Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

8

Saturday

Morning

JENNIFER CROSSED HER LEGS and stared at Paul Milton across the conference table. She’d made the trip down to Long Beach the previous evening, visited the crime scene where Kevin Parson’s Mercury Sable had blown up, made a dozen phone calls, and then checked into a hotel on Long Beach Boulevard.

She spent the night tossing and turning, reliving that day three months earlier when Roy had been killed by the Riddle Killer. The killer didn’t use a name, never had. Only a riddle. He’d asphyxiated his first four victims, striking once every six weeks or so. With Roy he used a bomb. She found his body in pieces five minutes after the explosion ripped it apart. Nothing could wash away the image.

After a couple final hours of sleep she’d headed for the station where she waited an hour for the rest to arrive.

With Roy’s death the fundamentals of life became stunningly vivid, while virtually all of her aspirations had died with him. She’d taken her relationship with him for granted, and when he was snatched away, she became desperate for every other thing she took for granted. The sweet smell of air. A burning hot shower on a cold morning. Sleep. The touch of another human. The simple things in life sustained her. Life wasn’t what it seemed, she’d learned that much, but she still wasn’t sure what life really was. The parties and the promotions felt plastic now. People rushing around, climbing imaginary ladders of success, fighting to be noticed.

Like Milton. Milton was a walking media package, right down to the bone, complete with a beige trench coat, which now hung in the corner. He was holding a news conference, of all things, just past sunup when she’d first entered the station.

There was no new news; they all knew that. His insistence that the media had a right to know at least that much was no more than smoke blowing. He wanted the camera eye, end of case. Not exactly her kind of man.

Her thinking wasn’t exactly professional; she knew that. He was a law enforcement officer with the same ultimate objective as hers. They were in this together, regardless of any personal differences. But Jennifer didn’t find the process of putting all the nonsense aside as easy as she had before Roy’s death. That was why the Bureau tended to distance agents in her situation from the front line, as Frank had attempted.

Never mind, she would rise above it all.

To her left sat Nancy Sterling, Long Beach’s most experienced forensic scientist. Next to her, Gary Swanson from the state police and Mike Bowen from the ATF. Cliff Bransford, CBI, rounded out the gathering. She’d worked with Cliff and found him exceptionally tedious, but smart enough. For him, everything was by the book. Best to stay clear of him unless he approached her.

“I know you all have varying interests in this case, but the FBI has clear jurisdiction—this guy’s rap includes kidnapping,” Jennifer said.

Milton didn’t bat an eye. “You may have jurisdiction, but I’ve got a city—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to work with you. I’m recommending that we use your offices as a clearinghouse. That puts all the information at your fingertips. We’ll coordinate everything from here. I don’t know what the CBI or the ATF will want to do about personnel placement, but I would like to work out of this office. Fair enough?”

Milton didn’t respond.

“Sounds good to me,” Bransford said. “We’re fine out of our own offices. As far as I’m concerned, this is your case.”

Bransford knew about Roy and was giving her his support. She gave him a slight nod.

“We’ll stand off for the meantime,” the ATF agent said. “But if explosives show up again, we’ll want a larger role.”

“Granted,” Jennifer said. She faced Milton. “Sir?”

He stared her down and she knew then that her opinion of him wouldn’t change. Even if he’d linked this case to the Riddle Killer, which was likely given the profile of the killings in Sacramento, Jennifer doubted he knew of her personal stake in the case. Roy’s identity had not been circulated. Even so, she didn’t care for his arrogance.

“What’s your specialty, agent?” Milton asked.

“Forensic psychology, Detective.”

“Profiler.”

“Psychological profiles based on forensics,” she corrected. She almost spoke the rest of the thought: That’s why they put the wordforensics in there, for those who grew up in Backwater, Louisiana.

“Fair enough. But I don’t want you talking to the media.”

“I wouldn’t think of robbing you of all that airtime, sir.”

“I think we have an understanding.”

“Good. I reviewed your file as of an hour ago.” She looked at Nancy. “You do quick work.”

“We try,” Nancy said. “You might want to take a look at it again. We found a timer.”

“Preset?”

“No. A receiver set the timer off, but from what I can gather, there was no way to terminate the timer once it was engaged.”

Jennifer glanced at Milton. “So whoever did this had no intention of terminating the detonation, regardless of his threat.”

“So it seems.”

“Anything else?”

Milton stood and turned to the blinds behind his chair. He parted them and looked down at the street. “So what does your crystal ball tell you on this one, Agent Peters?”

“It’s early.”

“Humor me.”

They were undoubtedly thinking Riddle Killer, but she went with a conservative analysis.

“Best guess, we have a white male who is extremely angry, but not angry enough to compromise his precision or method. He’s smart. And he knows it. He knew what kind of bomb to build, how to place it, how to detonate without detection. In fact, he knew that Mr. Parson would escape unharmed, and he knew that his riddle would go unsolved. That’s why he didn’t bother wasting resources on a termination switch.”

“Random victim?” Nancy asked.

“Nothing with this guy is random. If the victim isn’t a past acquaintance, then he was selected for specific reasons. His profession, his habits, the way he combs his hair.”

“Which is why Parson’s insistence that he doesn’t know anyone who might hold a grudge doesn’t add up,” Milton said.

“Not necessarily. You’re a cop who can list a hundred people who would take your head off, given the opportunity. The average citizen doesn’t have those kinds of enemies. We’re dealing with someone who’s probably insane—a sideways look on a train could mark you as his next target.” She paused. “That’s what I would say based solely on what you’ve given me. But as it turns out, I have more.”

“Riddle Killer,” Nancy said.

Jennifer looked at her and wondered if she knew about Roy. “Yes. Same MO. The last killing we’ve attributed to this guy was three months ago in Sacramento, but from every indication, we’re dealing with the same man.”

“He used riddles, but did he ever notkill a victim?” Milton asked.

“You’re right; this one’s different. All five of his victims were given one riddle and then killed when they failed to solve it. Which means he’s not finished with Kevin Parson. He didn’t just blow up a car without hurting anyone for the fun of it. He’s stretching himself. He’s bored. He wants a new challenge. Stringing together multiple riddles is the logical progression, but it also takes more time. He would have to study his mark well enough to sustain continued threats. That means lots of surveillance over many days. It’s one thing to pull off one stunt. This guy’s planning on doing this again. That kind of planning takes time. Could explain why the Riddle Killer has been so quiet over the last three months.”

“This guy gave a name,” Bransford said. “Slater. The Riddle Killer remained nameless.”

“Again. A progression, in my opinion.” Jennifer pulled a thick file from her briefcase and set it on the desk. The tab had two capital letters on it: R. K.

“Don’t let the size fool you; we don’t know as much as you might think. There’s a lot of psychological profile data in here. When it comes to evidence, this guy’s as clean as they come. None of the bodies was abused in any way. The first four were asphyxiated; the last was killed with a bomb. All four asphyxiated bodies were reported to the police by the killer himself and left on park benches. For all practical purposes they were evidence-free. This killer finds satisfaction in the game more than the actual killing. The killing is only a prop, something that provides stakes high enough to make the game interesting.”

She put her hand on the file. The green edges were worn white from use, mostly her own. She could practically recite the contents, all 234 pages. A full half of the writing was hers.

“A copy of the file is being reproduced for each of you as we speak. I’ll be happy to answer any questions once you’ve had a chance to review it. Has there been any additional contact with the victim?”

“Not today,” Milton said. “We have a team on the way to sweep his house. He found some bugs. More accurately, a friend of his found six of them throughout the house. A Samantha Sheer called us this morning. She’s connected with the attorney general’s office. Just happened to be with him last night and did us a favor. Do you know what falls but never breaks? What breaks but never falls?”

“No.”

He grinned disingenuously. “Night and day.”

“She gave you that?”

He nodded. “Pretty smart. On the other hand, there are too many fingers in this pot already, and the case is less than a day old.”

“The case is a year old,” Jennifer said. “She met with him without your knowing? You’re not watching the house?”

He hesitated. “Not yet. Like I said—”

“You left him alone overnight?” Jennifer felt her face flush with anger. Easy, girl.

Milton’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Who do you think we’re dealing with here, a cub scout? Do you even know if Parson’s still alive?”

“We are under no standing threat,” Milton said. “There is no direct evidence that this is the Riddle Killer. Kevin insisted he was—”

“The victim’s in no position to know what’s best for himself.” Jennifer unfolded her legs and stood. “As soon as I get back, I’d like to get a firsthand look at the evidence, if you don’t mind, Nancy.”

“Of course.”

“Where are you going?” Milton asked.

“To see Parson. As far as we know, he’s the only living victim of the Riddle Killer. Our first job is to keep him that way. I’d like to spend a few minutes with him before your people start tearing up his house. An associate of mine, Bill Galager, will be here shortly. Please treat him with the same graciousness you’ve extended to me.”

Jennifer left the station and sped for Kevin Parson’s house, knowing that she had walked a thin line back in the conference room. Or maybe she was being too self-conscious about her cooperation because of the bureau chief’s concerns. All things considered, except for the mistake of leaving the victim unguarded, Milton had handled the case well enough thus far. But one mistake and they would have another dead body on their hands. She wasn’t in a position to accept that. Not this time.

Not after she’d led the Riddle Killer to Roy.

Why is that, Jenn? Kevin Parson is a victim, deserving life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness like every other potential victim, but no more.That was the objective view of her situation.

But, no matter what face she tried to put on the matter, the bureau chief had pegged her. She hadlost just a bit of objectivity, hadn’t she? Regardless of Kevin Parson’s makeup, he was now special. Perhaps more special to Jennifer than any other person in any other case, save her brother. He could be a total fool with a habit of running down the 405 freeway naked, and that much wouldn’t change.

Fact was, in some small way, Kevin Parson offered her a glimpse of redemption. If Roy had died because of her, maybe Kevin would live because of her.

Becauseof her. She had to personallysave him, didn’t she? An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

“God, let him be a decent man,” she muttered.

Jennifer dismissed the thoughts with a sigh and pulled onto his street shortly after eight. Old track houses, mostly two-story, modest, decent starter homes. She glanced at the file Milton had given her. Kevin Parson lived in the blue house two doors up. She pulled to the curb, shut off the engine, and glanced around. Quiet neighborhood.

“Okay, Kevin, let’s see what kind of man he’s chosen this time.”

She left the file and walked to the front door. A morning newspaper featuring a front-page spread of the car bombing sat on the porch. She picked it up and rang the doorbell.

The man who answered was tall with messy brown hair and deep blue eyes that held hers without wavering. A white T-shirt with a “Jamaica” logo over the pocket. Faded blue jeans. He smelled of aftershave, although he obviously hadn’t shaved today. The rugged look worked on him. Didn’t look like the kind of man who’d run down the freeway naked. More like a man she’d expect to find featured in Cosmopolitan. Especially with those eyes. Ouch.

“Kevin Parson?” She flipped open her wallet to show her badge. “I’m Agent Peters with the FBI. Could I have a few words with you?”

“Sure. Sure, come in.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Sam said you’d probably be coming this morning.”

She handed him the paper and walked in. “Looks like you made the news. Sam? That’s your friend from the attorney general’s office?”

Travel posters covered the walls. Odd.

“Actually, I think she’s with the California Bureau of Investigation. But she just started. You know her?” He dropped the paper out on the porch and closed the door.

“She called the police this morning and reported the bugs. Could I see them?”

“Sure. Right over here.” He led her to the kitchen. Two soda cans sat on the counter—he’d had a drink last night, presumably with Sam. Otherwise the kitchen was spotless.

“Here.” He indicated the sink and placed the two cans in a small recycling bin. Four small eavesdropping devices that resembled watch batteries, one infinity transmitter she’d obviously pulled off the phone, and a device that resembled a common electrical splitter all sat in the water.

“Did Sam wear gloves when she removed these?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Not that we’ll find anything. I doubt our friend’s stupid enough to leave prints on his toys.” She faced him. “Anything unusual happen in the last twelve hours? Any phone calls, anything out of place?”

His eyes twitched, barely. You’re going too fast, Jennifer. The poor guy’s still in shock and you’re giving him the nth degree. You need him as much as he needs you.

She held up her hand and smiled. “Sorry. Listen to me, barging in here and interrogating you. Let’s start over. You can call me Jennifer.” She reached out her hand.

He searched her eyes, took her hand. Like a child trying to decide whether to trust a stranger. For a moment she felt drawn into his gaze, exposed. They held their grip long enough to make Jennifer feel awkward. There was an innocence about him, she thought. Maybe more. Naiveté.

“Actually, there ismore.”

She dropped his hand. “There is? More than you told the police?”

“He called me again.”

“But you didn’t call the police?”

“I couldn’t. He told me that if I called the police, he’d do something. Carry out his next threat prematurely.” He looked around nervously, breaking eye contact for the first time. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit on edge. I didn’t sleep that well. Do you want to sit down?”

“That would be nice.”

Kevin pulled out a chair and seated her. Naive and chivalrous. A first-year seminary student who graduated from college with honors. Not exactly the kind of guy who wakes up in the morning thinking of ways to make enemies. He sat across from her and ran a hand haphazardly through his hair.

“When did he call you?”

“After I got home last night. He knows when I’m here; he knows when I’m gone. He can hear everything I say. He’s probably listening to us right now.”

“He may very well be. There’ll be a team here in less than an hour. Until then there’s not much we can do about surveillance. What we can do is try to get into this man’s head. That’s what I do, Kevin; I figure people out for a living. But to do that I need you to tell me everything he said to you. You’re my link to him. Until we put this guy away, you and I are going to have to work very closely. No secrets. I don’t care what he says you can or can’t do—I need to hear it all.”

“He said I couldn’t tell the police anything. He also told me the FBI would be involved, but he didn’t seem bothered by that. He doesn’t want the city to come unglued every time he calls me.”

She nearly broke her professional facade then. The killer expected the FBI. Did he expect Jennifer? It really had started again, hadn’t it? He knew that she would come after him again—even welcomed it! The faint taste of copper washed through her mouth. She swallowed.

Kevin tapped his foot and stared at her without breaking eye contact. His gaze was neither piercing nor intimidating. Disarming perhaps, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable—his eyes held a quality she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Maybe innocence. Wide, blue, tired innocence.

Not so different from Roy, really. Was there a connection?

You’re staring back, Jennifer.Suddenly she was uncomfortable. She felt a strange empathy for him. How could any sane man threaten someone as innocent as this? Answer: Nosane man.

I’m going to keep you alive, Kevin Parson. I won’t let him hurt you.

“One step at a time,” Jennifer said. “I want you to start from the phone call after you got home and tell me exactly what he said.”

He relayed the phone call in meticulous detail while she asked questions and took notes. She covered every conceivable angle—the choice of words, the sequencing of events, the tone Slater used, the nearly unlimited ways in which Slater might have had access to his life.

“So you think he’s been in here on more than one occasion. On one of those occasions he found Samantha’s number. He thinks you and Samantha are romantically involved, but you’re not.”

“That’s right.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No, not really.” Kevin shifted in his seat. “Although I’m not sure that wasn’t a mistake on my part.”

Obviously Slater had decided that Kevin and Samantha were more than friends. Who was mistaken, Slater or Kevin? She eyed the man before her. How naive was he?

“You should talk to her,” Kevin said. “Maybe she could help somehow. She’s not a cop.”

“Sure.” Jennifer dismissed the suggestion even as she spoke. She had no interest in consulting some rookie at this stage. All she needed was one more gunslinger on the case. “How long have you known her?”

“We grew up together here in Long Beach.”

She made a note and changed the subject. “So actually Slater called you three times yesterday. Once on your cell phone, once at home here, and once on a cell phone he left for you? The third call just to make sure the phone worked.”

“I guess. Yes, three times.”

“We have three minutes, three calls, three rules, a riddle with three parts, three months. You think our guy likes threes?”

“Three months?”

She had to tell him. “You ever hear about the Riddle Killer?”

“The guy from Sacramento.”

“Yes. We have reason to believe this is him. He killed his last victim three months ago.”

“I heard that on the news.” Kevin closed his eyes. “You really think it’s him?”

“Yes, I do. But he’s never let anyone live that we know of. I’m not trying to be crass—there’s just no other way to deal with this. We have a chance, an excellent chance, of stopping him before he goes further.”

He opened his eyes. “How?”

“He wants to play. It’s not the killing that drives him; it’s the game. We play.”

“Play?” He stared at her desperately and then lowered his head. She wanted to put an arm around him, to comfort him, to hold this poor soul and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But that would be both untrue and unprofessional.

“You ever play chess?”

“A game or two.”

“Think of this as a chess match. He’s black and you’re white. He’s made his first move and you’ve made yours. You lost a pawn. As long as he’s interested in the game, he’ll play. Your job is to keep him playing long enough for us to find him. It’s the only way to beat him.”

Kevin ran both hands through his hair. “And what if he’s listening right now?”

“We always assume he’s listening. He’s undoubtedly got the technology to hear what he wants to hear. But for him to hear what I just told you is music to his ears. He’s back in some hole right now, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the game. The longer the better. He might not be sane, but he’s brilliant. Probably a genius. He’ll never toss a match and run scared just because some two-bit FBI agent’s on to him.”

I hope you are listening, you snake. She clenched her jaw.

Kevin offered an anemic smile. Apparently he understood, but he wasn’t in a place to like anything about Slater’s game. “The threes could be coincidental,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Nothing is coincidental with this guy. His mind works on a whole different plane than most. Can I see the cell phone he gave you?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. She flipped it open and scrolled through the activity log. One call at 4:50 yesterday afternoon, as reported.

“Okay, keep this with you. Don’t give it to the police, and don’t tell them I told you not to give it to them.”

That earned her a soft grin, and she couldn’t resist returning it. They’d take a crack at tracking Slater’s number and triangulating his position, but she wasn’t optimistic. There were too many ways to beat the system.

“We’ll bug the phone—”

“He said no cops.”

“I mean we, the FBI. We’ll use a local device that will attach to the cell. I doubt a conventional listening device will do us any good—too easy to scramble and limited on range. The recording device will be noticeable, a small box we’ll fix to the back here.” She drew her finger through an inch square on the back of the silver phone. “It’ll contain a small chip we can remove for analysis later. Not exactly real-time surveillance, but it may be all that we get next time.”

He took the phone back. “So I do what he says? Play his game?”

She nodded. “I don’t think we have a choice. We’ll take him at his word. He calls you; the second you hang up, you call me. He’ll probably know about it, and then I guess we’ll know what he means by no cops.”

Kevin stood and paced to the kitchen counter and back. “Detective Milton grilled me on motivation. Without motivation you have nothing. I can understand that. I think I have an idea.”

“Go ahead.”

“Hate.”

“Hate. That’s pretty broad.”

“Slater hates me. I can hear it in his voice. Raw contempt. There are few things left in this world that are pure, from my observation. The hate in this man’s voice is one of them.”

She looked up at him. “You’re observant. The question is why. Why does Slater hate you?”

“Maybe not me, but my type,” Kevin said. “People tend to react to other people in wholesale rather than detail, right? He’s a minister, so I hate him. She’s beautiful, so I like her. One month later you wake up and realize you have nothing in common with the woman.”

“Do you have firsthand experience on the subject or are you just spinning this from a sociology text?”

Kevin blinked, caught off guard. Unless her intuition was misfiring, he had very little experience with women.

“Well . . .” He ran his hand over his head. “Both, sorta.”

“This may qualify as new knowledge, Kevin, but there are men who judge a woman by more than her appearance.” She wasn’t sure why she felt obligated to say as much; she’d found no offense in his remark.

He didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. I see you and you’re beautiful, but my attraction to you is based on your caring. I can tell that you really do care about me.” He broke eye contact again. “I mean, not in the way it sounds. As your case is what I mean. Not as a man—”

“I understand. Thank you. That was a nice thing to say.”

The short exchange felt absurd. Kevin sat back down and for a moment neither spoke.

“But your point is valid,” Jennifer said. “Most serial offenders choose victims based on what they represent, not on personal offenses. It’s the meticulous thought that Slater has put into this case that makes me wonder if we aren’t dealing with personal motivation here. Obsession comes to mind. He’s taken a very personal interest in you.”

Kevin looked away. “Could be that he’s just a very meticulous person.” He seemed particularly interested in depersonalizing the motive.

“You’re a profiler—what is my profile?” Kevin asked. “Based on what you know, what is there about me that might set off someone?”

“I don’t have enough to offer—”

“No, but based on what you do know?”

“My first blush? Okay. You’re a seminary student. You take life seriously and have a higher intelligence than most. You’re caring and kind and gentle. You live alone and have very few friends. You’re attractive and carry yourself with confidence, notwithstanding a couple nervous habits.” It occurred to Jennifer as she ran down the list that Kevin was an unusually good person, not merely innocent. “But it’s your genuine innocence that stands out. If Slater has no personal stake in you, he hates you for your innocence.”

There was more to Kevin than she could see at first glance, much more. How could anyone dislike, much less hate, Kevin Parson?

“You remind me of my brother,” she said. Then she wished she hadn’t.

What if the Riddle Killer wanted Jennifer to see the similarities between Roy and Kevin? What if he’d chosen Kevin because he intended to make Jennifer live through the hell once again?

Pure speculation.

Jennifer rose. “I have to get back to the lab. The police will be here shortly. If there’s anything you need, or if you think of anything else, call. I’ll have one of our men watch the house. Promise me you will never leave alone. This guy likes to drop his little bombs when they’re least expected.”

“Sure.”

He looked lost. “Don’t worry, Kevin. We’ll make it through this.”

“In one piece, hopefully.” He grinned nervously.

She put her hand on top of his. “We will. Trust me.” She once said those same words to Roy to calm him down. Jennifer removed her hand.

They stared at each other for a moment. Say something, Jennifer. “Remember, he wants a game. We’re going to give him a game.”

“Right.”

Jennifer left him standing in his doorway looking anything but confident. Trust me. She considered staying until the techs arrived, but she had to get back to the evidence. She’d cornered the Riddle Killer once, before he’d gone after Roy, and she’d done it through careful analysis of the evidence. She did her best work when climbing around in criminals’ minds, not holding their victims’ hands.

On the other hand, Kevin was no ordinary victim.

Who are you, Kevin?Whoever he was, she decided that she liked him.