Many worked at night. One was even a prostitute.
Owen’s final requirement was the one that gave him away. At one time or another, all of his victims had been patients at Saint Mary’s Memorial Hospital. Sometimes, the work had gone back years. One had her tonsils out at Saint Mary’s; another had pneumonia and spent two days on an IV. Owen had worked in the billing department. He knew everything about their procedures, as well as their age, marital status, and address.
Saint Mary’s was the one thing tying the victims together. For a long time, that was overlooked, because everyone goes to Saint Mary’s. It’s the only large hospital in our area. The second-closest is still an hour away.
I skip past most of the details about what he did to his victims while they were held captive. Too much information I don’t need, too many mental images I do not want.
The only one that catches my eye is the fingerprints. Owen had filed them off all his victims. Millicent had done the same to Lindsay.
Next, I scroll through pictures of the women he killed. They were young, bright, and happy. This is how victim pictures always look. No one wants to see a picture of a somber young woman, even if she’s dead.
I notice a few more things. All of the women were quite plain. They didn’t wear a lot of makeup or stylish clothes. Most looked simple: ordinary hair, jeans and Tshirts, no dark lipstick, and no painted nails. Lindsay fit this profile, and she fit Owen’s height requirement.
Naomi was more simple than glamorous, but she was too tall.
Up until now, I have never chosen a woman based on this kind of profile. My criteria revolved around how many people would be looking for her, how quickly the police would be notified, and how much time they would put into finding a grown woman.
Everything else was arbitrary. I chose Lindsay because she fit all the important criteria, and because Millicent would not get off my back about choosing the next one.
Petra was different. Because I slept with her, or because she suspected I wasn’t deaf. Maybe both. She is still out there, still a risk, but she doesn’t fit our new profile at all. Petra is too tall and far too glamorous; she wears skirts and heels, and even her toenails were painted red.
I need to find another one. Our fourth.
That was how Owen Oliver worked. He always took his next victim after the last one was found.
As I scour through social media sites, I can feel my adrenaline start to surge. It’s not quite a rush, not yet, but it will be. Millicent and I will bring back Owen together.
And I’m looking forward to it.
Thirteen
We didn’t pick the first two women. Lindsay was the first one we chose, and we found her on social media. But that was when we didn’t have a profile or a height requirement. Most don’t put their physical statistics on social media, and there are no categories for exact height or weight or eye color. This makes my preliminary search for number four difficult.
I did find one place that listed height: dating websites. But a brief search through a few of them is uninspiring. The next day, I ask Millicent to meet me for a midday break. We grab a cup of coffee and sit in the park across the street. The day is a beautiful one, the sky an unbroken blue and not too much humidity in the air, and the park is close enough to use the coffee shop’s Internet.
I explain our new profile requirements and show her what I’ve found online. She pages through the women on the dating site and then looks at me.
“They all seem so …” She shakes her head as her voice trails off.
“Fake?”
“Yes. Like they’re trying to be who men want instead of who they are.”
I point to one, who says her hobbies are windsurfing and beach parties. “And they might have too many friends.”
“Some do, I’m sure.”
She continues to page through profiles, her brow furrowed. “We can’t pick from a dating site.”
I say nothing, and she looks up at me. I am smiling.
“What?” she says.
“I have another idea.”
She relaxes, no longer worried, and raises one eyebrow. “Do you now?”
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
I glance across the park, my eyes finally settling on a woman sitting on another bench and reading a book. I point. “What about her?”
Millicent looks over, studies the woman, and smiles. “You want to look for someone in the real world.”
“To start, yes. So we find someone that fits the physical profile. Then we’ll research online to make sure she’ll work.”
Millicent’s eyes turn to me. They are so bright. She places her hand on mine. Her touch spreads throughout my whole body; it feels like I am being recharged. Even my brain hums.
She nods, and the corners of her mouth turn up as she starts to smile. All I can think about is kissing her. About throwing her down in the middle of the park and ripping off her clothes.
“I knew there was a reason I married you,” Millicent finally says.
“Because I’m unbelievably brilliant?”
“And humble.”
“Not too bad-looking, either,” I say.
“If we do this right,” she says, “the police will never even think to look for a couple. We’ll be free to do whatever we want.”
Something about that makes me even more excited. The world is filled with things I can’t do and can’t afford, from houses to cars to kitchen equipment, but this, this, is how we can be free. This is the one thing that is ours, that we control. Thanks to Millicent.
“Yes,” I say to her.
“Yes to what?”
“Yes to everything.”
I drive to the SunRail station and take the train to Altamonte Springs, the opposite direction from where Petra lives. Technically, the town is outside Woodview, but it was still part of Owen’s original hunting grounds.
Women are everywhere. Young, old, tall, short, thin, heavy. They are on every street, in every store, around every corner. I don’t see the men, only the women, and it has always been this way. When I was young, I couldn’t imagine choosing only one. Not with so many available.
Obviously, that was before Millicent.
I’m the one who is different. I still evaluate all women, just not the same way. I do not see them as possible partners, lovers, or conquests. I evaluate them based on whether or not they will fit Owen’s profile. I size each one up first based on height, then on makeup and clothes.
I watch a young woman leave a Laundromat and go upstairs, to the apartment above it. From where I am standing, I am not sure if she is too tall.
A second woman exits an office building. She is quite short but annoyingly brisk, and I watch as she gets into a car that is nicer than mine. I am not sure I could get close to that one.
I see a woman at a coffee shop and sit at the table behind her. She is on a laptop, scrolling through sites that fall into two categories: politics and food. I know a smidge about both and wonder what kind of conversation we would have. This makes me curious enough to watch as she leaves, and then trail after her to get a license plate number.
I continue down the sidewalk until I see a small woman who is also a meter maid. She is writing a ticket. Her nails are cut short; so is her hair. I cannot see her eyes because of her sunglasses, but she isn’t wearing lipstick.
I pass by her close enough to read her name tag.
A. Parson.
Maybe her, maybe not. I haven’t decided yet. When she isn’t looking, I take a couple of pictures.
Later that night, Millicent is lying in bed and studying a spreadsheet on her computer. The kids are asleep, or should be. If nothing else, they’re silent. That might be the most we can hope for these days.
I slide into bed next to Millicent. “Hey there,” I say.
“Hey.” She scoots over to make room, though our bed is more than big enough.
“I went shopping today.”
“Jesus, I hope you didn’t spend any money. I’m looking at our budget right now, and we don’t have any extra. Not after the washer had to be replaced.”