The Camera Eye

By Michael Yowell

Brenda Weller, an award-winning TV anchorwoman, is following a series of gruesome murders in the city. While investigating, the killer begins to stalk and terrorize her. Eventually they meet face to face - and that is only the beginning of her nightmare...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Yowell
• Release date: Jun 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9780149057301

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

T hat’s it for tonight . Join us again tomorrow, and have a wonderful evening. The words were almost as cliché as the head-turn and smile that accompanied the end of each newscast. The background music continued its relentless chatter until the cameraman signaled they were off the air. Brenda Weller released a thankful sigh of relief. She wearily pushed her chair back and stood. Then she headed straight for her dressing room, anxious to get home.

Nice job, smiled the portly, balding station manager while Brenda walked toward him. He was pleased with her performance tonight, as he always was. She was the warmest, friendliest, and most professional news anchor the camera had seen in years, and he made an effort to show his appreciation often. He was a lucky man to have Brenda – an award-winning anchorwoman – on his team.

Thanks, Ed, she smiled back, although the response was absent any enthusiasm.

Are you okay? he asked, noting her sluggish tone.

Yeah, I’ll be okay. I’ve just got the worst headache right now, and that last broadcast really drained me.

Well get on home and relax, Brenda. Take a hot bath and listen to some soft music or something. You deserve it, especially after the great job you did on the park killings story. I’ll bet Channel 12 is kicking themselves in the ass for not getting there in time.

Business as usual, Ed, Brenda said with a polite but labored smile. She then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Funny, she thought. The top story tonight was something that she was fortunate enough to have fall into her lap. It was blind luck that they stumbled upon the park killings.

Today was one of the rare occasions when she took to the field with a film crew, something not many anchors chose to do. Her crew had gone out to shoot video of the latest protest at the capitol building that morning. But along the way, the van had to be pulled over near an access road to the park after one of its tires blew out. It was then that they happened to spot the two bodies down a hill through the cottonwood trees.

After calling the police, the crew quickly began filming footage for the night’s broadcast before the police could arrive to move the press away the scene. By the time any of the other stations sent film crews down, they were forced to set up much farther away from where Brenda had already shot. Nice how unexpected opportunities and little twists of fate can make substantial impressions on a career.

Brenda’s career in reporting was definitely a success story. She interned at the station’s media library while attending college for her journalism degree, and she hit it off with the employees that took her in. She was so warm and friendly that the crew quickly fell in love with her. The station manager noticed these qualities as well, eventually offering her a position at the station when she graduated. Her bright blue eyes widened and her beautiful young face became flushed as she accepted the position, sealing the deal by giving the station manager an embarrassingly strong hug.

The position offered was in the production department, but at least it got her on board and was steady pay. Brenda was able to secure an apartment and a car with her new income, although it was entry-level pay. Within a year she had been promoted to the film crew. She eagerly followed her co-workers out into the field, filming any half-interesting story that was assigned. She quickly made her way to the front of the camera, and the public feedback was sensational. The camera loved her. She looked very comfortable and natural when reporting back to the anchors via film.

In the years that followed, she eventually made anchor. Her salary was now very impressive, more than what she initially thought news anchors were paid. She was a city celebrity, recognized everywhere – on television, on the advertising billboards that decorated sections of the city, and in public. Her passion as a reporter, however, was still within her, and she still made voluntary trips out to the field with her old crew occasionally.

Today was such a day. And on this day, she and her crew just happened to stumble upon the most gruesome killings the city had ever seen. The most gruesome thing she could ever remember seeing, anyway.

Nothing that some tea and a hot bath can’t fix, she mumbled to herself in her dressing room. She looked into the mirror, offering a reassuring nod to her tired reflection. Then she pulled her jacket down from the coat rack, and left for the parking garage.

In the elevator, Brenda recalled the disturbing images of the crime scene.

There were two bodies tangled in the brush, young women who were probably on their way home from a late night on the town. The bodies were broken and butchered – it was extremely difficult for the crew to find an angle to shoot that would be suitable for public broadcast.

Bruises and lacerations covered what skin was visible through their shredded clothing. One victim was lying on her stomach with her head awkwardly twisted around, her face gawking upward at the morning sky. Both women had been stabbed viciously and repeatedly. Fist-sized holes had been savagely carved into the women’s torsos, which were now adorned with dried gore and blackened blood.

But the victims’ faces were the most haunting sight.

Sheer terror had been frozen into their open eyes, which had clouded over milky during the hours of postmortem. Brenda had seen death before, being a reporter for so many years, but never had the image been this horrific.

And the smell. That horrible, pungent smell. The combination of bodily gases and the stench of blood baking in the sun was sickening. Brenda had forced herself to breathe through her mouth while filming in order to keep from throwing up.

The elevator reached the parking garage, and the dull arrival tone snapped Brenda’s attention back to the present. Shaking the image from her mind, she tried to again think about a hot bath and a cup of tea.

The elevator doors slowly opened to reveal the darkened garage before her. She gazed around the garage while she strolled to her car, always trying to be aware of her surroundings. Especially late at night, when the parking garage was dark and empty. The silence of the night always seemed to be magnified by the concrete enclosure of the garage, reminding her of a tomb.

She quickened her pace.

Once she arrived at her parking space, she unlocked the door of her silver BMW 535i sedan and collapsed into the leather seat. Closing the door behind her, she instinctively locked it. Funny, she thought, I don’t usually lock the car door once I’m inside... I must just be a little spooked from today’s experience. Brenda shrugged, started the motor, and pulled out.

Just before her car made it out into the street, something caught her eye in the rear view mirror. In the brief moment that she gazed upward into the mirror, she thought she saw a figure standing between two pillars in the garage behind her. Must be Ed, she guessed, and did not give it a second thought. She pulled into the light traffic of the late evening, heading home.

Half an hour later, Brenda arrived at her suburban home. She lived in a discreet, upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of town. Her massive house quietly awaited her with the front porch light as its sole beacon. When she pulled into the driveway, she felt a small sense of relief that she had finally arrived home. She could now treat herself to a relaxing evening.

Once inside, she headed straight for the bathroom to draw her hot bubble bath. While the water was running, she retreated to the kitchen. She dropped a chamomile tea bag into a cup of water, then placed the cup in the microwave.

I need to get myself a man around here, she muttered to herself, suddenly longing for a backrub. It would have been nice to have somebody there to keep her company at night, especially after today’s gruesome experience. Brenda could easily get a man, especially with her beauty, fame, and social status, but she preferred not to have the extra complication in her life.

At least not yet.

She had her share of sexual relationships, none of them enduring for longer than a month at a time. She could never devote enough attention to any of her suitors. Her professional career consumed all her time and energy. Besides, she didn’t need a man. She had been able to adequately sustain herself for all these years. In fact, she was quite proud of her success. There would be time later to pursue a serious personal relationship.

When her cup of tea was ready, she returned to the bathroom to disrobe. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, pausing to study her features while the tub was still filling.

Her salon-tended blonde hair barely grazed her shoulders, a cut that had agreed with both her professional image and her personal appearance. She still looked good, although her age was beginning to show. At thirty-eight years old, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her age. She had been blessed with a thin, attractive face and seductively beautiful blue eyes, but time was starting to take its toll.

She worked out religiously, and her finely-toned shape was her reward. She slowly ran her hands down her body, turning to one side. For a brief moment she admired her profile while her fingertips brushed across her shapely, still-firm breasts and down to her hips. I’ve still got it, she whispered confidently to her reflection. Then she shifted her attention to the full bath.

She lit an aromatherapy candle, then slid into the tub. The soothing water and silky bubbles were just what she needed. Brenda closed her eyes, letting herself be absorbed by the comforting bathwater. Now she could reflect on the day in a relaxed fashion, and prepare her focus for tomorrow.

What a day, she thought. Everything was business as usual until she and her crew stumbled upon the two dead women at the bottom of that wooded embankment in the park. The details were still vivid in her mind. The horrified looks on their faces, the contorted layout of the broken bodies, the stench of death at the scene, and the...

The strange man who walked by them at the news van.

Brenda opened her eyes.

Why had she not thought about him before now? He had seemed very shady and insidious, and did not even stop to see what it was the news crew was filming. Why wasn’t he rubbernecking like the other passersby? Wouldn’t he want to know what was happening? Sure he would, unless...

Unless he already knew what was down there.

Oh my God, Brenda thought. That man she noticed could have had something to do with the grisly murders. Try to remember, she told herself. Try to remember anything you can about that man. If she could somehow provide information that would lead to the capture of this killer, she would be the reporter of the year.

But she could not recall anything particularly extraordinary about the man. He stood approximately six feet tall and had a medium build, as did half of the men in the city. He was a slender white man, probably in his early thirties, with cropped black hair. Unnaturally black, as though it had been dyed. His crew cut was a common look downtown, which would add to Brenda’s difficulty finding him again. The only thing that stood out to Brenda was the cold serenity in his face. But she would need to remember something more significant than that in order to locate him again.

Suddenly it struck her. She did remember something peculiar about the man. In the brief moment that she saw him walking by the van, she noticed that his right hand appeared mangled and without an index finger. Not something that would easily be noticed by others, but Brenda had a talent for spotting things at a glance.

Could he be the killer? she thought again. She had better not go public with her speculation until she obtained more facts from the police. The last thing she needed would be to ruin somebody’s reputation by falsely accusing him. That could cost her her career.

She would have to hound the police tomorrow. One of the detectives there was a very good friend of hers. She could wait until then to find out if there was any evidence that could link the man with the disfigured hand to the murders.

With that in mind, she again closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the temporary comfort of her bubble bath.

CHAPTER TWO

Lloyd Bannock convulsed , his muscles unwillingly reacting to his dream. The spasms finally woke him. His eyes darted around the darkened bedroom while he tried to ascertain his surroundings. It took a few moments for him to realize he was in his bed at his downtown condominium, momentarily safe.

Despite what he had just dreamt.

His sleep had been restless, his dream disturbing. He dreamed about the two massacred women found in the park today. Lloyd, a seasoned homicide detective, had not seen such a display of violence for almost a year. There was something so horrible about how these women died – how their killer had tormented and tortured them.

Sitting up, Lloyd again tried to visualize the crime. The women must have been taken by surprise; there were no signs of visible struggle at the scene, and no hair or skin samples were present under the victims’ fingernails. Whoever murdered these women had struck fast to immobilize them, and then mercilessly carved and hacked away at them. Death alone was not enough; this killer had to mutilate and destroy his victims. He had even broken one woman’s neck, probably after she had died from the knife wounds.

It was despicable. Only a true monster could be capable of something like this. Whoever did this had to be found immediately.

In all his years as a policeman, this was truly one of the worst crime scenes he had encountered. The only other time he had investigated a murder this brutal was the Bryant Street case a year ago.

The police had received the call late one night at the station. An anonymous caller reported a body in front of a downtown apartment complex on Bryant Street. A squad car was dispatched, and they verified the report. Lloyd was then informed. He gathered his partner and drove to the property.

What they found when they arrived was graphically disturbing. Lloyd had to fight the urge to vomit while he inspected the scene.

A young woman had been stripped naked and duct-taped to the base of a large elm tree. A bruise on her temple suggested that she had been struck unconscious, then manipulated. Some of the tape had been applied to her mouth to stifle the desperate screams for help once she awakened. While she was bound, the killer had carved her open. Then he had yanked out the woman’s intestines, pulled them out like a wet rope, and tied the mass together to further secure her bloody torso to the tree.

The police quickly took the pictures they needed, then bagged the body before the public or the press could show up to snap tasteless shots of the victim. This was definitely something Lloyd did not want on the air or circulating over the Internet.

As the body bag was being zipped up, the media arrived. Brenda Weller was the field reporter that evening, several weeks before she would be promoted to anchor. Lloyd spotted her right away, and walked over to meet her.

Well if it isn’t the lovely Miss Weller, Lloyd smiled. How’s your evening, darling?

Better than hers, I’d imagine, replied Brenda, nodding toward the coroner’s van. We got word that the body of a woman was found here just a little while ago. What can you tell me?

You know I can’t give you much right now, he stated, but it’s the body of a white female, mid-twenties, violent crime, and we’re going to finish our investigation of the scene before we let you guys get too close. Lloyd smiled. Good seeing you again, though. I’ll catch up with you in a little bit if you’re still here.

I’m sure I’ll be around for a bit.

Hopefully I’ll have a useful statement for you by then, he winked.

Then, while Brenda’s crew began setting up for the story, the detective returned to his partner’s side at the elm tree. As the police were wrapping up the scene, Lloyd took occasional glimpses of his friend Brenda.

Lloyd and Brenda had crossed paths several times, and had actually grown quite close. Their relationship was friendly, affectionate, yet strictly professional. Lloyd recognized the fact that she was a woman focused sternly on her career. So he was satisfied with the safe friendship they had.

Turning his head, he scanned the maple nightstand next to the bed. There was half a bottle of Maker’s Mark, an empty glass from his whiskey nightcap, and his tiny radio alarm clock. The clock read just after midnight. Lloyd sighed, sinking his head back into his pillow, and closed his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, he was finally asleep again.

He dreamed he was back at the crime scene in the park. The two murdered women were still lying in the grass. Lloyd glanced about his