Bed Sheet Serial Killer

By Michael Segedy

Three murders within eighteen months. Three that they knew of. How many other women the Bedsheet Serial Killer had raped and murdered was anyone’s guess. This case was definitely beyond the reach of a single police department, and whether the local police force liked it or not, this was a case for the FBI, and Agent Rick Clark would need all of the resources the agency had available to solve it.

The story begins with Agent Rick Clark and his colleague, Marty Robin, a forensic psychologist, investigating the brutal murders of several women within the last three years. With Clark’s help, Marty struggles to discover the motive behind the Bed Sheet Serial Killer’s horrifying acts of murder and perversion. But at an immeasurable cost to both of them.

This is a powerful story about courage, commitment, and personal loss. But it is also a story about regenerative hope and how it can restore one to wholeness. From the ashes of a terrible tragedy, a fate battered phoenix arises and promises healing and justice for a torture souls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Segedy
• Release date: Aug 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310928154

Michael Segedy

Michael Segedy is an award winning author. Over the years he has lived abroad in faraway places such as Taiwan, Israel, Morocco, and Peru. His life overseas has inspired him to write thrillers that include scenes set in foreign lands. Several of his works have won recognition in international book awards contests. Novels to date: Hampton Road, young adult thriller In Deep, a political thriller Cupiditas, a political thriller Evil's Root, includes In Deep and Cupiditas EMMA: Emergent Movement of Militant Anarchists, a terrorist thriller Our Darker Angel, a political, psychological thriller The Bed Sheet Serial Killer, crime thriller A Lethal Partnership, political thriller Sanctimonious Serial Killers, includes The Bed Sheet Serial Killer and A Lethal Partnership Why Blame the Stars? young adult thriller mystery Into the Twilight, social science fiction Apart from writing novels, Michael has published three non-fiction works: A Critical Look at John Gardner's Grendel Teaching Literature and Writing in the Secondary Classroom Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson with Introduction, Notes, and Lessons by Michael Segedy He's also published numerous academic articles about literature and writing in various scholarly journals. Gwendolyn Brooks, former poet laureate of Illinois, presented him with Virginia English Bulletin's first place writing award.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: A TROUBLED VOICE

Joe Sorenson, the head of the FBI’s Criminal Investigation Division, had just notified Agent Clark that their serial killer had claimed another victim, this time farther away, in Pittsburgh. Sorenson wanted Rick on the next flight out of DC.

Rick and his colleague Marty Robin had planned to take in a concert at the Kennedy Center. For weeks Marty had been looking forward to hearing the National Symphony Orchestra. They’d planned a big night out, and Rick hated the idea of telling Marty that he’d need a raincheck. Well, Marty would understand. When duty called, personal matters played second fiddle.

Rick shot a glance at the clock on the office wall. He still had an hour before he had to leave for Reagan International. More than enough time to look through the file again on the Bed Sheet Serial Killer. First, he’d grab a coffee from the machine in the hall. Yesterday the damn machine was malfunctioning. Hopefully, the vending company had sent someone out to repair it. Having a coffee in the morning when he first arrived had become a habit he couldn’t easily kick, even if wanted to.

He was about to sit down at his desk and go through the file when the phone rang.

Hello.

Agent Clark, you have a call from a Miss Sisley. She says it’s urgent.

Thanks, Mrs. Brantley. Please, put her through.

It took a few seconds before he heard Chloe’s voice.

Hello, Rick. Ah…you busy?

He thought he detected a note of tension in her voice.

Not so busy that I don’t have a few minutes for you, my dear. Marty and I were just about to call you and ask you about your plans for this weekend? We’d like to invite you to dinner.

Thanks, Rick. I’d really like that.

There was definitely a tightness in her words.

You okay, Chloe?

Yeah, kind of. I need to, ah…sort a few things out. And I was hoping you might help me.

Sure, Chloe. What is it?

I think I screwed up. Something kind of happened. That shouldn’t have. And I don’t know what to do. I can’t really talk about it now. Not on the phone. And I need to talk about it. I need to talk about it real bad.

Look, Chloe, whatever it is, we’ll take care of it. You don’t need to worry yourself. You sure you can’t tell me a little about it now?

I’d rather not. Are you free tonight?

I’m scheduled to fly to Pittsburgh early this afternoon. Can it wait until Thursday when I get back?

Rick waited a few seconds. Her hesitation troubled him some. Whatever was bothering her, it had to be important. She wouldn’t call him at work about something simple.

Sure, it can wait. Please give me a call when you get home. I really need to talk about this thing that’s come up.

Are you sure it can wait.

Yeah, it can wait. Don’t worry.

I could postpone flying to Pittsburgh. What do you say we meet…

No, no. You go. It can wait.

Are you absolutely sure?

I’m sure. We’ll talk when you get back.

Okay, then. I’ll call you on Thursday.

As soon as she hung up, he eased down into his leather chair. He guessed that he could wait until he returned from Pittsburgh, but her call had unsettled him. It seemed the call of duty was always getting into the way of his personal life, and he was beginning to resent it.

He brusquely flipped open the folder and began paging through it until he found the Philadelphia police file on the first vic, Liz Foreson. She had been murdered eighteen months before. Cause of death was listed as asphyxiation, with hemorrhaging in the subcutaneous fatty tissue of the neck, larynx muscles, and lymph nodes. No signs of ligature marks. The strangulation had been performed with two hands, with the perp positioned in front of the victim. The size of the bruises on the neck suggested a male. The vic had been discovered in a bathtub half-full of water, wrapped in a white sheet. Placed there post-mortem. Naked except for the sheet.

In the case of Marg Clinton, the perp’s second victim, the perp had left behind a rather strange object. A loaf of bread. Plopped flat down onto of her lifeless body. She too had been immersed in a bathtub half-full of water. Rick continued to page through the report looking for anything else that might give his investigation a kick start.

The detective in charge of the case had observed that in both homicides lipstick was conspicuously missing from the vics’ purses. Conspicuously, because each vic had a heavy amount on at the time of death. Most likely, the perp had taken them as souvenirs. Serial killers often took trophies. Sometimes a photograph, a swatch of hair, a fingernail, a piece of jewelry, a piece of clothing, or even shoelaces. Yes, shoelaces. He remembered the case of a serial killer who always removed the victim’s shoelaces, and when he was arrested, the CSI team discovered twelve pairs of shoelaces in his closet. All neatly hung on coat hangers. The FBI only found seven of his victims. He never confessed to any other murders, which was not uncommon for a serial killer. Rarely did serial killers disclose information on the whereabouts of the victims or how many there were. The theory was that serial killers kept trophies so they could vicariously re-experience the killing. The downside was that reliving the murder only sufficed for a while. Before long, they craved the real thing.

With this latest case, Rick had talked over the phone with the investigating officer, Detective Blatt. In their brief conversation, Blatt had told him that a bottle of honey had been found near the vic’s body. Again, a very strange object for the perp to leave behind. Of course, serial killers were anything but normal.

Bread and honey, Rick reflected as he slid the papers back into the manila folder. A loaf of bread for Marg Clinton and a jar of honey for Amy Grant. What in the hell was he supposed to make out of that? He didn’t have a clue. The perp was definitely trying to tell them something. But what? Surely the objects had been left there for a reason. Were they meant to reveal something about the vics or about the perp?

Most likely, about the vics. Whatever the perp left behind, certainly didn’t imply that he wanted to be found out. There was this myth that most serial killers wanted to get caught. And so they planted evidence for this reason. Metaphorical breadcrumbs that led you right to them. Then there were perps who unwittingly or subconsciously left clues behind. Why? Because deep down inside the twisted folds of their warped brains they wanted to be caught and punished. His experience with serial killers told him this was by far more an exception than a rule. No, as he saw it, serial killers rarely wanted to be caught. In fact, they were exceptionally careful. Meticulously so. And that’s what made catching them incredibly difficult. If anything, what they left behind was not intended to lead you to them, but was supposed to show you how clever they were. Still, they sometimes made stupid mistakes. Yes, very stupid mistakes.

He thought of the John Drabber case. He hadn’t worked on it, but had read about it. Drabber had been linked to six homicides, all women in their late twenties or early thirties. All of the murders took place in the vics’ homes.

After the third homicide the chief investigator noticed that the vic’s toilet contained a trace of urine. He then suddenly remembered having seen urine in the toilet of the second vic. Although this struck him as possibly coincidental, he asked the CSI team to take a sample from the toilet and compare it to the vic’s urine. When they did, the urine didn’t match. Nearly a year later, the serial killer struck again. And like before, they discovered urine in the toilet of the vic. And like before, it also didn’t match the vic’s urine. So, the detective asked the forensics lab if the urine could be examined for DNA. The medical examiner explained that until lately, no. But a year before, a university study, using lab mice, revealed a 0.06% DNA excretion in the urine of its mice. The ME thought what the hell. Why not give it a try? So, he sent off the urine samples for DNA analysis. Not only did the lab find DNA in both urine samples, but the samples matched. The DNA evidence then led them to the perp, an ex-con with a record for sexual assault.

Now, did the perp intentionally plant the evidence? Or did he leave it subconsciously? Or was he just stupid? Well, the serial killer wasn’t about to tell. Maybe he had a bladder about the size of a gerbil and just couldn’t hold it. Even so, he could have flushed.

Clues were what he needed now. Intentional, subconscious, or accidental. He wasn’t choosey. As it stood, any clues would suffice. Maybe in Pittsburgh he’d get lucky. He sure needed more to go on than bread and honey, and right now that was about all he had. Well, not exactly. There was his signature mark. Apart from the missing lipstick, all of his vics had been wrapped in a white bed sheet. And all of them had been found in a bathtub half-full of water, after they’d been raped and strangled.

He was impatient to review the case one more time with Marty. Maybe together, they’d see something. Besides being his girlfriend, she was the CID’s chief forensic psychologist, and the woman he’d been crazy in love with for the last two years.

CHAPTER TWO: BED SHEETS AND BREAD AND HONEY

Not exactly the upscale side of town, Rick thought, as he glanced out the car window at the pre-Depression red-brick buildings in Pittsburgh’s East End.

Detective Peter Blatt steered the car to the curb and killed the ignition. He looked in the rearview mirror and ran his fingers through his thin gray hair, repositioning a few loose strands over the shiny bald spot at the crown of his head. Blatt was about retirement age, short and thickset, with a prominent potbelly. The corners of his mouth turned down, forming an inveterate frown.

On the way over to the crime site, Blatt had described the East End as ragged and rough, replete with crack dens, domestic and drug-related homicides, drive-by shootings, rape—mostly unreported—and prostitution, the world’s oldest profession and still thriving. For Rick, the lay of the land was familiar. Washington, DC had more than its share of crime-infested neighborhoods and desperate people choosing desperate means to either flee the cesspool or survive in it and stay afloat.

Well, we’ve arrived, Detective Blatt said, breathing in deeply and letting out a long sigh. Not exactly Xanadu.

No crime tape sealing off the area? Rick asked, a bit surprised.

Are you kidding? Here it would mean nothing. Or only attract the wrong kind of attention. Unless we posted a couple of officers here twenty-four-seven, none of the wonderful, law-abiding, resident riffraff would respect it. And, quite frankly, we don’t have the manpower. We did padlock the doors.

As they got out of Blatt’s unmarked police cruiser, a rusty, beat-up, low-riding Lincoln slowly passed by them with what looked like five people inside. A swarthy mustached Latino scowled at them out of the rear window.

Not a friendly bunch, Rick commented, as they strode up the front walk to the sagging porch.

About as friendly as gonorrhea, the detective shot back, taking a set of keys from his jacket pocket.

Do you know how long the vic lived here in Pittsburgh? Rick recalled that the serial killer’s other victims had lived close to DC.

For the last four years, according to her landlord.

Blatt slid the key in the lock, fumbled with it for a few seconds, and then pushed the door open. As they stepped inside, the two men adjusted their eyes to the late afternoon light casting a gray pall over the living room.

Here, let me get the lights, Blatt said, turning around and clicking on the switch next to the door.

Classy place, Blatt quipped. Kind of a model home for the neighborhood. Then glancing around, If ‘cleanliness is next to godliness,’ then our vic was a goddamn heathen.

Rick scanned the living room. The sofa, a heavy-looking piece of furniture with large side arms, had definitely seen its days. The center cushion was curved inward, evidence of a few broken sofa springs. A large flat-screen TV was parked right across from the sofa. Perched on the sofa’s threadbare arm was an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Amy Grant had no doubt been a heavy smoker. The entire apartment reeked of stale cigarette smoke. And something pungent.

Smells like cat piss. I take it the vic had a cat, Rick said, screwing up his face.

Yep, she’s at the shelter. The officers who found the body said the cat was curled up next to her. Next to her shoulder that is—most of her body was submerged in the tub. They said the cat was purring and rubbing its body against her head.

Who called in the murder?

Her neighbor. Apparently, they both hung out together. Probably shared food stamps. Both divorcees. The neighbor’s name is Alice Breski. According to her, they had planned to see a movie at the mall Sunday afternoon. When she arrived, the door was opened a crack. She said she called out, and when Amy Grant didn’t answer, she entered the premises and found her floating in the bathtub. Well, not exactly floating. She was a big woman. More like anchored.

Rick wasn’t sure how to respond to the old detective’s derisive comments. Bratt just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to come up with a flippant remark about the vic. Rick had seen the same attitude before in older policemen, especially those on the verge of retirement. Maybe for them, wisecracking had become a way of dealing with the depressing aspects of police work. How many corpses had Detective Blatt seen in his long career as a homicide investigator? Perhaps it wasn’t Blatt’s inappropriate remarks that bothered Rick. It was the fact that he found Blatt’s remarks darkly amusing, though he made it a point not to let Blatt know. He didn’t wish to contribute to Blatt’s wisecracking. It would only give him the wrong idea, egging him on.

Could you show me the bathroom where the body was found?

Sure, this way. The Taj here only has one.

Rick had to navigate around a pile of dirty clothes as the old detective directed him down a narrow dark hall.

Looks like she didn’t like dragging her fat ass to the launder mat, Blatt said. Either that or she was piling up clothes to have a rummage sale.

Near the end of the hall, Blatt motioned Rick to go into the bathroom while he stood outside. As Rick stepped onto the sticky linoleum floor, he noticed right off that the tub was still half-full of dirty bath water. There was also a dark ring traced above the waterline that had probably been there for years.

So, this is the spot, Rick said, standing over the tub.

Yep. Wrapped in a white sheet. Underneath the sheet, she was completely nude. Not a pleasant sight, to say the least. All that flab soaking up the water. Then over here, he pointed toward the toilet, resting on the toilet seat, was a jar of honey.

Yes, you mentioned that on the phone. A full jar of honey.

Yep, it appeared to be a new jar. Barely any honey missing. Apparently, the perp brought the honey with him. I think we can pretty much rule out that it was the vic’s. The CSI team found no evidence of honey anywhere in the house. And based on the vic’s house-cleaning habits—or lack thereof—they would have probably found traces of honey somewhere, if she’d been a consumer.

So, the jar of honey was right there on the toilet seat?

Yeah, right smack in the middle of the seat. The top screwed back on. We didn’t need to examine the body closely to see that the vic’s lips had been plastered with it. It was hard to miss. Her pale skin highlighted her honeyed lips. Made them glisten and look wet. It was easy to make the connection to the jar of honey. Of course, forensics later confirmed it.

Anything else? Rick asked.

Well, nothing that I haven’t already mentioned. Nothing out of the ordinary. The murder occurred in the bedroom. Half the bedcover had been pulled off the bed and we found one of her high heels between the bedroom and the bathroom. Apparently Sweetlips had been strangled first and then dragged into the bathroom. Strangled on her bed while the perp was poking her in her high heels, but she was nude otherwise. What a crazy scene. Getting her clothes off and dragging her to the bathroom must have been a major task. As you know, the vic was a big woman. I think the report stated she weighed 180 pounds. I’d have trouble dragging something like that around. She was definitely post-mortem dropped into the tub.

I read in the report, no ligature marks.

Nope. It was a hand job. No pun intended, Blatt chuckled. He strangled her while he raped her. The strangulation marks indicate he was on top of her when he strangled her. It must have been like riding a water buffalo. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave any trace evidence. No semen. No pubic hair trace. No blood under the nails. No fingerprints.

Blatt’s crass comment referring to the vic as a water buffalo, though inappropriate, was funny. The thought that he, like Blatt, could find humor in the reference, troubled him. Maybe he was closer to retiring than he’d thought.

"You know, Agent Clark. I don’t envy you. I prefer easier cases. Not this serial killer shit. I like cases that you can