I open the door to his small bedroom closet, my heart stops. The closet is a fucking BDSM shrine. Whips, canes, chains, and a whole slew of other implements hang from pegs on the walls. I don’t even want to imagine what some of the more obscure items are used for.
Shelves hold a variety of cock rings, nipple clamps, ball gags, handcuffs, anal plugs, leather harnesses and collars, as well as some other items the purpose of which appears primarily for causing pain. On a small table is a display of photographs that depict a number of different men tied up, harnessed, clamped, and gagged.
I photograph everything, from the items hanging on the wall, to the accessories displayed on the shelves, to the individual photographs. Several of them depict Eric Townsend in varying poses of degradation, including one of Eric being choked. I recognize the other two murder victims as well. It’s only circumstantial evidence, but it’s pretty damning. Brad Turner had sex with all three of the men who’ve been murdered, and here’s the proof.
“Shit.” One of the officers is standing behind me, peering into the closet. “At least you have enough to bring him in for questioning.”
I nod. I’ll have a forensics team out here within the hour to catalog these items and process them as evidence.
“Let’s go,” I say, heading back to the living room.
Turner is still seated in the recliner, with an officer standing guard. He’s not quite so confident now.
I stare down at him. “Brad Turner, you’re under arrest for the murder of Eric Townsend.” To the officer standing guard, I say, “Cuff him.”
Turner jumps to his feet, his face beet red. “I didn’t kill Eric! I swear to God, I didn’t!”
“That’s for the courts to decide.” And while the officer is putting Turner in handcuffs, I read him his rights.
As I walk out the door of Turner’s apartment into the hallway, my thoughts immediately go to Ian. The idea of Turner getting his hands on Ian makes me sick. I can’t get those photos out of my head, and the thought that Ian could have been one of those men shakes me to the core.
* * *
When we get back to the station, Turner is processed and booked.
As soon as I get to my desk, I get a phone call from one of the officers on Ian’s home security detail. Officer Swanson.
“He took off in his Porsche. We lost him in traffic.”
Fuck. Why am I not surprised? “All right. Thanks for the heads-up.” But at least Turner is in custody. That gives me some peace of mind, although not enough, as it’s not definitive that Turner is the one we’re looking for. Circumstantial evidence is just that—circumstantial. Until we have corroborating DNA evidence, we don’t know anything for sure yet.
I text Miguel.
Tell me you have Ian in your sights. – Tyler Jamison
A moment later, I get a return message.
I have Ian in my sights. – Miguel Rodriquez
The smart ass.
I head to my office to see if there’s anything new from forensics or from the coroner. I’m anxiously awaiting DNA results on tests from the crime scene on Eric’s boat. I check, but there’s nothing yet. I asked that the tests be fast-tracked, which means I can have the data in a matter of days, but still it takes time. And now we’ll have to wait for the DNA testing on the BDSM implements we confiscated from Turner’s little closet of horrors.
I go check on Turner, who’s been stewing in an interrogation room for nearly half an hour. I watch him for a few minutes through a one-way mirror. He’s clearly agitated, fidgeting in his chair and muttering to himself. His appearance is unkempt, his hair sticking up, his face covered in a scraggly two-day-old beard. It looks like he’s had a rough few days.
When I walk into the room, Turner’s head snaps up and he scowls at me. He’s seated at a table, his wrists handcuffed together. There’s a police guard outside the door.
I close the door behind me and take a seat opposite him, laying a manila folder on the table. “Mr. Turner.” He says nothing.
Without warning, he slams his cuffed wrists on the table. “You can’t treat me like this! I didn’t do anything!” He raises his wrists, threatening to slam them on the table again.
“If you’d calm down, we wouldn’t need to cuff you. This is just an interview, Mr. Turner, but you’re making it more difficult than it needs to