Detectives Jeffries and Madison pillaged through every trash can in the surrounding neighborhoods in case our man ditched the clothing or a weapon nearby, but they found nothing suspicious. They partnered with Mike and me to interview people in the direct neighborhood who were home at the time we believe she was dumped. Nothing. No one saw or heard anything; no suspicious characters had been seen in the area. I've assigned them to continue helping us interview the girl's friends. We'll be going to her school to talk more to the students and teachers.

"So far we've talked to her family and several of her closest friends. Tammy Jenkins was a good kid, popular but not so popular as to cause excessive jealously, pretty but not too pretty, good sense of humor, always polite and accommodating, no known boyfriend. No one knows of any recent disagreements she's had with anyone. No one knows of anyone who held any resentment toward her.

"Tammy Jenkins came from a good family. She lived in Laurelhurst, just south of where she was dumped. Her father's a dentist. The mother doesn't work, but she volunteers regularly at the Children's Orthopedic Hospital, which is near their home. We ran a check on the parents and got nothing. At this point, there's no reason to believe that anyone in the family had anything to do with the killing.

"I know that you all realize the immediacy of this situation. It’s very possible that we're dealing with a repeater. I shouldn’t need to point out here that this has all of the markings of a stranger killing, but don’t leave out the possibility that it was done by someone she knew. Maybe someone had issues with her that we don’t know about yet. Maybe someone had a grudge against the girl.

Be thorough in your investigation, but don't waste any time. He paused for a moment and made eye contact with each of the detectives. Okay, he finally concluded. We have a big job ahead of us. As you know, there are over seven hundred registered sex offenders in the city limits of Seattle. They all need to be questioned, starting with the ones who live nearest to the dump site. If anyone looks suspicious, if you get any leads, or if you come up with any ideas, let me or Mike know immediately. We'll be available around the clock. Anyone have any questions?

No one responded.

Then let's get to work.

The group rose to their feet and, in an unusual quiet, left the room. Mike and A.J. went back to their desks to make some calls.

CHAPTER THREE

It was Sunday morning. What now? Mike asked, as she walked into the office to start another day. Just because it was the ‘day of rest,’ didn’t mean they were going to.

I talked to the Jenkins family again last night, A.J. answered. They've scheduled a memorial service for Tammy tomorrow. I told them that I'd be there on the outside chance our man shows up.

You think he knows the family? Mike asked.

It's doubtful, but we have to cover every possibility. In most cases these characters detach from their victims once they've appeased their appetites. If he shows up, it won't be out of guilt, but out of morbid curiosity, or a desire to gloat over the power he has to destroy a life. On the other hand, if it’s someone who knew her, he or she might show up to feign sadness or sympathy.

Maybe I'll go, too, Mike offered. "We could sit in different areas. If this person is a sociopath, it’s possible that he'll maintain an active interest in the