38

Russo Maria Bianchi woke in a strange bed and took a moment to orient herself. She sat up, her nude body slender in the dawn’s light coming through the open window. Beside her, a young man lay asleep—his skin, smooth and unblemished. The skin of youth.

She traced her fingers delicately across his back, savoring the warmth of his youthful flesh. Rising gracefully, she collected her scattered clothing from the floor. Her long chestnut hair came down to midthigh, and she found her elastic and pulled it back. She heard the man in the bed inhale as he woke and rolled over onto his back, watching her. She pulled on her black thong and then her business suit, putting the pinstripe jacket on and looking at herself in a full-length mirror by the bed.

“Why do you have a full mirror by your bed?” she said.

“I like to look at myself when I get up.”

She shook her head. “Youth really is wasted on the young.”

He sat up, and the sheets rustled. “I thought we could grab some breakfast.”

She turned and looked at him. He was easily half her age, and the brightness in his eyes was captivating. Life hadn’t touched him yet. No crow’s-feet or ulcers from a cheating spouse, no lessons in solitude from raising two children as a single parent working full time. He was sweet and innocent, and she wondered how long that would last.

She cupped his beautiful face in her hands and kissed his forehead before whispering, “Oh honey, you only have one good trait, and I’ve had my fill of it. I don’t need you anymore.”

He sat quietly on the bed, shocked, as she got her bag and left the apartment.

The hallway was dirty and smelled like mold. She had lived somewhere similar through law school. An old mental institution that the owner couldn’t sell and instead converted to student housing.

Since it had a past as an institution, especially back when the mentally ill were treated worse than livestock, Russo thought people might have died there, either by their own doing or others’. She heard things at night, odd sounds and movement, but the rent was so cheap, she convinced herself it was noise from the other apartments; looking back she knew they weren’t. She had the luxury now of accepting the truth. Truth wasn’t always a luxury life afforded.

She got into her Porsche and rolled the top down as she slid her sunglasses on. A text from her assistant buzzed her phone. It said Our office got assigned a new case. It’s all over the news!!!

She clicked on the link her assistant had sent, and it opened up an article.

The Creeper’s Origins: A Dive into Owen Alistair Whittaker’s Tumultuous Past

By Rachel Stowers, Staff Writer for Las Vegas Ledger

Las Vegas has borne witness to numerous harrowing tales over the years, but the story of Owen Alistair Whittaker, chillingly christened “the Creeper,” has unquestionably shaken our community.

Hailing from Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana, Whittaker’s early life played out in a boys’ home known to some in our area with Louisiana roots—a place spoken of in hushed tones due to its troubled history. The tragic event at the hands of some older boys that permanently scarred young Owen, leaving half his face burned and rendering one eye sightless, has become a defining chapter in his unsettling narrative.

Beyond these physical scars, Whittaker grappled with a rare condition diagnosed when he was just ten. This ailment seemed to freeze Owen in time, trapping him in a childlike physique.

After departing the boys’ home, Whittaker took to wandering. Sources at the freight train circuits who didn’t want to be identified have reported spotting him boarding trains in his youth, possibly marking the start of a sinister trail across the country.

Law enforcement agencies, just beginning to put pieces of a grim puzzle together, have started tracing his movements by linking him to an escalating series of crimes centered around rail stops. While some of these offenses started off as mere petty thefts—stolen goods from nearby establishments or unsuspecting passengers—it wasn’t long before his transgressions took a more menacing turn. Records have revealed Whittaker’s potential involvement in more grievous and harrowing acts, painting a portrait of a man who might have harnessed the anonymity of the railways to unleash a reign of terror.

However, for us in Sin City, the nightmare truly began with the Ember Lake incidents. The memory of the senseless loss of Adam Mitchell, Sarah Griffith and college student Ava Mitchell during what was meant to be a leisurely vacation still casts a long shadow over our city. As if that horror wasn’t enough, the tragedy surrounding Emily Grace and her young son, Sullivan, further magnified the Creeper’s menace. Investigations into these episodes paint a macabre picture: Whittaker, exhibiting almost supernatural patience, would stake out homes, hiding within walls or basements, before emerging with malevolent intent.

The ordeal faced by the Graces, particularly the unsettling revelation of Whittaker’s prolonged covert stay within their home, has sent shock waves throughout our neighborhoods.

As Whittaker’s impending trial looms, many in Las Vegas are left grappling with uneasy questions. How did a boy from a distant parish in Louisiana come to instill such terror in our community? And in this city of bright lights, have we unwittingly overlooked the shadows that lurk among us?

Russo texted back: The writing’s garbage.

Who cares??? It’s huge. It’s all over insta!!!

Over what?

Instagram.

OK.

She sat there a moment, debating. She could head home, but something about the article stuck with her. It piqued her interest, and not a lot of things did after forty years of practicing criminal law in one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world.

She started her car and headed for the county jail.