It’s an invasion of McKinney’s privacy, but the truth is that I’m more concerned about the damage that can be done by Scanlon’s explosive.
Right now, for all our efforts, we’re in the same reactive mode we’ve been in since this started. Phelan does something, either an act of violence or sending a note, and we scurry around trying to use it to our advantage. We haven’t successfully done that yet, and I’ve got a feeling that time is running short.
Nate and I constantly remind each other that we need to avoid getting caught in the weeds and must instead focus on the big picture, the one key that might unlock this thing.
“For me it’s still motive,” Nate says. “I just don’t buy the grudge crap. Maybe Phelan turned nut job, that’s one thing, but I don’t see Gero and Scanlon going along for his ride.”
I nod. “I agree. But they wanted us to think it was about Phelan’s grudges. And don’t forget, we weren’t supposed to know about Gero and Scanlon. It’s not about sex or power, so it has to be about money.”
“What if it is all about one or two victims?” Nate asks. “Maybe they figured out a way to get big money from one or two of the estates, and the rest of the killings have just been cover for that, so we won’t know where to look.”
“It’s possible, but the only two victims with any real money have been Brookings and Randowsky, and we’ve seen no evidence that their deaths have been a financial boon to anyone. Plus, they were well off, but they weren’t Warren Buffett.”
“Then maybe the key killing hasn’t happened yet,” he says.
It’s a good point, but before I have a chance to respond, I get a call from our local postmaster, Sandy Geary. She’s been alerted to contact me if anything comes in resembling the notes that we have received so far. We don’t want to wait until it’s sent out for delivery with the regular mail, so we’ve asked her to monitor our incoming mail and flag anything suspicious.
“I’m pretty sure we got one,” she says.
“Thanks; I’ll send someone out to pick it up.”
I send a squad car out to get it, and they bring along a forensics cop to make sure it’s handled carefully. They are back within a half hour, and Nate and I are there when it’s opened.
It says:
“Any day now … BOOM!”
It could not have gone easier.
Rod Scanlon left his motel room at around twelve thirty in the afternoon. He didn’t have to put the “do not disturb” sign on the door, it had essentially been there since he moved in. And it had come in handy, because Rod Scanlon definitely did not want to be disturbed, and the hotel chambermaid had been respectful of that.
He had pulled up in the van in the back of the restaurant. It was by then one o’clock, at the height of the lunch hour, so the entire waitstaff was in the front restaurant section, dealing with the packed dining room.
Scanlon unloaded the cooking materials, the pans and serving dishes ubiquitous at catered events. He brought them in through the open back door, attracting absolutely no attention in the process. What he was doing looked completely normal for the time and location.
Only one person even saw him, a kitchen worker who never in a million years would have stopped to wonder why he was bringing such materials into a restaurant storage area already well-stocked with them.
Scanlon went to a storage closet packed with everything from spare napkins to tablecloths to pots to cleaning supplies. It was all extra stuff and had the look of material that had not been used or needed for a very long time.
He carefully placed the device, contained in an opaque plastic container, on a back shelf. The possibility it might be discovered in the next thirty-six hours was so remote as to not even be a consideration. The phone was already set in place, but he also set the timer, so that a phone call would not be necessary and would only be a backup if the timer for some reason didn’t work.
Scanlon knew that would not be necessary; the timer would work. He was a pro.
Then he gathered up the excess materials and went back out the rear door, the same way he had come in. The entire process took no more than five minutes, without so much as a single tense moment.
Just before he got back in the van, he remembered to check his phone to make sure that there was sufficient cell service for the device. He had checked it before, but he was a careful man, so he was just confirming that the coverage had not changed.
He had full service … four bars, which meant the phone on the device had four bars, since it was the same provider.
At that point only two things could go wrong. The cell tower could have an outage, or somebody could dial the number on the device unintentionally—a wrong number. Both were extremely unlikely, and very worth the risk.
Scanlon was a bit nervous being out and about; that’s what happens when your photograph is all over television as being a “person of interest” in a serial-killer case. But he felt he had altered his appearance well enough to escape detection by a casual observer, as long as he didn’t stay out long and interact with people.
Fortunately, he wasn’t going back to that dingy hotel, at least not for a while.
He was going to get answers.
Now.
Alegro Perales spoke excellent English, when she wanted to.
Alegro was a chambermaid at the Village Motel in Garfield, where rooms could be had for thirty dollars a night. A two-story motel with rooms that could only be accessed from outside, it is fair to say that this was not a popular vacation destination, especially in winter.
Alegro had worked there for two years. It was drudge work, but not too difficult, and she needed the money. Alegro and her husband each worked two jobs and were actually managing to save toward the day when they could have a child and be confident of having the financial wherewithal to provide for him or her.
Alegro was born in Glen Rock, about twenty minutes from where she worked. Her parents spoke both Spanish and English in their home, so she was fluent in both. But as a product of the Glen Rock school system, she felt considerably more comfortable speaking English.
Having said that, there were times at work when her Spanish fluency came in very handy. Most of the hotel guests were nice enough; they weren’t big tippers, but they smiled at Alegro, made some small talk, and were generally respectful. To these people she spoke English exclusively.
But some of the guests made her nervous, ranging from a little uncomfortable all the way to creeping her out. She made sure she was never alone with those guests in their room; she relied on her instincts to tell her who to avoid. And to them she spoke Spanish, pretending not to understand English at all. It was just easier to avoid them that way, and especially to ignore their often-crude suggestions.
She’d come home and discuss some of those people with her husband, Orestes. He would caution her to be careful around them and not to put herself in any vulnerable position. These cautions were never necessary; Alegro was smart and savvy and could take care of herself.
But suddenly, she was scared. She was watching television and they were showing a photograph of one of those guests who had frightened her. He had never said more than a few words to her, and nothing threatening, but his manner and the way he carried himself had given her chills.
She had only spoken Spanish to him, and a very few words at that. He had been there for two weeks, and had repeatedly declined to let her in to his room to clean up and make the bed. She brought him fresh towels, but he took them at the door.
His name was Carl Todd, but the newsman on television wasn’t calling him that. He was calling him Rod Scanlon and saying that he might be involved in the terrible killings that were taking place. He now had a small beard and darker hair, but she was sure that Carl Todd and Rod Scanlon were the same person.
The newsman was saying that it was important for anyone with knowledge of this man to call the police, and they gave the number.
So Alegro and Orestes talked it out. He asked if she was sure that this
was the man, and she said that she was positive. He told her that if she was wrong, and it came out that she made the report, her boss might fire her.
“But if I don’t call, and he is the man, and if he goes on killing…”
She didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t have to.
Orestes handed her the phone, and she dialed the number.
Two officers arrived two hours later to hear what she had to say. She told them what she had told Orestes, and she identified photographs that they showed her, picking Scanlon out from an array of other people.
She asked them not to reveal she had been the one to come forward, that she feared for her job and possible retribution by Scanlon if he found out. They said that they would do their best, but could make no promises. They also told her that she might be contacted again.
Within thirty minutes from the time the cops left her apartment, their report was on Doug Brock’s desk, with a stamp on it.
It said: “Priority.”
The choice of hiding place for Phelan was nothing short of brilliant.
There is nothing more deserted than a summer camp after the camp season has ended. This was a day camp on Lake Hopatcong, and staying there left almost no chance of discovery.
There were six buildings on the camp grounds. Even someone visiting, and there was almost no danger of that happening, would never have any reason to go to the farthest building in the back.
The place was eerily quiet. There was an emptied swimming pool, two tennis courts with the nets taken down, a ragged ballfield, and what looked to be a small parklike playground. Probably noisy with laughter in the summer, but deadly silent now.
All in all, it was the perfect place to hide.
Scanlon was not supposed to be here; he and Gero had been told not to assemble until the operation was over. But now Gero was dead, and Scanlon wanted to know why his name was out in the media.
He had been promised both anonymity and a great deal of money. Now that the anonymity was gone, the money needed to be increased. He was here to make sure that was understood.
He went straight to the building in the back, which for all intents and purposes looked abandoned. He knew better. He knocked to be polite, but he didn’t wait for an invitation; he just opened the door.
“Hello, Phelan” were the last two words he would ever say.
We’ve decided to do this directly, decisively, and violently.
Alegro Perales had passed the photograph test of identifying Scanlon with flying colors, and her description of his behavior perfectly fit what his actions would be like if he was a fugitive.
Perales is a bright, credible witness who comes across as believable, but without anything apparent to gain from coming forward. In fact, she is afraid, an appropriate reaction, and she has told her story reluctantly.
When she added the fact that he had a fairly heavy Southern accent, that clinched it in my mind. Scanlon was born and raised in Arkansas. Maybe Perales is wrong, that’s quite possible, but I’m betting against it.
We’ve gotten the warrant to enter the hotel room; that was the easy part. Normally we would go to the manager, announce our presence, and maybe plan out a diversion, possibly a pretense to get Scanlon to let us into the room.
That’s not happening today.
His room is in the corner in the back, allowing us to approach from the sides without being seen. And once we get in place, we are not going to knock on the door. We are going to knock it down or shoot it open, and come in with force. Shock and awe, motel style.
Ms. Perales said that Scanlon is always in the room; she has never seen him even go out for food. So we are operating under the assumption that he will be there, and we are in take-no-prisoners mode, even though the actual goal—our first choice—is to take a prisoner.
The SWAT team is once again in charge. Nate goes to see the hotel manager, not to get his permission or his cooperation, but rather to make sure that he doesn’t misunderstand what’s happening and attempt to intervene.
My role is to take a position across the parking lot with a pair of binoculars. Once the team is in place, I wait until I confirm that there are no other people in harm’s way—no other guests, motel personnel, etc. Then I will electronically notify the SWAT team leader, Lieutenant Morrow, that it’s time to move.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen right away. The couple next door leaves their room, goes down to their car, and then apparently realizes they forgot something in the room. The guy goes back, and it takes a couple of minutes for him to come back out while the woman waits in the car.
Finally, after five minutes that seem like fifty, they drive off, and I signal that the coast is clear. There is no reason to leave where I am; in fact, if I see anything come up that looks like a reason to abort, I can direct them to do so. Not that there is going to be a lot of time; once they move it will be over quickly.
And it is. I watch as they descend on the room, knock the door in, and rush inside. I can hear the screams from where I am; the yelling and loud noise is designed to stun anyone inside.
I don’t hear any gunshots, which is a very good thing. Unless it means that Scanlon is not there, which would be a bad thing. We’ve been down this road before.
I run toward the motel and take the steps two at a time. There’s not much noise at all coming out of the room, though some other people have come out of their rooms to see what all the commotion was about. We’ve already assigned cops to keep bystanders out of the way, and they’re doing their jobs effectively.
Nate approaches as I do, and we enter the room together. It’s filled with SWAT guys, but no sign of Scanlon. Morrow’s waiting for us.
“He’s not here. But at least this time there’s no body.” He’s referring to our previous invasion of the cabin, looking for Phelan.
“What about his stuff?”
“Looks like it’s all here. I would say he’s coming back.”
That immediately sends Nate and me into executing our backup plan. We get the cops outside to disperse, once they’ve shepherded the bystanders away. We’ll leave a few cops hidden to warn us if Scanlon returns, but we want things to look as normal as possible.
The truth is that it’s not likely to work; he’s probably a savvy guy who will realize something is wrong, if he doesn’t already. But it’s worth a shot.
“Doug, Nate, come over here,” Morrow says. He’s by the desk, and when we get to him, he points to it. “We’ve got good news and bad news,” he says. “The good is we’ve got his computer.”
“Great,” I say. “What’s the bad?”
He points to the garbage can next to the desk. Nate and I look down into it, and there is a cell phone that has been discarded.
“He threw out his cell phone?” I ask. “Why is that a problem?” I’m thinking that it’s actually a positive, that maybe we can get information off of it.
“You see the wires attached to it?”
I hadn’t noticed that before, but I see it now. There are three or four small wires coming out of the phone. “Yes, what are they?”
“This phone was going to be attached to an explosive device. Calling it would set off an electric charge through those wires and into the device, detonating it.”
“So why would he throw it out?”
Morrow shrugs. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“And then there was one,” I say, and Nate knows exactly what I mean.
We’re looking at a body that has been found on the bank of the Pequannock River. I believe it is Rod Scanlon, though that is still to be determined for sure.
Dick Mayer and his adult son were out for a day of fishing when they saw the body. They did not have cell service where they were, so Dick stayed with the body while his son drove to someplace he could call the local police. They came to the scene and immediately notified us, because the victim was killed with a single bullet in the heart.
Nate and I left for the scene immediately, and the local cops
have followed our instructions and left everything as they originally found it. Forensics people are doing their work, but basically nothing has changed.
The identity is not a major mystery. The victim’s wallet is still in his back pocket, and the identification and other materials are Scanlon’s. Other work will be done to confirm identity, including DNA compared to his army record. But the victim looks like Scanlon’s photo, with the changes that Alegro Perales described.
I believe it is safe to say that Rod Scanlon is dead and laying at the edge of the water in front of us.
Nate makes the obvious point. “He didn’t wash up here; he hasn’t been in the water at all.”
“No question,” I say. “This body was placed here, not thrown in the water. He was meant to be found.”
The local cop has told us that it’s a fairly popular fishing area, and that there is almost no chance that a decent-weather day could have gone by without it being discovered by someone.
The assistant coroner has been examining the body and comes over to us after he’s done so. “I’m Dr. Graham. Ned Graham.”
We introduce ourselves and ask him what he’s learned so far.
“Well, everything is preliminary, you understand. But I would say that death occurred between fourteen and twenty hours ago. And for various reasons related to lividity, I can say that he was killed elsewhere and the body left here.”
I nod. “There’s also a lack of blood on the dirt.”
“Yes. He was definitely moved, a number of hours after death. That death, of course, was instantaneous.”
Our experts have shown up and are examining the scene in detail. There is nothing else for us to do here; we can go back and wait for the medical and forensic results.
On the way back, Nate says, “Phelan wanted us to find him; no doubt about that.”
Black and Blue Page 17
