The Dark Corners of the Night

by Meg Gardiner

  The sense of loss and helplessness broke through her last defenses. She seemed transparent to the rain. As if it were ice-picking through her skin, her heart, hitting the ground as if she were nothing. It turned her blindingly hot.

  “Fuck.”

  She smashed her elbow into the Suburban’s side mirror.

  The glass broke. The sound, the crack, felt cleansing. Her energy returned, sharp and bright. She inhaled. Felt present again, felt cleansed. The rain retreated to purifying coldness, running off her face and shoulders.

  Half the glass in the mirror had fallen out. She felt a twinge of regret.

  “Oops.”

  She would have to tell Emmerich about that. Apologize. Write it up for the after-action report. Send it into the maw of the Bureau’s filing system. Have it go on her permanent record.

  Worth it, she thought. For the cathartic release.

  Her vision felt honed, the shapes of surrounding buildings razor-edged. Her pulse echoed in her ears when she exhaled. She bent and cleaned up the slice of glass that had fallen from the mirror. Her arm was stinging.

  Under the reflection of a streetlight, she saw the silver shine—a sliver of the mirror embedded in her arm. She wiped her hand on her jeans and went to pick the flake from her skin. She stopped. The chip of glass looked alive with light.

  The wave gathered itself again. The night swelled, and loomed, and bore down once more. She stared at the sliver of glass. It didn’t sting enough.

  Don’t.

  You’ve been here before, she thought. Long ago. The scars on her arms reminded her. Her tattoos reminded her.

  Back away. Swim to shore. Don’t.

  She pressed the sliver of mirror in and drew it through her flesh.

  She sliced a cut on her forearm. Blood rose and beaded. Pain flooded her system.

  The chill of the rain disappeared. The rain itself seemed to evaporate. The fatigue vanished. The night. Everything distilled to the brilliant pulsing bead of glass pain she herself had given rise to.

  She felt exhilaration and relief. She felt soothed and punished. She felt control.

  She knew, deep down, that it was an illusion. That shame would soon follow. In the moment, she didn’t care.

  She stood in the dark and tugged the silvered mirror from her flesh. She put it in her pocket.

  31

  In the morning, the storm blew out. Under the rising sun, the streets glistened in shades of gold and oil-slick. Caitlin emerged from the hotel elevator and finished a text to Sean.

  Hope so. Haven’t booked

  flight to OAK yet. Depends

  on today.

  Whether she made it back to Berkeley for Christmas, or New Year’s, or at all, depended on how the violence of the last twelve hours played out. The two murders in El Segundo, the fourteen-year-old’s attempted abduction, the killing of the deputy. The increasingly urgent and rancorous investigation.

  She jammed her phone in her back pocket beneath her peacoat. She had her Glock holstered, her handcuffs on the back of her belt, a huge cup of room-brewed coffee, her computer case slung over her shoulder, and lace-up boots for whatever the day turned into. Her black turtleneck covered her arms down to her fingertips.

  The lobby clattered with the click-clack of roller suitcases and smelled faintly of pancake syrup. The corporate wallpaper and These-Are-Shapes prints were pinkish in the morning sun, giving her the sense that she was standing inside an enormous mouth. When the doors slid open, a cold breeze rushed in. Rainey stood outside under the portico, one earbud in, speaking on the phone.

  “Bo, that’s the best I can do. Won’t know more until we sync up with the task force. I’m sorry.”

  Caitlin hung back. Rainey, it seemed, was having the same hate-to-disappoint-you conversation with her husband that Caitlin was holding with Sean.

  Above the check-in desk, a television played a network morning show. The hosts should have been talking about cookie decorations and last-minute holiday gifts. Instead, they sat rigidly, peering hard into the camera.

  “Southern California is on pins and needles,” one said.

  The newscast showed scenes of citywide panic. Police roadblocks. People yanking down their Christmas lights and putting up halogen spotlights instead. People packing up and getting out of town.

  Caitlin felt a presence at her shoulder. Keyes looked strangely haunted and uncertain, like a deer caught unaware in a meadow. Together they watched the report.

  A mother clutched her children and leaned toward a microphone, seemingly angry enough to bite it. “I want to know when the cops are going to catch this killer.”

  A map of the LA Basin appeared. Crime scenes were marked in red—a vast, indiscriminate, blood-spattered shooting gallery for the Midnight Man.

  The elevator chimed and Emmerich walked out. He nodded good morning and they fell in with him. The ride downtown was nearly silent.

  This early on a Sunday morning, LAPD headquarters was one of the few busy spots in downtown Los Angeles, along with Skid Row storefront missions and Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral. The streets were empty. But the war room was up and running on acid-based energy, determination, and fear.

  As they came through the door, Emmerich said, “We’ll get the morning briefing. Then I want Hendrix and Keyes to visit the El Segundo crime scene. Rainey, you go speak to the girl in Torrance, Evie Stevens, who escaped from the UNSUB.”

  “Will do,” Rainey said.

  “You’ve got it,” Caitlin said.

  She wanted to retrace every step along the path of the previous night’s rampage. She wanted to tear into it, expose the UNSUB’s deepest roiling needs and wants, and use them to rip off his hood and identify him.

  Across the room, Detective Solis seemed dog-eared. His white shirt had wilted. His red tie lay tangled on his desktop. He finished a phone call and walked over.

  A Sheriff’s Department detective trailed him—Alvarez’s partner, Will Durand. The young detective wore jeans and a cool expression. His mouth was a tight line. Everybody was wired.

  Solis said, “ME is completing the autopsy on Deputy Ohlmeyer as we speak. I expect preliminary results any minute.”

  “Good,” Emmerich said. “Crime Scene have anything yet?”

  “Imminent.”

  Durand crossed his arms. “I hear you think the killer is the son of a cop.”

  “Strong possibility,” Emmerich said.

  “What is that? Trying to dropkick the blame into law enforcement’s lap?”

  Caitlin, low on sleep but stoked on caffeine and endorphins, shook her head. “Cop’s daughter here, detective. Years on patrol myself. I’m the one who realized the Midnight Man might be a cop’s kid. And we’re including federal agents in the search pool. So back it up.”

  At Caitlin’s side Rainey stood like a strong safety ready to charge downfield and tackle anybody who crossed her line of sight. Keyes seemed to stand several extra inches taller than normal. Durand’s neck retracted, maybe in surprise.

  Emmerich spoke mildly, but his gaze could have sanded the man’s skin off. “It’s our considered, unanimous opinion. Make use of it. It will narrow the search field for the killer.”

  Solis held up a hand. “We are making use of it, even though some of us disagree with that opinion. But no matter what we think of the possibility, it stays in this room. We keep this suspicion confidential.”

  He paused to eye each of them. “The UNSUB is at large. Press is baying for an arrest. If the idea that the Midnight Man is connected to the police gets out there, things go nuts.”

  Caitlin understood the instinct, but resisted it. She opened her mouth to speak, and Solis shook his head at her.

  “Nobody mentions this unless we get convincing evidence to support it,” Solis said. “It would be a disaster. There’d be media hysteria. We’d lo
se public confidence. Stop getting tips, witnesses wouldn’t know whether to trust us when we interview them. No.” His gaze sizzled. “And before you say anything, I have the backing of the brass on this. It comes from the top.”

  Emmerich’s composure was uncrackable, but Caitlin recognized a pewter chill in his eye. “Understood.”

  “Not off the record, not on deep background, nothing.”

  “We’re here to assist.” The metallic tinge spread to Emmerich’s voice.

  “Glad we agree.”

  At his desk, Solis’ phone rang. He fixed them with a final stare, then strode across the room to answer it. Durand lingered a moment, more abashed than when he’d arrived, and followed.

  Keyes took off his glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt. A self-soothing gesture, Caitlin thought.

  “That was fun,” he said.

  Rainey’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Pulling up the drawbridge.”

  Emmerich picked up a file from the table. “Comes with the territory.”

  Caitlin watched Solis walk away. He wasn’t wrong about what would happen if their suspicions about the UNSUB leaked. But keeping the information within this room could throttle the investigation. It eliminated the chance that the people she thought most likely to know and identify the suspect—members of law enforcement—would learn what they needed to know.

  “I know the pressure’s intensifying,” Emmerich said evenly. “That’s for me to deal with. Don’t let it affect you. I’m the heat shield. You’re doing your jobs. That’s what matters—keep it up.” He checked that they’d all heard him clearly. “Back to work.”

  Caitlin felt a wash of loyalty, and despair, and gratitude. “El Segundo. On it.”

  Emmerich’s gaze momentarily warmed. She grabbed her coat, said, “Let’s hit it,” and walked with Keyes toward the door.

  Halfway across the floor, she caught a shift in the air. At his desk, Solis absently dropped the phone onto its cradle, face agape as he peered at his computer screen.

  “Keyes,” she said.

  They slowed.

  Solis turned his head and met her gaze. He looked gutted.

  She veered through a maze of desks toward his. The morning sunshine cut a vicious stripe across Solis’ face. His eyes were shot through with pain.

  “Detective?” she said.

  He said nothing for a moment. “Autopsy—ME recovered two rounds from Deputy Ohlmeyer’s body.”

  The news didn’t surprise her. She and Rainey had reached the football field almost immediately after the shooting. They’d probably driven the killer to flee before he was able to dig the spent bullets from the deputy’s body.

  “Fast-tracked those rounds to forensics,” Solis said. “Ballistics just came back.”

  He turned his computer screen so she and Keyes could see.

  On screen was the ballistics report on the deputy’s shooting. The round that killed him had been identified: 230-grain jacketed hollow-point Winchester Ranger T-series ammunition.

  She went very still. Looked at Solis.

  “It’s an LAPD-issued round,” he said.

  32

  The shock Caitlin felt came not as a sonic boom, but as a hush. LAPD ammunition had killed Deputy Ohlmeyer. Detective Solis stared numbly at his computer screen. Across the room, Emmerich sensed the change in the air. He looked up, saw her face, and crossed the floor.

  He read the report on the computer screen and stilled.

  The room’s cold light seemed purifying. Caitlin’s nerve endings thrummed beneath her skin. Confirmation. It felt great. It felt clarifying. And horrifying. And portentous.

  Solis picked up his phone and punched a number. “Alvarez. Get down here.”

  He slumped and put both hands over his face.

  The news hit the task force like a log barreling downhill. Twenty minutes later, gathered at Solis’ desk, the detectives slumped, flattened. Solis spoke in a monotone.

  “We need to look at current and former officers who might have a disturbed son.”

  Weisbach let out a rough breath. “How broad a look? How are we going to define ‘disturbed?’”

  “We don’t have to start from scratch,” Emmerich said. “Like we’ve been saying, we’re sure this young man has been in contact with the justice system.”

  His tone was measured. Caitlin was certain he was restraining his relief and excitement over the ballistics evidence.

  “The Midnight Man’s more than a defiant kid. He’s been in trouble from an early age. He’ll have an arrest record—juvenile, adult, or both. He’ll be known for persistent aggression. Fire setting or animal cruelty. Vandalism. Gratuitous lying and indifference to the pain of others.” He turned. “And Dr. Keyes has been cross-referencing employee and court records.”

  Keyes nodded. “Between the LAPD, LASD, CHP, federal law enforcement agencies, and police departments in Los Angeles County, it adds up to more than forty thousand active sworn officers and staff. Not all records are available. Some juvenile proceedings are sealed. What I have is partial, but it’s a starting point. Especially if we focus first on LAPD connections.” He paused for emphasis. “Thirty-seven initial possibilities.”

  Weisbach nodded crisply. “Send them. We’ll split up the names and begin contacting people.”

  Solis said, “Start digging, people.”

  Keyes sent the list, and the detectives scattered. Emmerich motioned to the team.

  “Get to last night’s crime scenes while the sun’s still up.”

  Caitlin grabbed her coat. “I’m there.”

  Emmerich turned to Solis. The circles under the LAPD detective’s eyes were the color of fireplace ash.

  “Whatever you need, detective,” Emmerich said.

  “He’s devolving,” Solis said. “Figure out what his next play will be.”

  The train slid along, smooth, humming, the city a slur outside the windows, sunlight hissing in his eyes as they passed a string of buildings. Light dark light dark light. He shoved the brim of his cap lower on his forehead, tugged the hoodie around his ears, and turned up the music. “Winter in My Heart,” by Vast. The claw marks on his back, the bite, throbbed.

  A dog. Why did it have to be a dog?

  The Red Line train swept underground. Soon it decelerated into the swooping futurescape of the Hollywood/Highland station. When the doors opened, he eyed the people flowing out, flowing in, walking past him, not seeing him. He was a still point in the arterial pulse.

  A Doberman. No sign of it when he scoped the house. It had simply appeared, loosed on him. Trained, undoubtedly—aimed, sniffing, waiting for him. Ready to attack.

  His opponents’ legion was fighting back.

  Fuck them.

  The doors kissed shut, silent behind the music. A woman walked toward him, about to take a seat. He spread his legs. She moved away. He tugged again at the hoodie. The scratches on his neck had scabbed over, the swipe that Arcadia woman had given him. They didn’t hurt anymore, but they were identifying marks, and nobody else needed to see them. The train accelerated. It tongued north through the tunnel toward the Universal City / Studio City stop.

  That dog. A beautiful Dobie, and it had been deliberately turned against him. The scratches burned like a bastard. He’d seen its eyes, smooth marbles in the dark, lost and distorted as it lunged at him.

  Everybody lied.

  The train slid through the tunnel. The one time he skipped doing mommydaddy first, and they’d sent a dog after him. Too cowardly to save their shrieking spawn themselves. Dog didn’t know what was happening. The dog obeyed. The dog was loyal. Threw itself into danger on mommydaddy’s orders. Didn’t know he might have had to kill it. Merry Christmas.

  Using the dog infuriated him. Thwarting his work infuriated him.

  Last night—Torrance—wouldn’t happe
n again. Sheriffs, multiple pursuit vehicles, even the FBI. The actual Eff-Bee-fuckin’-Eye out to get him. From the cemetery he’d seen them, two agents on the football field. Reapers, guns gleaming as they scythed silently across the flooded grass in the storm.

  One of them had looked right at him. Red hair, pale face, scorching eyes. Or maybe she’d looked right past him, but he hadn’t chanced it. He’d ducked. She saw things. Agent Darkstar. A black hole. Get too close, you couldn’t escape. She was an event horizon. See him, and she would have him. For good. He’d be gone.

  From now on, the mommydaddies would experience the full show. Spawn first. Dog if they forced him. They would see, and know their error. Trying to get him was a mistake. A bad one.

  The train slid through the night of the tunnel. A new song came on. “The Space in Between” by How to Destroy Angels. He turned it up.

  33

  The afternoon had deepened to cobalt by the time Caitlin and Keyes got to El Segundo. The low white sun was pitching toward the Pacific. The last moments of crystalline daylight, just after four thirty.

  A gasoline tang from the Chevron refinery hung sharp in the air. The roar of turbofan engines reverberated every ninety seconds from LAX.

  At the small home that belonged to the Bingham family, Day-Glo police tape crisscrossed the front door. An El Segundo patrol car was parked at the curb outside. Caitlin greeted the officer at the wheel, then joined Keyes on the flagstone walk in front of the house.

  “What drew the killer here?” she said.

  Keyes turned in a three-sixty. Houses crowded the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder. Parked cars lined the street. A lone lemon tree stood in the Binghams’ front yard.

  “Whim,” he said.

  “This is from Dr. Data Analysis? Try again.”

  Keyes stepped back with something approaching alarm. “I’m not being flip. Sorry.”

  “And I don’t mean to grind your gears. But I do need you to elaborate.” She raised a hand. Proceed.

  He turned in another, slower, circle. “The Midnight Man’s target selection depends on several factors. Use the freeways. Stick to the comfort zone. Avoid homes on dead-end streets, find dark spots, steer clear of police stations. But some of it—I still picture him rolling hard, music pounding, seeing only as far as the headlights. His ultimate decision about where to strike will be impulse.”