Girl, 11 Read online

  First of all, I’m going to say that I don’t know for sure. This is only my opinion. But like you said, it’s based on twenty-three years of living and breathing this case. I think that Beverly Anderson wasn’t TCK’s first victim.

  Elle:

  You look hesitant, but I’m going to ask you to expand on that.

  Sykes:

  I’m retired now—what the hell. Once I had some breathing room, I spent months looking into unsolved homicides all across the country that fit the Countdown Killer’s MO. It didn’t make sense for him to start with a twenty-year-old girl when we know twenty-one was one of his trigger numbers. If the 1996 murders were really his first, then it made sense they would be less organized. Maybe he’d killed her a few weeks, a few months before the others. Maybe holding them for seven days was an escalation and the first girl was killed right away. But try as I might, I couldn’t find anything that came close. I even searched for other twenty-one-year-old women who were killed in different ways: strangulation, gunshot, different kinds of poison. Nothing. The answer is probably in some cold case file box in some police storage unit in the state, but even though I still look now and then when I’m bored, I have never been able to find it.

  Elle:

  Seems like finding that first victim could be a pretty big clue.

  Sykes:

  I certainly think so. Serial killers often make mistakes with their first victims. Even someone as meticulous as TCK could have been triggered to kill in a rage, dispose of the body hastily. Maybe he even left DNA behind. Thousands have tried, but if you were able to figure out who that person was, I think it could be a huge turning point in the case.

  Elle:

  Well, sir, we’ll certainly do everything we can. Getting back to the pattern, though. He’d established in all the murders since you joined the case that he was taking three girls three days apart and holding them for seven days before murdering them. This would have required intense studying and planning on his part, which was likely why it took him a year in between each trio of killings to prepare for the next group. What did this tell you about the killer’s profile?

  Sykes:

  We all agreed that he was meticulous. That was evident from the state he left the bodies in: not a stray skin cell or eyelash to be found. The only way we figured he could have had a girl available to kidnap on each day in his countdown sequence was if he had dossiers about each of them, and if there were others he had ready as backups if one failed. There were likely dozens more potential victims of each age that he considered and decided not to pursue for a variety of reasons. He must have had girls of each age with different days of the week where they were open to victimization. Suzie walks home alone on Tuesday afternoon, Bess goes to church alone on Sunday, et cetera. He would have to, because all the circumstances had to line up precisely for him to take each girl, and his pattern for taking the other two after he had kidnapped one was inflexible. It had to happen three days apart. Jessica’s kidnapping was a mix of both opportunity and planning. Her mother’s gaze was probably only off her for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and she was gone. He had to have known their habit of shopping every week, because he’d scoped out all the areas there were security cameras, and he knew exactly how to avoid them. But it was incredibly risky. He had to get her out of a busy store without a trace in a narrow window of time. Taking her in that way, it was cocky. He knew it was a challenge that he was ready for.

  The only time we saw him create his own luck was with the last victim. Her routine usually left her exposed on that day, but she deviated from it, so he had to force the opening.

  Elle:

  How did he do that?

  Sykes:

  Eleanor Watson, known to everyone as Nora, was sometimes home alone for an hour in the afternoon, between school and her parents coming home from work. She was a classic latchkey kid, which was getting rarer by then but hadn’t completely gone out of fashion in 1999—especially not for kids her age. Most days, Nora stayed at a friend’s house and her mom came to pick her up around dinner. She had been going home more and more, though, in a bid to prove her independence. TCK must have been banking on her being home alone that day, but she went to her friend’s house instead. That’s when he took his biggest risk yet. He went up to their door and knocked.

  Elle:

  Who answered?

  Sykes:

  Nora’s friend. Her mom worked from home in a study at the back of the house, and she was not to be disturbed during business hours, so her daughter answered the door. TCK was apparently wearing a paisley knit scarf and a red hat. It’s a trick, wearing something intentionally distinctive if you think you might be witnessed so when you discard them, you blend into the crowd. He told Nora’s friend that he had been sent to pick her up because her mom had been taken to the hospital. Nora didn’t think twice about it. She was so worried about her mom, she got in the man’s car. It was more than an hour before her friend’s mom came out of her study and learned that Nora was gone.

  Elle voice-over:

  And that could have been the end of it. If everything had gone to TCK’s plan, there would have been two more murders after Jessica’s, and then three the next year, and then the next. All police knew was that he took a new girl every three days and killed her a week later, like clockwork. They had no reason to believe he’d ever stop—and they had no idea how to stop him.

  It might have gone on forever, TCK changing his chosen victims after his countdown was complete, starting a new ritual entirely. A man like that doesn’t just stop killing after he gets a taste for it.

  But that isn’t how this story ends. Because Nora Watson wasn’t killed by the Countdown Killer. She escaped.

  9

  Elle

  January 13, 2020

  A blizzard swept through the Twin Cities, leaving roads impassable for the whole weekend. Martín’s sister, Angelica, called on Saturday morning. She was the only family he had in the Midwest; most of the rest still lived in and around Monterrey. Her kids stole the phone and took it outside to show them the snowman they had made in their backyard in Eau Claire. The nephews clearly loved the snow and cold, but when they handed the phone back to Angelica, she and Martín managed to fill nearly an hour complaining and joking about the winter weather until Elle was in tears laughing.

  After they hung up with Angelica, Elle and Martín invited Sash and Natalie over, and they spent the rest of the weekend watching movies and drinking copious amounts of Abuelita hot chocolate. Besides sneaking a few hours to put together an episode outline for the upcoming week, Elle tried her best to relax and not think about the case. There would be plenty of time for that once the roads were drivable again.

  Sash and Natalie left once the snow finally let up on Sunday afternoon, and Elle spent the night recording the remaining script for the week. Tina would tie everything together and make it sound flawless over the next few days. Episode six would feature their bombshell discussion with a woman Elle had tracked down just last week. She couldn’t wait to reveal their findings to the world.

  After she sent the audio files to Tina, she collapsed into bed in the middle of the night and was asleep within minutes.

  Monday morning dawned sharp and white through the cracks in their bedroom curtains. Martín pulled her close, slipped a warm hand under her shirt and caressed her back. Elle blinked awake and smiled up at him.

  “Morning,” she murmured, throat still raw from last night’s recording.

  “Hi, there,” he whispered before pressing his lips to hers. He rolled into her, covering her upper body with his. “You were up late.”

  “Episode six.” She kissed his neck, inhaling the faint smell of yesterday’s cologne. “All wrapped up and sent to Tina.”

  “This is the big one?” His hand slipped between her legs, and her eyes fluttered shut.

  “Mm, yes. Probably still a letdown after last week’s, but it’ll be hard to top that.” Her breath caught in her throat as he strok
ed her. Fumbling under the sheet, she smiled when she found him already naked.

  He chuckled. “If I didn’t know you better, I would swear you did that on purpose.”

  She opened her eyes to study his face. “Did what?”

  His other hand worked her pajamas down her legs and then they were together, skin on skin. Mouth next to her ear, he whispered as he moved, “‘It’ll be hard to top that.’”

  Laughter burst from her lips, cut short by a moan as he pressed himself even closer. His body vibrated with another chuckle as he kissed her neck. And then they stopped talking altogether.

  An hour later, after Martín left for work, Elle logged in to her computer to check her messages. There were several emails from her executive producer at the podcast network, exclaiming over the ratings from the episode that had dropped on Thursday. Her marketing coordinator was planning to up their radio advertising and pay for the drive-time slot to lure new Gen-X listeners who’d been teens or young adults when TCK was active. There were hundreds of unread emails, but she could see that Tina had been through thousands more and tagged them based on their filing system. The thick scattering of red was concerning.

  Red was for messages that were threatening enough to consider reporting.

  Not in the mood to deal with those at the moment, she flipped over to Leo’s profile on Facebook again. None of his family members had responded to her queries, although several messages had been left on read. Disappointing, but not surprising. She started going through his profile pictures, searching for a woman’s face in the year since he’d separated from his wife. He obviously wasn’t Facebook official with anyone, but he might still have a girlfriend.

  No luck. Every picture was of him alone stretching back nearly three years, before she finally saw him cheek to cheek with a Latina woman wearing her thick straight hair in a high ponytail. Elle clicked on the photo and did a little victory dance in her chair when she saw the woman was tagged. Luisa Toca. This must be the ex-wife. Elle went to her profile.

  Luisa’s profile picture was the Guatemalan flag, a section of white with a coat of arms surrounded on either side by strips of pure, bright blue. Her status updates oscillated between English and Spanish. One from three months before caught Elle’s eye: it announced that Luisa’s mother was moving in with her. A look through her pictures revealed the back and side views of dozens of women’s hair in various styles and colors with a downtown salon tagged in each one. Elle called the salon, but the manager said Luisa hadn’t showed up for her shifts in the last few days and wasn’t answering her phone.

  Elle clicked over to the section about Luisa’s family and sent up a silent prayer of thanks—her mom’s account was basically empty, but she had one. And now Elle had a new name.

  * * *

  After sending Luisa a private message, Elle set about finding her address. Since starting an investigative podcast, she had learned that people had no idea how much of their private information was easily accessible online to those who know where to look. Current and former addresses, phone numbers, places of work, even social security numbers are publicly available if you go to the right site. Scrubbing the information is possible, but expensive. Eight years ago, Elle had paid a lot of money to get rid of that information about herself, but it was worth it. A new married name, a new future—no more being asked to rehash the worst time of her life. Definitely worth it.

  She hit a dead end looking for Luisa’s information, but she struck gold with the mother. After an hour, Elle found Maria Alvarez’s address and got in the car, heading toward Fridley.

  Most of the roads were cleared of the previous night’s snowfall, but the ground still sparkled with the fresh, gauzy layer. As much as she hated winter, there was something magical about the way a blizzard transformed the city into something brand-new. The day felt unblemished, unsullied—too pure to exist in the same universe where she had walked in to find Leo’s dead body. Whatever had happened before, this was a new start.

  On the way, she fastened her microphone and headset over her stocking cap. Over the years, she had found it was always better to record a thought even if she never used it on the podcast, rather than find herself with a gap in the episode and no monologue to fill it.

  “Three days ago, I received an email from someone claiming to have a tip about TCK. I went to meet him, to find out what information he had, but when I arrived at his house, he had been murdered.” Elle paused, blinked away the sight of Leo’s bloody body. “I don’t know what information he had, if any. There’s a chance none of this will be relevant to the case, and I’ll archive this recording like I’ve done with thousands of others. But for right now, I’m still trying to figure out what he might have known. I’m going to his ex-wife’s house, to see if she had been in touch with him recently. It’s obviously a long shot, but I have to try. I . . . I still can’t believe that it was a coincidence, the timing of when he was killed, even though it seems apparent that it was. I have been running this podcast for four years, and I’ve never had any of my listeners end up in danger because of a tip they gave me. Not that I know of, anyway. I want to remind all of you to be mindful of your own safety first. If you feel that you’re in danger, call the police immediately. I’ll report back once I have more.” She pressed stop and pulled the headset off.

  The early cramps of an anxiety attack started building in her chest. As she pulled into the parking lot of a tan-bricked apartment complex, Elle took a deep breath through her nose, held it for ten seconds, and blew it out through her lips. She did this twice more before the stitches came apart inside her, letting her breath flow naturally again. She turned off the car, grabbed her bag full of recording equipment—in case Luisa was willing to do an interview—and opened the door to the crisp winter afternoon.

  According to the research Elle had done at home, Luisa and Leo had been married for five years before separating last year. Now, she apparently lived with her mother in an old apartment building next to the highway. Elle lugged her bag up two flights of stairs that smelled like mildew and knocked on number 207. Inside, slow footsteps creaked toward the door, followed by the sound of the peephole cover being lifted.

  “¿Quién es?” a hoarse voice asked.

  “Señora, me llamo Elle Castillo. Estoy buscando a Luisa Toca—”

  “¿Sabe dónde está mi Luisa?” The woman’s voice pitched a little higher with anticipation.

  Elle’s shoulders slumped. The woman was looking for Luisa too. “No, estoy buscándola.”

  A chain rattled inside and then the door swung open, revealing a stooped, elderly woman who leaned heavily on a mobile oxygen tank. Cannulas rested inside her narrow nostrils. Her deep brown skin was carved with wrinkles from age and worry. Upon seeing Elle, the woman’s jaw tensed, her chin raised. “I can speak English, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed; we can speak whichever language you’re most comfortable with.”

  After a moment, Maria nodded. “It’s okay. You speak Spanish well, but I’m fine in English. Are you police?”

  “No, I’m an independent investigator.” Elle held up her microphone. “It’s not recording, don’t worry. But I look into cold cases for a podcast—it’s like a radio show. I was hoping Luisa might be able to help me find someone.”

  “I don’t know who she could help you find. But please, come in.” With shuffling steps, Maria turned and led Elle through the little hallway in her apartment, to a kitchen that smelled of cilantro and onions. Elle settled into a wooden chair, inhaling the spicy air.

  With slow, deliberate movements, Maria filled a kettle with water and put it on the stove. She twisted a dial, and the ring grew orange with heat.

  “Mijita,” Maria whispered, almost too low for Elle to hear. Then she turned away from the stove to look at Elle. “I haven’t heard from her in days. Almost a week. She was supposed to call last weekend, but she didn’t. I tried and tried. Who sent you here?”

  Elle leaned
forward in her seat, itching to help the woman to a chair. But it wasn’t her place to do so. “I found Luisa on social media and saw you were her mother. I tracked down your address from there. Her work hasn’t heard from her in a few days either, so I was hoping I’d find her here.”

  “So, you don’t know where she is.” Maria pulled two brown mugs out of a wood-paneled cupboard and set them on the counter. She opened a bright yellow Therbal box and dropped a tea bag in each cup.

  “I’m sorry, no,” Elle said. “She doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “This is still where she gets mail, but she spends her nights with a man.”

  “A boyfriend?” Elle hadn’t considered that Luisa might have anything to do with Leo’s death, but if there was a new man in the picture, that made things more interesting. New lovers always complicated old relationships.

  Maria’s wizened face screwed up in distaste. “He is too old for a boyfriend. This man, he is twenty, twenty-five years older than my Luisa. She is still young; she could still find a good man and marry again. But she doesn’t try. She wants only this old man.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said, shaking her head. “She knows I hate him, so she does not bring him here. He is a white man, blue eyes, with . . . Cómo se dice . . . está perdiendo su pelo.”

  “Losing his hair? Balding?”

  The kettle started to whistle and Maria turned to fill their mugs with water. “Right. Luisa is so beautiful! She could have any man she wants, and she chooses this . . . this viejo feo.”