Текст книги "Solitude Creek"

Автор книги: Jeffery Daeaver

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER 81

This was an era he knew nothing about, didn’t care for, didn’t appreciate.

The sixties in the US. At least this part of the sixties.

Antioch March believed it was called the counterculture and, for some reason, CBI agent TJ Scanlon loved it.

As they stood in the living room of the three-bedroom ranch-style house in Carmel Valley, March and Jenkins surveyed the place. Orange and brown dominated. Carpet, furniture, tablecloths. On the wall were posters – nice ones, framed – of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, the Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane. The doors were strings of colorful beads that clicked when you pushed them, gun in hand, to make sure you were alone. And, yes, a lava lamp.

‘Sets you on edge, doesn’t it?’ Jenkins asked.

It did.

In his gloved hand March clicked on a black light. The ultraviolet rays spectacularly lit up what had been a dull poster of a ship improbably sailing through the sky.

He shut the light off again.

A glance at a large peace symbol, reminiscent of the Mercedes Benz emblem on his car back home. The sixties’ icon was made out of shells.

On edge …

He told the Get to relax; it was, he suspected, still angry that the Asian family on the rocks had missed the opportunity to die spectacular deaths in the icy bay.

Somebody’s not happy …

You will be soon.

They had parked two blocks away and made their way to Scanlon’s house through woods, out of sight of any of the neighbors. March, the technician of the two, had examined the man’s place carefully from the distance. Then, convinced it was unoccupied, he’d slipped up and peered through the windows. No alarms, no security cameras. The lock had been easily jimmied. Then, prepared to flee in case they’d missed an alarm, they’d waited before preparing the room for the events tonight.

March now turned from the bizarre décor and looked over the cot they’d set up. TJ Scanlon’s final resting place. The young man would be tied down and tortured. You didn’t need much. March had his knife and he’d found a pair of pliers. Pain was simple. You didn’t need to get elaborate.

He’d staged the scene rather well also, he thought. They’d bought a bottle of rubbing alcohol, to enhance the agent’s agony, from a convenience store in the barrio of Salinas, a place known for gangs, and they’d picked up some trash and discarded rags in the area too. A little research had revealed the colors and signs of the K-101s, which was a crew that the CBI had had some run-ins with, arresting a few lieutenant-level bangers. March had tagged the signs on Scanlon’s wall, right above the spot where he would die. Presumably after giving up all sorts of helpful information about ongoing investigations into the gang.

March wondered what ‘TJ’ stood for. He didn’t bother to prowl through paperwork to find out.

Thomas Jefferson?

Jenkins was asking, ‘What if he’s not coming home tonight. Maybe—’

And just then there came the sound of a car on the long gravel drive, approaching.

‘That’s him?’

March eased up to the window to look out.

Which gave Jenkins a chance to put his hand on March’s spine.

It’s all right.

‘Yep.’

Scanlon was alone in the car. And there were no other vehicles with him.

Suddenly the Get slipped a regret into March’s head that it wasn’t Kathryn Dance whom he was about to work on after all.

March vetoed the idea. No. This was the way to handle it.

Which irritated the Get, and for a moment March felt inflamed and edgy.

Fuck you, he thought. I’ve got some say in this.

Silently the two men stepped behind the front door. March looked out of the peephole, gripping the hammer he’d break Scanlon’s arm with as soon as he walked inside, grab his gun.

He saw the young man walking, head down, to the gate in the picket fence in front of his house. He opened it and started up the winding walk, minding where he put his feet. If Scanlon had front lights he hadn’t turned them on.

Scanlon walked onto the low porch, then stepped to the side. They heard the mailbox open. A brief laugh, faint, at something he’d received – or hadn’t received. Then gritty footsteps on the redwood planks, moving toward the front door.

The sound of a key in the lock.

Then … nothing.

Jenkins turned, frowning. March took a firmer grip on the hammer. He peeked outside through a curtained window. He was staring at the empty porch.

‘Leave!’ March whispered harshly. ‘Now!’

Jenkins frowned but he followed March instinctively. They got only three feet back into the living room when a half-dozen Monterey County Sheriff’s deputies, in tactical gear, flooded into the room from behind the beads covering the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Hands where we can see them! On the ground, on the ground! Now!’

And the front door exploded inward. Two other tactical officers charged in too. Scanlon, his own weapon drawn, followed.

‘Christ!’ Jenkins cried. ‘No, no, no …’

March backed up, hands raised, and eased to his knees. Jenkins started to, as well, but his hand dropped to his side, as if to steady himself as he sank down.

March looked at his eyes. He’d seen the expression before. The gaze wasn’t defiance. It was resignation. And he knew what was coming next.

Calmly he said to Jenkins, ‘No, Chris.’

But what was about to happen was inevitable.

The small pistol was in the man’s tanned hand, drawn leisurely from his hip pocket. He swung it forward but it got no farther than four o’clock before two officers fired simultaneously. Head and chest. Huge explosions that deafened March. Jenkins crumpled, eyes nearly closed, and landed in a pile on the floor.

‘Shots fired. Suspect down. Medic, medic, medic!’ One officer who’d fired dropped his radio and hurried forward, pistol still pointed toward Jenkins, though from the spatter it was clear he was no threat. Another two cuffed March.

The policeman removed the small gun from Jenkins’s hand, unloaded it and locked the slide back.

The others hurried through the place, opening doors. Shouts of ‘Clear!’ echoed.

March continued to gaze down at his boss.

Maybe Jenkins had actually believed he could shoot his way out of the situation. But that was unlikely. He’d chosen to take his own life. It wasn’t uncommon; suicide by cop, it was called. For those who lacked the courage to put a gun to their head and pull the trigger.

He stared at Jenkins’s body on the floor, the blood spreading in the shag carpet, a twitch of a finger.

Other officers streamed inside, accompanying two emergency medical technicians. They bent to the fallen man. But a fast check of vitals confirmed what was obvious.

‘He’s gone. I’ll tell the ME.’

Another man, in a body-armor vest, walked inside and looked down at his captives. He recognized him from outside the movie theater the other morning and from the Bay View Center. Kathryn Dance’s colleague.

‘Detective O’Neil,’ one of the deputies called. ‘We’re clear of threat.’ The officer handed O’Neil March’s wallet. Jenkins’s too. O’Neil flipped through them.

He walked to the door and said, ‘It’s clear, Kathryn.’

She walked inside, glancing at the corpse matter-of-factly. Then her green eyes fixed on March’s. He felt an odd sensation, looking at her. Was it a comfort? He believed so. Outrageous, under the circumstances. But there it was. He nearly smiled. She was even more beautiful than he’d believed. And how much she resembled Jessica!

O’Neil handed her the men’s IDs. ‘The deceased’s Chris Jenkins.’ Then a nod. ‘And you got it right, Kathryn. He’s Antioch March.’

Got it right?

He wasn’t the least surprised his beautiful Kathryn had out-thought him.

‘Read him his rights and let’s get him to CBI.’

CHAPTER 82

‘It was the lights, Antioch.’

‘Andy, please. Lights?’

‘The lights in the security cameras of the venues where you staged the attacks.’

Dance scooted her chair closer, here in the larger of the interview rooms, the one, in fact, where the Serrano incident had begun. She was already wearing her dark-framed predator specs. Examining March carefully. A trim-fitting light blue dress shirt, dark slacks. Both seemed expensive. She couldn’t see his shoes from where she sat: were they the five-grand pair?

He still seemed a bit mystified at the officers’ sudden appearance at TJ’s, though the explanation was rather simple.

Just after the Neil Hartman concert had started Dance had found herself thinking once more of her observation a few moments earlier: about the security lights at the hospital, and at the venues the unsub had attacked. They’d all been been equipped with lights, while most security cameras – like the ones she’d just noted at the Performing Arts Center – were not. She recalled the witnesses telling her that bright lights had come on around the time of the panic at the roadhouse and the author’s signing; she herself had seen them blazing from the camera in the elevator.

She’d ducked into the lobby of the concert hall and, from her phone, checked the photos of the three crime scenes. The cameras were all the same.

She told March this and added, ‘All the venues had just been inspected by an insurance or fire inspector, I remembered. Except it wasn’t an official. It was you, mounting the cameras when the manager wasn’t looking. Fire Inspector Dunn.’

Dance continued, ‘You moved lamps over two of your other victims: Calista Sommers and Stan Prescott. Oh, I see your expression. Yes, we know about Calista. She’s not Jane Doe any more. We finally got her ID. Missing-person memo from Washington State.

‘Calista … Stan Prescott. And Otto Grant. He was hanged in front of an open window. Lots of light there, as well. Every time somebody died because of you, you wanted lights. Why? For Calista and Prescott, we thought it was to take pictures of the bodies. Were you filming at the venues too?’

Just after she’d had this thought, at the concert hall earlier, she’d called O’Neil and had a crime-scene team seize and dismantle the security camera in the elevator. They found a cellular module in it.

She had remembered that at Solitude Creek she’d wondered why the security video that Sam Cohen had shown them seemed to come from a different angle than that of the camera she’d seen in the club. That was, she realized, because there were two cameras – with March’s pointed, as Trish Martin had said, at the blocked exit doors. To see the tragedy most clearly.

‘The cameras were streaming the stampedes, full high-def, brightly lit. But why? So Grant could gloat over his revenge? Maybe. But if he planned to kill himself he wouldn’t be around very long to enjoy the show.’ Through the lenses of the steely glances Dance probed his face. ‘And then I remembered the bucket.’

‘Bucket?’

‘Why did Grant have a bucket for a toilet? If he’d vanished on his own, well, wouldn’t he just go outside for the bathroom? Kidnappers have buckets for the victims to use because they’re handcuffed or taped.’

He squinted slightly. A kinesic tell that meant she’d struck a nerve. He’d made a mistake there.

‘And the venues that were attacked, Solitude Creek and the Bay View Center? Grant’s complaint was with the government. He would’ve hired somebody to attack state buildings, not private ones, if he’d really wanted revenge.

‘Which meant maybe Otto Grant had been set up as a fall

guy. You went online and found somebody who’d been posting anti-government statements. A perfect choice. You made contact, pretended you were sympathetic, then kidnapped him and stuck him in that cabin until it was time to finish up here. Made his death look like a suicide. All the texts and the call-log records we found? About payments and what a good job his supposed hitman had done? They were both your phones; you just called and texted yourself, then planted one on Grant.’

She now placed her hands flat on the table. ‘So. Grant was a set-up. But then who was the real client who’d hired you?’

She’d eliminated Michelle Cooper’s husband – Frederick Martin. Brad, the fireman. And Daniel Nashima.

Another suspect had arisen briefly. Upon learning that it was Mexican Commissioner Ramón Santos’s mercenaries who’d orchestrated the arson of the warehouse in Oakland, Dance had wondered if he’d been behind the entire plot, suspecting Henderson Jobbing and Warehouse, at Solitude Creek, to be one of the hubs for illegal-weapons traffic in Central California, and Santos of taking his own measures to shut them down and cover up the crime as the work of a psycho.

She remembered the sign she’d seen the day after the attack at Solitude Creek:

Remember your Passports for International trips!

She’d assigned Rey Carreneo to look into the matter. But he’d learned that Henderson did serve international routes, yes – but only to Canada. The owner didn’t want to risk hijacking or robberies south of the border. No reason for Commissioner Santos to send a mercenary to destroy the company.

So who, she’d struggled to understand, was the unsub working for? Why was he killing people and filming it?

And then, finally.

A to B to Z …

Now another sweep of the so-very-handsome face.

‘The violent websites on Stan Prescott’s computer. That’s your job, Andy. Yours and Chris Jenkins’s. This wasn’t about revenge or insurance or a psychotic serial killer. It was about you and your partner selling ultra-violent images of death to clients around the world. Custom ordered.’

Dance shook her head. ‘I honestly wouldn’t think there’d be that big a market for this sort of thing.’

Antioch March gave her an amused look. He remained silent but his eyes chastised, as if she was bluntly naïve. They said, Oh, Agent Dance. You’d be surprised.

CHAPTER 83

‘You didn’t kill Prescott because he drew attention to the murders in Monterey. It was because your website, Hand to Heart, was on his computer. He downloaded graphic images of corpses from it and re-posted them. You didn’t have any pictures of Solitude Creek on your site, of course, but Prescott did on his. That made a connection between Heart to Hand and the roadhouse.’

Hand to Heart was the key to the men’s operation. It seemed to be about humanitarian aid – and visitors could click through to tsunami relief or ending hunger sites. But most of Hand to Heart was pictures and videos of disasters, atrocities, death, dismemberment.

She speculated that the men noted who downloaded the most pictures and discreetly contacted them to see if they might be interested in something more … graphically violent. She was sure that, after sufficient vetting of both parties, and for the payment of a huge fee, clients could order specific types of videos or images. It answered the question they’d wondered about at the beginning of the case: why not just burn down Solitude Creek? Why not just shoot people at the Bay View? Because this particular client – whoever he was – wanted pictures of stampedes.

March tilted his head, brows dipping, and she had an idea what he was wondering. ‘Oh, how we found you at TJ’s? You used prepaid cells in the cameras and routed through proxies, but the video ended up at the Cedar Hills Inn server.’

Jon Boling had explained how the signals could be traced. She hadn’t understood a word but kissed him in thanks.

‘That just sent us to the hotel, not your room. But I correlated all the guests’ names with anyone who’d rented a car in Los Angeles just after the panic at the theme park. Yours popped up. We hit the room at the inn and found a note with TJ’s address.’

The same technology that was so integral to their perverse career had betrayed him.

He sat back, a clink of chain.

She was struck again by how handsome he was, resembling an actor whose name she couldn’t summon. He had no physical appeal to her but objectively he was striking – dipping lids, careful lips that weren’t too thick or too thin, noble cheekbones. And a cut, muscular physique. Even the shaved head worked.

‘I want your cooperation, Andy. I want the names of your clients. Those in America, at least. And any of your – what would you call them? – competitors.’

The cases would be tough to put together, though she, Michael O’Neil and the FBI’s Amy Grabe would try. But, in fact, what Dance wanted most was to understand this man’s workings. He was unlike any other criminal she’d ever come up against; and, experience had taught her, if there was one with his proclivities toward the dark edge there’d be others.

‘Before you answer, let me say one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Texas.’

His face gave a minuscule twitch. He knew what was coming.

‘If you agree, I’ve spoken to the prosecutor here, and he’ll accept a death penalty waiver.’ She gazed at him steadily. ‘And will guarantee no extradition to Texas. We subpoenaed your credit-card statements, Andy. You were in Fort Worth six months ago, finding clients for your website. The same time of the stampede at the Prairie Valley Club. You used that homeless man for your fall-guy there. But there’ll be some forensics tying you to that incident, I’m sure. They’ll go for capital murder. And they’ll get it. The daughter of a state politician was killed in that stampede.’

The tip of his tongue eased against a lip and retreated. ‘And here? I’ll get life.’

‘Maybe a little shorter. Depends.’

He said nothing.

‘Or call your lawyer.’

March’s eyes scanned her, from the top of her head to her waist, leaving a chill repulsion in the wake of his gaze. ‘You’ll guarantee that?’

‘Yes,’ she told him.

‘Personally.’ He dragged the word out, almost seductively.

‘Yes.’

‘I have one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I can call you “Kathryn”.’

‘That’s fine. Now, what’s the condition?’

‘That’s it. You let me use your first name.’

He can call me whatever he wants. But he’s asking my permission to use the name? The sensation of ice brushed the back of her neck.

She forced herself not to react. ‘You can use my name, yes.’

‘Thank you, Kathryn.’

She opened her notebook and uncapped a pen. ‘Now. Tell me, Andy. How did you meet Chris Jenkins?’

CHAPTER 84

The two men had become acquainted in one of the snuff forums online.

Dance recalled the websites that Jon Boling had found:

they featured not only pictures that could be downloaded but forums where members could post messages and chat in real time.

Jenkins was former military. While on tour overseas, he’d taken a lot of pictures of battlefields, bodies, torture victims. He himself had had no interest in the images but he’d learned he could make good money selling them to news media or, even more lucrative, private collectors.

March explained, ‘Every night I was online looking at this stuff. It was the only thing that kept the …’

‘The what?’ Dance asked.

A pause. ‘Only thing that kept me calm,’ he said. ‘He had good-quality pictures and I bought a number of them. We got to know each other that way. Then he started running low on original material – he’d been out of the army for years. I asked if he’d be interesting in buying some from me – pictures he could resell. I didn’t have much but I sent him a video I’d done of an accident during a bungee jump. I was the only one who’d gotten the actual death. It was … pretty graphic.

‘Chris told me it was very good and he knew a collector who’d pay a lot for it as an exclusive. It would have to be private – if it was posted, a video lost its value. I got to work and started to send him material. After a few months we met in person and decided to start our business. He came up with the idea of a humanitarian website, with pictures of disasters. Sure, some people went online to give money. Mostly people downloaded the pictures. I took a lot of them myself, traveling overseas or to disaster areas. They were good, the video and the pictures. People liked them. I’m good at what I do.’

‘Where did you get this material?’

A smile crossed his face. His eyes stroked her skin and she forced the cold away. He said, ‘Next time you find yourself at any tragedy, a train or car crash, a race-car accident, a fire, a stampede.’ His voice had fallen.

‘Could you speak up, please?’

‘Of course, Kathryn. Next time you’re someplace like that, look around you.

‘At the people who are staring at the bodies and the injured. The spectators. You’ll see people helping the victims, praying for them, standing around numb. But you’ll also see some people with their cameras, working hard to get the best shot. Maybe they’re curious … but maybe they’re collectors. Or maybe they’re just like me – suppliers. “Farming”, we call it. You can spot us. We’ll be the ones angry at police lines keeping us back, disappointed there’s not more blood, grimacing when we learn that no one died.’

Farming …

‘You’ve always had this interest?’

‘Well, since I was eleven.’ His tongue wet his lip. ‘And I killed my first victim. Serena. Her name was Serena. And I still picture her every day. Every single day.’

Kathryn Dance masked her shock – both at the idea of someone committing murder at that young age and at his wistful expression when he told her.

Eleven. One year older than Maggie, one younger than Wes.

‘I was living with my parents, outside Minneapolis. A small town, suburban. Perfectly fine, nice. My father was a salesman, my mother worked in the hospital. Both busy. I had a lot of time to myself. Latch-key but that was fine. I didn’t want too much involvement from them. I was a loner. I preferred that life. Oh, the weapon I used on Serena was an SMG.’

Lord, thought Dance. ‘That’s a machine-gun, isn’t it? Where did you get it?’

Gazing off. ‘I shot her five times and I can’t describe the comfort I felt.’ Another scan of her face. Down her arm. He focused on her hands. She was glad they were polish-free. She felt as if he’d touched her. ‘Serena. Dark hair. Latina in appearance. I’d guess she was twenty-five. At eleven, I didn’t know much about sex. But I felt something when I was watching Serena.’

Watching, Dance noted. That was what he liked.

Nostalgia had blossomed into pleasure at recalling the incident. Had he been caught? Done juvie time? Nothing had shown up on the NCIC crime database. But youthful offender records were often sealed.

‘Oh, I felt guilty. Terribly guilty. I’d never do it again, I swore.’ A faint laugh. ‘But the next day I was back. And I killed her again.’

‘I’m sorry? You killed …’

‘Her, Serena. This time it was less of a whim. I wanted to kill her. I used twenty-shots. Reloaded and shot her twenty more times.’

Dance understood. ‘It was a video game.’

He nodded. ‘It was a first-person shooter game. You know those?’

‘Yes.’ You see the game from the point of view of a character, walking through the sets, usually with a gun or other weapon and killing opponents or creatures.

‘Next day I was back again in the game world. And I kept coming back. I killed her over and over. And Troy and Gary, hundreds of others, hour after hour, stalking them and killing them. What started as just an impulse became a compulsion. It was the only way to keep the Get at bay.’

‘The …?’

He looked at her, a long moment. Debating. ‘Since we’re close now, you and me, I want to share. I started to say something before. I changed my mind.’

‘I remember.’

It’s the only thing that kept the … kept me calm …

‘The Get,’ he said. And explained. His expression for the irresistible urge to get something that satisfied you, stopped the itch, fed the hunger. In his case, that was watching death, injury, blood. He continued, ‘The games … They took the edge off of what I was feeling. Gave me a high.’

Traditional cycle of addiction, Dance noted.

‘More,’ he whispered. ‘More and more. I needed more. The games became my life. I got every one I could, all the platforms. PlayStation, Nintendo, Xbox, everything.’ He looked at her, his eyes damp; he was now gripped by emotion. He whispered, ‘And there were so many of them. I’d ask for games for Christmas and my parents bought them all. They never paid any attention to the contents.’

His laundry list: Doom, Dead or Alive, Mortal Kombat, Call of Duty, Hitman, Gears of War. ‘I learned all the blood codes – to make them as violent as possible. My favorite recently is Grand Theft Auto. You could fulfill missions or you could just walk around and kill people. Tase them and then, when they fell to the ground, shoot them or blow them up or burn them to death. Walk around Los Santos shooting prostitutes. Or go into a strip club and just start killing people.’

Recently Dance had been involved in a case in which a young man had lost himself in massive multiplayer online role-playing games, like World of Warcraft. She’d studied video games and had kept up with them, since she was the mother of two children raised in the online era.

A controversy existed in law enforcement, psychology and education as to whether violent games led to violent behavior.

‘I think I always had the Get inside me. But it was the games that turned up the heat, you know. If it hadn’t been for them, I might’ve … gone in a different direction. Found other ways to numb the Get. Anyway, you can’t dispute the way my life went. As I got older, though, the games weren’t enough.’ He smiled. ‘Gateway drug, you could say. I wanted more. I found movies – spatter films, gore, slasher, torture porn. Cannibal Ferox, Last House on the Left, Wizard of Gore. Then more sophisticated ones later. Saw, Human Centipede, I Spit on Your Grave, Hostel . . . hundreds of others.

‘Then the websites, the one you found on Stan Prescott’s computer, where you could see crime-scene pictures. And could buy fifteen-minute clips of actresses getting shot or stabbed.’

She said, ‘And pretty soon even they weren’t enough.’

He nodded, and there was some desperation in his voice as he said, ‘Then something happened that changed everything.’

‘What happened?’

‘Jessica,’ he whispered. And his eyes stroked her face and neck once more. ‘Jessica.’