by J. D. Barker
In the courtyard, I left the largest box just outside the door and quickly carried the three others to the third row, the second-to-last storage unit on the left, thankful I’d decided on a combination lock when I’d rented the space a little over two years ago.
I raised the door just enough to get inside, pulled it down behind me, and turned on the light.
Chapter Seventeen
Dobbs
At his desk at LAPD headquarters, Detective Garrett Dobbs scrolled through the hundreds of photographs taken at Alyssa Tepper’s apartment earlier in the day. CSI had uploaded them to a secure cloud storage folder. Pictures of Tepper and Michael Kepler, or Michael Fitzgerald, or whatever; seemingly random photographs of her kitchen, living room, bedroom. Still shots of the video featuring her with Kepler. Near the end, he found what he was looking for. “There it is.”
Dobbs raised his phone and held it out to Wilkins.
Wilkins, sitting at the desk across from his with his own phone pressed to his ear, waved him off.
Dobbs looked back down at the screen and enlarged the image of the feather attached to a thin leather strap, some kind of necklace. On the flat-panel computer monitor on his desk, he had a picture of the bag of feathers found in Kepler’s truck. A tech had removed one of the feathers and photographed it alongside the bag and a ruler. The example feather was a little over four inches long, similar to the one on Tepper’s necklace. Dobbs was by no means an expert, so he called one. Mirella Sunde at the Griffith Park Bird Sanctuary dropped into lecture mode, and Dobbs scrambled to take notes on at least thirty-five sparrow species in North America. Fifteen of those were common throughout the country, half a dozen were common to the eastern United States, ten more were common to the central part of the country, and two particular species were common to western North America—the Baird’s sparrow and the golden-crowned sparrow. Dobbs finally got her to consent to identify the species if he had a feather brought to her by a uniformed officer.
Across from him, Wilkins scribbled on a notepad, then ended his call. “I’ve got something from Kepler’s credit card records. He rents a warehouse space off Alameda. Maybe ten minutes from here.”
Dobbs snatched his keys from the corner of his desk and stood. “I’m driving.”
Chapter Eighteen
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
By the time Dr. Rose brought her silver Mercedes CLS to a stop in front of the campus library on West Avenue, my call log recorded six missed calls from the California number along with one voice mail I didn’t dare listen to in front of her. I clutched the phone in my sweaty palm—thank God they made these things waterproof.
“Will you need a ride home?”
I shook my head and unbuckled my seat belt. “I’m sure someone in the library can drive me back. If not, I’ll Uber.”
I was halfway out the door when Dr. Rose said, “Don’t forget about our session. Five p.m., my home office.”
“Sure.”
I grabbed my backpack from the rear seat, closed both car doors, and started up the sidewalk to the library. Approaching the entrance, I watched the reflection of Dr. Rose’s Mercedes. She pulled away as I stepped into the vestibule.
I dropped my backpack and tapped the voice-mail icon on my phone. The message had been left twenty minutes ago.
Michael’s voice, thin and tinny through the small speaker. “Damn it, Meg, where are you? I bought a burner phone. The police still have mine. I’m getting my car. Call me back!”
I pressed Redial, but my call went straight to voice mail. I wasn’t able to leave a message. A recording said the mailbox had not been set up.
I went back out the glass double doors and rounded the side of the library at a sprint, heading for the science building on the opposite side of the campus—where Dr. Rose saw her student patients.
Chapter Nineteen
Dobbs
Shortly before nine a.m., Dobbs pulled up in front of the Stow ’n’ Go.
“How you doing on a warrant?” Dobbs asked.
Wilkins frowned and scrolled through the e-mail on his phone. “Nothing yet.”
“Did you call Judge Fleming?”
“No—Fleming’s in Tahoe until Tuesday.”
Dobbs tossed his LAPD placard up on the dash. “Guess we’re winging it.”
Inside the office, they found a teenager manning the blue Formica counter. His spiky black hair jutted out in all directions. He had at least half a dozen piercings in his right ear, twice as many on the other side. A silver hoop hung from his nose. He had another in his lip. He wore a T-shirt that read THIS IS WHAT AWESOME LOOKS LIKE.
The kid glanced up as they entered, said, “Morning, Officers,” before Dobbs had a chance to pull out his ID.
“That obvious?” Wilkins said.
The kid shrugged. “Nobody rocks a Ford Taurus like the po-po.” He nodded at Dobbs’s belt. “And the bad guys have the decency to hide their guns.”
Wilkins stepped up to the counter, took out his phone, and scrolled through the pictures. “We’re looking for someone.”
“Damn, I thought you were here to take advantage of our nineteen-ninety-nine move-in special. Could have used that commission.”
Wilkins’s face soured, and he leaned slightly over the counter.
The kid shrank back and raised both hands. “Whoa, just playing with you. It can get lonely up in here. What’ve you got?”
Dobbs nodded at the ancient Dell on the corner of the desk. “Need you to look up a unit number. Should be under the name Michael Kepler. If you don’t see a Kepler, try Fitzgerald.”
Wilkins found the photograph of Michael Kepler and held his phone out to the kid. “You’re billing this guy’s credit card four hundred ninety-nine dollars a month.”
The kid took the phone and studied the image, chewing the ring on his lip. “Four hundred and ninety-nine dollars would be one of the garage units on the first floor, a ten by thirty.” He handed back the phone, walked past the computer, and pointed at the security monitor. “Think that could be your guy?”
Dobbs stepped closer. The security-camera footage was frozen on a man carrying a large box, his face only partially visible. He wore a Los Angeles Angels baseball cap and dark sunglasses, and he looked a lot like Michael Kepler.
“He ducked in behind another customer, didn’t swipe a key card.” The kid clicked on a food-encrusted keyboard under the screen. “I got another shot of him outside a minute or so later.”
In the second image, the man was kneeling down at a garage door, working a lock.
“Box is gone,” Wilkins pointed out. “Where’d it go?”
“He left it out in the courtyard, just outside the door. A lot of weirdness going on. I was checking him out when you guys came in.” He clicked a button on the keyboard, and the video advanced in slow motion. They watched the guy on the screen remove the lock, raise the door, and slip inside. The door rolled back down behind him.
“When was this recorded?” Dobbs asked.
The kid brought up the time stamp. “About twenty minutes ago.”
“He still in there?”
The kid shrugged. “I didn’t see him come out…” His voice trailed off. He was gazing at a small television on the counter, stuffed back behind the security monitor. The sound was off, but images flickered across the screen. “Isn’t that him too?”
Dobbs leaned over to get a better look. Michael Kepler’s image stared back at him from the local NBC affiliate. Looked like a DMV photo. Below Kepler was the headline “Escape from LAPD?”
“Shit,” Dobbs muttered. “That didn’t take long.”
“What unit is that? Where is it?” Wilkins asked, still staring at the security monitor.
The kid didn’t answer.
“Kid! Over here. What unit?”
He reached for the phone. “I need to call my boss.”
Wilkins smacked the top of the monitor. “Where is that unit?”
Dialing,
the kid nodded toward an open doorway to the right. “Follow that hall to the end, go out to the courtyard. Third row, second-to-last garage door on the left, D-forty-seven.”
Chapter Twenty
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
This is probably totally illegal. I’m not up on the latest breaking-and-entering laws, particularly when the room you’re breaking-and-entering into is in your own house. If what I share below is illegal, I plead the Fifth, or defer to my lawyer, or assert my right not to self-incriminate, or whatever. Also, this is off the record. Like the rest, I’m telling you this only to help you understand Michael’s full story. How he got from A to B to D. I can’t skip it—there’d be a gaping hole in my statement and you, being the bulldog that you are, you’d ask me about it anyway. Consider this my way of saving us that time and trouble. Not an admission of guilt. Now that I think about it, I don’t think what I did would be illegal, anyway. At worst, it might subject me to a solid grounding. Dr. Rose and Dr. Bart were never shy about doling out punishments. You’ll see that soon enough. Back to it, then—
The two of them shared a two-room office near the back of the northeast corner on the first floor of the science building. Rather than separate offices, they opted to set up facing desks in one and a couch and a chair in the other in order to create a private space for their sessions with patients.
I arrived at the science building about a minute before noon and slowly navigated the hallways. Dr. Rose had said her appointments were at noon and one p.m.
As I rounded the corner and her office came into view, I moved even slower, on the tips of my toes, holding my backpack at my side. The glass door was closed. The door to the secondary office was closed too, the blinds drawn. She would be inside with her first patient.
Dr. Rose’s purse was on her desk. Dr. Bart rarely kept more on top of his desk than an old landline phone and a white coffee mug filled with pens. The phone was still there, but the pens were gone. His collection of framed degrees was gone from the wall too. There were no boxes. I wondered what she’d done with everything.
I opened Dr. Rose’s door slowly. It squeaks if you open it too fast. I’d learned the sweet spot between fast and slow the first time I’d snuck in. Behind me, in the secondary office, I heard Dr. Rose’s muffled voice followed by some girl’s.
I tugged open the purse’s zipper just far enough so I could reach inside for her keys.
I nearly dropped them when my phone vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans. I snatched it with my free hand and hit Decline before it could vibrate again.
Michael.
I quickly texted, Can’t talk.
His response came a moment later. Did you get into his office?
Working on it. Where r u?
Warehouse.
I thumbed out, Call later, and put the phone back in my pocket.
I set Dr. Rose’s keys on the desk and reached down into my backpack. I took out a lighter, a roll of clear packing tape, scissors, my old bank debit card, and a pair of tweezers.
Dr. Rose kept about a dozen keys on her ring—keys for the house, the university, and her various vehicles. She would never keep an outdated key. Each served a purpose. The dead bolt on Dr. Bart’s office was a Medeco. I remember sounding out the word as a kid, reading it in the polished silver from the hallway outside his office as his deep bass voice resonated inside, the occasional reply from one of his many patients filling the space between.
Dr. Rose had one Medeco key, the only key on her ring with a square head. I held my breath, pried open the ring with my thumbnail, and slid the key off, doing my best not to jingle the others. I set it on the desk.
With the scissors, I cut a piece of the packing tape equal to the length of the key and placed that on the desk too, sticky-side up. Using the tweezers, I gripped the edge of the key.
When I flicked the lighter, nothing happened.
I flicked the small wheel again. The flint sparked, but no flame. I cursed myself for not buying a new one. The lighter finally came to life on my third attempt, and I quickly ran it along the side of the key until the metal was black with soot.
I killed the flame, waited a moment, then pressed the key into the sticky packing tape. When I pulled the key away, much of the soot remained on the tape—a perfect duplicate. I carefully applied the tape to my debit card, preserving the image.
In the room behind me, I heard a girl laugh, then Dr. Rose’s voice. I couldn’t make out the words.
I wiped the remaining soot from the key on my jeans and put the key back on Dr. Rose’s ring. Returned the ring to her purse. Slipped the items I’d brought with me back in my pack and left the office.
Four minutes total, my best time yet.
What’s your best time, Jessica? Do they teach this sort of thing in the FBI? I bet you cheat and use one of those automated lockpicks. They’re called snap guns, right? You’ll need to get me one of those. The holidays are coming up—it’s never too early to start buying those stocking stuffers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dobbs
Dobbs called for backup as he ran, barking orders into his phone. He pushed out through the glass door at the end of the hall into the courtyard, drew his weapon, and got his bearings.
The courtyard was larger than it appeared from the outside. Three long rows of garages stood in the center, the building on one side and a tall cinder-block wall on the three others. Arrows painted on the blacktop indicated the flow of vehicular traffic. Signs identified rows A through D, D being the last.
Wilkins shielded his eyes with one hand, held his gun in the other. “You go in from this side, I’ll circle around to his row from the far end, and we’ll box him in.”
Dobbs nodded, ran past the first two rows, and rounded the corner at D in a low crouch. Wilkins came around the opposite end, his gun pointed at the blacktop.
The row was deserted. Kepler was gone.
Dobbs knew the moment he saw the combination lock secured on the bottom right of the garage door.
Wilkins turned in a slow circle. “He can’t be far.”
“Get back to the main entrance, wait for backup, then comb everything—every inch. I’ll—” Dobbs’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “This is Dobbs.”
A female voice, slight Southern accent. “Detective, this is Special Agent Jessica Gimble with the FBI. I need you to listen to me carefully. I believe the suspect you have in custody might be responsible for multiple homicides in at least ten states. He is to be considered extremely dangerous. I’ve got marshals en route. They’re about twenty minutes out from LAPD headquarters.”
Dobbs blew out a breath. Apparently he wasn’t the only person who didn’t have time to watch the morning news. He lowered himself to a squat and fumbled with the combination lock on the garage door. “Are you in Los Angeles, Agent Gimble?”
“Santa Monica. I’m right behind them, about forty minutes away. The marshals have instructions to hold the suspect until—”
Dobbs ran his hand through his hair. “You’ll want to reroute. I’ll text you the address. A warehouse complex off Alameda. We’ve had a…complication.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
The Uber dropped me at the start of our long, winding driveway. I chose to walk from there. Not because I had a problem with Uber drivers pulling up to the house, but because Ms. Neace was somewhere inside or on the grounds, and I didn’t want her to know I was home just yet.
I entered through the side door off the laundry room, took off my shoes, tiptoed up the back stairs to my room, and gently closed the door behind me.
I placed my backpack on the corner of my bed, fished out the scissors and debit card with the image of the key, and settled in at my desk. I took my time cutting it out. I knew from past experience that one slip, and my DIY project would be toast. Dead-bolt locks in particular were tricky, far more unforgiving than a simple
door lock. Cuts needed to be exact. Ten minutes later, the key cut from the plastic, I took a nail file from my makeup table and smoothed the edges. Then I blew away the dust and admired my handiwork.
Security is such an illusion. Every night, we seal ourselves up in our homes, these boxes filled with windows of fragile glass; we set alarms that ring to call centers in far-off places like India or the Philippines. We tell ourselves we’re safe because the police patrol the streets and our neighbors watch and our Wi-Fi cameras and motion-activated lights diligently stare with unblinking eyes. The world might look glossy and safe, but that’s just paint, a shimmering clear coat. Windows break, call centers are slow to respond, an interruption in electricity disables nearly all gadgets, and locks can be picked.
Makeshift key in hand, I stood, went to my door, and pressed my ear against the wood.
From down the hall, a vacuum droned. Ms. Neace in the master bedroom.
I opened my door, crept down the hall, and descended the stairs.
Dr. Bart’s home office sat across from Dr. Rose’s on the opposite end of the house, past the kitchen and informal living room, through a thick oak door, and down a hall that led to a small waiting area complete with a separate entrance. Both Dr. Bart and Dr. Rose routinely saw patients here, and those patients were not permitted into the main house. Although the oak door wasn’t typically locked, a heavy-duty arm at the top of the door kept it closed. As I pushed through, I felt as if I were stepping into a forbidden space. Ms. Neace and the sounds of her cleaning efforts disappeared. The air grew still. The hallway grew longer, and I was suddenly a kid again, tiny shoes clicking on hardwood.
As with the hallway, the walls of the waiting area held a shrine to the doctors’ greatness: framed degrees, newspaper and magazine articles, large posters of their book covers. Several photographs of them together, just the two of them, and with various local celebrities—the mayor and such. None of me. None of Michael. I asked Dr. Rose about this once, and she told me some bullshit about how it wasn’t appropriate to display photographs of children in the workplace. Come on. I’m a psychology major—this was about intimidation. These pictures were meant to belittle people, make them feel inferior in the presence of their eminences the Doctors Fitzgerald.
