The Golden Locks Killer

 When the call came over the radio, Detective Ashton felt the speed of time in an instant. As his recently obtained sandwich collapsed through the air before crashing into its individual parts, his boots hit the pavement. In the wind, he knew he had an advantage. A case filled with familiarity from his days on the beat rang on a loop in his mind. If he were smart, he’d be there first. That was the best chance of catching them. After the third murder, the bloodshed appeared to be personal in nature. Each victim had at least three things in common, the first being the assurance that the killer would stick around. 

      The public named the assumable “him” The Golden Locks Killer. Yet, despite the leftovers eaten, couches slept in, and home videos watched, there was never evidence left behind to support the killer’s identity. 

      But Detective Ashton knew the first one there had a first glance at the scene, and he was only two blocks away. No more did he have to rely on the word of a rookie whose story often changed when faced with his aggressive tone. Yet, there was patience for them. He would wait until their notes were on file to read what they believed to see. He would jot it down in a notebook tucked in the left back pocket of his jeans and go on about his shift. He’d be careful to mumble under his breath, as the case wasn’t officially his. He was once one of those rookies, only one year on the job when the first killing occurred. He was responsible for blocking off the scene, but he wanted to be in there and more than a conversating accomplice to the officers leaving the scene. 

      “This is Detective Ashton responding.” He confirmed his intentions through the radio and instantly found himself flying down main street, sirens being his saving grace from a collision. 

      A minor cheer riled inside him as he appeared first on the scene, and with his gun guided from his holster, he approached the steps of the address to find curious eyes peeling through the front window. 

      “Ma’am?” He was careful to approach, combing her person for a weapon. 

      “Oh!” the woman turned to face him, clutching her chest in reaction. “You startled me! I live down the street. I was doing my morning walk, and I heard screaming. I called 9-1-1, but I’m not sure she’s ok.” The woman was walking toward him, concern painted across her face but something about her intrigued him. However, the possibility of catching the killer still in the house excited him. He looked back once more to make sure she made it safely to the pavement, and she paid him a glance, a smile of security painted on her face, and pushed the cracked door open, entering as quietly as possible. 

      “Hello? Detective Ashton with the LAPD.” He kept his gun raised, following the trail from the front door. He stepped over the broken picture frames and the candy wrappers lining the living room. He reached the dining room in time to hear the sirens in the distance. He knew if the killer were still there, he’d know it, and they would make their run before backup arrived. 

      He went into the kitchen, hoping to see a figure run across the backyard but found a woman splayed across the tile instead. She was still, yet he squatted down to check her pulse. To no surprise, he continued his search away from the cold victim. 

      He heard a creek on the floorboards above him and stood as the adrenaline filled his body. It took every instinct not to run up the stairs in pursuit, but he walked as fast as his training would allow him. He climbed the stairs, each foot faster than the other, keeping his head on a swivel for any movement to come out of the two doors he could see and the one behind him once he reached the top of the stairs. 

      He heard the creek again and walked toward the master bedroom, excitement filling his veins as he called out once more before kicking the door open. Detective Ashton kept his gun at eye level as the man turned, hands in the air and boxers the only thing gripping his body. He shook with fear but sighed with relief when he saw the badge painted on his belt loop. 

      “Please don’t shoot! I’m the neighbor. Daniel Gonzalez. My grandfather is going to kill me.” He lowered his head to hide his emotions, but Detective Ashton tried to see through them. If he was the killer, the story was elaborate, the lie was prepared, thought of likely as Detective Ashton ascended the stairs, and if it was the truth, it was logical.

      “Hands behind your back.” He pulled his handcuff from behind his back. At the very least, he was a witness, and either way, he would be making his way to the station, and it wouldn’t be until he was in the back of the cop car that Detective Ashton wished he offered him a chance to dress. 

      “Is she dead? I mean, I heard the fighting but…damn it!” He was doing an excellent job of convincing Detective Aston that he wasn’t the killer. He could see a tear swell and fall from Daniel’s eye as he walked him down the stairs, and a sigh of concern left his lungs as he looked around for a sign of her Detective Ashton passed him to the officer waiting by the door. Instead of building on it, he joined a familiar friend in the living room, marking down things in his notebook as a fine tooth sweeps every inch of the house. 

      “Hey, James.” Detective Ashton approached him, careful to stay out of the way of the jackets and DNA cases. 

      “Calvin.” James’s eyes were on the ceiling for some reason. 

      “Spilled beans?” Detective Ashton eyed the stain on the ceiling. 

      “One would think.” He directed a lab tech to check while he motioned out of the way, taking his first glimpse at Detective’s attire. “Benny’s sandwich cart?” He points to the mayo staining his navy-blue t-shirt. 

      “Yeah.” He aimed to brush it, but the dried feeling created an embarrassed expression Detective Ashton couldn’t hide. 

      “Too bad we’re no longer partners. Would’ve loved to see his face when you caught him in his boxers, nonetheless. Likely about to try on clothes again.” He referred to victim two so freely, another name on the list, another factor in the description of who could be next. 

      “Maybe. He didn’t really seem the type to, you know…try on women’s clothes, let alone leave with them.” He turned to get a glimpse of the police car driving off. 

      “That’s the thing with serial killers, Calvin, don’t understand them until they start talking.” He patted Detective Ashton on the shoulder, having dealt with his instructions. “I know you have special ties to this case, but leave it to the higher-ups.” He pointed to the well-tailored Detective addressing the news vans filling the street. “They live for these stories.” 

      Detective Ashton couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let the stories, the victims, the coincidences eat alive at him. That kid couldn’t be the killer, and if he was, what did that say about his instincts? He took the less crowded back entrance and took a walk around the block to clear his head. He ignored the car suddenly starting behind him as he walked down the street toward his vehicle. 

      After the moment needed in his car before placing the keys into the ignition, Detective Ashton made his way to the station. As he often did after another body was found, he needed to review the notes he’d taken months prior. With this being victim number five and just as personal as the rest, this was the first time a witness was left behind, making him question Daniel even more. How quickly, he thought, could a young man change out of his clothes to a more believable, less defensive attire? Would he risk not an ounce of his DNA being found around the house after claiming to be the victim’s lover? Or would he have removed his gloves to touch the surfaces of the bedroom and risk fingerprints being tied to something in the system? 

      Questions, nothing but questions and possibilities filled his mind as he drove back to the station. Comprehension was beginning to show difficulty. His hands gripped the steering wheel alarmingly as his mind raced to find what could be the truth versus the pieces placed together by reason to close this case. A tactic he hoped his brothers weren’t doing in the integration room. If it were Daniel, he’d know in time. 

      Instead of letting the questions consume him longer, he sat at his desk, pulling the folder from his left top drawer. He opened it, flipping through his notes, his eyes focused on the second commonality of the victims, age. Each victim was a year or two from thirty, and he thought of the targeting possibilities that singled them out. After all, not much time had passed since he was that age himself, and although, a new detective, he could remember being younger than that when finding the first body. The first victim, Carol Michael, a schoolteacher, was found on her staircase with twelve stab wounds. The only thing missing was her throw blanket, which the family claimed to be her favorite. 

      Detective Ashton jotted the object down in a newly made list of things taken or used by the killer. He flipped the page, a year passing between the first and second victim. Wise, he thought. It took the third victim, Mary Thompson, a nurse at LA General, to piece together the trifecta. Mary, found in her bathroom with eleven stab wounds, had the most confusing item taken from her kitchen—a half-eaten lasagna on the counter and no DNA on the fork. 

      It caused the idea of random attacks to make the whiteboard in the conference room. Many assumed it was the act of a homeless man, speaking shelter or food. Likely that idea didn’t last long once the media ran with it and a third victim appeared. Kendra Cristina, a social worker transferred from Sacramento, had only lived in LA for a few weeks and moved closer to her sister, who found her in her bed, assumingly asleep, until her sister pulled back the covers. Ten stab wounds, her wedding dress cut to shreds, and her childhood home videos jammed into the VCR. That’s when the dots connected, and the killer was deemed serial, and by victim four, the media named him. 

      “It’s a play on Goldilocks, you know, eating and sleeping in the three bears’ home. Some clever reporters, no doubt.” Detective Ashton could remember the explanation James deemed necessary as they grabbed their morning coffee. And although the case was on his mind then, the detective exam clouded his need to dive deeper into the matter. “Can you believe he killed a paramedic this time? I’m telling you police is probably next. He probably has a career chart, you know, the ones they give high schoolers? What if he’s in high school? Plot twist. Although, a school fundraiser could be how he’s getting in.” James hadn’t noticed his partner distracted by the exam questions crowding his mind and took it personally, likely one reason he no longer returned his calls. 

      However, after victim five, as he sat against his desk, the edge piercing into his stomach, he combed each detail of victim four, his handwriting quick and distracted; luckily, dazed notes came easy when he compared them to the letters he wrote to his father from that time. He jotted down a summary on the page. Emily Vance, a Paramedic of eight years, was found in her sons’ room in the middle of the school day, stabbed nine times, her paramedic uniform missing, and a snack left on the dining table, dino or diner nuggets judging by Detective Ashton’s handwriting, he wrote down both. Why would he leave behind snacks, he thought? Kill the mother and feed the child? He didn’t understand it, yet he wrote it down anyway. 

      “Working the case, Calvin? I knew you couldn’t stay away.” James leaned against his desk, a thick file by his side. 

      “You know me and puzzles.” He pointed to the file. “Info on the newest victim?” He hoped. 

      “Actually, yeah. They want to make sure the kids’ story checks out. I mean, he obviously didn’t do this. He would’ve been 15 when the first murder happened.” James rolled his eyes as he whispered. “But I get it. Dotting I’s and crossing T’s.” He took a brief glimpse at Detective Ashton’s notebook. “I tell you, it stays between us and your little red book?” 

      Detective Ashton nodded. “Only share once I catch him.” He smiled, knowing it would sweeten his odds. 

      “Maria Holland…dental hygienist.” He shrugged through the rest of the information. 

      “Stabbed eight times?” Detective Ashton asked. 

      “Autopsy isn’t in, but you saw the blood man, probably.”

      “What was taken?” Detective Ashton tapped his pen against the notebook. 

      “Nothing definite yet. Kid says she had this locket she always wore, but we haven’t been able to find it. She also says she had a dog, but the door was cracked when you got there, so who knows? Probably ran for cover. Sure, it will turn up.” James tapped the large file against the edge of the desk and prepared to leave, but Detective Ashton requested one more favor, something he hadn’t thought of yet, to listen to those who found the bodies. 

      “Hey James, you think I can listen to the woman’s police call, just in case there’s something there.” He gazed at his notebook, searching for a name he never obtained. He looked up at James as he gazed over his paperwork. A confused expression met him as James held his finger on a name highlighted in the file. 

      “The caller wasn’t a woman. It was Maria’s neighbor Mr. Gonzalez, the kids’ grandfather. Heard the TV up to loud, peeked across the way and saw her body on the kitchen floor.” The epiphany almost caught in his throat as Detective Aston rose to his feet, realizing he had let the killer these women shared get the best of him, and he knew he couldn’t share that with James nor anyone else. Until he was sure, he couldn’t let them know that Goldilocks walked right past him with only a look in her eye to remember her by.