Spree

by Michael Morley

  Jake’s phone rang. He expected Pryce.

  It was Angie.

  He hit the red button and killed it. This wasn’t the time to get distracted.

  Baby.

  Just the sight of her name on his cellphone had thrown a grenade across the floor of his mind.

  Ruis noticed his tension. “You okay?”

  “Just some personal stuff.”

  He knew better than to ask and concentrated on driving.

  Finally, they saw ambulances parked up ahead. Back doors were wide open and steps down. Roof lights flashing. Paramedics in body armor stood waiting for clearance from SWAT to go into the fields. Down the road, another ambulance did a J-turn and whooped its sirens. Jake guessed it was leaving with the injured that Pryce had mentioned. They were lucky to have gotten away from the shooter.

  He stepped from the Ford and almost got clipped by a white Lexus—a hybrid that ran on batteries and moved quieter than a ninja. At the wheel was Shelley Davies, the ME. She waved an apology. Jake looked back to see what else was on the road. Fifty yards away, the county coroner’s blacked-out van was pulling in, trying to keep a discreet distance. It coughed fumes and came to a halt.

  Everyone was here now.

  The Circus of Death had come to town.

  19

  Compton, LA

  Angie called Jake as she left O’Brien and walked back to her Toyota. Being inside Lindsey Knapp’s house had left her flat. She needed to hear his voice and fix a time for them to get together and talk.

  It rang unanswered.

  She left a message asking if he was okay and saying she’d missed him this morning.

  That was her olive branch.

  If he had any sense, he’d grab it while he still could, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to go chasing him.

  There was no doubt in Angie’s mind that regardless of how rough on him she might have been in the restaurant, he had to man up and come to her with a mature response to the news she’d given him.

  The traffic back to the FBI offices proved even worse than it had been coming out to the crime scene. The fender-to-fender crawl gave her time to run the case back and forth. O’Brien had said the UNSUB had just stood there in his RAPIST mask. When Mrs. Knapp freaked, he beat on her while she was still in her seat. He pulled her out of it by the ankles and she cracked the back of her head on the floor. She started shouting, so he hit her and then wrapped tape around her face. He flipped her, taped her hands, then violated her with his trademark stave of wood.

  Angie figured a lot of things had changed since his first attack almost a year ago. Back then, he’d attacked a woman in her backyard when she’d gone to put trash in a can. It had been crude and nasty but nowhere near as prolonged and brutal as anything endured by future victims. There’d been no tape, just a hand over her mouth. No mask. The stave of wood had been the only thing he’d come prepared with. That and the predetermination to attack an elderly white woman when she least expected it.

  The latest assault had been similar but horribly different.

  He’d come with a rape kit. Tape. His “souvenir” weapon. No doubt a bag of some kind to conceal everything in. He’d confronted the victim wearing a mask and had almost certainly gotten a thrill from facing her and seeing her fear.

  That was the bit that worried Angie the most.

  The thrill.

  He had progressed from isolated, vented anger to working out how to become instantly empowered and—she guessed—probably sexually aroused by the attack.

  The next assault was bound to be worse.

  He was evolving as a predator. Changing from the crime being principally a rushed and frenzied attack to slower, prolonged and even more sadistic acts. He was certain to continue his metamorphosis and add layers of torture and suffering. There was a good chance he’d even try penile penetration. And if that went wrong—as it very well might—then the inevitable would happen.

  He’d kill.

  Of that, Angie had no doubt.

  Half a mile from her office, she pulled into the lot of a small mall and went to the florist she regularly used. She bought a large bouquet of pink lilies for Lindsey Knapp and paid extra to make sure they arrived at her hospital bed before closing time.

  As she got back into her car, she realized two things. The first was that she was still undecided about the ethnicity of Lindsey’s attacker.

  The second was that she desperately missed Jake and couldn’t bear the idea of growing old and dying alone.

  20

  Moorpark, Ventura County, LA

  Jake slipped on shades to shield his eyes from the blazing sun and scanned the flat and wide-open countryside. All around him was farming land. So many fields, crammed with so many vegetables that he felt like a pixie who’d fallen into a grocery basket.

  He tightened the straps on his Kevlar vest and checked the weapon on his belt. As he did so, he walked to where the cops, sheriffs and SWAT were gathered. There was no need for him to reach for a shield; he could hear them talking about him and the events at the Observatory as he approached.

  Pryce was in his combat blacks and looked relaxed, giving orders and sorting out a bewildered group of uniforms. Yesterday’s business with Chandler had already rubbed some of the green off him.

  The LAPD man broke from his conversation when he saw Jake and headed over. “Seems summertime is a busy time for Sprees.” He stuck out his hand. “How you doing?”

  Jake realized it was a wipe-the-slate-clean gesture and took it warmly. “I’m good. Picture any clearer now than when we spoke on the phone?”

  “Not a whole lot. Two of the wounded pupils limped out of the strawberry field, bleeding like crazy. They’d both taken single shots. One to the leg, one in an arm.”

  “Lucky kids,” added the FBI man.

  “Yeah. I’m sure they don’t feel that way at the moment.”

  “They will when they see the names of the dead in the newspapers.”

  Pryce pointed across the fields. “There’s an injured teacher still out there. One of the staff said the guy was hit in the back as he was trying to get everyone inside.” The cop squinted into the heat haze. “I suspect when we get to him we’ll find he’s paralyzed.”

  Jake tried to be optimistic. “Might just be muscular spasm. Nerve damage. Shock.”

  He wondered about the shots. None of them were to the head. Made him think the shooter wasn’t professionally trained. He’d probably lain in wait, sized up his first hits; then when everyone had scattered, he’d lacked the skill to kill anyone else.

  A helicopter buzzed by and sounded like a distant chainsaw. Jake knew the crew would be using telescoping lenses and thermal cameras to get a fix on the gunman. Even if the punk hid under crops or in an outbuilding, his body heat would be picked up.

  Pryce guessed the question the SKU leader was about to ask. “Dragnet’s pitched good and tight. There’s no way the crazy can get to a major road, let alone back to the freeway. The one thing there’s no shortage of out here is highway patrolmen and sheriffs, and they all know the terrain like the backs of their hands.”

  Jake hoped he was right. But something inside told him things were going wrong. Maybe mistakes had already been made.

  Footsteps made them turn.

  Behind them was the ME. Shelley Davies cracked a smile. She was in her late forties, early fifties, but still a looker. An American Juliette Binoche was how Jake had heard Angie describe her and there was little arguing with it.

  Shelley was already in her whites and rubber boots. She’d have gloved up as well, only in this heat she knew her hands would be puddling in sweat within minutes. “Been out here with my kids,” she said by way of a hello. “They did summer camp here some years back. Had a whale of a time and picked enough fruit to feed us through to fall.” She put a steel case down in the sun and straightened up, stretching cricks out of her back in the same movement. “Gentlemen, can one of you show me to my work?”

  �
�Afraid not, ma’am,” said Pryce. “We still don’t have a fix on the position of the shooter.”

  She nodded understandingly. Looked wistfully out to the fields of ripening strawberries. “Shame a place as sweet and innocent as this will always be remembered for the bitterness of today.”

  21

  It was almost an hour before SWAT completed the sweep and were confident the area was safe enough to send the medics in.

  The good news was that the injured got treated. The downside was that the gunman had slipped through at least the first security cordon.

  Paramedics found local teacher Jon Stenson lying facedown in the shattered green plants and churned brown soil of the strawberry fields. The back of the forty-year-old’s balding skull had been burned red raw by the uncaring midday sun. The bleeding hadn’t been as bad as it could have been and there was still enough of a pulse to give them hope.

  As they fitted drip lines and called in the air ambulance, Jake walked the scene and tried to figure out where the shooter had made his nest.

  He started by standing near the three corpses being attended to by the ME and her two assistants. The bodies were clustered together. A slim brunette in her late thirties had been hit in the heart. Jake guessed this had been the gunman’s first shot. He’d taken his time and gotten himself absolutely ready before squeezing the trigger and starting the carnage.

  A few yards away lay the body of a tall, dark-haired man. He’d taken it in the gut and from the pooling had bled out quickly.

  Jake looked again at the cluster of bodies and surmised the shooter had lacked the expertise to hit two hearts in a row. At least he wasn’t ex-military. That was a small consolation. A couple of strides from the male teacher lay the corpse of a young girl in a yellow and white summer dress. She was half-covered by the green leaves of strawberry plants. Jake looked back and imagined the male teacher had probably grabbed her hand and started running. He’d gone down first. She’d hesitated out of shock, run a pace or two, then been hit.

  Flies buzzed and settled in the dead youngster’s long blond hair and he had to walk around to see where the bullet had entered.

  It was in the neck. Just above a gold necklace that bore the name Amy.

  Jake tried not to think of her parents. Blocked out a surprising thought of how he’d feel if someone had done this to his child.

  Child.

  He forced himself to concentrate. If all three victims had been standing up, the shots would have been on the same level, meaning the shooter had probably been lying down and would have had to make a small right to left pan as he picked off his victims.

  A picture was forming in Jake’s mind, but before he let it fully develop he wanted to examine the last person to be shot, the injured teacher who’d taken the bullet in the back.

  Marks in the soil told him Deputy Head Jon Stenson had been hit a few yards back from where he was now being treated by the paramedics. It was clear he’d been running down a gap between two thick plant rows. Abandoned baskets showed where the kids had been harvesting when hell broke out. Small footprints in the soft soil spread in all directions.

  Jake followed the bigger prints and could see the teacher’s right leg had been extended when the round had torn into his spine. It was bad luck. An inch lower and the bullet would have hit a thick leather belt and maybe done less damage.

  The scuff marks on the ground showed Stenson had stumbled and twisted his left foot. His survival instinct had kicked in and he’d managed one more stride before his strength had given out; then he’d gone down on his knees and planted his face in the dirt. Four small rake marks in the earth showed where he’d clawed with his right hand and tried to raise himself up.

  Around then, the deputy head would have realized his legs weren’t doing anything. Jake figured he had either decided to play dead in the hope of not being finished off by the gunman, or he’d simply passed out.

  He followed the line of Stenson’s run and added it to the movements of the blond girl and the other teachers. A hundred yards beyond where he stood, the land rose up into a tall and wide ribbon of long-established evergreens that ran along the edge of the property. From what he could see, it stretched for maybe half a mile or more in each direction. The map he’d glanced at on the way over showed open fields beyond, some containing broken-down outbuildings, and then there was scrub and the Moorpark freeway. The police copter had already swept the area and found no one, but Jake was certain this would have been the Spree’s route out. From there he would either escape completely or find a place to kill himself.

  Pryce came into view and headed over.

  Jake wandered toward him and they met just past the medics.

  The SWAT leader had something in the palm of his hand. “Just dug this from outta the fence near where one of the injured kids was.”

  Jake looked at the chewed-up slug and shook his head in dismay. “Point two two three Remington. I’ll bet my ass it’s from an AR-15.”

  The two men knew they were thinking the same thing. This was the rifle Adam Lanza had used to slaughter twenty-six innocents at Sandy Hook. As soon as Obama said that he wanted the weapon banned, it sold like hotcakes and quickly became America’s most wanted gun.

  Pryce bagged the slug and put it in his pocket. “What kinda distance would you say the 15 was accurate to?”

  Jake looked off to the ribbon of woodland. “Three times from here to where those trees are, which I’m certain is the spot the Spree fired from.”

  “I’ve got men heading over.”

  “You’ll find flattened grass where he was lying. Get them to go careful. Guy lying in the grass for a long time gets to spitting, might even take a leak just a couple of steps from his gun. Have them snip the surrounding grass and bag it. The spit or piss might give us DNA.”

  Pryce nodded.

  Jake was still staring into the distance. “Men I served with could snick an apple off a tree at five hundred yards with a rifle like that. Six if the scope was good enough and the wind was light.”

  “I’m thinking our UNSUB got so close it’s a sign he’s no pro.”

  “Then you’re thinking right.”

  Pryce took a punt. “Which means the killer might have had a rush of blood and come out here to settle a grudge. Maybe he got sacked by the farm and wanted to bring them bad publicity.”

  “Maybe.” Jake wasn’t yet concerned about the why of the matter. He was more interested in the where.

  Where had the sonofabitch come from?

  Where was he hiding out?

  Where was he going to strike next?

  The incessant chatter of rotor blades pulled his attention skyward. A big bug of an air ambulance circled and sniffed out a place to land. It made Jake wonder why the LAPD copter had missed the Spree. The thermal cameras should have picked him up. He and Pryce shouldn’t be here. They ought to be chasing the crazy across a field, eating up the ground around him, running him into a dead end.

  But they weren’t.

  The UNSUB had vanished. He could feel it. The scumbag had run long and far. He’d been smart enough to get out fast and was now free to kill another day.

  22

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Chips was out for the afternoon, so Angie had the office to herself.

  He’d left the stats breakdown she’d asked for, detailing all the hate crimes that had taken place in the areas where the elderly women had been assaulted.

  And he’d left her something else as well.

  A brown paper bag containing a salmon and cream cheese bagel. Plus a note that read: “In case you came back late and forgot to pick up lunch. See you later. X”

  His kindness made her smile. He was a sweet guy. Maybe too sweet for the FBI. Chips had chosen to work in one of the few organizations in LA where being gay wasn’t something you spoke openly about, and Angie figured she was the only person he’d confided in. Not that you had to be a genius to deduce his sexuality. About once a week, his daily T-shir
t slogan would be something like THINK PINK or TWO PAIRS BEATS A STRAIGHT.

  She made coffee to go with the bagel and in the process reminded herself she could no longer stomach milk. Which in turn triggered thoughts of the child growing inside her and how she was prevaricating over what to do about the pregnancy. Work was a great distraction, but this wasn’t like any personal problem she’d faced before and it was never really out of her mind.

  For a moment she considered calling Suzie Janner, but figured with her being a mom herself, she was almost certain to try to talk her into the marvels of motherhood. Instead, she went online to seek some clarity.

  Big mistake.

  Having typed in the word PREGNANT she was instantly bombarded by a plethora of sites selling everything from diaper packs to breast pumps. She adjusted the keywords to JUST PREGNANT and a new but equally commercial slate of sites came up.

  Angie worked her way through her bagel and bullshit adverts aimed at exploiting first, second and third trimesters. She avoided suggestions on how to calculate the due date, choose a prenatal caregiver or pick a power diet for the next eight months. A sneak at pregnancy fashion left her horrified but the final insult was a pop-up that would help her choose the baby’s name.

  The one thing she certainly wasn’t going to do was pick the child’s name. That would be the point of no return. All her psychological training told her that putting a name to a pregnancy made termination a thousand times more difficult.

  Lily if it was a girl.

  She put her head in her hands and screwed her eyes shut.

  Where the hell had that thought come from?

  The damned name had zipped below her radar like a Stealth bomber.

  Then she remembered.

  She’d had a ragdoll named Lily. Big blue eyes and a half-moon smile. Black wool ponytails that got sucked and a red and white checked dress. She’d literally loved Lily to bits. Her arms and legs split so many times Angie developed sewing skills a surgical nurse would have been proud of.