Page 84 of The Woman I’ve Become

Alicia appears engrossed as I tell the story. But the real surprise is Julia. She listens, her face unchanging, as if she expects exactly what I’m saying.

She knows. The realization sits like a rock on my chest. She fucking knew . . . maybe even all those years ago.

“His mother,” I go on, my voice a little tighter, “said he was a quiet child. Odd, really. He watched everyone so closely but kept to himself like an outcast. He never had friends that she knew of. Just a loner. His father was a janitor at the hospital in Greenville. He was an alcoholic, abusive bastard who beat his wife and kid.”

“So his childhood was even worse than yours,” Julia suggests, obviously enjoying the point.

I nod. No need to deny it. I’m not the one with the psych degrees, but I wonder if she’s one of those people who likes collecting friends well beneath her. Those kind are always easier to manipulate . . . to make you feel self-important. Oh yeah, I can see that. Just another of her nasty traits.

“By the time Casey was seventeen,” I say, continuing the biography on our old friend the psychopath, “his father was in prison for raping a young girl. His mother fell into her own issues with painkillers, and Casey disappeared. At the time my PI interviewed the mother, she hadn’t heard from him since just before he turned eighteen.”

“That is a tragic history,” Julia rebuts, “but it doesn’t tell us that he is the Judge.”

“I was just getting to the good part,” I offer with a knowing smile. “Casey’s father used to do this thing to his mother when he was in an alcoholic rage. He would beat her and then write the word failure across her forehead before locking her in the basement.”

There’s nothing but silence in the peanut gallery now.

“He did the same to Casey until Casey got big enough to fight back. His mom believed he was the one who turned his father in for raping that girl. The father swore until the day he died in prison that he didn’t do it, but the DNA said otherwise.”

“Is his mother still alive?” Alicia asks.

“No. I saw her obit on the internet a couple of years after the PI spoke to her.”

Julia says nothing, she won’t look at me.

“All that said,” I cut in, “I don’t think he is or was a serial killer.” Just a piece of shit with a twisted childhood.

Julia stares at me in confusion. “You just said you can prove he’s the Judge.”

Alicia shakes her head. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Just hear me out,” I insist. “I’ve thought about this a lot.” They both glare at me but say nothing more. “During those five years, there were twelve victims murdered and attributed to a killer the FBI dubbed the Judge. But what if there never was a serial killer?”

Alicia waves off the idea. “The FBI made that determination based on evidence that connected the murders.”

“I’m not saying there wasn’t a connection. I’m saying the connection was a ploy. A decoy of sorts.”

“That’s a big leap. How did you get there?” Julia isn’t ready to agree, but she is still listening.

At least she didn’t immediately insist I had to be wrong. But that may be more about curiosity as to what I actually know than belief on any level.

“The PI was able to determine that when Casey left Maine, he showed up in New York. He held a number of menial jobs. Eventually he ended up working for a man who supplied certain powerful men with playthings. Think The Girlfriend Experience gone wrong.”

They wait for me to go on, both fully immersed now rather than tossing out alternative scenarios or snide remarks.

“A year after going to work for this sick perv, the perv ends up dead. Beaten to death with the word greedy written across his forehead.”

Casey would have been twenty by then.

“A few months later, the first victim of the killer the FBI called the Judge was found. Based on the torture marks and the way she was killed, I believe Casey took over the dead guy’s business, and these victims were his way of disposing of the ones who were killed or rejected by his clients. He created this fake serial killer MO to cover up their mishaps. The FBI was thrown off any trail that might lead to him or to one of his customers. Eventually he moved on to a higher-class clientele, and the, let’s say loss related to consumer consumption diminished. Therefore the Judge cover was no longer needed, and those murders stopped.”

I have to hand it to him, it was a brilliant cover.

“This is a very interesting and detailed story,” Julia admits, her expression closed, “but you’ve always been a very good liar, Wendy. How do we know you’re telling the truth now.”

I look to Alicia. “The private safe in my closet.” I give her the combination. “You’ll find the file there. The ten thousand bucks I mentioned is there too. Take it.”

Alicia rushes from the room. I badly need to stretch my legs and go to the bathroom.