Spree

by Michael Morley

  She followed him to his desk.

  “I’ve been going over the footage again.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were being forced off the case. “What have you got?”

  “It’s this bit that interests me.” He hit play on his media controller and the screen filled with the silent, all-too-familiar images. “It’s when Mr. Sicko has shot everyone and walks around finishing them off. First, he makes sure that Mrs. Murison is dead.” Chips tapped the screen. “Even though he’s not closest to her. Now, why do you think that was?”

  “When I first saw it, I thought maybe just because she was an old lady and perhaps there was a tiny spark of humanity inside him and he wanted to put her out of her misery.”

  “And now?”

  “Jake told me the bomb was planted by a kid pretending to be a relative of hers, but you keep that to yourself; it’s not to leave this room. Right?”

  He drew a pretend zip across his lips.

  Angie gave him her fuller answer. “Now it looks like the UNSUB may have deliberately targeted her. And perhaps after killing her he always had it in mind to desecrate her memory, defile her even after death.” She looked at the frozen picture of the killer on the screen. “Does he behave oddly with any of the other victims?”

  Chips nodded. “Not with his victims. Not specifically. But there is something.” He fast-forwarded the footage. “Look at this and tell me what you think.”

  The section played. It was a moment after the killer had finished shooting. The sports bag on his shoulder slumped down and he lifted out his hand. The weight of the weapon made the bag point to the floor. The UNSUB was heading out when he stepped in blood. He looked down, wiped it off his sneakers and then walked on.

  “I don’t see the significance of this,” said Angie. “Is it the blood on his shoe that I’m supposed to be interested in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She looked again at the screen. “I guess he’s wiping it off because he’s reasonably smart and forensically aware. He knows CSIs will look for footprints and maybe trace him from the tread pattern.”

  “It’s not that. Let me show you.” Chips got up and paced to the middle of the room. “I’m the killer, right. Bag over shoulder.” He dropped his shoulder and held his hands as though there were a gun on his right side.

  “Other side,” said Angie straightaway. “The UNSUB had the bag slung so it hung on his left side, meaning he’s either left-handed or ambidextrous.”

  “Sorry. I’ll make the switch.” He moved the imaginary weight to his other hip. “I’m walking out. I step in blood. I look down and realize it. Now watch what I do.” Chips put the flat of his foot down about six inches away from where he’d trodden; then he dragged his leg back and forth three times like a dog scratching earth. “Look correct to you?”

  “I guess.”

  He rushed back to his computer and hit play. “That’s not what the UNSUB does. He steps into the blood. Sees it’s on his foot and then he doesn’t step out or make the motion I did.”

  Angie leaned closer to the monitor. “Run it again.”

  He played the section. “See? There’s no scraping of the sole. He points his toe, like he’s a ballet dancer, brings it down at an angle, then upward, almost as though he’s drawing a hockey stick in the blood.”

  “Again.”

  He replayed it for her.

  “You’re right.” Angie sat back. “But it’s more like he’s a painter than a ballet dancer. He makes his toe the tip of a brush; then he does that tick.”

  “Tick—that’s it!” Chips looked animated. “He’s drawn the Nike swoosh. Look at his T-shirt. I should have realized it. He’s living up to the slogan JUST DO IT. He’s cracking a sick joke in the midst of the bloodshed.”

  Angie studied the freeze frame. Chips had hit on something, but she wasn’t sure he was quite right.

  “I don’t think it is a commercial reference,” she said. “I reckon he’s checking the kill off his list. His Tick List. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

  Chips did. “He’s only partway through. There is a lot more to come.”

  31

  LAPD HQ, LA

  The press conference was set to be the biggest the LAPD had ever staged.

  The two communication chiefs, Ryan Fox of the FBI and Jamie Luttings of the LAPD, had been overwhelmed with attendance requests from national and international news teams.

  Rawlings had insisted the announcement was handled by his team and made from force HQ on West First Street.

  Jake let Danielle Goodman drive him across town so he could take calls and run things through in his mind. He hated press conferences, and they made him oddly nervous. Action was what he was comfortable with, not words.

  He was also stressed by the fact he hadn’t even mentioned the media event to Angie. The night had gone so perfectly he hadn’t wanted to ruin it by raising Danielle’s scheme and inevitably debating what should and shouldn’t be said.

  They parked, and Marjorie Dalton, an aging blonde in a pale pink jacket and matching trousers, was waiting in police reception to meet them. “You’re late. We’re on in ten. Follow me.”

  “Marj isn’t big on the polite stuff,” explained Danielle as they headed up stairs, down corridors and past the conference room where rows of cameras were already set up.

  They stepped into a small room next door.

  Jake was surprised to see Rawlings sitting in a chair, with a young lady powdering his face in front of a mirror.

  “Glad you could make it,” said the chief. He looked at the reflection of the redhead prettifying him. “Short of a hair transplant and cosmetic surgery, I think you’ve done all that can be done there.”

  She smiled at him and unfastened the makeup cape she’d draped over his chunky torso.

  Rawlings stood and turned.

  Jake had to choke a laugh.

  The guy was in full uniform with a chest full of ribbons that you got for doing next to nothing. His hair was dyed an unbelievable black, and his brown eyes sparkled in greedy anticipation of all the publicity he was about to receive.

  The makeup girl checked Jake out, then smiled at Marjorie. “You don’t need me for this one. He seems pretty close to perfect.” Her eyes twinkled as she reached up and dabbed powder across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose and on the ball of his chin. “There you go, sir. That’s you done.”

  Jake was too nervous to flirt. “Thanks.”

  Rawlings opened the door. “C’mon then, Mr. Handsome, let’s go through. We have a packed house. No point keeping them waiting.”

  Even in the corridor, Jake could hear that the room was jammed with journalists, camera crews and photographers.

  As he walked in, cameras flashed, chairs scraped the floor and the noise died down to a rolling mumble.

  He and the chief took their places at a table with their name cards pasted over the edge. Rawlings cupped his mouth with his hand and whispered to him, “Remember, CNN, Fox, Sky and the like will be cutting to us live.”

  Live.

  Jake had thought it would all be recorded.

  He’d done press conferences before. Plenty of them. But never this large and never live.

  Jamie Luttings stood out front, made the introductions, then backed away.

  The chief started his pitch-perfect address. “The Los Angeles Police Department has only one aim—to secure the safety of all its citizens. We pride ourselves on our professionalism and our pledge to protect and serve. This is why we unhesitatingly asked the FBI to add their expertise to our relentless drive to find the perpetrator—or perpetrators—of the terrible crimes of the last few days.” He paused and gestured toward Jake. “Alongside me is Special Agent Jake Mottram, the head of the Bureau’s Spree Killer Unit. A couple of years back the president of the United States pinned the Medal of Honor on his chest because of his heroism, his dedication to his job and his determination that good would triumph over evi
l, even if it cost him his life. As of now, Agent Mottram will be taking operational control of the Sun Western slayings, and I will be ensuring that he has the full support of the LAPD and all its officers and resources.”

  Mutterings broke across the room as hacks prompted their photographers to snap the moment.

  Rawlings was experienced enough to wait until the noise died down, then continued. “To avoid any misunderstandings, I want to make it clear that this act of cooperation was instigated by myself and has been backed unconditionally by the LAPD Board of Police Commissioners. Rest assured, together with the FBI, we will make our city safe again. I pass you over to the safe hands of Special Agent Mottram.”

  “Thank you, Chief.” Jake took a reflective beat and made sure his tone respectfully matched what he was about to say. “My sympathies, and those of my colleagues, go out to the families and loved ones of all those who have died.” Camera flashes almost blinded him. “I have come across many enemies in my time, but only the most evil of creatures strikes at civilians in a way as cowardly as this. To shoot men, women and children as they shopped, to blow up mourners as they laid flowers and paid tributes at the Sun Western Mall—these are acts that rank as the most despicable I have ever witnessed. The mind behind these acts is a cowardly, spineless, gutless one. It is housed in a body that has no place in our society. We are speaking of the lowest of the low, the kind of person parents would disown, the kind that society is most ashamed of. You’ll notice that I haven’t used the words ‘human being.’ That’s because the creature responsible for these homicides is not worthy of the words. The worst criminals in prison would consider him too vile to be allowed a cell alongside them. It might even contravene their human rights to be put in close proximity to such an abomination.” He took a pause and immediately wished he hadn’t. A lightning storm of camera flashes blinded him. It took several seconds for him to blink away the burn from his retinas. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not good with words, I’m no politician or orator, but I think I speak for the American public when I say this to the UNSUB who has ruined the lives of so many good people. You will be hunted to the ends of the earth. There is nowhere you can hide. No lengths that we won’t go to in order to catch you. Dead or alive, you will face justice.”

  The cameras clacked and flashed again. Jake closed his eyes and saw only white snakes wriggling across the backs of his lids.

  Luttings once more stepped forward and took control of the massed media. “The chief and Agent Mottram have a few moments for your questions.”

  The hand of a stubble-bearded, middle-aged man went up. “Leo Vogel, LA Times. Has a psychological profile of the offender been constructed, and if so, can we be told what it is?”

  Rawlings batted the question away. “I think that’s best answered by the FBI.”

  “We do have a profile,” answered Jake, “but we are not in a position to share it with you. Photographs of the suspect have been distributed and we would like to talk to anyone who knows someone who fits that description.”

  “Why can’t you share it?” countered Vogel.

  “Because the suspect may well read your newspaper and watch TV. And—as a result of learning the details of our profile—he would undoubtedly seek to alter his behavior and evade capture.”

  A woman’s hand went up and Luttings picked her out.

  “Tina Bolz, CNN. What exactly is the difference between a spree killer and a serial killer? And what specialty do you bring to the case that the LAPD doesn’t already have?”

  “Sprees don’t have cooling-off periods like Serials do.” Jake had answered this question many times. “Serials go months, sometimes years between their early kills, and the gap generally shortens only when they get careless, lose control and begin to make the kind of mistakes that lead to their capture. Sprees start with little or no gap. They shoot two or more people. Then they quickly kill again—often within the hour, sometimes within the same day. Now let me address your second point. The LAPD is among the most professional police forces in existence. They were the first in the world to create a SWAT unit and the first in the U.S.A. to introduce female police officers. They have a very fine behavioral science unit and an exemplary bomb unit. The officers in those divisions are second to none. They do, however, have to attend to multiple types of crimes, whereas my team at SKU investigates only spree killers. Day in, day out, that’s all we do. That singularity of focus—and the streamlining of resources to serve only that end—is what makes us different, and what we hope will make the difference in these cases.”

  “One more,” said Luttings.

  A slim, dark-haired woman stood up. “Anna Arit, Associated Press. Chief, can this ‘creature,’ as Agent Mottram called him, be caught before he kills again?”

  “That’s our intention,” answered Chief Rawlings. “Like Special Agent Mottram said, we’re going to catch him and bring him to justice, dead or alive. For the record, my personal preference is dead.”

  32

  Jake’s cellphone rang the second he stepped out of the media room and turned it off mute. He was ushered into a small office at the end of the corridor and given some privacy.

  The display said it was Angie.

  He took the call and braced himself. “Hello—”

  “What the hell, Jake? What in God’s sweet name were you thinking of?”

  “Angie—”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”

  “Angie—”

  “Don’t do one-to-one interviews. Please, please, please don’t talk anymore to the press.”

  He finally got to say more than her name. “There’s no plan to do anything else. Rawlings will do some interviews, but not me.”

  “Plan?” she snapped. “ ‘Plan’ implies some thought had gone into this madness. Correction. What I just saw on the TV was reckless and irresponsible, not madness. Mad people can’t help themselves. Was this all Danielle Goodman’s doing?”

  “Not only her. It was vetted and supported by Dixon.” He felt defensive. “The idea is to infuriate the UNSUB. Force him into a spontaneous reaction. One that hopefully people around him will notice and cause them to report him to their local cops or FBI office.”

  Angie was shouting an abusive response when Ryan Fox cracked the door open and stuck his head through the gap. “Amazing piece, man. The press are going wild. They love you.” He put his hands wide apart. “You’re going to make big headlines. BIG, BIG headlines.”

  Jake scowled and showed him the phone. “I’m talking.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled and disappeared.

  “Angie…”

  The line was dead.

  “Fuck.” Jake banged a hand on the wall and left a dent in the plasterboard. He’d guessed she’d be upset when she found out, but he hadn’t expected her to go so far off the scale.

  The door opened again.

  A middle-aged secretary hovered patiently until he looked her way. “Special Agent Mottram.”

  Jake recognized her from Rawlings’s office. “Yes, I’m sorry—I was miles away.”

  She smiled professionally and announced, “I have a call for you, in the chief’s office.”

  He was too churned up to speak to anyone else for a few minutes. “Could you please take a number and say I’ll call back when I return to my office?”

  “I don’t really think I can do that, sir.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s from the office of the president of the United States.”

  “I guess you can’t.” Jake followed her into the corridor and down to the corner office with Rawlings’s name on the door. The secretary let him in and signaled toward the big brown desk and leather executive seat lit by a warm table lamp. “I’ll put it through to the desk set.”

  The door shut behind him and the phone rang.

  Jake picked it up. “This is Jake Mottram.”

  A male voice on the other end replied, “Please hold f
or the president of the United States.”

  The two men had met only once before. It was when America’s commander in chief had pinned the Medal of Honor to his chest, in respect of heroism in Yemen—the result of an operation that had gone wrong. A covert strike on an Al-Qaeda base had been screwed up by a communications error in another regiment. Jake had been forced to hold a position on his own and lay down covering fire to get his men out of the deathtrap. In the process, he took two bullets in his shoulder and was left for dead in the scorching heat. Split from his unit, he stuck himself full of morphine and soldiered on. En route to the evac zone he ran into a two-man enemy recon unit and almost bled out in the firefight that killed both of the enemy.

  A click on the line brought his reminiscences to an end.

  “Special Agent Mottram, how are you?”

  He felt an odd surge of nerves. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “I just watched you on television, and like most of America, was moved by your words.”

  “Thank you, sir. Though I have to confess, I was pretty much sticking to a script that had been written for me.”

  The president laughed. “As do we all, Jake. We need a hero right now and, script or no script, I’m comforted that a man of your distinction is leading the hunt for this killer. Bring him in quickly, soldier; then let’s talk again when you have done your job. My party could do with a man like you in its ranks.”

  33

  Skid Row, LA

  Shooter was angry.

  He’d wanted to finish his shock surprise. The special one he’d been diligently creating with scraps collected from trash bags. With those kinds of materials he only had one chance to produce the masterpiece he had in mind. But now his mood was ruined.

  Zapping between news channels, he’d found the studio anchor on Fox announcing “a major development in the hunt for the Sun Western slayer.”

  Annoyingly, he was having to wait until after the break to discover what it was.

  He sat as patiently as he could.

  When the “special report” came on, it really didn’t seem so special. Rehashed videotape from the mall, close-ups of his disguised face, shots of ambulances ferrying away the wounded, a long view of open-backed black coroner’s vans swallowing bodies draped in white sheets.