by Steve Gannon
In real life, print comparisons rarely happen that quickly. For one, not all tenprint cards are stored in IAFIS, the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identifying System. For another, although millions of individuals have been fingerprinted for government positions, military service, and security clearances—not to mention people employed in civil occupations that require fingerprinting—there are countless tenprint cards gathering dust in files somewhere that have never been scanned into IAFIS. Bottom line, if someone has never been arrested, there’s no guarantee that his or her prints are in the system.
Facial recognition was another modern technology that worked best on TV. Other means of identification—dental record comparisons or finding a DNA match, for example—require someplace to start, something against which to compare your subject. In this case, investigators had nothing. Stymied, the Bureau had eventually released photos of the dead terrorists, requesting the public’s assistance in identifying them. I knew from talking with Deluca that hundreds of calls had come in, but as yet nothing had panned out. A number of calls threatening the “mystery hero” had also come in, all of which were being discounted as being from misguided individuals trying for their fifteen minutes of fame.
On the upside, I had learned from Deluca that Snead’s task force, which was still wrapping up the case, had finally located the source of the counterfeit magnetic signs. The fake Wiseguy Pizza door panels and illuminated roof cap had been ordered online and shipped to a private postal delivery service in Flagstaff, Arizona. The Flagstaff postal account, a Mail Box Plus box rented under the name of a Mr. David Miller, had been closed for more than a year, but the delivery service still had Mr. Miller’s registration materials on file. A comparison of fingerprints present on the signature card matched those of the tall intruder at the Clark residence. Unfortunately, the trail had ended with a check of the credit card linked to the Mail Box Plus account.
Not surprisingly, David Miller didn’t exist.
Using false ID probably attained online, the killer had opened a local bank account in Flagstaff, deposited several thousand dollars, and applied for a credit card. The card had subsequently been used to make automatic payments on the postal box. Bank records showed that the credit card had also been used to purchase the Wiseguy Pizza signs. With the exception of monthly payments to the Mail Box Plus account, only three other purchases had been made on the card. One involved a custom silkscreen payment, which turned out to be for the ISIS flag. The second payment was for a second set of magnetic signs and an illuminated roof-cap for a company called “United Delivery Service,” whose UDS logo closely resembled the United Parcel Service insignia. The final charge was for a third set of magnetic signs, this time for a company called “Onkin,” whose logo looked suspiciously like that of a national pest-control company. Learning this, LAPD had issued a be-on-the-lookout to all divisions, avoiding giving a reason for the BOLO but advising all units to exercise extreme caution when approaching any vehicles with those markings.
Not much, but something.
Later that week, after insisting that Nate resume attendance at school, upset stomach or not, I decided to drive to Orange County to visit a psychiatrist friend, Dr. Sidney Berns. Actually, my decision to visit Dr. Berns was inspired by a repeated encouragement from Dorothy, who was still worried about Nate and insisted that I at least confer with a psychiatrist about his depression. Although I didn’t agree with Dorothy that something was seriously wrong with my youngest son, I had learned long ago that it was easier to go along with Dorothy than to argue. And anyway, I had time on my hands, and I felt like getting out of the house.
Dr. Berns was a forensic psychiatrist employed at the Department of Psychiatry and Human Behavior at the California College of Medicine. Dr. Berns also regularly served as an expert witness for the Orange County District Attorney’s office. Like most police officers, I held a long-standing mistrust for the psychiatric profession. That being said, I had met Dr. Berns in the course of working several earlier cases, and I had grudgingly come to trust his opinion.
Following several hours of battling afternoon traffic, I pulled up in front of the Orange County UCI Neuropsychiatric Center. Leaving my car in a lot across the street, I entered the white, three-story building and proceeded down a hallway to the right. Upon arriving at an outpatient waiting room, I approached the reception desk and tapped on a glass partition, signaling a nurse on the other side.
The woman slid open the window. “Dan Kane to see Dr. Berns,” I said. “I called earlier.”
The woman checked her schedule. “Yes, Detective Kane,” she said. “Dr. Berns is expecting you.”
Minutes later Dr. Sidney Berns, a tall, lean man with penetrating pale eyes and a gray-streaked ponytail, stepped into the waiting room. “Dan, it’s good to see you,” he said, shaking my hand. “I was so sorry to hear about Catheryn,” he added quietly. “If there is ever anything I can do . . .”
“Thanks, Sid,” I said. “Anyway, I know you’re busy, and I appreciate your seeing me on short notice.”
“Anytime,” said Berns. “Come on back. We can talk in my office.”
I followed Berns through a residents’ lounge to a dismal, eight-by-twelve cubicle with a single window opening out onto a cement patio. Sliding in behind a desk littered with files, photos, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, Berns signaled me to a chair opposite his desk.
“I see you haven’t kicked the habit,” I noted, glancing at the ashtray.
“Not yet,” said Berns.
“I read somewhere that thousands of people quit every day, Sid,” I said. “By dying.”
“Funny,” said Berns. “You sound like my wife.”
“Sorry. I’m just saying . . .”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Then, pointedly changing the subject, “What have you been up to?”
“I took some time off after Catheryn’s memorial,” I answered, welcoming the opportunity to delay discussing the reason for my visit. “Recently I returned to work, kind of on a temporary basis.”
In true psychiatrist fashion, Berns raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
“Until a few days ago, I was acting as an LAPD liaison with the FBI on the Westside terrorism case,” I continued, filling the gap in our conversation.
“Interesting situation, that,” mused Berns.
“Interesting?” I said, thinking of the loss and suffering the terrorists had caused. “Kind of a callous way of looking at things, Sid.”
“Sorry. Maybe unusual would be a better word,” Berns conceded. “For one, most instances of mass murder involve the use of a gun. That the killers have been executing victims by beheading them, actually sawing off their heads with a knife, is particularly uncommon.”
“No argument there.”
“For another, although over the past fifteen years there have been more than 160 mass-murder incidents in our country, almost all of them have involved a lone killer, most often someone mentally unstable and consumed with rage. The percentage of mass murders involving two killers acting in concert is extremely small. And a killing team of three is even more unlikely. In this case, three terrorists were involved, correct?”
I nodded, wondering where Berns was headed.
“There are notable cases of multiple killers working together, however,” Berns continued. “Charles Manson and his cult family, for instance. The Hillside Stranglers, Angelo Buono, Jr. and Kenneth Bianchi, were another killing team, as were Leonard Lake and Charles Ng. More recently, the Beltway Snipers—John Allen Muhammad and Lee Malvo—constitute a fourth. There are other examples of two or more individuals hunting together for victims, but they all share one underlying similarity.”
“And that is?”
Berns leaned forward. “The common thread in all cases of multiple murderers working in tandem, including your terrorist beheadings, is that there is always one dominant individual calling the shots. The other members of the team, or in your case the terrorist cel
l, are followers—accomplices who wouldn’t be involved in the killings were it not for the leader-follower relationship.”
I remained silent, wondering which of the three men I’d killed in the Clark residence was their leader.
Berns paused, regarding me thoughtfully. “But you’re not here because of your terrorist investigation, are you?”
“No, this isn’t about work,” I admitted, surprised that Berns had been able to read me so easily. “I . . . I came to talk about something else.”
Again Berns didn’t reply, letting the silence grow.
“Catheryn’s mother, Dorothy, has been staying at the house,” I finally continued. “She’s worried about my youngest son, Nate. I guess I’m a little worried, too. The kid’s having a tough time dealing with the loss of his mom. We all are, but . . .”
“How old is Nate?” asked Berns.
“Sixteen.”
“What’s going on with him?”
“I don’t know, Sid. He’s taking Catheryn’s death really hard, which is understandable. Our whole family was devastated, but Nate . . . I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the same.”
“Can you be more specific?”
I shrugged. “There’s no one particular thing, but he seems changed. Like he doesn’t care about anything anymore. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t even want to get out of bed in the morning to go to school. Recently he quit the high school baseball team without discussing it with anyone. He seems so . . . sad. He had a few problems last year in school—fighting, lousy grades, and so on—but this is different. I don’t know what to do.”
“Is Nate drinking or using drugs? Pot, cocaine, mollies, acid—anything like that?”
“Not that I know of. Nate and a friend got in an alcohol-related scrape last year, and Nate’s pal had weed on him at the time. But I don’t think that’s it.”
“I hope not. Pot and some of the other so-called recreational drugs out there aren’t as harmless as many people think, especially for a young person who might have a developing mental illness.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I repeated, disturbed by Berns’s mention of mental illness.
“Good. Although I would advise drug testing your son to make certain.” Berns regarded me thoughtfully. “Dan, I can’t tell much without actually talking with Nate, but I don’t like what I’m hearing. Let me ask you something. What do you know about depression?”
“You think the kid’s depressed?” I snapped, unable to hide my irritation. “Hell, that didn’t take much figuring. Sid. Nate’s mother was murdered. Everyone in our family is depressed.”
“Not that kind of depression,” Berns said patiently. “I’m talking about a medical condition called clinical depression, or MDD—major depressive disorder.”
“Sorry. I’m kind of stressed out about this,” I apologized. “But Nate isn’t crazy. He’s just . . .”
“I know the idea that someone you love might have a mental illness is difficult to accept, Dan. Our society places a heavy burden of stigma and shame on mental illness, but—”
“I told you, Nate’s not crazy,” I interrupted.
“All right, Nate’s not crazy,” Berns agreed, raising his hands in surrender. “Although there’s a standing joke in the psychiatric community that it’s difficult to distinguish between mental illness and normal teenage behavior. Look, I’d like to give you some background on clinical depression anyway. I don’t want to be an alarmist, but MDD is a serious condition, and I want to make certain you understand what might be involved.”
“Go ahead. But I just talked with Nate. Mental illness is not the problem.”
“Fine. Let’s go over a few things anyway. Never hurts to err on the side of caution,” said Berns. “First, there are orders of magnitude between what we normally think of as depression and MDD. Anyone can develop MDD, including children, teens, and adults. In the United States, one out of five people will be diagnosed with severe depression at some point during his or her life.”
“One out of five?” I said, surprised. “That many?”
Berns nodded. “Making matters worse, depression isn’t visible, and there’s the idea out there that it isn’t really a disease. Depressed people should simply cheer up, try harder, and snap out of it. Because of that, people with depression are often ashamed and don’t talk about it. As a society, we don’t talk about it, either. In many ways, depression is stigmatized more than mental illnesses like bipolar disease, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and even schizophrenia.
“We don’t really know the cause,” Berns continued. “We do know that clinical depression is a mood disorder believed to be triggered by chemical changes in the brain, changes that result in feelings of sadness, frustration, loss, and anger. MDD can be genetic and run in families, or it can be brought on by a stressful event. Often it’s a combination of both.”
Berns paused to light a cigarette. Then, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the window, “I’ve had clinically depressed patients describe their symptoms like this: Imagine you wake up every morning, if you have been able to sleep at all, with a feeling that something horrible is about to happen, but you aren’t sure what it is. Or maybe you are. Maybe you do have specific fears, and they constantly torment you. Or this: Imagine there’s a glass wall between you and the rest of the world, and even on sunny days everything is dark and miserable and filled with doom. Your life is worthless, and so are you. Imagine your saddest day and multiply it by ten, a hundred, a thousand. Imagine you’re drowning in a bottomless pit, trapped and suffocating, with no hope of escape . . . ever. And this goes on day after day, with no end in sight, until sometimes even death seems a welcome alternative.”
Listening to Berns’s description, I sensed a hollow feeling building inside. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I recognized myself in his words, as surely as if I’d been looking into a mirror. I’d had those same feelings, and more than once.
But Nate?
“And you’re saying this . . . mood disorder can be genetic?” I asked numbly.
“Sometimes,” said Berns. “And sometimes, following a trigger event of some sort, it just happens.”
I hesitated. Like all LAPD employees, I had completed the department’s Behavioral Science Services’ suicide prevention program, which included recognizing the risk factors, signs, and symptoms involved with depression. Thinking about my son’s behavior over the past months, I wondered whether Berns might be right. I also wondered whether Dorothy had been correct in her assessment that rather than paying attention to important matters in my life, I had found it easier to bury myself in work and ignore problems that were staring me in the face.
Like Nate.
“I’ve heard there are treatments,” I ventured. “Counseling, pills, and whatnot. Are any of them effective?”
“Sometimes, sometimes not—depending on the severity of the illness. Has your son ever talked about hurting himself?”
“Hell, no,” I answered, shocked by the suggestion. “Nate would never do anything like that.”
“You need to make absolutely certain, Dan. Talk with him about it. If you’re sincere when you ask, most people will open up about such feelings.”
“I . . . I will,” I said. “I’ll talk with him. But I’m sure Nate wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But as I pointed out, there’s nothing wrong with erring on the side of caution. Again, I’m going out on a limb discussing Nate’s condition without actually talking with him. Nevertheless, whatever Nate’s problem is, there are warning signs you should watch out for. I’m concerned that Nate isn’t sleeping. Not eating is another symptom of depression, as are unexplained mood swings and behaving recklessly. I would be especially concerned if Nate begins saying things like he feels he’s a burden to others, or that he has no reason to live.”
“I’ll talk with him,” I repeated.
“And get him professional help. I can
’t stress that enough.”
“Catheryn and I tried to do that when Nate was having problems at school. After a couple sessions, he wouldn’t return. Recently I suggested going back. Nate refused, but I’ll . . . I’ll try again,” I promised.
“If you want me to talk with him, I’m available anytime.”
“I appreciate that, Sid. I’ll see what I can do and let you know. And . . . thanks.”
On the ride back to Los Angeles, I pondered what I had learned from Berns. My friend had cautioned that he couldn’t tell what was going on in Nate’s head without actually talking with him, and Berns’s description of clinical depression had simply been cautionary. Yet somehow his words had rung true. Guiltily, I wondered whether I had been ignoring a growing problem in my family, as Dorothy had suggested. And if so, why? Was it the shame and stigma associated with mental illness that Berns had mentioned?
Whatever the case, I was concerned about Nate, and I had to do something. But hours later, by the time I had turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway and headed for the beach, I still hadn’t decided what.
Unfortunately, by then I had a more immediate concern.
I was being followed.
Chapter 31
When driving, I often found myself sweeping my eyes over passing vehicles, streets, and alleys—looking for anything out of the ordinary. Scanning my surroundings was a habit I’d developed years back while riding patrol, and it was one I’d never been able to shake. Shortly after leaving the UCI California College of Medicine, I had noticed a dark SUV climbing the freeway ramp behind me. I saw it several more times on the return drive to the city. Eventually, an alarm began sounding in my mind.
The SUV followed me all the way to Santa Monica, matching my speed and taking every interchange I did—hanging several cars back but staying in whatever lane I happened to be in. Although I couldn’t get a look at who was driving, there appeared to be two men sitting in the front.
Before returning to the beach, I decided to find out who was riding my tail. As the Westside was my home turf, I knew exactly how to do that. Ignoring a bad feeling about what I was about to do, I exited the freeway in Santa Monica, taking the 4th Street off-ramp. As I merged into exiting traffic, I glanced into my rearview mirror.
