I weighed my options for learning more about Salk.
Trying to become closer to him personally was too risky, because if he was actually the man who killed your grandmother Rebecca, he would be looking at me closely for any signs that I suspected him. I was never an overly social person to begin with, so suddenly trying to buddy up to him would stand out, and I also didn’t want to be tied any closer to a person that may soon go missing.
Because even at that early stage I was resolved that when I was sure who took Rebecca from me I would kill them. In some ways my lack of equivocation on that point made things easier to plan, but it also meant I had to be extra careful.
For instance, using a private investigator to tail him was out. I couldn’t have a third party knowing about my interest in Salk—not even Daniel Church had his name, and his involvement was a necessary evil. Also, what if the P.I. saw Salk doing something illegal and called the police?
I understand how that sounds, but you need to remember that I had no idea what his motive was if he was the killer. Was it an isolated incident or part of something more? The brutality and the transporting of the body to the field pointed towards someone who had possibly killed before, but the inherent risk in taking someone from the place you work, even in a small and isolated parking lot like that one, made me wonder if he was either an amateur or at least very impulsive. Also, being honest, I didn’t want anyone between me and the person that took her away.
That left watching him myself. While I was no expert, I knew I would need three basic things: opportunity, ability to observe, and concealment. For opportunity, I slowly shifted my work schedule at the hospital to mirror that of Salk for the most part. This had to be done over the course of a month so I didn’t arouse suspicion. Even then it wasn’t perfect, as I would be on call at times and I couldn’t watch him constantly in even the best of circumstances. Still, I managed to develop a routine of watching him over 40 hours a week, which was the best I could manage by myself.
As far as ability to observe, I bought the best binoculars and parabolic mic I could afford, along with some tools for getting into places if I needed to. Planning ahead, I also bought a .45 pistol, five bundles of rope and three rolls of tape, two knives and a stun gun. I wasn’t planning to act yet, but I wanted to be prepared just in case. Obviously I had to get these items over time and with cash only.
Concealment was simpler but more expensive. I bought two older model cars that were cheap, reliable, and common. I had to look at a number of cars before I found two that had no distinctive damage, trim, or color combination that also weren’t likely to break down on me. I then found four places to park them where they wouldn’t be towed so long as they didn’t stay in one spot more than a few days. As long as I rotated them a couple of times a week, everything was fine.
I considered disguises, but I saw too many pitfalls. If I got
pulled over, it would look suspicious. If Salk saw and recognized me in
some get up, it would alert him right away when coincidence might
explain us intersecting otherwise.
I also wanted to keep up with any similar killings that might have
occurred, and this was before the world wide web, so that meant
newspapers. I got a dozen subscriptions from a roughly 500 mile radius
around and began pouring through them looking for murders and
disappearances.
By the time everything was in place, two months had passed from when I got the DNA results. The first night I set up down the street from Salk's house, I felt a stir of excitement mixed with my constant sadness and rage. The preparations of the last few weeks had preoccupied my thoughts somewhat, but it had done nothing to ease my sorrow or cool my anger. Sitting in the shadows on that quiet neighborhood street, I strained at every sound and movement like a racehorse waiting for the gate to drop. Just let me have something to confirm what this man had done so I could set to tearing him apart.
But of course nothing happened that first night or the nights that
followed. I would trail him from his home to the store, to the movies,
to a coffee shop where a bored girl twenty years younger than him tried
to gamely fend off his awkward flirtations. Between the binoculars and
the mic I could see and hear a surprising amount, and as time went on I
got better at positioning myself at the best angles while hopefully
staying inconspicuous.
Three weeks in and I felt like I knew Salk fairly well. He seemed
to be a lonely but harmless man that did nothing out of the ordinary.
But, of course, that was Outside Salk. I needed to see what Inside Salk
looked like.
I had explored the exterior of Salk's house one day when I knew he wasn’t there a month ago, and the safest place to enter seemed to be the back door. I had ordered a pick set and the same model lock as he had, a cheap four pin lock with no security pins. I had actually read a book on lockpicking when I was a kid, but I had been reading more lately in preparation for this. I practiced on the duplicate lock for hours, mainly using a small tension tool at the bottom along with a rake pick to trigger the pins. I knew the real lock would be keyed differently, of course, but with practice I could unlock the dupe in less than 30 seconds.
I picked a rare night that he was working and I was not and then I went to his house. Parking two streets over, I cut through back yards quietly, wincing at the bark of a nearby dog. As I crept across his yard and onto his back porch, I had an image of him popping out of the door with a shotgun lowered at my chest. I shook off the thought and crouched down at the door to begin picking. Every scrape of metal sounded enormous in the still night air, and I soaked my shirt with sweat in the two minutes it took me to open the lock. Without hesitating, I swung open the door and eased inside.
The air inside was stale and cool, with the faint smell of cleaning agents and paint the only notable aromas. I was entering through the kitchen, which was very clean but also completely bare. No food, no furniture—not even appliances aside from an oven that looked rarely used. I knew the house should be unoccupied, but I still moved quietly and made sure that my small flashlight stayed well below any windows.
Moving further into the house, I found empty room after empty room. No furniture or boxes or decorations. Then I reached what was I supposed was Salk’s bedroom. There was a bare mattress on the floor and a tall standing mirror in one corner. The closet contained a handful of clothes that were the same things I saw him wearing everyday. I saw something on the mirror and I went back to it. It was a picture of Salk, ten years younger and fifty pounds lighter. He was at the beach with a woman and they were in some kind of joking volleyball jock pose. He looked like he was really happy in the picture, and it lit his…
I heard the front door click and froze. It was unlikely it could be
anyone other than him, and regardless, I didn’t need to be caught in
his house. I went to the second closet in the room, fearing I would
find it full with items he regularly used. Thankfully it was empty, and
I eased the door closed a moment before he entered. I could see some
through the levered closet door, the wooden slats providing little
slashes of vision as he moved around. My heart pounded as he opened the
other closet and hung up his jacket before changing clothes. I found
out later he had asked for a half-shift at the last minute, which
explained how he was home six hours early.
Apparently he had decided to make the most of his evening, because
he was dressing to go back out. In blue jeans and a t-shirt he looked
almost normal except for when you saw his face. It was completely
devoid of expression as he silently moved around the room. After
putting on different shoes, he stood in front of the mirror staring at
himself, motionless, for several minutes. His stillness was almost
mesmerizing. When he finally moved, I almost jumped. He was reaching
for the picture. Holding it closer and studying it before studying his
own face again. His eyes went back and forth, back and forth, as a
facsimile of the smile in the picture took form on his face.
Watching the expression's slow birth across his lips was weirdly grotesque, but worse was the realization that came with it. He was practicing. He was practicing how he should look when he smiled.
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Credits
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