Page 2 of A Christmas to Die For
I imagine the television behind us, dead center, displaying the same image once the podcast is edited and released. Phoebe, the one recording this and equally as helpful at editing these interviews, also rolls her eyes when I veer off script.
"Please… I can't see it again," Holly blubbers. I imagine finding it in real life was traumatizing enough. Being forced to relive it now, under a microscope, must feel unbearable.
But still, this will make for great ratings.
The photo—likely snapped by a rookie cop inside Holly's apartment—captured a collection of blood-stained panties, caked with dirt. Though none of the victims had been sexually assaulted, their missing undergarments later turned up, tucked inside a hollowed-out book, soaked in their own blood.
Alongside the panties was a stack of Polaroids, each capturing the victim's final resting place, frozen in time with the click of a camera. Aside from the leaked photo itself, the actual Polaroids were never released to the public, nor should they have been.
"Those women did not deserve what happened to them. He—I can't even say his name—"
"The Silk Stalker," I remind our future listeners, despite the urge to break my serious expression and warp my lips into a smile. The idiot cop who leaked the photo could have been the same dumbass who also coined that ridiculous nickname.
The Silk Stalker?
I guessThe Night StalkerandJack the Ripperwerealready taken.
Jack Dixon, the boyfriend in question, could've had a much better nickname, considering his innuendo-laden last name. Hell, evenJack the Panty Ripperwould've been a decent option, had they known his identity. Regardless of the silly name, he evaded capture for two whole years. His true identity was only revealed when Holly called the police herself.
Jack's involvement and connection to the murders, even posthumously, quite possibly never would've happened if Holly hadn't found what she did.
On paper, Jack looked as innocent as the helpless women he preyed on. It was astonishing he hadn't appeared in any police databases—not even CODIS. He didn't have so much as a speeding ticket. He moved through the world unnoticed, like so many ordinary men who conceal unspeakable things behind a harmless facade.
The forensic report for the fourth victim raised a few eyebrows. The semen found at the scene wasn't typical. While it had the distinct markers of human semen, it suggested it hadn't been naturally ejaculated. Further testing revealed traces of spermicide—the kind commonly found in condoms.
It wasn't conclusive, but the evidence pointed in one direction—the killer had used a condom to masturbate and then tossed it in the bushes. He was cocky enough to know any DNA left behind wouldn't lead back to him.
"Holly, I know sex lives are private, but tell us about the darkness behind your relationship."
She rips a tissue from the nearby box, dabbing at her eye as if trying to regain some control.
"I haven't told anyone this publicly, only the police."
I'm like a frantic dog, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, waiting for my treat. This is going to be good.
"Jack had a difficult time getting… hard," she admits, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I think he had some dark secrets from his past he wasn't willing to share with me. He had a hidden part of himself he kept locked away. Even when we tried sex without a condom, he'd finish right after entering me. But if we used a condom, his erection wouldn't last. It was like a weird limbo where sex was never satisfying for either of us. Most times, we'd give up, and he'd go to sleep angry with me, like it was my fault. I was honestly worried that maybe it was…"
She pauses, taking a sip of water, her hands trembling as she sets the glass back down. "He wanted to try something new—something I wasn’t willing to experiment with. Strangulation. That was a hard no. Eventually, our sex life dwindled to special occasions—anniversaries, Valentine's Day, each of our birthdays. But even then…" She scoffs, clearly ashamed. "Even then, he never finished. At least, not with me."
"Because every special occasion where intimacy was expected, he left in the middle of the night and found someone else?"
"Yes." A lone tear falls, and I hope Phoebe caught that glistening down her cheek.
"If I may be so bold," I begin, "How did the hidden panties go undetected? You lived together forso long…"
"He never gave me any reason to think he was hiding something. Nothing was ever off limits—his office didn't even have a lock. He'd just tell me to be careful around his shelves because of some fragile Lego figurines. I had no reason to snoop because we trusted each other."
"What made you even look at the book?"
"Our anniversary was coming up, and I had seen a collector's edition of aStar Warsbook, so I went into his office and looked through his shelves to make sure he didn't already have it. I saw an old, weathered-looking hardback, thick, like an encyclopedia, and something just... made me pick it up. When I opened it and saw the pages hollowed out, and the bloody panties—and the smell. Oh, my God. I didn't look through the Polaroids. I saw the first one stacked on top. That's all I needed to see."
"Holly, what was it like seeing the photo?"
"I wanted to throw up. I wanted to…"
I give her a moment to catch her breath, but she doesn't continue. I give her the gentle nudge again. "Go on."
Holly shakes her head, like she doesn't want to reveal what happened next. She covers her face in shame, knowing she has to tell me the next part. It's what we're all waiting to hear.
