Killing Spree by Kevin O'Brien Page A

no…please…wait…no…
    The man was staring into her eyes. He had a determined look on his face, almost passionless—except for a tiny little smile on one side of his mouth.
    She frantically clawed at his hands, and struggled. She fought as hard as she could.
    The scarf tightened. She couldn’t even wedge her fingers between the silky material and her throat. This isn’t happening…God…please…
    Her mouth open, she tried to breathe, but couldn’t. It was too late.
    She had already taken her last breath.
     
     
    Lateasha, the twenty-four-year-old saleswoman in Attitude, was wearing a new dress today. It was a long-sleeve, off-the-shoulder, form-hugging red outfit. And it looked pretty damn good with her trim figure, the gold hoop earrings, and her hair pulled back in a bun. She was admiring herself in one of the store’s full-length mirrors when she saw someone dart out of the changing area. Lateasha only caught a glimpse of him; then he ducked behind the tall jewelry display case, and threaded around some clothes racks to the front door. She’d busted enough shoplifters during her two years in retail. But this guy was different. He seemed like a phantom. He moved quickly, but no one else seemed to notice him.
    He didn’t set off the alarm. Lateasha wondered if she’d find a bunch of the store’s antitheft tags cut off in one of the changing rooms.
    Frowning, she parted the curtain to the back alcove and peeked down the little corridor. A sheer, pink scarf was on the floor—a few feet in front of the mirror.
    Lateasha had pointed a customer—some dishwater blonde in a ski jacket—toward the changing rooms about ten minutes before. Was the woman still here? “Hello?” she called softly. “Is anyone back here?”
    The curtains were halfway open, exposing three empty stalls. Only one drape was closed. “Hello? Anyone in here?” Lateasha pulled aside the curtain.
    The blond woman stared back at her. It was a dead stare—from a purple, contorted face. The long, blue scarf was so tightly wound around her neck, some of her flesh folded over the material. It was like a hangman’s noose, with another loop in the scarf tied around the clothes hook. She wore a pale green sweater from the store, and the slacks she’d been trying on were bunched down around her knees. Her feet didn’t touch the ground.
    She was suspended from the hook on the wall.
     
     
    She hadn’t uttered a sound.
    Strutting down the street, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and let out a chuckle. It had been amazing. As he’d strangled Gillian’s friend, she hadn’t gasped or even whimpered. Still she’d put up a damn good fight, struggling and clawing at him. He glanced at the red marks on his hands. The bitch had even drawn a little blood. But she hadn’t made a peep.
    He remembered how in For Everyone to See , Gillian McBride had referred to the changing-room murder as a “ silent strangulation .” He was amazed at the dead-on accuracy of that description.
    He breathed on his hands to warm them up a bit. The new scratches made them extra-sensitive to the cold. Chicago’s Finest would probably discover some of his skin under Dianne Garrity’s fingernails, but so what? They would have a hard time finding him after today.
    He was still sweating, but felt exhilarated. Ducking into an alley off Belmont, he pulled her wallet from his coat pocket. He had fished it out of her purse after hanging her up on that hook. The police would probably think robbery was a motive.
    He opened the wallet, and saw her identification. “What the fuck?” he whispered. “What is this?”
    The woman had a Wisconsin driver’s license. She was from Milwaukee, and her name was Joyce Millikan.
    Minutes later, he was barreling down the sidewalk, practically pushing people out of his way. He kept one hand in his coat pocket. The woman’s wallet was in his fist—almost crushed to a pulp. He was outraged. That woman was not Dianne Garrity. It