Текст книги "Sight Unseen "

Автор книги: Iris Johansen

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Really?”

“It’ll never happen, but he’s made quite a name for himself. Which was obviously the point. Anyway, he’s been doing his show from northern California to capitalize on the Colby execution. He and his team were actually at San Quentin yesterday the same time we were.” He paused. “They want to interview you.”

“Why me?” Kendra asked.

“You’re the one who captured him.”

“I beat his brains out with a rock.”

“Even better. We told them you never spoke to the press about your cases, but they claim that their investigative reporting has uncovered some information that might be helpful to us. If you consent to an interview.”

“I hope you hung up on them.”

Griffin checked his watch. “Actually … Chatsworth’s producer is in the conference room upstairs.”

“What?”

“I made no promises. I only said if they gave us what they have, I’d let them meet you and pitch you on the idea of an interview.”

Kendra glared at him. “Are you rolling out the red carpet for every nutjob who claims to have a tip? Or just the ones who want to impose themselves on me?”

“Hear her out, politely decline, and we’ll see what they have.”

Kendra looked over at Lynch.

He shrugged. “We could subpoena their materials, but I have a hunch they would refuse anyway. If this guy likes to showboat the way his reputation suggests, he’d love nothing better than to see himself as a crusading reporter caught in a U.S. First Amendment case. It would be quicker to just hear them out.”

Kendra muttered a curse. “Fine. But if I see a camera, it’s going right out the window.”

*   *   *

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Kendra joined the FBI team in the conference room where Lily Holt was seated at the table’s head with a thin binder in front of her. The woman’s choice of seating and regal posture immediately annoyed Kendra. It seemed as if she was positioning herself as the CEO, and they were her underlings.

She didn’t stand as they came into room. “Dr. Michaels, nice to meet you.”

“Please make this fast, Ms. Holt.” Kendra sat in the chair closest to her. “As you can imagine, we’re all very busy.”

“As am I,” she said.

“I have one question for you,” Kendra said. “Why on earth do you want to give Eric Colby any more attention than he’s already been given? Don’t you realize that’s exactly what he wants?”

“What Eric Colby wants has no bearing on what we do. It’s what our viewers want.”

“They want to see a diseased maniac ranting and raving with an inflated sense of self-worth?”

“No.” Lily gave her a tight-lipped smile. “They want to see him die.”

The producer’s icy demeanor left Kendra momentarily speechless.

“Trust me,” Lily continued. “We’re not putting him on a pedestal. It’s clear he’s a vile human being, and this world will be an infinitely better place once he’s not in it.”

“I heard that your show advocates the return of the death penalty in England.”

“Yes, it’s been half a century since Great Britain has executed a prisoner, yet over two-thirds of the population now favors capital punishment. Bobby Chatsworth and his show just reflect the frustration that society has with the justice system.”

“Are you sure that he’s not helping to shape it?”

“I’ll let sociologists be the judge of that. What I can say is that we’ve devoted a lot of airtime lately to people whose lives have been touched by violent crime. Citizens are outraged. They feel that the perpetrators of these horrible crimes have forfeited their right to share the planet with the rest of us.”

“Enter Eric Colby.”

“As soon as the execution date was set, we knew this was a story our viewers would have interest in. This is a system that works. Not often enough, perhaps, but the families of Eric Colby’s victims will see justice done in a way that victims in the UK never could. We’ve interviewed police officers, a retired FBI agent, and several close relatives of Colby’s victims, all in an effort to paint a portrait of the man. A portrait of a monster.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

“You witnessed the horror in the way no one else did. You saw Eric Colby murder two FBI agents. Then you survived an attack from him, the only person to do so. Not only did you survive, you were the one to finally bring him down. Your story will always be intertwined with his, Dr. Michaels.”

“You’ll never be done with me, Kendra…”

Colby’s words. Colby’s voice echoing in her head.

Again.

Shake it off. He would soon be a memory, no more than a bad dream.

“I have no interest in helping you perpetuate his memory.”

“Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as having the last word on Eric Colby.”

“His actions speak for themselves. And nothing will speak louder than his dying in front of a roomful of witnesses.”

“Bobby Chatsworth begs to differ. We saw you leaving the prison yesterday. What did you and Colby say to each other?”

“I’m not going to discuss it. Not now, not ever.”

“Dr. Michaels, if you’ll just sit down with us for ten minutes…”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“I came here in good faith—”

“You’re here because I agreed to meet with you, which is a courtesy I never extend to people in your profession. Ask around.”

“I have.”

“Then you know I’ve already given you something that I never expected to give. Now, what do you have for us?”

Lily’s lips tightened. “I do hope you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Okay, a deal is a deal.” She was silent, trying to decide where to begin. “In addition to victims’ families and law-enforcement officers, we’ve also conducted several interviews with people who have corresponded with Colby and even visited him in prison. Over the weekend, we interviewed an attractive young woman who actually proposed marriage to him.”

Kendra didn’t even try to hide her revulsion. “What’s most disgusting is that she’s probably not the only one.”

“She isn’t. The ironic thing is, even Colby thinks these people are nuts. We’ve spoken to several journalists, a movie producer, and a true-crime author who seem quite captivated by him.”

“So?” Griffen said impatiently.

“It’s no secret you’re investigating the serial murders here in San Diego, and suddenly you all have cause to visit Eric Colby just days before he is to be executed. You obviously believe there is some link between Colby and this killer. We don’t know if you’ve received a credible tip or found some evidence, but it’s clearly a path you’re exploring.”

“We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Griffin said.

“Of course not. But it occurred to us that we still may be able to help each other. We’ve spoken to many of the people who represent Colby’s most likely allies in the outside world.”

“We already have all of his visitor’s logs,” Griffin said.

“I’m sure you do. But what you don’t have”—Lily pulled three DVDs from her binder and placed them on the table—“are these.”

Kendra picked up a DVD. “And these are?”

“Raw interview footage of the people I was just talking about. I’m sure you may have already begun interviewing them yourselves, but this could prove helpful to you. They’re an odd bunch.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Kendra dropped the DVD back onto the table. “So this is what you wanted to give us in exchange for an interview with me?”

“That was my boss’s idea. He’ll be angry that I didn’t hold out for that on-camera interview with you, Dr. Michaels. Somehow, I think this is more important than that interview. But this actually isn’t all. Contrary to our reputation, we actually take our research very seriously. We check our sources very carefully.”

Lynch’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “What did you find out?”

“It’s more like what we didn’t find out. There’s a crime author named Lance Kagan. He’s written a few articles for the pulp true-crime magazines. He wrote Colby and said he wanted to write a book about him. Colby agreed to see him a few times.”

“And?”

“The man who came to see Colby, the man we later interviewed … wasn’t Lance Kagan.”

Kendra tensed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that true-crime writer Lance Kagan exists, but he has no special interest in Eric Colby. He lives in New Mexico, and he had no idea someone was using his identity to visit a death-row prisoner.”

Kendra looked back at Griffin. “You have to undergo an application process before you’re allowed to visit a prisoner. Don’t they verify the identity?”

“Yes.” Lily answered for him. “They do, but evidently he had some excellent fake credentials. Plus, on his first visit, they would have fingerprinted him. Whoever he is, a complete set of his fingerprints are on file at San Quentin State Penitentiary. I’m assuming that if they run them at all, it’s just to see that they don’t match a convicted felon’s.”

“Exciting.” Reade suddenly entered the conversation, her expression eager. “Did Colby know he wasn’t really talking to Kagan?”

“We brought up the subject at yesterday’s interview with Colby. He acted as if he had no idea what we were talking about.”

“That means nothing,” Kendra said. “He’s a stone-cold psychopath.”

“We’re of the same opinion,” Lily said. “So the answer to your question is that we have no idea if he knew. But you can look at Colby’s interview footage yourself. It’s on the third disk, the same one as the phony Lance Kagan.”

Kendra glanced at Lynch, then at Griffin. She knew they were all thinking the same thing that she was: Was Kagan their Myatt? But there was no way they’d put that thought into words before a tabloid TV journalist.

Lily looked at the projector on the other side of the room. “Go ahead and pop in the DVD. I’ll go through it with you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Griffin said. “We’ll call you if we have any questions.”

“I really think it would be best if I’m here when you—”

“We’ll watch it later,” Lynch said. “But thank you for coming in. This could be very helpful.”

Lily glanced hopefully at Kendra. “Worth at least a ten-minute interview, don’t you think?”

As annoying as Lily was, Kendra had to admire her persistence. And she had kept her word when she could have backpedaled on that promise. “I’ll consider it.”

“I can have a crew here tomorrow, anywhere you choose.”

Kendra stood up in dismissal. “Give me your card. I’ll let you know.”

*   *   *

LILY HAD NO SOONER BEEN ESCORTED from the conference room when Reade grabbed the third DVD, popped it into the player, and fired up the projector.

Metcalf picked up the remote and smiled. “I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a show since the last episode of Breaking Bad. Who wants to make the popcorn?”

Griffin crossed his arms. “Just get this guy on-screen. I want Kendra to take a good long look at him.”

Metcalf scanned through the interview footage, playing a few seconds each time a new subject appeared on screen. Each segment featured a header card that gave the name and a brief description of each interviewee.

It opened with a long shot of Bobby Chatsworth himself, walking and talking among the dozens of protestors they had just seen at the San Quentin East Gate the day before. After a few seconds, Metcalf scanned to the first interviewee. He appeared to be transfixed by the demure prospective bride discussing the simple yet tasteful wedding she envisioned in the prison chapel.

“Man,” Metcalf said. “If we don’t arrest her as a serial killer, she’s just nutty enough to be a reality-TV star.”

“Skip it,” Griffin snapped. “Get to Kagan.”

“Sorry.” Metcalf advanced to the next interviewee. “Here we go,” he said, reading the header card. “Lance Kagan, true-crime author. Okay, Kendra, you’re on.”

She eagerly stepped front and center. The on-screen image faded in, and—

Her hopes plummeted. “It’s not him.”

“Are you sure?” Lynch asked.

“Positive. Damn. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Griffin frowned. “Well, he still goes to the top of our list of Colby’s suspicious prison visitors. I’ll get in touch with the warden and have them transmit those fingerprints to us. We need to find out who this guy really is.”

Reade stood up with her laptop. “Well, I have another one we should look at.”

“What do you have?” Kendra asked.

“I finally got all of Colby’s prison visitor logs in my database. I just now cross-referenced them with the names we gathered from online discussions about you, Kendra. I got a hit. He’s a local.”

“What’s his name?”

She glanced at her laptop screen. “David Warren. He has a Little Italy address, probably one of those funky lofts. On his visitor application, he listed his occupation as ‘artist and dreamer.’”

Lynch rolled his eyes. “Great.”

“He’s obviously a big admirer of Kendra’s, which would fit the profile of our copycat. He commented on many of her cases in the online forums. But he also visited Colby for some reason.”

“You’re right,” Lynch said. “We should talk to him.” He turned to Kendra. “Shall we take this one?”

Kendra nodded emphatically. The disappointment she had suffered about the identity of Kagan was still with her. She did not want this morning’s work to be a complete waste.

“Let’s do it.”

*   *   *

“WARREN’S BUILDINGISBEING marketed as a collection of artist lofts,” Kendra said as she walked with Lynch toward the Ash Street address. The building was nestled in the heart of Little Italy, which had recently emerged as a trendy neighborhood of restaurants, coffee shops, and art galleries.

Kendra glanced down the street. “I like this neighborhood. I come here most Saturday mornings for the farmer’s market.”

“That’s interesting. I stay away from here most Saturday mornings for the exact same reason. Street closures aren’t my thing.”

“Huh. You might think it was worth it if you used veggies for something other than a garnish for those strong alcoholic drinks you pound back.”

“You may have a point there.” Lynch found David Warren’s name on the building directory and pressed the buzzer.

After a moment, a young man’s voice came from the intercom. “Yeah?”

“David Warren?”

Long pause.

“Yeah?”

“My name is Adam Lynch. I’m here with Kendra Michaels. We wondered if we might—”

The buzzer sounded, and the front door unlocked.

Lynch grabbed the door and swung it open. “Looks like I found the magic words: ‘Kendra Michaels.’”

“Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.”

They entered the lobby and climbed the open stairway to the third floor. Except for the light hardwood floors, the building interior was entirely white, with a minimalist aesthetic that bordered on antiseptic.

Hard-driving metal music pounded their ears as they approached Warren’s door, which was open a few inches.

Lynch grimaced. “Can’t stand that stuff.”

“It’s Queensryche. You should try opening your mind a little.”

“I know who it is. It’s just that as far as their lead singers go, Todd La Torre doesn’t hold a candle to Jeff Tate.”

Kendra’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Impressed?”

“In shock. This conversation isn’t over.”

Lynch leaned into the open doorway. “Hello?”

No answer.

Lynch and Kendra exchanged a glance.

“It could be Myatt in there.” Kendra tensed. “I hope to hell I recognize him in some way. That damn disguise he used at the Harvey house…”

Lynch nodded and moved his jacket just enough to put his holstered automatic within easy reach. He pressed on the door with his fingertips.

“Hello?”

They walked into the apartment, which, like most so-called artist lofts, featured high ceilings, exposed ductwork, and ample natural light. In keeping with the minimalist design, there was almost no furniture. In-progress artwork leaned against almost every available inch of wall space and several of the large windows.

“Just one minute!” At the far end of the room, a thin young man in an untucked pink flannel shirt held a paint-spray gun in each hand. He moved back and forth in front of a tall canvas, firing off bursts of red and pink paint. His face was covered by a twin-filtered mask that reminded Kendra of a robotic sci-fi villain.

She didn’t have to see his features. “It’s not Myatt,” she murmured to Lynch. “Warren is almost a foot shorter than the man I saw at Corrine Harvey’s.”

“I’m at a crucial point,” Warren shouted over the music. His voice was muffled by the mask in a way that only bolstered the sci-fi-villain vibe.

Kendra stared at the canvas as he paced back and forth and sprayed more paint from every conceivable angle. It was chaotic and abstract in a way that gave modern art a bad name, with no form or meaning.

But then, with a few deft bursts from the spray gun, that all changed. What had appeared to be random suddenly became nuanced and complex; what had appeared unsightly was now beautiful.

Kendra gasped.

The painting was of her.

The artist yanked off his mask to reveal a pair of dark eyes, a beaklike nose, and a reddish brown goatee. “You weren’t sure about it at first, were you?”

Kendra studied the painting, which was a larger-than-life representation of her profile. Her head was tilted down slightly, and her eyes were closed. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s shit. But I’ll keep working at it.” He looked between her and Lynch. “I’m David Warren. What do you want?”

“We’re investigating a series of murders, and we’d like to ask you some questions,” Lynch said.

“Why me?”

Lynch shrugged. “We’re looking for a twisted son of a bitch with a fascination for serial killers and Kendra Michaels. Sound like anybody you know?”

“I’m fascinated with purity.” Warren walked over to the portable stereo, where his iPhone was docked. He punched a button and turned off the music. “There’s nothing more to it than that.”

Kendra shook her head. “Pure? No one could describe me as pure.”

“Not you. I’m talking about Eric Colby.”

Lynch raised his eyebrows. “You think Colby is pure?”

“Of course. Evil is often pure. There’s no good, no light, to be found in someone like him. Just darkness. But in the so-called good people, there’s always a bit of darkness mixed in with the light.”

“You sound like Colby talking,” Kendra said.

Warren flashed them a thin-lipped smile. “You say that like it’s not a compliment.”

“Is this something you and he have discussed?” Lynch asked.

“I don’t remember. Our time together was very limited. I only visited him once, but, of course, you know that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Kendra noticed that Warren wasn’t looking at them when he spoke. His eyes were focused on the painting, and she and Lynch appeared to be just minor distractions, like flies buzzing around while he tried to work.

“What possessed you to visit Colby?” Lynch asked.

“I have a show coming up at a gallery down the street. One of the main theses is the nature of evil. I corresponded with him a bit, then I asked if I could see him. He agreed.”

“What did you talk about?”

“His murders. What he was thinking and feeling during each one.”

“Pleasant.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be pleasant. I was trying to understand him and others like him. I’m not interested in just painting what people look like. I need to work from the inside out, what they think and feel. Otherwise, I might as well be a portrait photographer at Sears.”

“Did Colby ask you to do any favors for him?” Lynch asked.

“Like what? Commit murder? Uh, no.” Warren glanced over at Kendra. “But I did send him a few pictures I found of you online. It’s all he ever asked of me.”

“How many pictures?” Lynch asked.

“Thirty or forty. I got the impression he had already gathered quite a collection from his other pen pals.”

Lynch took a step closer to Warren and his voice lowered to soft menace. “Dr. Michaels here has been the focus of a lot of your online time, hasn’t she? You’ve written about her at great length in a few different true-crime forums.”

“You have done your homework, haven’t you?” For the first time, Warren was studying Lynch with something approaching respect. “Just more information-gathering. She’s squared off against some of the darkest souls imaginable. What does it take to defeat and outsmart people like this again and again? How do they affect you? Do you become more like them, or does it make you run even further from that side of yourself?”

“We’re here to ask questions, not answer them,” Lynch said. “Where were you between midnight and 3 A.M. this morning?”

“Ah, now we’re getting down to business.”

“It was a direct question,” Kendra said. “Care to give us a direct answer.”

“Sure. I was here.”

“And is there anyone that could confirm that?”

“Like an alibi? Hell no. The woman I usually live with left me three weeks ago. She can’t stand my guts right now.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Lynch said.

“Is that attitude really necessary, man? Just so you know, I haven’t left this place in two-and-a-half days. I’ve been on a major creative roll and haven’t wanted to disrupt the flow. Which is exactly what the two of you are doing to me right now.”

“What about last Friday night?” Kendra asked.

“Same story. Like I said, I have a show coming up. These canvases don’t paint themselves.” He thought for a moment. “The last time I was anyplace where people could speak up for me was a week ago Wednesday. My friend’s band was playing at The Casbah. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”

“Maybe you should think about helping yourself,” Lynch said.

Kendra leaned forward toward him. “And here’s a thought … You can also stop lying to us.”

Deer in the headlights time. “Lying? About what?”

“You were on the other side of town late Friday night. Around La Mesa. What were you doing over there?”

His face flushed with anger. “Have I been under surveillance?”

“Please answer the question.”

“Yeah, I went there for a little while … to see somebody.”

“You bought some weed.”

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

“And two women joined you here last night. At least for a couple hours. Friends of yours?”

He nodded.

“What time were they here?”

“Ask those snoop cops you had staking out my building,” he said bitterly.

“She’s asking you,” Lynch’s voice was steely. “And I suggest you tell her.”

Kendra tried to hide her smile. It was always nice to have a sledgehammer handy.

“Fine,” Warren spit out. “The girls were here maybe between eleven and one last night.”

Kendra nodded. “Too bad. If it was a little later, they could have helped you.”

“That’s why I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Don’t lie to us anymore,” Kendra said wearily. “You aren’t good enough at it.”

He glared at her. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“We’re almost done here. Have you ever spoken to Colby by phone?” Kendra asked.

Warren considered the question, then admitted reluctantly, “Yeah. Twice. The first time was to remind me to send the Kendra Michaels pictures. The second time was just a couple weeks ago. Believe it or not, he offered me one of the family seats to witness his execution.”

“He did?” Kendra couldn’t hide her surprise.

“Yeah. He didn’t want his own family there, so he asked if I wanted to go. He thought it might give me something to paint.”

“Are you going?” Lynch asked.

“I thought about it. I’ve never seen a man die before, especially like that. An artist needs to open himself up to new experiences, you know?” Warren shook his head. “But in the end, I said no. I’d already gotten what I needed from him. Why in the hell would I put myself through that?”

Lynch handed him a card. “Just so you know, we may be following up with your friends and associates. If you have anything you’d like to tell us, now is the time to speak up.”

He shook his head. “No, nothing. Do what you have to do. I don’t give a damn.”

“That’s my number on the card, along with the number of the FBI field office. If you think of anything, just call.”

“I hear you.” Warren turned toward Kendra, who was looking at his still-drying painting of her. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

She nodded. “I have to admit it’s amazing. Especially since I know how quickly you did it.”

“I tried painting you a few other times, but they never came out right. But this is the first time I painted you with your eyes closed. For some reason, that makes the whole picture work.” He shrugged. “If I decide to do anything with it, I’ll let you know.”