Spree

by Michael Morley

  The chief turned to Jake. “Special Agent Mottram, the floor is yours. I look forward to talking to you afterward.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He eased himself out of his seat and walked to the side of the screen. “Dim the lights and play the first slide, please.”

  A giant male figure slapped up against the white dropdown. “Twenty-four hours ago, no one would have looked twice at this young guy in the baseball cap. Now he is the most talked-about person in the whole goddamned state. Late yesterday afternoon he entered the Sun Western Mall, shot dead twelve people, injured seven more. Then he pretty much vanished. Change the slide, please.”

  A hazy post-shooting photo came up. It was grainy and hard to make out. Someone had blown it up and now each pixel looked the size of a baseball.

  “We lost him on security cameras because of the density of the crowd but my colleague Ruis Costas found this—it’s the Spree’s reflection in a storefront window as he entered a service elevator, which he rode to a lower floor. And before you ask, the answer is no—there was not a working camera in the elevator, nor apparently on the floor where he came out.”

  Sighs filled the dark room.

  “Yeah, I feel the same way. Now, you can deduce all you like from those facts. Either he got lucky or he busted the cameras in preparation for his actions. It’s one of many things we have to find out.”

  The FBI agent walked forward and the projector light caught him, casting a huge shadow on the screen. “After this briefing, we’ll issue you all with crime scene videos made by our forensic photographer, but right now I want you to watch the Spree in action.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Please play the footage.”

  The edit that came up was a hasty hack-together of mainly high and wide shots, showing the now familiar sight of the young black guy coming off an escalator on the first level of the mall.

  Jake’s eyes strayed from the watching audience to the sports bag and more particularly what lay inside it. He was wondering where the guy had gotten such a powerful weapon and where he might have practiced firing it. He pointed to the screen. “Take a long look at the UNSUB’s clothes and work out why he chose that particular ensemble for his big day. The whole outfit is black and white except for the cap, which has got the yellow and purple Lakers name and logo on it. Why wear anything as distinctive as that? Is he staging us—deliberately drawing our attention to something that has no relevance in order to confuse the investigation? Is it to make us think he’s a Lakers fan? Or is this his lucky cap and part of a crazy fantasy that’s been building in his head? Whatever the reason, this piece of merchandising is key to our investigation. When was it bought? Who sold it? Was it from a franchise with security cameras?” He watched their faces fall. “I know—all this is needle-in-a-haystack stuff, a massive haystack. But if we find the cap, or even where it came from, then, ladies and gentlemen, you can rest assured we’ll find our Spree.”

  26

  FBI Field Office, LA

  There had been lots of things Angie had wanted to say to Jake but hadn’t.

  Not all of them related to the baby.

  The profiler’s specialty was “Serials” not “Sprees,” and her instinct was not to stick her nose into his work. So she’d bitten her tongue. Hadn’t mentioned the bad feeling she’d been developing.

  The kind her instincts told her not to ignore.

  And with every silent hour, it had gotten worse. Which was why she found herself rapping nervously on her boss’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Sandra McDonald was dressed in what Angie called her uniform. A black business suit with white blouse and red shoes.

  The AD was behind her desk. Small black glasses perched on her nose. A stack of reports spread in front of her. She looked up quizzically. “Do we have something in the diary?”

  “No, we don’t. I came on the off-chance.”

  She took an educated guess. “Something personal?”

  “Something personal and something professional.”

  McDonald glanced at her watch. “Can you cover both in less than ten minutes? Otherwise we can meet at the end of the day.”

  “I can be quick.”

  “Then take a seat.”

  Angie slid into the chair on the other side of the glass desk and came straight out with it. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  She read the shock on her boss’s face. It was genuine. She was really surprised, and that meant Suzie Janner had been as good as her word and said nothing. “I’ve only just found out, so I thought I’d tell you early so you could detail cover.”

  “Thanks.” She took off the glasses and put two and two together. “Did the news come up at your medical?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I see. How far gone are you?”

  “Seven weeks.”

  “Was it planned?”

  Angie hesitated. It wasn’t an unreasonable question, but she didn’t want to answer it. “With respect, that’s none of your business.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Take it how you like. You’re the first person I’ve told apart from the father and I’d like this to stay confidential until I say otherwise.”

  “As you wish.” Her cool tone frosted further. “I won’t mention it to anyone I don’t have to. Now, you said there was something professional. I suppose you mean the serial rape case and Lieutenant O’Brien.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’d like to provide consultancy on the Sun Western Mall killings.”

  McDonald frowned. “SKU already has a psychologist, and it’s a Spree not a Serial, so somewhat out of your area.”

  “I know. But given the scale of the offense, I think it would be helpful if I were involved.”

  “Why?”

  “It feels wrong. Coming right off the back of the Strawberry Fields Massacre, there may be elements to this case that don’t fit a regular Spree investigation.”

  McDonald pulled a sour face. “Are you saying they’re linked? The killing of schoolteachers and kids in a field out in the country and the brazen slaughter of shoppers in a city center mall?”

  “There’s a chance—”

  “Is there? From what I’ve heard, the Moorpark massacre was with an entirely different kind of rifle, used on entirely different victims in an entirely different geographic setting.”

  “Both shooters got away.”

  “Ah, that’s your link?” The AD shook her head scornfully. “It’s surely not news to you that we often have two or more Sprees on the go at the same time?”

  “Of course not.”

  McDonald gave her a dismissive glance. “As you are aware, Angela, Sprees aren’t my area of expertise—or yours for that matter—but I know many of them get away for the first twenty-four hours. Often the first forty-eight, or seventy-two. They shoot, run and hide. Then they get caught, or they die.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m missing your point.”

  “Then let me finish and I’ll make it. If this current UNSUB’s killings stretched in time beyond, say, a week, then maybe there’d be a need to look at your so-called link.”

  “A lot of people could die in a week.”

  McDonald was out of patience. She studied Angie quizzically. “Are you glory hunting, Doctor? Trying to hitch your star to the hottest case just so you’ll get noticed?”

  “That’s as ridiculous as it is insulting.”

  “As is your request for involvement. SKU already has perfectly good psychological support. They don’t need you.”

  “I’d like you to reconsider.”

  “Tell me, is this your idea or Special Agent Mottram’s?”

  “Jake doesn’t know I’m here and we haven’t discussed the case.”

  “Then he needn’t know and you needn’t discuss it.” She put her glasses back on. “Request reconsidered and once more denied. I’m outta time now and you need to concentrate on clearing u
p that rape-homicide on your desk.” She smiled falsely and added, “Thank you for informing me about your pregnancy. Please close the door on your way out.”

  27

  LAPD HQ, LA

  The last place Jake wanted to be was in the soft seat area of the chief of police’s office, flanked by his boss, Crawford Dixon, and SWAT’s Connor Pryce.

  Soft seats always equaled hard talk.

  The chief’s secretary took orders for coffee and left them to it.

  Rawlings scratched his head and cut to the chase. “Press are hammering at my door and my bet is that they’re looking for someone’s hide to pin to it.”

  Dixon laughed. “It’s a little early for that, John. They don’t usually go scalping till they’re done with all the sensationalism.”

  “You’re telling me this? Don’t you remember how they gutted me after I had my dopehead son arrested?”

  “I do.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Poor misguided fools thought you’d done it solely as a publicity stunt. Has Jason forgiven you yet?”

  “We haven’t spoken for two years.”

  “Social media is already turning negative,” interjected Pryce, trying to get the conversation back to the Spree. “We run two LAPD Twitter feeds—General Comms and Community Relations—and they’re both trending with calls for us to catch the UNSUB and questions as to why we haven’t. I have alerts on all the main portals and postings and I can see that the bloggers are starting to create a climate of fear and blame.”

  Rawlings gave several I-told-you-so nods. “Social media, Crawford—that’s the new thing. It changed with the Boston bombings, when you FBI boys started sending suspect alerts out on Twitter before even issuing media releases.”

  “It’s just quicker that way,” replied Dixon. “Let’s face it, these days the press are nothing more than middlemen between us and the public.”

  Rawlings laughed. “You’re right, but believe me, social media is like a never-ending laxative; the shit comes so much faster and lasts far longer than the traditional media ever managed.”

  “We can manipulate some of the forums and chat rooms,” continued Pryce. “By using a strong search engine optimization strategy and smart strategic blogging, we can get to planted hacktivists to influence key opinion formers.”

  Jake couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “How about we just catch the motherfucker who’s killing people? That should put a positive spin on things, shouldn’t it?”

  Rawlings smiled. “I favor that old-fashioned approach, too, son. Which is why you and Connor here should make such a good team, instead of shit-mouthing each other. He can blow his hot air at all that digital shit heading our way, and it’ll buy you a little more time to nail the aforementioned fucker of mothers.”

  Jake eased himself out of his chair and shook out the creases of the gray suit he’d found in Angie’s wardrobe. “Given the delicacy of our position, might I be excused so I can make sure my teams are making progress?”

  “Sit down, cowboy.” Rawlings pulled at his jacket cuff. “You told my man over there that you want SKU to lead, so now you lead. And that includes dealing with the rattlesnakes under the boards as well as riding bareback down the middle of town shooting your big guns in the air.”

  Jake looked to Dixon but his boss just smiled and left him hanging.

  Rawlings patted Jake’s arm as he sat back down. “Life isn’t all bad. You both did well with locking up that basket case Chandler over at the Observatory. I could have bruised my hands applauding you on that one.”

  Jake resisted enlightening the chief about Chandler and his probable post-traumatic stress disorder.

  “The only good thing about Sun Western,” continued Rawlings in a patronizing tone, “is that for the moment it makes the public forget that they ought to be asking what the fuck happened over at Strawberry Fields.”

  “Thank God for small mercies,” said Dixon.

  “I shall, Crawford. Believe me I shall. But right now, we have to use all this search-engine-shit-blocking-blogger bullshit that Pryce is talking about to our advantage—and you, Special Agent Mottram, you need to use your military skills to bring this asshole in before the men with hammers and nails come for me.” The chief took a beat, then added, “Just so you’re all in no doubt about what’s going on here, let me fill you in. Two months from now, there’s a vote coming for the role of police commissioner and all I wanna hear when I throw my hat in that particular ring is loud cheers. No questions. No doubts. Certainly no fucking boos. Just big whoops of freaking delight. I hope I’ve made myself clear, gentlemen. Because believe me, if my rise to fame ends because of the sorry shit that brought us all here today, then, gentlemen, rest assured all of yours will as well.”

  28

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Chips came in wearing a blue T-shirt that said, I HATE YOU, GOD. HATE YOU LIKE YOU REALLY EXIST.

  “Inappropriate,” said Angie, even though she didn’t have the energy to fight with him.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “It’s Graham Greene. I think.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Mr. Pink. Turn it inside out or we’ll have the politically correct mob hauling your ass out the door.”

  He stripped and turned the shirt inside out.

  She wolf-whistled playfully. “Good abs, bro. You been working out some?”

  “I suppose you could call it working out.”

  “FTMD.” She covered her eyes in mock embarrassment. “Far too much detail.”

  They both laughed.

  Angie waited until he finished dressing. “Do me a favor, grab what you can from the SKU servers on the Sun Western shootings.”

  “Grab as in steal? Or grab as in ask permission because you’re not being sneaky?”

  “Grab as in steal.”

  He smiled. “Okay—but only if you make coffee. I was late and didn’t have time to hit Starbucks.”

  “You got it.” She heard him sit and power up his terminal as she headed to the pantry.

  Angie brewed coffee. Thick and dark for Chips and the thin color of rusty water for her. She remembered how she used to down shots of espresso like whiskey chasers and drink cappuccino thick enough to stand a spoon in. Now she couldn’t stomach either.

  Something else was bugging her.

  McDonald’s comment about her being a “glory hunter.”

  What nerve.

  Had the woman been serious? Could she really not see that some people looked at crimes in a light other than that which could serve their own careers?

  Chips was answering her phone when she reentered the office, balancing two mugs and wishing she hadn’t filled them so full.

  She hoped it was Jake.

  Chips took a mug off her and whispered, “Lieutenant O’Brien.”

  She put her drink down and picked up the receiver. “Angie Holmes.”

  “Morning. I could really do with your help, Doc.”

  She could hear he was calling from his car. “What can I do?”

  “The daughter of Sally Mesche—the third victim—just contacted us. Her mom has remembered something about the UNSUB—about his smell. Can you come and sit in on the interview?”

  “She down at the station?”

  “No. I’m on the way to her home. I can pick you up in fifteen, if that’s okay?”

  Angie hesitated. She was supposed to be seeing Suzie Janner for lunch and baby talk. “I’ve got plans. Can we do it midafternoon, early evening?”

  “Can’t. The old lady only has a couple of hours. She has to go to a funeral. I wanna catch her before the dark clouds of grief descend and mess up her memory again. I can go on my own.”

  “No, I’ll come. I can cancel what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “Thanks. I value your help.”

  “Enough to have rethought holding back discussions on the offender’s race?”

  He let out a long sigh. “Let’s see what Mrs. Mesche says, th
en we’ll talk about it.”

  29

  SKU Offices, LA

  “Crazy, time-wasting, pencil-headed pricks!” Jake hurled his jacket into the corner of the office.

  Ruis Costas had seen him coming along the corridor and was a step behind. He picked up the jacket and dusted it down. “Problems?”

  “You could say that.” He took the garment back. “Thanks. Rawlings took more than two hours reading the riot act, lecturing me on leadership while that brown-nose nerd Pryce chirped in with claptrap about bloggers and digital platforms. Then they got in ‘media managers.’ ”

  “Media managers?”

  “Glorified press officers. I had to sit through shit about ‘messaging to the public’ and ‘image control of individuals and respective organizations.’ ”

  Ruis couldn’t help but smile. “With great power comes great bullshit.”

  Jake still wasn’t done. “Do you know what the unholy trinity is?”

  “Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan? Syria, Libya and Egypt?”

  “No!” Jake laughed. “According to Rawlings, the unholy trinity is political fallout, social media contamination and conventional press backlash.”