Interpol said our killer was in his early forties; Ken Riley would turn thirty-three this summer. Neighbors knew Ken traveled a lot on business, that he was rarely home on weekends, and it seemed like he had really bad luck with his cable because there was frequently a white van parked out front. Ken's company car; a late model Oldsmobile, had not survived the explosion and fire. The contents of the trunk were still under study. There was no sign of the white van. Back tracing Ken's credit cards got the feds nowhere. Apparently Ken used cash for almost everything except his company expense account. But the expense records showed he had been in all three cities at the time the three dead girls had disappeared.A dozen roses were delivered to the fifth floor of the federal building in downtown Los Angeles addressed to Special Agent Rebecca Hampton. When they arrived at her desk, she assumed they were from a certain teacher she had been spending a lot of time with, but then she opened. Here is my side of the story, and I know once you avid readers digest it, will comment on it as it unfolds before your eyes.We had drank a lot of champagne, long after our guests had departed, all except one, my husband’s friend George, who was staying on at the same hotel as we were.The plan was for us to depart the following evening on our official honeymoon, but for this evening, to stay on and be fresh for our journey.It was early morning and still I sat in my wedding gown, part drowsy as it had been a long day, but mostly drunk, exhibiting a naughtier side through my drunkenness, which brought laughter from both my husband and George, who exhibited an unhealthy desire for me to continually show my stocking tops.I was being titillated and turned-on by him, seduced within a short distance of our marital bed, my bridal gown remaining high on the side facing him, while my husband drink hard liqueur, I was toying with the notion of taking on my first adulterous affair, with a man in.
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