Chapter 15.

The non-stop flight to Chicago was both nerve-wracking and consoling to the woman whose ticket was in the name of 'Joan Foster'. She knew full well she was heading into what was perhaps the biggest test of her life – and that it was all hinging on a plan that she herself had conceived. If she was successful, she would be safe at last. If she was not successful, then all would be lost.

Either way, 'Joan' told herself, this is the last time I'm flying on a plane under a name that does not belong to me. Everything ends tonight!

Everyone was abuzz at the 19th District. The news that they had apprehended the person they fully believed to be responsible for the murders of eight women spread quickly through the ranks.

Officers had been watching Alec Fontaine for several months based on a tip from a citizen concerned that he had been secretly photographing women at a fitness club.

The fact that all of the victims in the string of murders had all belonged to gyms or were health and fitness enthusiasts caused authorities to take quick notice of Fontaine's activities.

At his residence, which forensics experts were still turning over, incriminating evidence of his heinous crimes was being found, including several hundred photographs of dozens of young women. Among them were images of many of the known strangulation victims.

Lieutenant Victor Matheson and another member of the task force, Detective Eric Singh were presently questioning Fontaine, who seemed quite unaffected by his arrest, and was maintaining a cheerful disposition.

"So, Mr. Fontaine, why'd you shut off all the appliances, huh? Turn off all the lights? What are you, some kind of energy conservation freak?" Lt. Matheson stared down at the accused.

Thirty-two years of age, Fontaine had short, closely cropped black hair. He was clean-shaven and wore a black crew-neck sweater and jeans. At Matheson's question, he simply shrugged.

"The white noise distracts me from my work, Lieutenant. I can't do my best work when it's all buzzing in my head like that. And those women only deserved the best!"

Matheson and Singh shook their heads in disgust.

Sergeant Mahoney, along with the Hardys and a few other members of the task force were watching the interrogation from the adjoining room. Frank couldn't help but think that Nancy would have loved to have been here, watching this proceeding through the two-way mirror.

A sudden commotion from the hall outside got their attention.

Detective Thomas Morrison had just stormed into the hallway, purposefully making his way towards the interrogation room. Sergeant Mahoney murmured an expletive under his breath.

"Excuse me," he said gruffly, and stepped out quickly to intercept Morrison.

"Hold on there, Tom," Mahoney said sternly, blocking his way. "Where do you think you're going? This is not your case, remember! Back away and turn around."

"Sarge, don't do this to me. I want to look at him. I want to see the son of a bitch that killed Deb. I want to be the one to tell him that he's never going to see the light of day ever again. I want to tell him to rot in Hell!"

"Are you sure that's all you want to do? Tom, I don't need any more 'police brutality' reports from this Department. Whatever thoughts you're thinking about harming that guy, get rid of 'em. Walk away. Walk away, Detective!"

Still fuming, Tom backed down and stomped down the hall and out of the building.

Oblivious to what had just transpired outside, Lieutenant Matheson was pacing, trying to not let the expression of cool detachment on the face of the handcuffed man seated at the table further infuriate him.

"Look at them, Mr. Fontaine: Sharon Burlington. Toni Hayes. Carolyn Brewster. Tara Bartkiewicz. Jeanne Weir. Eve Stillson. Debra Gray. Lynn McEwen…"

The man in custody reached his cuffed hands over the table, his fingertips reaching for the photographs of the eight women spread on the table.

The smiling faces were all somewhat similar in appearance. Framed by heads of dark hair, all the women were attractive and healthy-looking, and were between the ages of 23 and 36. Carolyn Brewster had been the youngest, Debra Gray the oldest.

"My, my," Fontaine said, gazing at the pictures contemplatively. "They're lovely, aren't they?"

"You killed them all!" Matheson seethed.

"Mmmm…interesting," Fontaine murmured with a soft smile playing on his lips. "Yes. I surely did take their lives. They're all mine… All except - this one…"

Fontaine's right index finger tapped the glossy photo of Dr. Debra Gray.

"Somebody else had the pleasure of doing this one. Shame. I might have liked doing her myself. Not quite my type, you know? She looks slightly older than what I usually go for."

Matheson frowned in confusion. A scowl formed on Singh's face.

Fontaine moistened his lips. "But who knows? A woman of her level of maturity and beauty might be even nicer…"

Eric Singh pounded his fist on the table. "Cut the crap! We know you killed Debra Gray to rub it in our faces. You were mocking us; taunting us. We've got you for these murders now, Fontaine. Give it up! Confess to all of them."

Fontaine drew his hands back towards his chest and interlocked his fingers.

"As I said quite clearly to your friend, Lieutenant Matheson, you brain-damaged reject," the killer growled at Singh with contempt, "I most certainly killed those other seven women in those photos. But that 'Dr. Gray' – someone else is responsible for her. I would say you have a copy-cat on your hands."

Detective Singh looked disgustedly at his prisoner as his loathsome features curled up into a grin of satisfaction.

"Isn't that wonderful? I have a fan out there who wants to imitate my handiwork. You know what they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!"

Lieutenant Matheson felt his face getting hot. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Fontaine's face, but he restrained himself.

In the room adjoining the interrogation room, Sergeant Mahoney turned away from the two-way mirror.

"If Fontaine didn't kill Dr. Gray…Who did?"

"He's messing with us," one of the detectives said dismissively. "He knows Dr. Gray was married to a cop. He's denying it because he wants to torture us with it."

"We're going through his 'stash' of photos he took of the all the women he was stalking, and of the 'trophies' he stole from their homes," another detective countered. "So far, we can't find anything to connect him to Dr. Gray."

"But everything was there…all the evidence added up, even down to the telephone cord," Mahoney said uneasily. "The newspapers and other media only said it was 'electrical' cords. Plus, all the household appliances and electrical things were turned off or unplugged. That detail never made it out of the Department. So either we have a leak, or Fontaine has a partner in crime."

"No. I don't think it's an accomplice, and I highly doubt there's a copy-cat," Frank Hardy spoke up. "But I think I do know who killed Dr. Gray, and I think I'm beginning to know why. But we have to move fast. This information does not leave this room. And have Fontaine under guard 24-7, got it? If what I believe to be the case is true, they'll try to kill him."

Sergeant Joseph MacMillan remained for several hours in the apartment after watching Mahoney and the Hardys depart. After receiving a series of cell phone calls and making some of his own, he ventured out himself. Things were finally reaching the boiling point, and by moving quickly, perhaps tonight everything he and many others had been working for would finally come to fruition.

The in-flight movie was something she had never seen before, but 'Joan' had no interest in watching it. Her thoughts were focused solely on the task ahead of her, and how all the events of the past fourteen months were finally building up to this one particular moment in time.

She felt so much older now, somehow. She remembered the youthful excitement and energy that she had when she made Detective and was partnered with the experienced veteran, Tom Morrison. With a heavy heart, she also remembered the jogs she used to take with his wife, Dr. Debra Gray.

The last time they'd gone for a jog had been the day before the drive-by shooting – the day before Debra was murdered. 'Joan' recalled Deb had been uncharacteristically quiet, as if she was distracted and weighed down with too many conflicting thoughts.

In the aftermath of finding her body, as other colleagues had arrived on the scene to take over, a seemingly shell-shocked Tom had asked how Debra had been on that excursion.

'Joan', with crystal clarity, replayed that conversation in her mind:

"Nancy, did Deb seem worried in any way yesterday? I mean, was anything bothering her?"

"Isn't that what I should be asking you? I'm sorry Tom, nothing specific. But she did seem distracted…worried."

"That's exactly what I mean…Worried. How so?"

"She said it was probably just stress over having to work double time to take care of Dr. Vasek's workload until they could get in a replacement. She seemed grateful she was able to get away for the half hour to have a jog with me. You know how she liked to keep fit."

"That's all? I mean, she didn't say anything else?" Tom pressed.

"If there was really anything else, she didn't confide in me. Tom, I'm so sorry."

She had embraced him then, fully expecting him to break down. She was crying by then, allowing herself that release. But Tom had remained, unmoving, stony in his silence. He had then gone off alone, and sat in the car. She remembered the heart-wrenching sobs she heard when she went to check on him, and turned away to let him grieve in private.

When was it that she had started to worry, herself? When had the real reason she was targeted for death break through to her conscious mind?

The federal agents involved with her initial removal and protection had asked her to seriously consider everything that had happened that week…When was it that the arrest of that petty drug dealer, Yuri Vladik, had started to ring some warning bells in her head?

And what about Tom's reactions to finding Debra and his insistence that she must have just been on her way out because the thermostat had been lowered? Both events had to be connected, and the key had to be the apprehension and subsequent death of Yuri Vladik.

She remembered it had been October 8th - two days before the shooting and Deb's murder, that Tom had spotted Vladik, trudging down the sidewalk, seemingly minding his own business. The two detectives had been out that week, trying to obtain as much information as they could from leads tied to the serial case. Upon seeing Yuri Vladik, however, Tom had slowed down, and pulled their unmarked car over to the curb.

"This won't take long," he had told her, as he climbed out.

"What are you doing?" Nancy had called out. Tom waved her off and quickened his pace to catch up with Vladik.

Realising from the decrepit area of town they were in probably indicated that Vladik was a drug dealer, Nancy couldn't help but wonder what her partner's interest in him was. She got out of the car and sauntered up beside Tom.

"We're not Vice," she had said quietly. "We have other things to worry about, remember? Like the serial case."

Yuri Vladik had protested loudly when Tom put an arm on him.

"What the hell is this? You can't touch me!" Then more softly as if he didn't want anyone to hear, "I've got protection."

"Yeah, I know all about you being a snitch," Tom said. "But you're also violating the terms of the agreement you made with the CPD. You're out here, dealing again. That's not good, man."

"Dealing? You got no proof! Hey! Lady, tell your partner to back off." Vladik whined to Nancy.

"Tom…" Nancy had looked up at him questioningly.

"Drew, I know you're no stranger to playing detective, but you've still got a lot to learn when it comes to handling these street parasites. Chicago ain't River Heights! This piece of scum thinks he can play things both ways."

"You can't do this! I've got my rights! You can't arrest me! You've got nothing on me!"

"Oh yeah? What's this?" Tom reached into Vladik's jacket pocket and produced a little pouch. It was full of a white substance that Nancy knew was most likely cocaine. "Let me guess, this is baby powder, right?"

"Hey man, that ain't mine! You know it ain't!" Vladik was now in an extreme state of panic.

"That's what all you morons say. And you know what? I'm sick of it. Shut up and get in the car! You're under arrest for possession with intent to sell."

"You can't do this!" Vladik howled.

"Watch me!"

Nancy had felt helpless to intervene.

It was later that afternoon that Yuri Vladik was found dead in his holding cell. His body had been taken to the morgue, where Dr. Stanley Vasek had performed the autopsy. Sometime in the middle of the paperwork, he had suffered his fatal coronary.

'Joan' knew that her friend, Dr. Debra Gray, had needed to cover the workload of Dr. Vasek and hers as well, until a replacement could be brought in – and that extra work would have included the completion of the report of Yuri Vladik's autopsy.

It was that awful twist of fate that was ultimately the reason that Debra was killed, 'Joan' thought sadly, as the plane soared over the clouds en route to Chicago, and it's high time someone confronted Thomas Morrison about it.

A/N:Yeah, some of you saw that development coming...kudos to you if you saw through my attempts at subterfuge. But the best is yet to come! Stay tuned...