The Temperton House
Fairfax, Virginia
September 5, 2001 8:30 p.m.
A strong breeze had cooled off the blistering summer in mere moments, which was accompanied by an unrelenting thunderstorm that dumped recycled water on our vehicle by the bucketful. The rain sounded like small pieces of hail pelting the van. Lightning flashed and lit up the darkening sky. The Temperton house was growing darker as time passed. We would be going in soon.
It had been a little over a month since we began our investigation and we were just a hundred feet from two of the most ruthless killers I had ever crossed paths with. I couldn’t help wondering why the media was rehabilitating them. The Temperton twins had dismembered people while they were still alive, yet the media kept talking about how they were raised by an absentee father and a crack-addicted mother. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Perhaps being reared in another culture had taught me to punish the guilty.
I had given the order to cut power to the house a few hours earlier. It was approaching nine p.m. My cell rang. It was my husband calling. “Hello.”
“How’s it goin’?” Keyth said.
“It won’t be long now. We’ll be going in when they fall asleep.”
“Guess who came into the office today?”
“Who?”
“Sean Bellamy.”