Kendall Francois was back, safely ensconced at home, ready to kill again. Science be damned.
Seven
That night, Siegrist drove along Main Street on his way home. He saw Catina Newmaster working the street and pulled over to talk with her.
“Hi, Catina, how ya doing?”
“Okay, Bill.”
Siegrist had known Catina Newmaster since she was a little girl. She had grown up in and around Poughkeepsie. The cop knew her to come from a family that had problems. How those problems had affected the girl, he didn’t know. What he did know was that Catina had grown up to be “a likable person,” far from the abrasive portrait the newspapers liked to paint of seasoned prostitutes, which Catina was.
“Listen, Catina, there’s a guy out here and we don’t know who he is. You need to watch out for him.”
“I know,” Catina said, nodding.
“Be careful who you’re with,” Siegrist cautioned.
“I will,” said the girl.
Siegrist got back in his car and drove home, glad to be free, just for a while, away from the manhunt. And Catina? She went back to the street.
Siegrist was not one of those cops who believed in the lie detector’s infallibility. Maybe the guy had lied and found a way to beat the machine. Maybe Francois’s galvanic responses, his very nervous system, didn’t respond like normal people’s; that was why he could lie and get away with it. In the lieutenant’s mind, Francois was still under a cloud of suspicion.
After Mannain briefed him on his trip to Kendall land, Siegrist had to wonder what kind of individual lived in such squalor, such human filth. And what about the man’s family? How could they live like that, too? Siegrist was not willing to give up that easily. He wanted into the Francois home. They needed to get into that house.
Again.
Most serial killers keep some sort of memento of their victims. Even without the bodies, they could be used for conviction. And chances were, if he was the killer, those mementos were in the house. But how to get in?
Siegrist contacted the office of William Grady, the Dutchess County District Attorney. He was advised that the only way into the house was through a “fresh complainant”—someone who claimed anew that they had been assaulted by Francois. They would give them a reason to get a search warrant to get back into the house.
But who?
January 23, 1998
Her name was Lora Gallagher. Like Wendy Meyers, Gina Barone, Kathleen Hurley, Michelle Eason, Mary Healey Giaccone and Catherine Marsh, she was a prostitute who worked Poughkeepsie’s streets. And, like the dead women, she knew Kendall Francois. Completing the similarities, Gallagher didn’t like him either. The big man smelled and had rough hands.
Still, money was money, crack was crack and she just had to have it. Which was how she found herself getting into Francois’s car, tooling along Main Street like they were casual shoppers, until the big man made a right turn, went down a few blocks, took a left and pulled into a driveway on Fulton Avenue.
He hustled her out of the car and up the back entrance to his bedroom. They negotiated a price, then began to go at it. In the middle of the “lovemaking,” Francois really started getting rough. He began squeezing the woman’s throat, harder and harder. He did it so tightly, her airflow was restricted and she was afraid she would pass out, or worse. Summoning every ounce of her strength, Gallagher wriggled free and pushed the big man off her. She demanded that he return her to Main Street immediately.
His heart beating wildly in his chest, Francois saw that for now his game was up. His blood lust needed to be satiated, but that could come later. Anytime he wanted. For now, if he continued with this girl, no telling what attention her struggles might bring him before she was dead. Francois needed to be in control and with Gallagher, he wasn’t. Besides, she was in “that way,” and that really turned him off.
A few minutes later, he dropped her
Seven
That night, Siegrist drove along Main Street on his way home. He saw Catina Newmaster working the street and pulled over to talk with her.
“Hi, Catina, how ya doing?”
“Okay, Bill.”
Siegrist had known Catina Newmaster since she was a little girl. She had grown up in and around Poughkeepsie. The cop knew her to come from a family that had problems. How those problems had affected the girl, he didn’t know. What he did know was that Catina had grown up to be “a likable person,” far from the abrasive portrait the newspapers liked to paint of seasoned prostitutes, which Catina was.
“Listen, Catina, there’s a guy out here and we don’t know who he is. You need to watch out for him.”
“I know,” Catina said, nodding.
“Be careful who you’re with,” Siegrist cautioned.
“I will,” said the girl.
Siegrist got back in his car and drove home, glad to be free, just for a while, away from the manhunt. And Catina? She went back to the street.
Siegrist was not one of those cops who believed in the lie detector’s infallibility. Maybe the guy had lied and found a way to beat the machine. Maybe Francois’s galvanic responses, his very nervous system, didn’t respond like normal people’s; that was why he could lie and get away with it. In the lieutenant’s mind, Francois was still under a cloud of suspicion.
After Mannain briefed him on his trip to Kendall land, Siegrist had to wonder what kind of individual lived in such squalor, such human filth. And what about the man’s family? How could they live like that, too? Siegrist was not willing to give up that easily. He wanted into the Francois home. They needed to get into that house.
Again.
Most serial killers keep some sort of memento of their victims. Even without the bodies, they could be used for conviction. And chances were, if he was the killer, those mementos were in the house. But how to get in?
Siegrist contacted the office of William Grady, the Dutchess County District Attorney. He was advised that the only way into the house was through a “fresh complainant”—someone who claimed anew that they had been assaulted by Francois. They would give them a reason to get a search warrant to get back into the house.
But who?
January 23, 1998
Her name was Lora Gallagher. Like Wendy Meyers, Gina Barone, Kathleen Hurley, Michelle Eason, Mary Healey Giaccone and Catherine Marsh, she was a prostitute who worked Poughkeepsie’s streets. And, like the dead women, she knew Kendall Francois. Completing the similarities, Gallagher didn’t like him either. The big man smelled and had rough hands.
Still, money was money, crack was crack and she just had to have it. Which was how she found herself getting into Francois’s car, tooling along Main Street like they were casual shoppers, until the big man made a right turn, went down a few blocks, took a left and pulled into a driveway on Fulton Avenue.
He hustled her out of the car and up the back entrance to his bedroom. They negotiated a price, then began to go at it. In the middle of the “lovemaking,” Francois really started getting rough. He began squeezing the woman’s throat, harder and harder. He did it so tightly, her airflow was restricted and she was afraid she would pass out, or worse. Summoning every ounce of her strength, Gallagher wriggled free and pushed the big man off her. She demanded that he return her to Main Street immediately.
His heart beating wildly in his chest, Francois saw that for now his game was up. His blood lust needed to be satiated, but that could come later. Anytime he wanted. For now, if he continued with this girl, no telling what attention her struggles might bring him before she was dead. Francois needed to be in control and with Gallagher, he wasn’t. Besides, she was in “that way,” and that really turned him off.
A few minutes later, he dropped her
Similar Books
