by Meg Gardiner
She and Rainey dropped their posed positions. Across the room, a television rattled. Conversation burbled at desks. On the flat-screen the tinsel danced in the air currents.
“Leaving the rock was an anomaly,” Caitlin said. “It wasn’t deliberate.”
Rainey seemed to shake off the darkness that had briefly wreathed her. “Maybe it can be more than that. Keyes?”
He stepped up. Espresso-eagerness on his face.
“We’ve been looking at behavioral similarities at the crime scenes.”
“Signature,” Keyes said.
Rainey nodded. “But let’s look at MO too. I doubt the Midnight Man’s career in burglary began with home invasion murder. Let’s go back.”
“And sideways,” Caitlin said.
Keyes tilted his head. “You think he’s out there committing other burglaries now?”
“Good chance.”
“If he’s got a drug habit, he might be supporting himself through theft,” Rainey said. “Search for burglaries and break-ins committed with ninja rocks in Southern California.”
Keyes opened his laptop. “Parameters?”
“Start with the last twenty-four months. Los Angeles County.”
“Home invasions? Burglaries of both residential and commercial property?”
“Everything,” Caitlin said. “Auto burglaries too.”
He nodded, accessing a database. Rainey gave the crime scene photo a final once-over.
“That was sharp,” Caitlin said to her.
“Turn, turn, turn. Keep exploring new angles.” She pushed the photo away. “And it was Maya Cathcart who was sharp. She took point, though it killed her.”
It took Keyes barely half an hour. He leaned back, his eyes wide.
“Ooh, doggy,” he said.
Caitlin nearly laughed. He would have sounded like a rube, if not for his knowing expression. The sunshine reflected off his laptop. She and Rainey rounded the table to peer over his shoulder.
His screen displayed long list of incidents, summarized in dry dispatch codes and acronyms. He hit a key. Instantly the list narrowed.
“What in …” Rainey said, leaning closer. “That is …”
“Minor league freaky on its own,” Keyes said. “In light of the Arcadia attack, perhaps important.”
“Not perhaps,” Caitlin said. “Definitely.”
Keyes had discovered a serial vandal who used ninja rocks to attack police cars.
Since the spring, seven police or sheriff’s vehicles had been hit and had their windows shattered by ceramic chips. Every vehicle had been struck from a distance. Two while stopped at traffic lights. One while answering a late-night silent alarm at a warehouse. Two at fast food restaurants. One while the officer had responded to reports of a person unconscious at the wheel of a car that, it turned out, had been abandoned. The perpetrator had never been seen. Never identified.
“Attacks always occur after dark,” Caitlin said. “In two of those cases, I suspect the vandal is the one who brought the cops to the scene.”
“He set off the alarm at the warehouse and called in an anonymous 911 request for a welfare check on the abandoned car. Then he laid in wait,” Rainey said. “The other attacks—the fast food restaurants …”
Keyes said, “Map. Hang on.” He sent a map to the big-screen TV and highlighted the locations of every incident of vandalism.
Caitlin walked to the screen. “Want to bet the McDonald’s and that Starbucks are frequent stops for cops on duty?”
“Stand-alone buildings, meaning an attacker nearby could gain a vantage, and concealment, and pick his target,” Rainey said.
Keyes read, tapping his thumb against his bottom lip. “In every case, the officers involved initially thought they were under fire.” He drilled down into the incident reports. “In all but one attack, the officer reported shots fired. It was only when no spent rounds could be found—and the ninja rocks were discovered—that they figured out that the sharp report they heard was the ceramic hitting the window.”
Caitlin slowly shook her head. Something didn’t add up. “Ninja rocks are generally thrown at car windows from three to five feet away. They’re incredibly effective, especially when flung with a good fastball motion,” she said. “It doesn’t take brute strength, either—I could shatter windows with a fingernail-size bit of spark plug.”
“But you can do the FBI Academy obstacle course at Quantico. You’ve got plenty of brute strength,” Keyes said.
“Skinny teenagers and strung-out heroin addicts do it every day, is my point,” she said. “From close up. An irregularly shaped ceramic fragment, so light weight, quickly loses its force. How is this guy hitting the cars from such a distance that the officers not only can’t see him, but he has a solid head start on getting away?”
Rainey crossed her arms. “Take it from the mother of two boys. This guy’s firing a slingshot.”
Keyes nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s … so immature,” Caitlin said.
“These attacks are taunts. They’re meant to terrify,” Rainey said. “This guy is scouting locations where cops hang out, or finding ways to lure them to a scene, and he’s scaring them. With simulated gunfire. They respond as if they’re in imminent danger. Picture Mr. Ninja Rock watching them duck and cover, watching them cringe, feeling his power over the police.”
“It’s minor league sadism,” Caitlin said. “He enjoys the spectacle and slinks away basking in a feeling of power.”
“Getting his rocks off …” Rainey returned to the forensic report on the ceramic chip found at the Cathcart crime scene. “There was a partial brand ID on the chip. Hardcastle Spark Plug. Batch number, so they can trace the date it was manufactured.”
Keyes held out his hand. “May I?”
Rainey gave him the report. Five minutes later when he lifted his hands from the keyboard, he wasn’t wry, or jokey. He was intense and grave.
“The ninja rocks fired at patrol cars match the one found at the murder scene,” he said.
“They’re connected,” Caitlin said.
Keyes leaned over his computer again. “Give me some more time. These incidents expand the number of data points for the geographic profile.”
Caitlin picked up the crime scene photo. The ninja rock was small but revealing.
“Rainey. We still need to categorize the killer. I’ll stick a pin in the board. Domination. Humiliation. Preemptive annihilation. He’s a power-control killer who’s stewing in malignant paranoia.”
20
At Bay Rise Elementary School, dismissal was cacophony.
That was Hannah Guillory’s vocabulary word of the day. Cacophony. She walked from her classroom under the bottle brush trees, eating her after-school apple, red Chuck Taylors catching the sun. The day was cool but with the sunshine everybody was talking louder than usual. She finished up, dropped the apple core in the trash, and ran to join her friends as they headed home, backpacks weighing them down. For a minute, Hannah felt normal. Then she heard them talking.
“They bought a badass home security system,” Caleb said. “Alarms on all the doors and windows, strobe lights if anybody comes on the property. Cameras they can watch even when they’re away. They get a text alert, like a police siren, if they’re somewhere else and the doorbell rings. It’s like an X-Men base.”
Lots of people were getting home security systems. They’d all seen the service trucks driving around town. They’d all seen new window stickers or yard placards stating, protected by HomeSecur.
But not everybody could afford home security systems.
“I heard my parents,” Olivia said. “Whispering. They were nervous. Dad said installing a system would cost two thousand dollars.”
Sam whistled, or tried to. Olivia’s eyes looked weirdly uncertain. And shiny.
“I watched the news,” Hannah said. “Even if you want to buy a security system, there’s a waiting list. It’s like two months.”
That thought seemed to sober even the enthusiastic talkers.
“Some people are bolting up fake video cameras,” Sam said.
“Cool,” Caleb said.
“But where do you get fake video cameras?” Hannah said. “If you can’t get a real system, where are you going to find a fake one? At a swap meet? On eBay? You’d still have to buy it.”
“My aunt and uncle tried to buy an alarm system but they’re on the waiting list,” Madison said. “So they tied bells and chimes to their doorknobs and backyard gates.”
“That’s a supersmart idea.”
Madison licked her lips before speaking. “We got a guard dog.”
“Where?” everybody said.
“The animal shelter.”
“A trained guard dog? Like from the army, or a junk yard?”
Madison shrugged. “He’s big. He has scars.”
Hannah went quiet again. They weren’t talking about what she’d heard on the news. That people weren’t just buying dogs. The shelters were nearly empty, even of little dogs. Things that could make noise.
Softly, she said, “People are buying guns.”
Nobody reacted. Out front of school, the buses were full. The pickup zone was jammed, a long line of cars and trucks trailing back to the street. Like never before.
Hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulders, Hannah headed for the crosswalk. The crossing guard was waiting.
“You coming, Madison?” she said.
Her friend shook her head. “I have to wait for my brother to pick me up.” Her brother was a senior in high school. “He’s skipping soccer practice and coming straight here after his final period.”
Hannah paused, really noticing the heavy car traffic and empty sidewalks. Across the street from the school were neat houses, packed close together. Scraggly palms and overhead wires. Small cars and pickups parked along the street, the occasional boat. Only a few kids were walking home today.
A very few, like her. Because it was sunny, and her dad was at work at the Port of Los Angeles, and her mom was home with Charlie, and the killer wasn’t called the Daylight Man. She gripped the straps of her backpack.
For a moment her group of friends held together, a pack unwilling to break apart. Sam spoke hesitantly.
“My parents take turns on watch every night.”
All eyes turned to him.
“They make sure somebody’s always awake. Always up. Always has their phone in their hand.” He glanced back and forth between them. “You think a gun’s going to stop the Midnight Man? He never even steps into the light. Never even makes a sound. You have to be right there and ready to go. Otherwise you’re dead meat.”
It was early afternoon when Emmerich edited his notes a final time and stood up from the conference table. “Let’s go.”
He gave a heads up to Detective Solis across the room. Solis clapped his hands and gathered the task force detectives around his desk. Weisbach appeared worn and anxious. Several plainclothes officers and two detectives from the Arcadia Police Department opened notepads. The Sheriff’s Department detective, Alvarez, looked neat and pressed and exhausted. A wad of gum distended his cheek.
Solis straightened his tie. It was a frantic red against his white shirt. “Special Agent Emmerich and his team have put together the behavioral profile of the UNSUB. Agents?”
Emmerich stepped forward. As always, he had the emotional energy of a thrown hatchet, propulsive and sharp. “We’ve analyzed some new information, enough to deliver a preliminary criminal profile. I must emphasize the word preliminary.”
Caitlin felt a strange, unsettled energy in the room. Solis stood with his arms crossed, rocking side to side like a metronome. Around the fringe, officers she didn’t recognize listened raptly. They’d either been passing through the Homicide Special Section or had been drawn by the massive interest in the case—uniformed officers in blue, and a plainclothes officer in a mom-appropriate coral twin-set. Given the subject matter, her outfit seemed jarringly out of place.
Or not. These people had families and wanted to keep them safe.
And the LA area was freaking out.
The case had devoured the local news—especially the channel playing silently on a television in the corner. People felt desperate to protect themselves. This killer was a lightning bolt who could strike anywhere. And everybody had to sleep sometime.
Even the task force detectives were thinking: Is he going to hit my home?
“The killer is probably Caucasian, aged twenty-four to thirty,” Emmerich said. “He’s an expert burglar but his motive isn’t theft—it’s domination. He kills from a desire to wield absolute control over authority figures and seize emotional power for himself. So he may fence some of his victims’ stolen valuables, but almost certainly keeps their wedding rings as trophies. He’s intelligent, and meticulous in his forensic countermeasures. For example, when he drives to and from the scenes he takes extreme care not to violate traffic laws. But his success at burglary doesn’t carry over to the rest of his life.”
Emmerich nodded at Caitlin. She passed around printed summaries of the profile.
“At most, the UNSUB has completed high school. He may have started college, but soon dropped out. If he’s currently employed it’s in an entry level or minimum wage job. He hasn’t lasted long at any job he’s had—except perhaps a family business—because he’s repeatedly fired for stealing.”
Officers bent their heads to read the printout, or scribbled notes. Weisbach started pacing at the back of the group.
“The killer has a deep suspicion and loathing of authority. So he won’t have a history of playing team sports. If he belongs to any clubs or organizations, they’ll be groups he creates or can take over. He may haunt conspiracy websites but insists that his opinions alone are true.”
Emmerich peered around the room. “He was raised in a Christian household—‘Legion’ is a New Testament reference—but rejects the church and organized religion. He may have joined the military because he loved the idea of becoming a trained killer. If he did, he chafed at the command structure, and was discharged soon after enlisting, possibly for unauthorized absences.”
Alvarez scowled. “He doesn’t play well with others.”
“Hardly. But because he lacks marketable skills, has a poor job history, and struggles to get along with others—including potential roommates—he probably lives with family,” Emmerich said. “And he’s had repeated contact with the justice system, which his long-suffering relatives know all too well.”
He scanned the assembled officers, carefully, assuring himself that they were taking everything in.
“The root of the UNSUB’s behavior is paranoia,” he said.
Solis nodded. Alvarez stuck a fresh toothpick between his teeth, eyes narrow.
“He’s suspicious of others, mistrustful, and vengeful,” Emmerich said. “He’ll be known as secretive. But assertive, intolerant—and cruel. He acts out, verbally and physically, against family, coworkers, and the few friends he has.” He paused. “And anybody who’s crossed paths with him is likely to remark that he has a penetrating stare.”
Weisbach stopped pacing. “Penetrating.”
“It seems like a small detail but sticks with people who interact with malignant paranoids. The intensity of the gaze.”
Emmerich rubbed the wristband of his watch. Caitlin knew, from the gesture, he was uncomfortable with how imprecise the profile sounded. The entire team felt the same. But the cops needed something—even an ambiguous sketch—to help focus their investigation.
He turned to Weisbach. “You brought us a glimpse of that gaze.”
“You’re right,” she said.
Weisbach headed
for the big screen and put up a still image. The Midnight Man, sauntering down the middle of the road in Benedict Canyon.
Even with the distorted, photo-negative image, one thing stood out on the killer’s blurry, flat visage. His furious eyes.
“I’d call that stare the definition of penetrating,” Weisbach said.
Emmerich nodded. “Nobody who’s met him is going to forget that look.”
The image stayed up as the briefing ended. Repelled but magnetized, Caitlin found herself standing in front of the screen. A cold finger seemed to scrape down her back.
“He’s not even staring at another person,” she told Weisbach. “He’s staring into the night. He’s staring through that lens at all of us.”
“Thousands of people are wiring up their homes with security systems. He’s going to get caught on camera again.” Weisbach stared at the image for another moment. “Let’s hope we don’t get that look in person, on full burn. It’s something I never want to see.”
The first video came in less than an hour later.
The junior task force detective was rumpled, as if he’d gone through a few rinse cycles in a laundromat washing machine—tie limp, khakis creased. His eyes were glassy with sleep deprivation. But despite his fatigue, he was stoked. He slid a memory stick into his computer.
“CCTV from a convenience store two blocks from the attack at the McKinley residence.”
Caitlin pictured the young twins, Noah and Natalie. Their stunned stares and near-catatonic grief. I am beyond good and evil.
The detective hit play. The camera monitored the convenience store parking lot and avenue beyond. The night was late, the video as cheap as it came. The better cameras, Caitlin knew, were inside the store, covering the door and the cash register. The street was empty, traffic nonexistent. She held her breath.
After ten seconds, here he came.
The video provided the same eerie white-on-black glimpse of the Midnight Man as before, rambling down the street after committing double murder. Hoodie, ball cap, head down, walking on his toes, twirling a phone in his hand.
