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Before he Kills
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mackenzie couldn’t remember a time when the station had been so chaotic. The first thing she saw when she walked through the front doors was Nancy rushing down the hallway to someone’s office. She’d never seen Nancy move so quickly. Beyond that, there were anxious looks on the faces of every officer she passed on her way to the conference room.
It looked like it was going to be an eventful morning. There was a tension in the air that reminded her of the thickness of the atmosphere just before a bad summer storm.
She’d felt some of that tension herself, even before she left her house. She’d gotten the first call at 7:30, informing her that they would be moving on the lead within hours. Apparently, while she’d been sleeping, the lead she had managed to pull out of Kevin had turned out to be a very promising one. A warrant was being acquired and a plan was being put into place. One thing had already been established, though: Nelson wanted her and Porter to bring the suspect in.
The ten minutes she spent in the station was a whirlwind. While she poured a cup of coffee, Nelson was barking orders at everyone while Porter sat solemnly in a chair at the conference table. Porter looked like a pouting child looking for any attention he could get. She knew it must be eating at him that this lead had come from a boy that Mackenzie had spoken with – a boy that he had been prepared to walk away from.
Mackenzie and Porter were given the lead, and two other cars were assigned to fall in behind them to assist as needed. It was the fourth time in her career that she had been tasked with such a takedown, and the rush of adrenaline never got old. Despite the surge of energy coursing through her, Mackenzie remained calm and collected. She walked out of the conference room with poise and confidence, starting to get the feeling that this was now her case, no matter how badly Porter wanted it.
On her way out, Nelson approached her and took her softly by the arm.
“White, let me talk to you for a second, will you?”
He led her to the side, guiding her into the copy room before she could answer. He looked around conspiratorially, making sure no one was within hearing distance. When he was sure they were safe, he looked at her in a way that made her wonder if she had done something wrong.
“Look,” Nelson said, “Porter came to me last night and asked to be reassigned. I flat out told him no. I also told him he’d be stupid to drop out of this case right now. Do you know why he wanted to be reassigned?”
“He thinks I stepped on his toes last night,” Mackenzie said. “But it was clear that the kids weren’t responding to him and he wasn’t going to try hard to get through to them.”
“Oh, you don’t have to explain it to me,” Nelson said. “I think you did a damn good job with that oldest kid. The kid even told some of the other guys that showed up – including the social services guys – that he really liked you. I just wanted to let you know that Porter is up in arms today. If he gives you any shit, let me know. But I don’t think he will. While he’s not a big fan of yours, he all but told me that he respects the hell out of you. But that stays between you and me. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Mackenzie said, surprised at the sudden support and encouragement.
“All right then,” Nelson said, clapping her lightly on the back. “Go get our guy.”
With that, Mackenzie headed out to the parking lot where Porter was already sitting behind the wheel of their car. He gave her a what the hell is taking so long sort of look as she went hurrying to the car. The moment she was in, Porter pulled out of the parking spot before Mackenzie had even closed the door all the way.
“I take it you got the full report on our guy this morning?” Porter asked as he pulled out onto the highway. Two other cars pulled out behind them, carrying Nelson and four other officers as backup if needed.
“I did,” Mackenzie said. “Clive Traylor, a forty-one-year-old registered sex offender. Spent six months in prison for assault on a woman in 2006. He currently works at a local pharmacy but he also does some woodwork out of a small shed on his property.”
“Ah, you must have missed the last memo Nancy sent out,” Porter said.
“Did I?” she asked. “What did I miss?”
“The bastard has several wooden poles cut out behind his shed. Intel shows that they’re just about the same size as the one we found out in that cornfield.”
Mackenzie scrolled through her e-mails on her phone and saw that Nancy had sent the memo out less than ten minutes ago.
“Sounds like our guy, then,” she said.
“Damn right,” Porter said. He was speaking like a robot, like he had been programmed to say certain things. He did not look over at her a single time. It was clear that he was pissed, but that was okay with Mackenzie. As long as he put that anger and determination into bringing the suspect down, she couldn’t care less.
“I’ll go ahead and kick the elephant out of the car,” Porter said. “It pissed me off bad when you took over last night. But I’ll be damned if you didn’t work some kind of miracle on that kid. You’re sharper than I give you credit for. I’ll admit that. But the disrespect…”
He trailed off here, as if he wasn’t sure how to finish the statement. Mackenzie said nothing in response. She simply looked ahead and tried to digest the fact that she had just received what could almost be considered compliments from two very unlikely sources in the last fifteen minutes.
She suddenly felt that this could be a very good day. Hopefully, by the end of the day, they’d bring in the man responsible for the death of Hailey Lizbrook and several other unresolved murders over the last twenty years. If that was the reward, she could certainly tolerate Porter’s sour mood.
*
Mackenzie looked out and felt depressed as she watched the neighborhoods change before her eyes as Porter drove into the more derelict suburbs of Omaha. Well-to-do subdivisions gave way to low-rent apartment complexes which then faded away into seedier neighborhoods.
Soon enough they reached Clive Traylor’s neighborhood, consisting of lower-income houses sitting in mostly dead lawns, punctuated with crooked mailboxes along the street. The rows and rows of houses never seemed to end, each one looking less cared for than the next. She did not know what was more depressing to her: their neglected state, or the numbing monotony.
Clive’s block was quiet, and as they turned down it, Mackenzie felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. She sat up involuntarily, readying herself to confront a murderer.
According to the surveillance team who had been watching over the property since 3 AM, Traylor was still at home. He was not due to clock in at work until one o’clock.
Porter slowed their car as he drove further up the street and parked directly in front of Traylor’s house. He then looked to Mackenzie for the first time that morning. He looked a little on edge. She realized she must have looked the same. And yet, despite their differences, Mackenzie still felt safe walking into potential danger with him. Sexist hard-ass or not, the man had a seasoned record and knew what he was doing most of the time.
“You ready?” Porter asked her.
She nodded and pulled the mic from the dashboard radio unit.
“This is White,” she said into the mic. “We’re ready to head in on your word.”
“Go,” came Nelson’s simple reply.
Mackenzie and Porter got out of the car slowly, not wanting to give Traylor any cause for alarm if he happened to look out the window to see two strangers walking up his lawn. Porter took the lead as they walked up the rickety porch steps. The porch was covered in flaked white paint and the shells of countless dead insects. Mackenzie felt herself tensing up, preparing. What would she do when she saw the face of the man who had murdered those women?
Porter pulled open the flimsy screen door and knocked on the front door.
Mackenzie stood beside him, waiting, heart pounding. She could feel her palms begin to sweat.
A few seconds passed before she heard approaching footsteps. There came the clicking of a lock being disengaged, the door opened a little more than a crack, and Clive Traylor looked out at them. He looked confused – and then very alarmed.
“Can I help you?” Traylor asked.
“Mr. Traylor,” Porter said, “I’m Detective Porter and this is Detective White. If you have a moment, we’d like to speak with you.”
“In regards to what?” Traylor asked, instantly defensive.
“About a crime that was committed two nights ago,” Porter said. “We just have a few questions and as long as you answer honestly, we’ll be out of your hair in five or ten minutes.”
Traylor seemed to consider this for a moment. Mackenzie was pretty sure she knew the train of logic that was chugging through his head. He was a registered sex offender, and any resistance to help the police when they asked for it would raise alarms and maybe even further investigation into Traylor’s current activities.
And that was the last thing a man like Clive Traylor wanted.
“Yeah, come on in,” Traylor finally said, clearly not pleased with the situation. Still, he opened the door and led them into a house that looked like a college dorm room.
There were books stacked everywhere, empty beer cans strewn here and there, and piles of clothes sporadically placed on any available surface. The place smelled like Traylor had recently burned something on the stove.
He led them into his small living room, and Mackenzie took it all in, analyzing everything at rapid speed to determine if this were the house of a killer. There were more clothes bundled up on the couch and the coffee table was littered with dirty dishes and a laptop. Seeing such disarray made Mackenzie realize that maybe Zack’s living habits weren’t as bad as she had thought. Traylor did not ask them to have a seat – which was good, because there was no way Mackenzie was going to sit anywhere in this house.
“Thanks for your time,” Porter said. “As I said, there was a crime committed two nights ago – a murder. We’re here because you have a rather shaky past with the victim.”
“Who was it?” Traylor asked.
Mackenzie watched him closely, studying his facial expressions and posture, hoping she’d find some clues there. So far, all she could tell was that he was very uncomfortable having police inside his house.
“A woman named Hailey Lizbrook.”
Traylor seemed to think about this for a second and then shook his head.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Are you sure?” Porter asked. “We have proof that she placed a restraining order against you last year.”
Realization dawned over him and he rolled his eyes.
“Oh. Her. I never knew her name.”
“But you knew where she lived?” Mackenzie asked.
“I did,” Traylor said. “Yeah, I followed her home from the Runway a few times. I had policemen come to my house and talk to me about that. But I haven’t gone against that order. I swear it.”
“So you don’t deny that you stalked her at some point?” Porter asked.
Mackenzie saw the embarrassment flush over Traylor and her heart dropped. She was pretty certain this was not their man.
“No. I’ll admit that. But after that restraining order, I stayed away. I even stopped going to that strip club.”
“Okay,” Porter said. “Can you tell me where you were two nights ago?”
“Well, I worked until nine o’clock and then I came home. I watched some TV and went to bed around midnight.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Porter asked.
Traylor looked taken off guard, trying to come up with a suitable answer. “Hell, I don’t know. I logged into my bank account online. Can you use that?”
“We can,” Porter said, pointing to the laptop on the coffee table. “Show us.”
Traylor started wrestling with something in that moment. He slowly reached for the computer but then hesitated. “That’s, well, that’s a breach of my privacy. Come back with a warrant and I’ll – ”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Porter said. “We’ve got more officers outside and I can have them in here within thirty seconds. We already have a warrant. So make this as easy as possible and show me your browsing history.”
Traylor was practically sweating now. Mackenzie was pretty sure he was not the murderer, but he was certainly hiding something.
“What’s the problem?” Mackenzie asked.
“You’ll have to get that information directly from my bank,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because there’s no trace of my history on this computer.”
Porter stepped forward and repeated his earlier command. “Show us.”
Mackenzie and Porter stood around Traylor, one on each side. Mackenzie watched closely, noticing that Traylor pulled up his browser very quickly. Still, Mackenzie had seen his home screen and was pretty sure she had seen enough.
She stepped away from Traylor as he showed Porter that his search history was at zero. She also listened to him explain to Porter that he always deleted his browsing history to get rid of cookies and junk in his cache. She let Porter discuss this age-old excuse with him while she peeked out into his hallway. There were no pictures on his walls, just clutter on the floor along the walls. Among the mess, she saw an empty box that raised an alarm.
Mackenzie walked back into the living room as the conversation between Porter and Traylor continued to get a little more heated.
“Excuse me,” she said, speaking over them. “Mr. Traylor, I don’t doubt you. I’m fairly certain you had nothing to do with the murder of Hailey Lizbrook. I will tell you that a lot of factors were pointing to you, right down to the poles behind your shed out back. But no, I don’t think you killed anyone.”
“Thank you,” he spat sarcastically.
“White,” Porter said, “what are you – ”
“But I am going to need you to tell me what other inappropriate things you’ve been involved in.”
He looked surprised, almost insulted. “Nothing,” he said. “I know my record isn’t stellar. Once you’re a registered sex offender, your life never goes back to the way it was. People look at you differently and – ”
“Save it, please,” Mackenzie said. “Are you sure you haven’t been involved in anything you shouldn’t?”
“I swear it.”
Mackenzie nodded and then looked to Porter with a thin smile. “Detective Porter, would you like to cuff him or should I do it?”
Before he could answer, though, Traylor was on the move. He collided with Mackenzie, trying to knock her down and make his way to the hall. He clearly hadn’t been expecting her to be so solid, though. She braced her feet and locked her knees as Traylor rammed into her, causing him to rebound in confusion.
“Shit,” Porter muttered, fumbling for his service pistol.
As he scrambled for his gun, Mackenzie threw a hard elbow into Traylor’s chest as he tried to pivot around her. He let out a whoof and gave her a surprised look. He started dropping to a knee, but before it even touched the floor, Mackenzie grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him down to the floor.
Traylor cried out as Mackenzie planted a knee into his back and whipped out her handcuffs like a magician working with handkerchiefs.
“Never mind,” Mackenzie said, cutting her eyes at Porter. “I’ll do it.”
With that, she slapped the cuffs on Traylor’s wrists as Porter stood motionless, his hand still frozen by his hip where his gun still remained holstered.
*
Mackenzie looked at the plastic bag and was sickened by what she was pretty sure was on the USB drives inside. There were eleven of them in all. After some harsh interrogation, they’d discovered that these USBs were what Traylor had been going for when he’d made the mistake of trying to dash past Mackenzie.
“Hot damn,” Nelson said, looking a bit too happy as Clive Traylor was placed into the back of a police cruiser. “It’s not the arrest I wanted today, but I sure will take it.”
A little less than an hour had passed since Traylor had denied being involved in anything suspicious. In that hour, his laptop had been confiscated and his history had been recovered. Several USB drives had also been found in the house, filled with photos and videos. With what was found on his computer, including websites visited in the last two days, and the USB drives, Clive Traylor had been in possession of more than five hundred images and twenty-five videos of child pornography. More than that, he was selling the files online. The most recent transaction had been to an IP address in France for a sum of two hundred dollars – a transaction that had been confirmed by Traylor’s bank.
Clive Traylor had been nowhere near the cornfield where Hailey Lizbrook had been killed two nights ago. Instead, he had been online, distributing child pornography.
When Mackenzie had seen the icon for incognito browsing software on Traylor’s home screen and then the box for IP-blocking hardware in Traylor’s hallway, she had been able to put the pieces together. The fact that Traylor was a known sex offender had made the equation all the easier to solve.
Nelson was standing with Mackenzie and Porter while Traylor was driven away.
“We think we just touched the surface of this,” he said. “Once we can get past that software he had installed, I think we’re going to find a hell of a whole lot more. Damn good work, you two.”
“Thanks, sir,” Porter said, clearly at odds with taking the praise that Mackenzie mostly deserved.
“By the way,” Nelson said, looking directly at Mackenzie now, “I sent some guys to the shed out back. There was nothing there – just some unfinished handmade stuff – a bookshelf, a few tables, things like that. I even had them check the poles behind the shed and it turns out they’re made of pine, the same as the stuff he’s building. So it was just a huge coincidence.”
“I was sure this was the guy,” Porter said.
“Well, don’t let this set you back,” Nelson said. “The day is young.”
Nelson left them, heading over to speak with the tech crew that was working on getting deeper into Traylor’s laptop.
“That was sharp thinking in there,” Porter said. “I would have missed both of those things – the software on his computer and the hardware box.”
He sounded depressed, almost sad.
“Thanks,” Mackenzie said, a little uncomfortable. She wanted to tell him how she had come to her conclusions but figured that would only irritate him. So she kept quiet, as always.
“Well,” Porter said, clapping his hands together as if the matter were now totally resolved. “Let’s get back to the station and see what else we can dig up on our killer.”
Mackenzie nodded, taking her time to get into the car. She looked back to Clive Traylor’s house and the shed in the backyard. She could see the ends of the poles from where she stood. On the surface, yes, this had seemed like a sure thing. But now that it had turned out to be something else entirely, she was again faced with the fact that they were pretty much back to square one.
There was still a killer out there and with each minute that passed, they were giving him another chance to kill again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As a boy, one of his favorite pastimes was to sit out on the back porch and watch their cat stalk around the yard. It was particularly interesting whenever it came upon a bird or, on one occasion, a squirrel. He’d watched that cat spend up to fifteen minutes stalking a bird, toying with it until it finally pounced on it, tearing out its neck and sending its little feathers into the air.
He thought of that cat now, as he watched the woman arrive home from yet another night at work – a place of employment where she stood up on a stage and pandered her flesh. Like that cat from his childhood, he had been stalking her. He’d nixed the idea of taking her at her workplace; the security was tight and even under the murky glare of the early morning streetlights, there was too much of a chance of getting caught. Instead, he’d waited in the parking lot of her apartment complex.
He parked directly in front of the stairs on the far right side of the complex, as those were the ones she used to go to her apartment on the second floor. Then, after three o’clock, he’d climbed those stairs and waited on the landing between the first and second flight of stairs. It was poorly lit and dead quiet at this time of the night. Still, as a decoy, he had an old cell phone that he would quickly place to his ear and pretend to talk into if someone happened to pass him.
He’d followed her for two nights now and knew that she’d get home sometime between three and four in the morning. On both of the occasions where he had followed her and parked on the opposite side of the street, he had only seen one person use those stairs between three and four in the morning, and they had been clearly drunk.
Standing on the landing, he had seen her car pull up and he now watched as she got out. Even dressed in street clothes, she seemed to flaunt her legs. And what had she been doing all night? Showing those legs, making men yearn.
She approached the stairwell and he brought the phone to his ear. A few more steps and she’d be right in front of him. He felt his calf muscles tightening, waiting to spring, and he once again thought of his childhood cat.
Hearing the light sounds of her footfalls below, he started pretending to talk. He spoke quietly but not in a conspiratorial way. He thought he might even give her a smile when she showed up.
And then she was there, coming up around the landing, heading for the second flight of stairs. She glanced at him, saw that he was occupied and looked harmless, and gave him a little nod. He nodded back, smiling.
When her back was to him, he acted quickly.
His right hand went into his jacket pocket, pulling out a rag that he had soaked in chloroform seconds before getting out of the car. He used his other arm to wrap around her neck, dragging her backwards and off of her feet. She was only able to let out a tiny little yelp of surprise before the rag was pressed against her mouth.
She struggled immediately, biting down and somehow managing to dig into his pinky. Her bite was hard and he was sure she had bitten clean through his finger at first. He pulled back for just a moment, but it was enough for her to get away from him, wrenching away from the grip he had applied around her neck with the crook of his left arm.
She started up the stairs and let out a whimper. This whimper, he knew, would evolve into a scream in no time. He dove forward, reaching out and grabbing that silken bare leg. The stairs struck him in the chest and stomach, knocking the wind from him, but he was still able to pull hard at her leg. With a desperate little cry, she went falling to the ground. There was a shuddering crack as her face struck the stairs.
She went limp and he instantly crawled up the stairs to get a closer look. She’d struck her temple on the stair. Surprisingly, there was no blood, but even in the weak light, he could tell that a knot was already starting to form.
Moving quickly, he put the cloth back into his pocket, finding that she had gnawed into his pinky pretty good. He then picked her up and found that there was no sturdiness in her legs. She had been knocked out cold.
But he’d dealt with this before, too. He picked her up from the side the knot was forming on and leaned all of her weight on that side. He then dragged her down the stairs with one arm around her waist, her feet dragging uselessly behind her. With his other hand, he brought the dead phone up to his other ear just in case they passed someone in the fifteen feet or so that separated them from his car. He had his lines prepared just in case that happened: I don’t know what to tell you, man. She’s drunk – like passed out drunk. I figured it was best to take her back to her house.
But the late hour didn’t necessitate that bit of acting. The stairs and the parking lot were absolutely dead. He got her into his car without incident, never seeing anyone.
He cranked his car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading east.
Ten minutes later, as her head knocked softly against the passenger window, she muttered something that he could not understand.
He reached over and patted her hand.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s all going to be okay.”
