Shadows of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

At that, Diane just rolled her eyes, but she’s an old fraud. You could tell she was pleased by the crease at the corner of her mouth. I won’t be surprised if other Viking-themed items find their way into Valhalla in the coming months.

  And so Jimmy and I retreat to the break room now known as Valhalla.

  We spend the next two hours watching John Wick for the ninth or tenth time, and when the movie is over we wander out onto the hangar floor, lean up against Betsy’s wing, and stare up forlornly at Diane’s office, once more playing the part of pitiable waifs. After a while, we make our way quietly back to Valhalla.

  * * *

  Noon arrives, and we’re just discussing lunch options when we hear the distinct clump, clump, clump of Diane’s heels on the stairs. She’s in a hurry, and when she enters Valhalla, there’s a satisfied glow in her eyes. Her hair is off-kilter again, but this time not from neglect. She has a habit of running her hands through it as she works.

  When she pauses in the entrance, I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “I think I found him,” she says … and the air rushes from my body.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Our original theory was flawed.

  It supposed that the kidnapped women had all been patients at various BrightPath Wellness clinics, and that the Onion King was either an employee or a fellow patient. He would have had to work at or attend each of the clinics in question, but because the kidnappings were spread out over several years, this wasn’t completely unreasonable.

  The warrant return from BrightPath was incredibly accurate as to which clinics each woman attended, and on what date and time. The first problem was that Sheryl Dorsey wasn’t on the list. She had plenty of mental and drug issues, but she’d never been a patient at BrightPath, not once. This can perhaps be explained away by what we found at her home in Tacoma.

  Instead of sitting at a distance and studying his victim from afar, the Onion King knew this one, and was a frequent visitor to her home. He found out all he needed to know up close and personal, where he could watch her, study her … smell her.

  The second flaw in our thinking—and the one that almost killed the theory—was the discovery that the Onion King had only been to a few of the locations. Without being present to see his intended victims and access their records, how was he picking them?

  And that’s where my shower comes in.

  As the warm water washed over me this morning, I suddenly realized what seems so simple and obvious in hindsight: BrightPath Wellness uses an internet-based database. The Onion King doesn’t have to visit individual clinics in person because he can do it online, but only if he has a log-on and password.

  That’s where his unusual pattern of shine comes in.

  The Onion King isn’t an employee, nor is he a patient. He’s part of the contract janitorial staff. His tracks were always near the front door because that’s the logical place one would park if arriving after hours. He was in every office because it was part of his job. It also explains why his shine is on every garbage can, something I had mostly ignored. I just assumed he was searching the trash for any important information that might have been inadvertently tossed out. Who would have guessed that he was emptying the trash?

  It’s a magnificent ploy.

  Coming in with the janitorial staff gives him access to every desk and every computer. And because the crew works after normal office hours, he has the luxury of time: time to rifle through the desks in search of a cheat sheet, a slip of paper with a username and password.

  He would have tried to log onto their computers, testing the password and looking for the information he would need to spoof the system from a remote location, make the database think he was logging in from a specific IP address.

  It fits.

  Every part of it fits.

  * * *

  Diane loves putting on a good show.

  Her presentations are usually well thought out and to the point, so we indulge her as much as possible, though she can be agonizingly slow in the telling. She calls it the great unfolding and seems to take pleasure from each new revelation she ladles out to us, as if we’re naked and exposed.

  “I had to go all the way up the corporate ladder to the CEO of BrightPath before I finally got an answer,” she says as the great unfolding begins. “She said that they’ve used the same cleaning service for about three years, a company called Cepa Industrial. Since we assumed that the Onion King was part of the cleaning crew, my next step was going to be to contact Cepa Industrial’s HR department for a list of employees.”

  She holds a stack of papers in her hands, which she now hugs to her chest. “I didn’t do that,” she continues. “And before you ask, I didn’t do that because it would have tipped our hand to Lo—” She catches herself, giving us a devilish smile. “It would have tipped our hand to the Onion King,” she says in a softer tone. “I have no doubt that he would have learned of the request within an hour … probably sooner.”

  “Who’s Lo—?” I ask, choking off the last part of the word intentionally, as she had.

  At the same time, Jimmy asks, “Why?”

  Ignoring my question, Diane turns instead to Jimmy. “I think your guy likes word games,” she says after a moment.

  “Why?” Jimmy asks again; same word, different question.

  “Because,” Diane says with a smile, “Cepa is Latin for onion.”

  The room settles into eerie quiet—even Jimmy’s strumming ceases.

  After letting her words sink in, Diane says, “There’s more. When I ran a check on all vehicles registered to Cepa Industrial, I found twenty-two work vans of different makes and models, none more than six or seven years old. These are obviously for the cleaning crews. Other than the fleet of vans, there was only one other vehicle on the report: a silver 2006 Honda Accord.”

  I smack Jimmy’s upper arm with the back of my hand. “A silver Honda Accord,” I say, as if he doesn’t get the significance. “Just like Dex said.”

  “I know that,” Jimmy replies slowly.

  Diane ignores the exchange and continues. “I called their corporate office, which appears to be a warehouse in Fife. Don’t worry,” she adds quickly, “I played it off that I was with one of the toll authorities and that the car had gone through a toll station without a pass and without paying. The office manager said that she’s not aware of any silver Hondas registered to Cepa Industrial, and she’s the one who tracks all the mileage and the gas cards. I told her it was probably a mistake on our part and she seemed satisfied.”

  “So…” Jimmy says, forcing calm into his voice, “who owns Cepa Industrial?”

  From a stack in her arms, Diane extracts a single sheet of paper and places it in the middle of the table. It contains a three-by-five photo and the printed data from a driver’s license. “His name is Lorcan Child,” she says. “Thirty-seven years of age, black hair, about six-foot, with a medium build.”

  “Lorcan Child,” I say, contemplating the name.

  “Criminal history?” Jimmy asks.

  “One arrest when he was twenty. He was booked, but the charge was later dropped.”

  “What was the charge?”

  “Rape,” Diane replies. She doesn’t elaborate immediately, but lets the word grip the presentation and drag it toward some dramatic end. “He was accused…” she finally says, drawing out the last word, “of slipping some flunitrazepam, also known as Rohypnol, and better known as a roofie, into the drink of a young woman he met at a bar.”

  “The date rape drug,” Jimmy says with a sour look on his face. “What a scumbag.”

  “Indeed,” Diane replies. “As often happens, the victim decided not to press charges, and Lorcan walked. After that, he worked for a number of tech firms, and then, out of the blue, he started Cepa Industrial about seven years ago. They now have a hundred and twenty-seven employees and cleaning contracts in four counties.”

  “So, he’s successful?” I ask.

  “I imagine he makes a co
mfortable living from his janitorial business, but nothing compared to his other business.” She lets the statement linger a moment. “It seems that Lorcan is, among other things, a hacker and a highly paid computer security consultant.”

  Jimmy and I exchange a look, and then lean in closer to Diane, who’s still standing with the stack of papers in her hand. “Does that mean he knows the dark web?”

  “Like a tongue knows teeth,” she replies with a nod. “And since a good number of hacking consultants got their start as hackers, there’s no telling what he’s been up to. It does support the database theory. With a username and password, someone like Lorcan could have free rein, regardless of HIPAA safeguards.”

  Diane lays another page on the table.

  “This is his home on Grouse Way in Lakewood. The pictures were captured off Zillow. They’re a bit dated, since he bought the house seven years ago, but I’ve compared them to those on the Pierce County assessor’s site and nothing seems to have changed—at least externally.”

  Diane places additional images on the table: kitchen, living room, entry, master bedroom, master bath, each room more elegant than the one before.

  “How much did he pay for this?”

  “One-point-seven million dollars.”

  Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”

  When Diane lays down the next image, we’re confused.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “His other house: same neighborhood, but three doors up the street. Nowhere near as magnificent as the first, but he only paid half as much.”

  “Which one does he live in?”

  “Oh, he lives in the first one, to be sure. This,” she says, tapping the picture, “is a rental.”

  “Maybe that’s where he holds the women,” I suggest. “It looks like it’s got a basement; that’s all he’d need.”

  “Right,” Jimmy says, “but how does he get them from the car to the basement without being seen? The picture shows a garage, but it’s detached and set at the back of the property.”

  “Well, you’re both correct and you’re both wrong,” Diane says. “The house does have a basement, and the detached garage is set at the back of the property where it opens onto the alley—a nicer alley, I might add, than the actual road that runs in front of my house. Both your points are irrelevant, however, since the house has been occupied by the Hatanaka family for the last three years.”

  She reaches down and picks up her favorite mug, the one that encourages people to FEED THE ANALYST, and takes a swig of lukewarm coffee. “He’s a computer engineer and she’s a copyright lawyer,” she continues after returning the mug to its place. “They have two boys, ages six and eight. None of this screams psycho the rapist to me.”

  I smile at the wordplay: psychotherapist divided into three parts is psycho the rapist. It’s an unfortunate meshing of words that Jimmy and I have used and abused for years. Apparently Diane pays closer attention to our break-room talk than we’ve given her credit for.

  The rest of the presentation deals mostly with Lorcan’s business ventures, the possibility of shell companies, and the single incident he was arrested for when he was twenty. Though the charges were later dropped and Lorcan walked free, his prints are still in the system.

  That bit of information is particularly frustrating, since his prints were all over the BrightPath offices. It’s irrelevant now, I suppose. We wanted to identify him, and we have.

  When Diane finishes, Jimmy has just one request. “Can you contact the BrightPath CEO again and ask her to run an audit on their client database? In particular, we’re looking for any access that was after hours. I need to know how many files were accessed, because if we don’t get to Melinda before he’s finished with her, he’s going to go after someone else on that list.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I say with a shake of my head. “We know where he lives; we know where he gets his information. We’ll get Melinda back.”

  Jimmy gives me a humorless smile and nods, but his heart is not in it. I know what he fears, and he’s right: the odds that the Onion King is holding Melinda in his upscale home in his upscale neighborhood are remote … but we’re one step closer.

  As Diane gathers her things and then starts for her office, Jimmy calls after her. “Can you also call Les and Marty and tell them they’re on standby—just in case?”

  When she’s gone, Jimmy turns to me and asks, “Are you up for a drive?”

  “Lakewood?”

  “Lakewood,” he confirms.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  We make two minor detours on our way south: the first is to the Fremont office of BrightPath Wellness, and the second is to the Burien office—the one next to the god-awful-blue dental facility.

  Our original plan was to ask the office managers to talk to each counselor and see if they have any passwords written down and stored in or around their desks. Between Bellingham and Seattle, however, reason caught up with us and we realized that no employee is going to admit that they’re violating company policy by writing down passwords, not to mention the possible HIPAA violations related to computer security.

  Instead, we ask to speak to each of the counselors in private. Since we’re conducting an active criminal investigation, it’s a reasonable request, and hardly one that the office manager or anyone else can object to. The strategy pays off, but the dividend is worthless.

  Almost all of the counselors have cheat sheets, but not one of them contains the Onion King’s shine. He’s never picked them up—probably never even saw them. Which means we’re back to the same old question: How’s he getting access to the computer?

  He is a hacker, so I suppose that’s a possibility.

  And then I remember that he’s also a computer security consultant, but I dismiss this idea almost as soon as it comes to me. If Lorcan Child had ever contracted with BrightPath Wellness for any type of computer services, Diane would have discovered this during her research—one way or another. She’s a bit of a hacker herself. Still, it’s an intriguing thought.

  * * *

  The winter solstice passed by yesterday with little fanfare; and with its passing, the dreary trudge into shorter and darker days finally ended. It’ll be a few months before the sun stretches its legs properly and brings us the longer days that we crave, but that time is coming.

  When we roll into the Moors, the high-end neighborhood in Lakewood that Lorcan Child calls home, it’s just before six o’clock and the darkness has been upon us for the better part of two hours. It’s good that the darkness is with us, it’s the great obfuscator, blurring shades of gray and black together so that nothing is clear, nothing is certain.

  This is a benefit when you don’t want to stand out, but also a liability. When one walks around in the dark, he’s automatically more suspicious to others than if he went for a walk in the full light of day. People tend to take a second look in the dark, or hold their gaze a moment longer, wondering what nefarious deed draws you out into the gloom.

  A summer walk at nine P.M. and a winter walk at nine P.M. may both take place at the same time on the clock, but they are as different as … well, night and day.

  Jimmy and I do an initial sweep of the neighborhood by driving through at normal speed and noting the exact location of Lorcan’s rental property, and then his primary residence. One is occupied; the other is dark and ominous. It huddles like a feral beast forty feet off the road.

  * * *

  The elusive and telltale amethyst and burnt orange shine I’ve been searching for is everywhere on the property, and on the surrounding sidewalks and street. Any doubt that Loran Child is our man is quickly dispelled.

  “It’s him,” I say to Jimmy, my voice breathy and low. An involuntary shiver runs up my spine as the anticipation, the thrill, and the terror of the moment collide. “He doesn’t seem shy about chatting with the neighbors,” I add after a pause. “There’s a steady stream of shine to and from every house on the
block. The guy’s a regular social butterfly.”

  Jimmy nods. “Making it even less likely that he keeps the women here,” he says. “It would hardly be polite to visit a neighbor and not extend a reciprocal invitation. Hard to do that if you have someone tied up in the spare bedroom.”

  “Good point.”

  After swinging back through for a second look, I park Gus along the curb two houses north of the rental. From here we have a good view of both properties, but we’re not close enough to draw any undue attention.

  Jimmy wanted to drive his Expedition for our little recon, but I convinced him otherwise. The vehicle’s red-and-blue wigwags might be hidden behind smoked windows, and the emergency lights in his grille might blend in, but the rig still screams law enforcement. You park that thing on a street and people are going to notice. Pretty soon you’ll have residents approaching to ask if they should be worried. Mostly they just want to know what’s going on, but that’s the kind of attention we don’t need right now.

  In the end, Jimmy sucked it up and allowed me to drive. I made sure I did the speed limit and observed all the rules of the road, but he still seemed to find plenty of opportunities to grab the dash or throw his hands in front of him as if we were about to crash.

  I pity his wife.

  * * *

  Before getting out of the Mini Cooper, I reach up and adjust the switch on the dome light, so it won’t illuminate when the doors open. The heavy rain we experienced coming through Everett and Seattle has tapered off, and a light drizzle plays in the air. It’s enough to get us damp, but not soaked, so we pull our coats tight and start down the sidewalk.

  Walking south on Grouse Way, we come to the rental property first.

  The lights are on throughout the house, and we slow and then stop on the sidewalk to get a better look. Mr. Hatanaka and his wife are at the dining room table with their two boys. Their conversation is lively and their laughter frequent, but for us it’s like watching television with the mute engaged.