mouth, almost whispering into the phone. “I want you to keep a very, very close eye on Jamie Hastings,” he said, furtively. “And tell that boy Sam to be cool or I’ll yank him, even if we need his daddy’s pull up there on the Hill.” He hung up immediately, and went off to join the others, hopeful that a few drinks and a little Texas-style hospitality would be enough to break the ice wall that had formed around Jamie.
To his amazement, by the time he entered the dining room, Jamie had managed, like magic, to turn things around. The men were captivated, engaging her. She was recounting the story of the famous serial killer, Willie Hynes, who had terrorized four states on the West Coast and brutally murdered seventeen young women, before the Los Angeles Police Department finally turned to Jamie for help, and officially hired her as a psychic investigator for the department.
Hynes remained one of the most elusive serial killers in history. A girl would go missing without a trace and then, days later, thepolice would get a call, directing them to the body. He never left a trace of evidence at the crime scene. He was meticulous: no blood, no prints, nothing. Police forces from L.A. all the way up as far as Seattle were absolutely stumped. After seventeen murders, covering four states, no one had come up with a single clue or lead to follow. Empty-handed, with nothing at all with which to appease the good citizens of the entire West Coast, they had had to admit that the trail for all the murders had gone absolutely cold.
Jamie stopped talking when Mat walked up to the table, deferring to him, but he insisted she continue, seating himself at the head of the table. The only man without a drink in his hand was Jeb. By now, he was so openly annoyed with what he perceived as psychic fairyland that he just could not contain himself any further. He wanted to dismiss Jamie completely and cut the floor out from under her.
“Let me guess,” he said, condescendingly, “you’re saying
you
solved that case?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Little ol’ you, up against the police power of four different states?”
“Well … I was not ‘up against’ them. We worked together; LAPD headed up the investigation, since most of the murders happened in their jurisdiction.”
“And you worked for LAPD?”
“That’s right,” she replied, getting back to her story. “The only evidence they had on him was what we call ‘the signature.’ Serials always leave one for the police—it’s part of the power trip behind the killing. That’s all the police had. Sixteen dead girls, their bodies thrown into the woods or on a beach, and each time they would find a little white plastic chess piece next to the body.” Jamie continued, enthralled in her own story. “After the last murder, the sixteenth, Martin Kaszlow—he’s the chief of LAPD—received a one-word letter from the killer. It simply said, ‘checkmate.’ Thekiller knew the police had nothing. They believed that he felt he had won the game and … this ‘checkmate’… they hoped it meant he was done—that the game was over. In fact, six months passed with no further incidents—at least none that fit Hynes’s pattern. Then, out of the blue, another young girl—she had been missing for forty-eight hours—was found with her throat cut, in the Hollywood Hills. This time,” Jamie said, “they found a black chess piece—the king—jammed into the gash across her throat. He was back. And now he wanted more attention, so he upped the stakes—more gore, more violence.”
Mat belted back his drink. “Ugly business,” he said, grimacing.
“As you know, gentlemen, there are sixteen white pieces and another sixteen black pieces in the game. He was letting the police know that he was going to murder another fifteen girls: daring them to stop him … playing this game serials love to play with their minds.”
The waiter interrupted with a tray of hors
To his amazement, by the time he entered the dining room, Jamie had managed, like magic, to turn things around. The men were captivated, engaging her. She was recounting the story of the famous serial killer, Willie Hynes, who had terrorized four states on the West Coast and brutally murdered seventeen young women, before the Los Angeles Police Department finally turned to Jamie for help, and officially hired her as a psychic investigator for the department.
Hynes remained one of the most elusive serial killers in history. A girl would go missing without a trace and then, days later, thepolice would get a call, directing them to the body. He never left a trace of evidence at the crime scene. He was meticulous: no blood, no prints, nothing. Police forces from L.A. all the way up as far as Seattle were absolutely stumped. After seventeen murders, covering four states, no one had come up with a single clue or lead to follow. Empty-handed, with nothing at all with which to appease the good citizens of the entire West Coast, they had had to admit that the trail for all the murders had gone absolutely cold.
Jamie stopped talking when Mat walked up to the table, deferring to him, but he insisted she continue, seating himself at the head of the table. The only man without a drink in his hand was Jeb. By now, he was so openly annoyed with what he perceived as psychic fairyland that he just could not contain himself any further. He wanted to dismiss Jamie completely and cut the floor out from under her.
“Let me guess,” he said, condescendingly, “you’re saying
you
solved that case?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Little ol’ you, up against the police power of four different states?”
“Well … I was not ‘up against’ them. We worked together; LAPD headed up the investigation, since most of the murders happened in their jurisdiction.”
“And you worked for LAPD?”
“That’s right,” she replied, getting back to her story. “The only evidence they had on him was what we call ‘the signature.’ Serials always leave one for the police—it’s part of the power trip behind the killing. That’s all the police had. Sixteen dead girls, their bodies thrown into the woods or on a beach, and each time they would find a little white plastic chess piece next to the body.” Jamie continued, enthralled in her own story. “After the last murder, the sixteenth, Martin Kaszlow—he’s the chief of LAPD—received a one-word letter from the killer. It simply said, ‘checkmate.’ Thekiller knew the police had nothing. They believed that he felt he had won the game and … this ‘checkmate’… they hoped it meant he was done—that the game was over. In fact, six months passed with no further incidents—at least none that fit Hynes’s pattern. Then, out of the blue, another young girl—she had been missing for forty-eight hours—was found with her throat cut, in the Hollywood Hills. This time,” Jamie said, “they found a black chess piece—the king—jammed into the gash across her throat. He was back. And now he wanted more attention, so he upped the stakes—more gore, more violence.”
Mat belted back his drink. “Ugly business,” he said, grimacing.
“As you know, gentlemen, there are sixteen white pieces and another sixteen black pieces in the game. He was letting the police know that he was going to murder another fifteen girls: daring them to stop him … playing this game serials love to play with their minds.”
The waiter interrupted with a tray of hors
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