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, ready to flee in case they'd missed an alarm, they'd waited. Then they'd begun preparing the room for the events tonight.
March now turned from the bizarre decor 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 also staged the scene rather well, 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 from 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 kicked the idea away. 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 the peephole, gripping the hammer he'd break Scanlon's arm with as soon as he moved inside, then he'd 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 house-lights he hadn't turned them on.
Scanlon walked onto the low porch and 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. He looked at his painted wall and grimaced.
"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 he 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 house, opening doors. Shouts of "Clear!" echoed.
March said absently, "There's no one else," and continued to gaze down at his boss.
Maybe Jenkins 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 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 prey. He recognized him from outside the movie theater the other day 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 shook his head, not in the least surprised she'd outthought him.
His beautiful Kathryn said, "Read him his rights and then 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 found herself thinking once more of her observation a few moments earlier: about the security lights at the hospital, and at the venues that the unsub had attacked. They'd all 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 seem them blaring from the camera in the elevator.
She'd ducked into the lobby of the concert hall and, from her phone, checked the police photos of the three 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 i
nspector, 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 anymore. 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 teen had also mentioned brilliant lights.
"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 March's 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 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 antigovernment 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. And all the texts and the call logs we found? About payments and what a good job the supposed hit man was doing? 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 setup. But then who was the real client who'd hired you?"
She'd eliminated Michelle Cooper's ex-husband, Frederick Martin. Brad, the fireman. And Daniel Nashima.
Another suspect had arisen briefly. Upon learning that it was Mexican commissioner Ramon 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 taking his own measures to shut the place 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 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 a stab of amused look. He remained silent but his eyes chastised, as if she were embarrassingly naive. 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 reposted them. You didn't have any pictures of Solitude Creek on your site, of course, but Prescott found them on another site. And included them in his Vidster rant. 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 March and Jenkins noted who downloaded the most pictures from their site 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 of 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 had kissed him in thanks.
"That just sent us to the hotel, not your room. But I correlated all the guests' names with anyone who rented a car in Los Angeles just after the panic at the theme park. Your name 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 the two men's perverse career had betrayed him.
March 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 and Michael O'Neil and the FBI's Amy Grabe would try. But, in fact, what Dance wanted the most was to understand this man's workings. He was unlike any other criminal she'd ever come up against; and, her experience taught, if there was one human being with his proclivities toward the dark edge there'd be others.
"Before you answer, let me say one thing."
"Yes?" One of March's brows arched.
"Texas."
His face gave a minuscule twitch. He knew what was coming.
"If you agree, I've spoken to the prosecutor here in California, 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 the stampede there."
The tip of his tongue eased against a lip and retreated. "And here? I'll get life."
&
nbsp; "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? 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 could 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 featured not only pictures that could be downloaded but also forums where members could post messages and chat in real time.
Jenkins was former military. While on tour, he'd taken a lot of pictures overseas of battlefields, bodies, torture victims. He himself had no interest in the images themselves but 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's 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 interested 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, then 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."
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