Mills enters the room last, following his team and the others. Josh Grady, one of the department’s public information sergeants, opens the press conference with a polite explanation of the ground rules. “Both my sergeant, Jacob Woods, spelled just how it sounds, and the mayor will make prepared statements,” he tells the group. “Then I will open it up for a limited number of questions to our detectives.”
He identifies the detectives on Mills’s squad and offers the proper spelling of their names. Then Grady introduces the mayor, who steps to the podium with a burst of energy in his feet and a burst of hubris on his face, as if he’s accepting a fucking Nobel Prize. “Hello, everyone,” Hurley says. “Thank you very much for being here. I know many of you came far. My first responsibility is to the people of Phoenix, and I want to tell them that our police professionals are following every lead to bring this killer to justice. We know many of you have been asking why city leaders haven’t held a press conference lately, and we want to assure you that the investigation is the first and foremost priority. Revealing too much too soon could hinder the work of our detectives. But we also know that our residents are justifiably scared about their safety and the safety of their children. While it’s true that we have not apprehended a suspect, we don’t believe these murders are entirely random. Evidence at this stage suggests that they’re not. I’ll leave it to the sergeant to speak to the evidence, but let me just suggest to you today that that we don’t see this as a widespread danger to the population at large. It should be business as usual in the great city of Phoenix, and living as usual, as well.”
Half man, half duck makes a few more broad, cheery, Chamber of Commerce statements to the crowd and steps down from the podium. Next Grady introduces Sergeant Jacob Woods who, Mills knows, must tap dance around some of the mayor’s misstatements and vague generalities, thus explaining the sergeant’s less eager stride and less eager eyes when he faces the reporters. “It is accurate to say that we are following every lead in the case. At present we have three victims. All males. Davis Klink, forty-seven. Barry Schultz, forty-six, and Joseph Gaffing Junior, forty-five. Cause of death appears to be the same in each case, and I say ‘appears’ because final autopsy and toxicology results have not been returned. The killer’s MO appears to be consistent. While we don’t believe these murders are entirely random at this point, we’re not concluding that. I appreciate the mayor’s trust in me, however I will not speak to evidence at this time. You can ask evidence-related questions of my investigators, and they can determine if they want that information released. The three murders have happened in fairly rapid succession, and the department, consequently, is having its resources a bit stretched. We are confident, however, that we can get the job done with the resources we have. That said, while I agree with Mayor Hurley that activities in Phoenix should be business as usual, we’d like our residents to be highly aware of their surroundings. If you see something, say something. Call our tip line with reports of any suspicious activities. Thank you.”
Grady asks Mills and his team to gather at the podium. Mills calls on a reporter from the Associated Press first. “With all due respect,” the woman begins, which is never a good beginning, “what we have heard so far today doesn’t really advance our understanding of the investigation. Can you tell us how close you are to naming a suspect?”
Mills thanks her for the question. “By better understanding who these victims are, we are a lot closer to identifying a suspect. We do believe we are dealing with one killer with virtually the same MO.”
“So could someone please tell us what the mysterious MO actually is?” asks a radio reporter with a face full of boredom in the front row.
“Not entirely,” Mills replies. “Most of you know that the bodies of our victims were found in makeshift graves at cemeteries throughout the valley. It appears they all suffered blunt force trauma to the head, which led to their deaths. I’m not going to elaborate on the MO any further at this point in order to protect the integrity of the investigation.”
“What kind of evidence did you gather at the crime scenes?” asks a youngish TV reporter with purple lipstick.
“I’m not going to comment on specific evidence,” Mills says.
Another TV reporter, not to be undone, yells out a question. “Are we talking about a serial killer?”
“That depends on your definition of a serial killer,” Mills tells him.
The young man smirks. “Uh, how about one killer who kills many people?”
“That’s not exactly the textbook definition,” Mills informs him. “And here’s our distinction: a serial killer is more likely to kill random victims or random individuals who fit a certain victim profile. A killer who kills victims known to him is less likely to be characterized as a serial killer. This doesn’t hold true all the time, but it’s a general guide. And, as the mayor indicated earlier, we don’t think these murders were necessarily random.”
“Why not?” asks Sally Tobin, the matriarch of Phoenix reporting. Mills guesses she’s pushing sixty because she’s been with the Republic for almost forty years.
“We’re following leads that suggest the killer in these cases may have a singular motive to commit these murders,” Mills tells her.
“And that motive is?” Sally continues.
Mills looks to Powell, who says, “We can’t comment on that yet.”
Sally shakes her head dismissively, not entirely disrespectfully, just an I’m-not-buying-it gesture from the old school when cops and reporters tangled over cold beers in dark bars rather than hot coffee in bright conference rooms. This is the new school where reporters half Sally’s age dispatch a constant stream of press conference morsels in 280 characters or less. In a social media orgy, they feverishly poke at their smartphones while Sally writes longhand. The others need to be more like Sally.
Mills’s phone vibrates. He looks quickly. It’s a text message from Roni in the lab: “Done with Maserati. Impound?”
Discreetly he types, “Yes. Thanks.”
Greer LaFountaine, a TV anchor in a pink pantsuit, heels to match, says, “Sources have told me that you have surveillance video of the first victim, Davis Klink, walking away from his car with the presumed suspect. Is that true, and, if so, will that video be released?”
“I can’t comment on the existence of a video,” Mills tells her.
“But my sources verified you have it,” the TV anchor insists.
“We may,” Mills advises her. At this point he’s deadpan. “And if we do, it would not be in the best interests of the investigation to release it at this time.”
“What if someone could identify the killer in the video?” Greer fires back.
“Are we having a debate?” Grady asks her. “Our case agent already answered your question.”
Mills calls on an older, professorial-looking man. “I’m Earl Simons, from the Apache Junction Times-Dispatch,” the man says. “Do you believe the killer is still in the area?”
“Yes, we believe the killer is in the area,” Powell replies.
“But you can’t tell us what evidence seems to indicate that?” Greer LaFountaine snipes at the detective.
That’s all Mills needs to hear. “No, we can’t tell you,” he says directly to Greer. “I think that’s going to do it for today, folks. We know you all have deadlines to meet and tweets to tweet, so thank you very much for coming. Any additional questions you can direct to Josh Grady, our PIO.”
The press doesn’t seem to recognize the end of the press conference, swept up as they are in a torrent of tweeting. When he and his squad are alone in the elevator heading upstairs, Mills turns to them and says, “That accomplished nothing. Trouble is our dimwitted mayor didn’t see the shit show he was creating with that press conference. And he probably still doesn’t.”
“We didn’t break any news, if that’s what those reporters were looking for,” Powell adds.
Mills says, “That’s exactly what they were looking for. But we
gave ’em a few tidbits, maybe a fresher perspective on things.”
Powell scoffs. “It has to be obvious to them we don’t have a motive yet. The waltz we did around that one was good enough for Dancing with the Stars.”
“You think we did more harm than good?” Myers asks.
“I think it was a wash,” Mills says.
Silence between the second and third floors.
“But we sounded good,” Myers says as they ascend to the fourth floor.
Preston laughs. “We sounded exactly how Hurley wanted us to sound,” he says. “Hung out to dry.”
26
Mills has no idea how long the vehicles will sit in the impound lot before they’re returned to the victims’ families. Probably for a while. But he doesn’t want to take the chance, so he’s relieved when Gus is available on such short notice for a visit. Gus may live in his own remote corner of the universe, like a cliff dweller presiding over all of the oceans of the world, but the guy does have a schedule, and he hopes his psychic friend, who shows up in sandals and a worn, thin T-shirt, doesn’t feel exploited. It’s five thirty. They’re in the impound lot. Mills thanks him so many times they’re both embarrassed. He tells Gus it’s okay to approach the victims’ cars.
“Can I touch it?” Gus asks as he nears Davis Klink’s BMW.
“It won’t melt.”
“No, I meant, like, would I destroy—”
“I know what you meant,” Mills says. “Both cars are evidence. They’ve been completely processed. But I’d still like you to wear these. . . .”
Mills reaches into his back pocket, removes a pouch containing crime scene gloves, and gives it to Gus. Gus does a dopey exhibit of donning the gloves like a surgeon, his hands upward, snapping the latex into place at his wrists.
The psychic runs his gloved hands over the hood as if he’s admiring the exquisite paint job and the sculpture of the body. Then he moves to the trunk, where he rubs the surface as though buffing a wax job. Then to the front windshield, where he glides a hand back and forth across the glass. He stands next to the driver’s side window, then looks up at Mills. “Can I get in and hold the steering wheel?”
Mills nods.
He watches Gus climb in, and, through the windshield, he sees Gus clutch the wheel. After a few moments sitting still there, Gus shifts his body slightly from side to side and moves like that, his hands on the wheel, his body gently swaying, and Mills realizes the man is manifesting a ride. He observes in awe as Gus drives off somewhere but nowhere. The scene unfolding before him is so real that Mills can almost hear the tires chewing up the pavement, screeching around curves, as if the psychic power, itself, possesses its own velocity. Gus scans the horizon, and as he does he seems possessed, perhaps by the spirit of Davis Klink, perhaps by the sheer drive to find the truth; Mills can’t tell. He can tell Gus’s eyes are doing camera work, that he’s committing the landscape to photographic memory. And then the ride stops. Gus sits back, taking his hands off the wheel. He slips out of the car and says, “Hey,” to Mills.
“Hey?” Mills asks. “That’s all you have to say?”
“No.”
“Good. ’Cause it looked like you took a Sunday drive in there.”
“I don’t know what day of the week it was, but it was a drive.”
“What did you see?”
Gus shields his eyes from the brilliant sun, removes a pair of Ray-Bans from a jacket pocket, and puts them on. “It was dark,” he says. “I smelled salt air. The road was winding.”
Mills looks at Gus with his hands open expectantly and his eyes begging for more.
“I don’t know,” Gus tells him. “I felt like I was on the road for an hour or two.”
“An hour or two? You were in the car for about five minutes.”
Gus bends to the driver’s side front tire, touches it, and whips his hand back. “Ouch! That’s hot.”
Mills bends, as well, and brings two fingers to the tire. “Actually, it’s as cold as a corpse.”
“Not to me,” Gus says as he rises. “Look, the power of what I’m seeing—and it is powerful—is not necessarily tied to this specific car. In fact, I’m sure it’s not. Which explains why the tire is hot to me and cold to you. Very simple.”
“Simple?”
“I’m seeing some history here. I’m feeling a kind of escape, maybe, or somebody fleeing. I can’t be sure. But you were right to bring me here. Davis Klink has been trying to escape something. He can’t get away, though. Something indelible has happened. Spanish music was playing on the radio.”
“Wait. Something indelible?”
“Something that can’t be undone.”
“His murder? That can’t be undone,” Mills says. “Maybe you’re seeing the killer fleeing. Maybe it’s the killer, not Klink, who can’t escape.”
“Interesting interpretation, Alex. Great intersection of our skills. But I’m pretty sure it’s the CEO who’s trying to flee.”
Mills leads Gus away. “You do realize the car was off,” he mentions. “You said you heard Spanish music on the radio. But the car was off. No keys.”
“I know that, dude. The music was on while I was on the road. And I do know that I wasn’t really on the road.”
Mills nods. “I don’t really understand how you do this.”
Then Gus says, “I think you’re getting closer.”
They’re standing in front of Barry Schultz’s Maserati now. Gus performs basically the same ritual on this car as he did with the BMW. He inspects the exterior with his hands, gets in, grips the steering wheel, and, just as before, appears to take it for a drive. When the ride is over Gus hesitates before getting out, sitting there peering out the windshield at something. He scans the horizon, shakes his head, and opens the door.
Mills steps forward and recognizes his own rapid heartbeat. “Well?” he asks.
Gus lifts himself from the car, clutching the roof. “I went for another ride.”
“I could tell. What did you see?”
“Nothing different.”
“Nothing different. Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not kidding you,” Gus says. “But that’s the point. They were the exact same drives. I rode for about two hours again. The highway was pitch-black and winding. I smelled salt air. I heard Spanish music.”
“No shit. . . .”
“No shit. And I did pick up a few more details. Nothing much. But I saw a road sign. It said, ‘105 km.’ I think it also said, ‘Playa Caribe.’ C-a-r-i-b-e, but I’m not sure because I swear we flew by at, like, eighty miles an hour.”
“We?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘we.’”
Gus scrunches up his face for a second. “Yeah. There were others in the car with me.”
“Seriously?”
“Definitely. I could feel their presence and their fear. They were, like, all jangled.”
“Did you see their faces?”
Gus shakes his head. “It was dark. Everything was dark. Inside the car was like soaking darkness. Enveloping.”
Mills leans against the Maserati. He doesn’t give a shit how much the car is worth at this point. “Is it fair to say Klink and Schultz were in the car together?”
“I don’t know,” Gus replies. “I think I can say for sure they took the same drive. Not sure if they went at the same time in the same car.”
“I have a third victim,” Mills says.
Gus just looks at him.
“Another homicide, Gus.”
“Really? When?”
“Tuesday. Or very late Monday night. Body’s with the OME.”
“Damn. Similar crime scene?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Car?”
“Yep. But it’s still with the lab,” Mills says. “Guy’s a travel agent. Joe Gaffing. Not exactly the same socioeconomic profile of the others.”
Gus’s pallor changes from ruddy to pasty white to greenish, one wave following the other. “You okay?
” Mills asks.
“I think so,” Gus answers slowly, as if he’s not thoroughly convinced. “Maybe a little carsick. Ha-ha, get it?”
“You don’t look good.”
“I just think I’m done.”
Mills nods. He’s done, too. The day is crawling all over him. He needs a shower.
The shower doesn’t work. The quiet dinner with Kelly, just the two of them, is a soft distraction. But he can’t tune out. The residuals of the afternoon press conference, no doubt, aired on the evening news. But Mills doesn’t watch. Still he’s wired, and he can’t unplug, not even later when he climbs into bed. It’s not just the press conference—it’s everything.
He tosses and turns and wrestles with his pillow. Poor Kelly. He doesn’t know how she can stand it. She tries rubbing his back, then gives up and rolls over. Now she’s mostly asleep, occasionally groaning at his restlessness. He zooms from one theory to the next, none of them congealing because his science, itself, has all the discipline of a pinball machine. Insomnia meets ADD. Everything collides, but nothing makes sense. And it won’t stop. Eleven thirty.
Midnight.
One thirty in the morning.
They dig. They shovel. They die. They know each other.
Two o’clock.
They’re on a beach. Salt air. The photos.
Dig Your Grave Page 26
