“Good.”
Almost reverently, the man withdrew the remaining contents of his bag. He held up each in turn, rotating it in his gloved hands before Julie’s eyes. They were ordinary objects, household objects: a small scissors, clothesline rope, a length of pipe, a tape recorder, camera, and a short-bladed kitchen knife. Yet as the bag surrendered its items, Julie came to know the horror that was to be hers. Sensing that her terror gave the man pleasure, she tried not to show it… and failed.
After he had emptied his bag, the man picked up the rope, then the pipe and scissors. Humming softly, he turned toward Wes. Helpless, Julie watched as the man dragged her husband to the bathroom door. There he forced Wes to a kneeling position, passed a loop of rope under his arms, and fastened him to the knob. A second rope went around Wes’s throat, the pipe through the coils. Terrible minutes passed. Sobbing, Julie witnessed her husband’s hideous mutilation, able to do nothing.
Satisfied with the results of his surgery, the man returned to the bed and removed his clothes. Never taking his eyes from Julie, he turned on the tape recorder and set it beside the candle on the night table. Next he climbed onto the bed. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and fetid as he told her what he had done in the children’s rooms.
And then he began.
It started slowly. At first gentle, almost tender, the bites gradually grew in force and urgency, burning across her torso with stinging insistence, no place inviolate. Unable to scream, Julie whimpered and writhed as their ferocity increased, dumfounded by the excruciating sensation of being chewed and bitten and savaged, of feeling human teeth tearing into her flesh. And then came the knife.
For what seemed forever, Julie Welsh drifted through a nightmare of degradation and torture, a netherworld in which the concept of time lost all significance. Instead, she existed from moment to moment, experiencing an eternity of anguish in the passing of a heartbeat. Often she believed she could endure no more, only to experience some renewed misery at the hands and teeth and blade of the man who had come in the night. Occasionally she lost consciousness, suspended in a haze of oblivion where her suffering seemed blissfully distant. Cruelly he brought her back, again and again, returning her to the unfathomable horror of her torment. And as always, when she returned, she saw his malignant, bottle cap eyes floating above her, watching…
Rain beat against the bedroom window, continuing long into the night. The droplets drummed against the glass, streaking like tears across the panes, trickling down in twisted rivulets. From time to time, when the man paused to prepare some new diversion, Julie gazed into the darkness beyond. In a distant part of her mind she wondered when it would be over. She prayed it would end soon.
It did not.
Hours later death came to Julie Welsh, arriving on wings of agony and despair. As her ordeal drew to a close at last, her final thoughts were of her children.
25
A girlfriend of Julie’s discovered the bodies the following morning. Upon arriving at the Welsh house, Newport Beach detectives quickly recognized the murder pattern as consistent with the ongoing Candlelight Killer investigation. Accordingly, they sealed the premises and contacted the task force. Upon receiving their call, Lieutenant Huff dispatched two investigative teams to the scene-Barrello and Fuentes from Orange County, Deluca and me from LA-reasoning that each team had worked a prior occurrence and thereby stood a chance of noticing something others might miss. To my surprise, Snead didn’t object.
Later, the task force met for the second time that day. The two Newport Beach homicide investigators who had first arrived at the Welsh house, having subsequently been detailed to our unit, stood at the back of the crowded room. With their addition, the task force now numbered fifteen.
Lieutenant Huff arrived late. He entered accompanied by Dr. Sidney Berns, the forensic psychiatrist who had attended our first meeting. The room quieted, the mood bleak. Lieutenant Snead stepped to the front. “Who wants to lead off? Barrello?”
Yes, sir,” said Barrello, shuffling through his notes. “Preliminary results indicate that the victims died last night between the hours of twelve midnight and four AM. The children were smothered with plastic bags. Liver temps indicate they were murdered about two hours before the parents. The husband was strangled with clothesline rope and a length of pipe. The woman died of multiple stab wounds.”
“Same guy,” said Huff.
“Yes, sir. No doubt about it-candles, plastic ties, cut eyelids, the murder knife taken from the kitchen.”
“We’re still holding back several of those descriptors,” interjected Snead. “There’s no chance of a copycat?”
“No sir. No chance.”
“What about the woman? Bites? Multiple knife wounds?”
“The official eight-by-tens aren’t available yet, but Kane took some shots. It’s worse this time.”
“Kane? You have those pictures?”
I handed a deck of photos to the man on my left, who passed them down the line one by one. As the photographs circled the room, even the most hardened detectives fell silent.
Finally someone spoke. “What kind of animal would do this?”
No one ventured an answer.
“Let’s keep moving,” suggested Huff. “Kane, anything to add?”
“It’s definitely the same guy,” I said. “There are differences, though. This time he came over a side gate and turned off the electrical power at the meter outside. We found shoe scuffs on the gate and got footprint casts in the dirt by the patio. Mud on the carpet indicates that he entered the house through a patio door off the family room. No sign of a break-in.”
“What, no tampering with the garage lights?” Snead said sarcastically.
“No, sir,” I admitted, adding, “One of the family cars did have a recent scrape.”
“In that case, is there any indication that the Welshes visited a repair shop? An estimate, insurance papers, anything?”
“Nothing yet.”
“So the Welshes’ vehicle has a scraped fender, like a million others in the city,” Snead pointed out with exaggerated patience. “Look, Kane. The killer jumped a side gate and entered the Welshes’ home through an unlocked door, not the garage. He turned off the power at the meter, requiring no prior reconnaissance. And there’s no indication he visited the scene on any other occasion. It’s time we forget your garage reconnaissance theory and concentrate on the facts.”
I bristled. Earlier that day, following the discovery of the Newport Beach murders, Alonzo Domingos had been released from custody. As a result, I knew that Snead had spent a good portion of the afternoon getting chewed out in the chief’s tenth-floor office. “I know what’s crawling up your skirt here, Lieutenant,” I shot back. “It wasn’t my idea to pop Domingos. I was the one who wanted to put him under surveillance, remember?”
“If it hadn’t been for your initiating that line of investigation in the first place, we would never have-”
“Finger pointing won’t accomplish anything,” Huff interrupted. “We all look bad on this, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Barrello, finish your report.”
Barrello referred again to his notes, then shook his head. “That’s mostly it,” he admitted regretfully. “None of the neighbors saw or heard anything. The coroner’s doing the posts tomorrow. As for the lab work, we took swabs and smears from each victim, pubic combings and found hairs from the bed sheets and bathrooms, and prints from the doors, bedrooms, and the electrical meter. The murder weapons were clean, again suggesting that the killer wore gloves.”
“Kane? Anything to add?”
“No, sir, except that we should cross-check everything against trace evidence from the other scenes. Maybe something will show up.”
Huff sighed, glancing at the wall chart. Since first initiated, the poster graph had grown to a web of interconnected items that now extended halfway around the room. “Who’s got something new? Liman? You and
