The Fish That Got Away

BLACK ON BLACK IN BLACK, by MB Dabney

BLACK ON BLACK IN BLACK, by MB DabneyA guy in a late model station wagon flipped off Kendall Hunter after she changed lanes on Walnut Street on her way to her West Philly apartment. It was a minor annoyance, which she mostly ignored.

At only 7 o’clock, it was an early evening for Kendall, one of the FBI Philadelphia Field Office’s best criminal profilers. Tall, slender and Black, she didn’t look like your typical agent, which she used to her advantage.

Work was her main distraction in an otherwise dull life, and she threw herself into it. But for once, she was looking forward to a quiet night with her cat, a glass of wine, and mindless television.

Her cell phone rang. Situated in a holder next to the dashboard, she glanced at it quickly and immediately recognized the caller ID. It was an annoyance she could not ignore.

“Damn.”

She touched a button on the steering wheel, which shut off the streaming audio of John Coltrane coming through her sound system, and connected the call.

“Hunter here.”

“Kendall. It’s Max.”

FBI Special Agent Oscar Maxwell was her boss and the leader of a team on the trail of a serial killer.

“What’s up?” Kendall said, swerving into another lane to avoid hitting a gray Honda whose driver wasn’t paying attention.

“Our serial killer struck again.”

“You sure?” she said.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I know you’ve quit for the day….”

“I’m on my way home, Max,” she interrupted.

He didn’t seem to notice. “But I’d like you to have a look.”

A quick intake of breath preceded a brief silence. Then, “Describe it for me.”

Max gave her the basic details and the address of the apartment. “It’s up in Chestnut Hill, just off Allens Lane.”

Kendall looked at her watch, then flipped on her turn signal for an abrupt right turn at 40th Street. “It’ll take about 30 minutes to get there.”

“We’ll still be here.”

Traffic was light on Lincoln Drive up into Chestnut Hill, an area of expensive homes and nice apartments, and at least Kendall could enjoy the ride. Her personal vehicle was a black BMW that she purchased three years ago after divorcing her philandering husband. She loved its power, and the gentle vibration of its engine was nearly a s****l experience.

She pulled up to the fashionable apartment building 27 minutes after hanging up from Max and parked across from the black and white medical examiner’s van.

As a matter of habit, Kendall shoved her black Coach saddlebag under the passenger seat. This was Philadelphia, and despite all the police cars present, she never left anything of even the slightest value visible in the car. No sense in tempting a thief.

Marching up the stone stairs to the front door of the quadruplex apartment building, Kendall showed her government ID to two of Philadelphia’s finest in blue, who stood as silent sentries at the entry doors. But once past them, it didn’t take long to figure out where to go. The foyer and the first-floor apartment on the right were crawling with cops.

Fellow FBI agent Chris Columbus met her at the door and ushered her in.

Kendall surveyed the living room without speaking. The place was a mess but not because of any criminal activity.

There was barely enough space to sit down on the couch because of the litter of books, magazines, clothing, and a laptop. The coffee table was stacked so high with junk that it was difficult to imagine anyone seeing the television in the cabinet across the room. There was hardly any empty flat space in the first two rooms.

“Borderline hoarder,” Columbus commented.

“Kendall, we’re down here,” came a voice from the far end of the interior hallway.

They headed down in the direction of a bedroom. Max and a heavyset, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting dark blue police captain’s uniform met them at the bedroom door.

Max made the introductions.

“Captain Washington, this is Special Agent Kendall Hunter. I called her in because she is working on a profile of our serial killer.”

“Nice to meet you,” Washington said, sticking out his hand. She took it.

“And you, as well,” she said warmly. “Tell me what we have.”

“Why don’t you have a look,” Max said.

They entered the room and walked around an officer taking pictures.

The bedroom was in the same cluttered condition as the rooms in the front of the apartment. The bed was unmade and piled high with clothes, barely leaving enough room for someone to sleep. A laundry basket full of unfolded clothes was at the foot of the bed. It was hard to determine whether they were clean or dirty. An ironing board, converted to a shelf and stacked high with magazines, stood in the corner next to a broken floor lamp. The top of the dresser was full of personal items—hairbrush, makeup, earrings, and perfume—that didn’t look like they had been touched in some time.

In all the disorder, there was one thing that clearly was more out of the ordinary than the rest.

In a chair next to the window was a woman, her head back, a blank stare in her eyes. Her arms were tied behind her back.

Blood congealed around the single bullet hole to the forehead.

She wore only a tight t-shirt that didn’t cover her navel and a pair of neon yellow panties. She was pretty, even in death, and racially ambiguous in a way currently popular in media —a little too much color for a white woman but too little color to be considered black.

Max walked up to stand next to the body.

“She wasn’t much for housekeeping,” Columbus said behind him.

“Doesn’t matter much now,” Max said as he looked into the emptiness of the woman’s brown eyes.

“Who is she?” Kendall said.

Washington ticked off the information from the top of his head. “Melissa Harris. Age 26. Single, lived alone. Worked as a financial analyst for an insurance company downtown.”

“How long she been dead?”

“Last night some time. Last seen leaving her job yesterday. Didn’t report to work this morning.”

“Any evidence of s****l assault?” Max asked as he looked more closely at the body but didn’t touch it.

“No,” Washington answered. “No markings on her at all, except on the wrists where she was tied.”

“Any evidence of how the assailant got in?” Kendall asked.

“It wasn’t a break-in. No broken windows or door locks.”

“Must have let them in,” Columbus said, folding his arms across his chest, as if the gesture might help provide a better perspective.

“Seems that way,” Kendall said. “Weapon?”

“Small caliber. Close range,” Washington said. “I have officers checking the apartment and the surrounding area. Nothing yet.”

“Look in here,” said Columbus, who was standing in the bedroom doorway next to the bathroom. They walked over and looked at the mirror in the bathroom. “Same as in the case near Wilmington, Delaware, and the one in Delaware County.”

“That’s why we called in you feds,” Washington said.

“I see,” Max said, absentmindedly scratching the stubble on his chin.

“But we didn’t find any evidence of the man,” Washington said. “We checked her laptop. She’s registered on a couple of adult websites as White Chocolate and looking for men to date, implying she was willing to do more. Could be one of these online guys found and killed her.”

“This is similar to the cases in Maryland and Delaware and the other two in Pennsylvania, all in the last 30 months,” Columbus volunteered. “This guy seems to be heading north.”

Kendall stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the victim. The ME would remove the body as soon as she finished. “You said it was a small-caliber handgun.”

“Excuse me, please,” Washington said. “I’ve got to go check on the others down the hall. And hopefully, someone’s found the murder weapon.”

Washington left, and Kendall continued to study the crime scene, asking only a few questions. When she finished, Columbus offered his opinion. Unsolicited.

“This is a perfect crime,” he said. Some guy finds women on the Internet, arranges to meet them, ties them up with their undergarments, shoots them in the head, writes two words on a mirror, and leaves no clues.”

“Besides all the known facts, I disagree with you on this being a perfect crime,” Kendall said, irritation creeping into her voice. “Killers make mistakes. There’s always a clue somewhere. A drop of blood. A stray hair. A small piece of fabric. The killer can’t cover everything. There’s got to be a clue. We just have to be clever enough to find it.”

“Well, that’s why you’re the best profiler,” Max said as he and Columbus headed back down the hallway to the crowded living room, leaving Kendall alone.

She went into the bathroom and looked intensely at the words scribbled in capital letters on the mirror.

SLUT WHORE

Kendall’s brows furrowed. She ran her finger close to the glass but avoided the lipstick-scrawled words. Then, in a reflection in the mirror, she saw something. She turned to look closer. It was small and on the floor near the wall just past the doorway.

She stooped down to pick up a small, silver stud and examined it closer. It was the type of thing a man might overlook, particularly given the disheveled condition of the apartment.

Kendall dropped the stud into her jacket pocket.

Max looked up as Kendall entered the living room moments later.

“We about done here?” she asked. “I’d like to get home in time to watch some TV before bed.”

“Yeah. We’re good. I think we’ll wrap it up for now. We can go over everything again in the morning,” Max said. “File a report first thing, and then, we can talk. You have a nice evening.”

“I will,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand as she reached the front door. Moments later, she was at the car, and she slid onto the black leather seat in the black BMW.

Black on black in black.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small, silver stud. Grabbing her purse from the floor under the passenger seat, she could see the stud was a perfect match for a missing stud on her black Coach saddlebag. She hadn’t noticed before that it was missing.

Like I said. The killer always makes a mistake. Leaves a clue somewhere, she thought to herself. Just like tramps looking for married men online always get what’s coming to them.

A smile of self-satisfaction spread across Kendall’s face as she started the car, put it in gear and drove home.

Perhaps I’ll have two glasses of wine.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR ᐅ

MB Dabney is an award-winning journalist whose writing has appeared in local and national publications. A native of Indianapolis, Michael spent decades as a reporter working for Business Week magazine, UPI and AP, the Indianapolis Star, and The Philadelphia Tribune, the nation’s oldest continuously published black newspaper, where he won awards for editorial writing. He has been a member of Sisters in Crime since 2008. His first novel, An Untidy Affair, is being published in early 2021. The father of two adult daughters, Michael lives in Indianapolis with his wife, Angela, and their dog, Pluto.