Spree

by Michael Morley

  “You need to explain that to me.”

  “Well, he used a shielding program. Highly advanced. Way beyond TOR, TrueCript and Incognito. He’d mussed up the exit and entry nodes like I’ve never seen anyone do. You can’t do that kind of thing unless you’re smart and tech savvy, maybe a former IT or graphics student who’s been on the edge of hacking or has hung with an arty, anarchistic crowd that were into hacking.”

  Angie was struggling. “I kind of get what you mean—you think he’s some kind of supergeek.”

  “More than that. Anyone who deploys encryption devices like he does wouldn’t have tweeted us unless he’d checked out our IP address first.”

  “Well, that kind of behavior fits with our UNSUB. He’s been pretty meticulous so far.”

  “Yep, but if he traced our false IP address, then he must have used a geo-locator, which means he may know where the safe house is.”

  Angie was shocked. “Really? He could do that?”

  “I think so. Of course, he won’t know it’s a safe house; he’ll just think it’s a normal home, and our past blogs and posts are consistent with living there.”

  “Shit. This guy is an operator.”

  “And he knows it. He’s full of himself. His message said, ‘Only you and I are fit to judge.’ ”

  Angie’s face showed her surprise. “Now, that’s interesting. Did you reply?”

  “Uh-huh. I went with one of the blandly enigmatic phrases we discussed. I tweeted BE JUST.”

  Angie fell silent.

  Chips gave her time. He was used to her drifting off. Thinking things through.

  Finally, she explained. “I’m trying to work out how strong this Judge and Jury connection really is. There’s a danger we’re getting hung up on something that might not matter.”

  “Or that we discount the obvious,” countered Chips. “Perhaps it is all about justice. Today’s attack was outside the Justice Department. He came dressed as a costume character who used to fight for justice. And all that comes on top of him having left an anagram at the mall that translates to Judge and Jury.”

  “I know, I know. It looks like a golden thread to me as well, but at the same time it all feels a little obvious. Maybe a red herring.”

  “Since when have serial killers been subtle? All our studies show they stay cryptically on theme, even when they stray off victim.”

  “Or they use themes to throw investigators off course—and if our UNSUB is as clever as you think he is, then that’s highly possible. Back at Quantico, I was taught to forget the themes. Remember KYV/KYO?”

  Chips did. “Know your victim and you know your offender.”

  “Right. Well, there’s a link between the victims, Chips. I can’t see what it is, but I know it’s there.”

  He drained the last of his cranberry juice and took the glass to the dishwasher. “I ran all the vic names again today. All the dead and all the wounded. There are some connections but they’re tenuous.”

  “How tenuous? Six degrees of separation tenuous?”

  “More like sixty degrees.”

  “Go on.”

  “One of the teachers at the Strawberry Fields massacre went to the same church as a woman from the mall shooting who lived around the corner from the restaurant that was hit. That kind of tenuous.”

  Angie still had hope. “I asked Ruis to check out links between Evelyn Richards and Tanya Murison.”

  “Why?”

  “Because despite the other killings the UNSUB shot them first. We know he took stuff from Tanya’s trash—that’s how he made the effigy—and I suspect he got the date for the party from Evelyn’s trash.”

  “The trash I can believe, but why would he want to kill the party crowd? There’s no connection to the mall, Angie, believe me. I spoke to Agent Costas just before I came over because I wanted to check addresses on some victims. Tanya and Evelyn had never met. They were generations and lifestyles apart. One was a white soccer mom from the burbs, the other a black grandmother from the rough part of town. They couldn’t be more diverse if they had been chosen to be.”

  Angie frowned at him. “What did you say?”

  “I said, they couldn’t be more diverse.”

  She added the missing words, “If they had been chosen to be.” Her synapses were crackling. “What if they’d been chosen for exactly that reason?”

  “What reason?”

  “Who chooses diverse people?”

  He thought, then shrugged. “Market surveyors?”

  “Maybe. I was thinking something more connected to justice.”

  Now he got it. “A jury?”

  “Starts to fit doesn’t it? All this Judge and Justice stuff. Imagine a jury of twelve people—twelve people who wrongly convicted our UNSUB of something and ruined his life.”

  17

  Shooter spent most of his shift thinking about women. Two, to be precise. He hadn’t met either of them but knew both would figure large in his life.

  The first was Elysia.

  Judge Elysia, to use her full nom de plume.

  Her past blogs and posts fascinated him. They spat fire. Venom. Hot vitriol. She dropped rage bombs on bankers, storekeepers, big companies, cops and even the government. She exposed them as the self-serving, greedy, lazy and ignorant good-for-nothings that they truly were. Elysia cried out for a modern-day Jesus to “sort their shit out,” “clean up the unholy mess” and “right the wrongs.”

  He was that messiah. To her and, he suspected, many others.

  Elysia tore into newspaper, television and radio journalists for abandoning their posts, failing in their responsibilities as guardians of freedom, gatekeepers of truth, watchmen for injustice. No one escaped her wrath.

  She spoke with his voice.

  From what she’d declared on her multiple profiles, Shooter believed she lived alone, wasn’t in a relationship, had no pets and followed no one.

  She was like him.

  He liked that. Liked it so much he couldn’t help but take a company E Wagon and roll past her house.

  It was almost 2:00 a.m. when he parked up near the trees where not so long ago he’d flopped out and played the role of drunken bum. The street was deserted but he still made sure the Ford’s doors were locked. This was the kind of hood where you could get jumped any time of day.

  Shooter cranked his seat back so he wasn’t visible from the street. If any cops cruised by he’d just pretend to be swinging the lead, grabbing a little shut-eye because his boss was such a ballbreaker. They’d understand.

  He watched for more than an hour. A light came on in a front room. It glowed for a while behind drawn curtains, then flickered out. Another light came on. Deeper in the house. It was barely visible. A slit of brightness through what was probably an open door. Shooter guessed this was her bedroom. It also burned for only a few minutes, then went off. Maybe she’d gotten up to use the bathroom or get a glass of water. Either way she was now in her bedroom and he couldn’t help but picture her. Elysia would have long, dark hair and be lying naked on top of white sheets. Her breasts were small but firm, her legs long and thin. A tattoo of some kind was on her hip. He could see it now. It was beautiful. Unique. A butterfly with the head of a dragon, the teeth of a vampire bat and a long tongue that wound its way down her left leg, all the way to her little toe. Elysia’s skin would look milky in the moonlight, but her eyes smoldered darkly, with centers that glowed like cracked green emeralds. He imagined them open and staring upward at the ceiling while she daydreamed.

  About him.

  She was ready to fall asleep and take him into her dreams.

  A bang on the back doors made his heart leap.

  Someone was at the rear of the vehicle. They were trying to break in. The Ford’s big side mirrors showed two youths in muscle vests trying to crowbar the doors open.

  Shooter started the engine. The cough of exhaust and roar of the engine startled them.

  He floored the gas pedal. Left strips of burned rubber
on the blacktop. In the rearview he saw the two figures standing bemused in the middle of the road.

  Shooter turned the corner and headed back to work. He had to get Elysia out of his head. He needed to concentrate on the other woman.

  The one who had to die.

  18

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  LA’s morning skyline was shrouded in smog when Angie and Chips left her apartment and drove in to the office together. They split at the FBI garage so he could get decent coffee and something for breakfast—another reminder that her kitchen cupboards had been near empty and she needed to go grocery shopping.

  Angie edged behind her desk, put her phone on charge and powered up the computer. She felt fat, tired and even slower than her computer’s painfully languid start-up. She’d worked late and slept little. Her energy tanks were near empty and she knew the drain on them would continue relentlessly. The baby, the unvented grief, the long hours and the lack of progress on the inquiry, they all took their toll.

  Her spirits lifted when Chips returned with coffee, fresh fruit salads and butter croissants still warm from the oven.

  While they ate, they worked on finding court trial links to Tanya Murison and Evelyn Richards. They concentrated mainly on juries that they might have served on together, or criminal investigations they might have given witness statements to.

  By 11:00 a.m. they’d contacted all the departments and public records offices that could help and simply had to wait for files to be searched and calls returned. Chips entered both women’s names into the archives of all local newspapers in the Greater Los Angeles area to see if they’d been named in association with famous cases.

  Nothing came up.

  Angie’s phone rang repeatedly. But not with the answers she awaited. McDonald wanted to see her. Ruis informed her that there would be a joint case conference with the LAPD in the afternoon to review all the recent Spree cases. Crawford asked her to swing by late afternoon “for a personal chat.” Suzie Janner called and expressed her surprise and worry that she was back at work so soon and arranged to “meet for a professional chat” the following morning.

  Angie had guessed today was going to be a confrontational one with her boss, so she’d dressed in a no-nonsense navy skirt and jacket with a burnt orange blouse.

  She rapped twice on McDonald’s door.

  “Come in,” came an unwelcoming voice.

  The assistant director met Angie’s presence with a forced smile. A bony hand ushered her to a seat. “I’ll start with the obvious question, because you’ll only think me a callous bitch if I don’t: how you holding up?”

  Angie tucked her seat in close to the desk. “I’m focused and I’m fit to see this through.”

  McDonald put down her pen and removed her reading glasses. “I didn’t ask that, Angela. Believe it or not, I’m concerned about you as a person as well as a professional and the quality of the job you do.”

  “My bad. I’m glad to be back at work. And thank you for agreeing to let me do that.”

  The AD folded her hands and placed them on the desk in front of her. A simple gesture, but it was designed to cut the space between the two women, build a psychological bridge. “I’m going to tell you something personal, something not to be repeated outside this room.” Her face softened and for a second she had to take a slow breath before continuing. “Twenty years ago the man I loved was killed. Not by a bullet, but by a hole in his heart. He’d had the defect since birth and we’d thought he’d outgrown any risks from it. That wasn’t the case. When he collapsed in agony one day and emergency surgery failed, well, my life imploded.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Like you, I was determined to work through the grief. I figured I had to be tough. Get my shit together. Get on with things. Anything sound familiar?”

  “Yes, of course it does.”

  “Well, let me tell you, I lost so much of myself during the first three months after his death, I never got it back. None of it. Those feelings of openness, trust, love and kindness that blossom in a relationship—they all withered and died because of how I responded. And I really don’t want the same things to happen to you.”

  Angie sat in shock. This was a side of McDonald she’d never seen. One that showed her just how alike they were, rather than how different. “Thank you for sharing that with me. Truth is, I don’t know how else to deal with it. Finding Jake’s killer is the only rock I’m clinging to and I’m damned well scared to death of letting go of it and drowning in depression and self-pity.” She had to stop herself opening up too much. “Let’s face it, we both know there’s no alternative but to tough it out, is there?”

  “In some ways, there is.” McDonald’s eyes showed her years of pain. “Don’t link all your hate and anger to this UNSUB—because if we don’t find him, then all your rage and pain will still be alive. Some killers go uncaught.”

  “That’s not an option for me. This bastard is getting caught.”

  “Nor is it an option for me, Angie. This UNSUB is on my watch. But we don’t always succeed, no matter how hard we try. The Green River Killer went twenty years before his luck ran out. You can’t go through two decades of hate and anger.”

  Angie knew she was right. “So what do I do?”

  “You open up. We’re your family—even me. We’ll get you through this, but that means you take advice as well as going your own headstrong way. I want to help you, not fight you, but you’re going to have to meet me somewhere in the middle.”

  Angie nodded. “I’m not good at most of those things but I’ll try.”

  “Good. Trying is at least a start.” McDonald got up and walked her to the door.

  Angie stopped on the way out. “Thank you, I appreciate you taking the time out to talk so confidentially.”

  “You’re very welcome.” She touched her shoulder reassuringly.

  “Tell me one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Honestly, does a day go by without you thinking about that man you lost?”

  McDonald’s eyes glistened. “Not even an hour.”

  19

  The morning supervisor had been late arriving. That meant Shooter hadn’t gotten away until rush hour. It had been a bad start to the day. There were lots of things to do, places to visit, plans to put into operation. Sitting around waiting had left him frustrated and strangely tired. He wasn’t good at doing nothing. He needed to be active. Every moment had to be dedicated to taking a step closer to his goal. To his next kill. To a new photograph on the wall in Death Row. To the fulfillment of his mission.

  Maybe it was his imagination, but there seemed to be more police out on the streets today. Extra cruisers in the traffic lanes. Increased cop interviews and appeals on radio and TV. They were talking about new leads, fresh breakthroughs, a surge in help from the public and possible eyewitnesses who’d come forward. He told himself that it was bullshit disinformation. They were churning it out to keep the public off their backs and maybe to spook him as well. They were hoping he would make mistakes.

  Well, Shooter didn’t make mistakes.

  Shooter planned.

  Shooter planned and planned and planned.

  He didn’t make mistakes.

  But he was worried.

  Edgy.

  No matter how many times his mind screamed reassurances, he was becoming stressed. If he was honest with himself, the shooting at JZ’s Saloon hadn’t gone nearly as well as he’d intended. He wished he’d had time to wipe down the toilet cubicle and watch the Lone Ranger clothes burn to ashes when he’d torched them behind the billboard. Ideally, he’d have liked to have stuck around to scrape up the charred remains and take them away. But it hadn’t worked out like that. Now he had to live with it and move on. Stay on his toes. Keep one step ahead of the FBI. Take no chances.

  Inside his sanctuary, he changed and showered. For the first time in more than a week, he went straight to bed. His mind numbed by exhaustion and worry. His energy
spent.

  The dreams that visited him were gruesome ones of being chased and caught. Of the cops killing him in a gun battle, but then bringing him back to life. They kept him tied to a chair in a Death Row cell. Day by day, the barred wall would slide back and one of his victims would come through with a knife and gouge out the bullets from wounds that were doomed to never heal.

  A calendar on the prison wall was marked with the day of his execution. It was always today. Beneath it was a typewritten document with the state governor’s seal. Denial of his reprieve.

  Shooter woke in a sweat. He went to the bathroom, ran water in the sink, cupped it in his hands and submerged his face.

  As he toweled dry, he saw the watch on his wrist said it was just after midday. He cursed his decision to lie down and rest. Hours had flown by. Things had slipped. He’d missed a window. A chance to kill.

  And yet…

  His rested mind filled with a new thought. One even more appealing than the last.

  20

  On the drive to Santa Monica, Angie took a call from Cal O’Brien. She was relieved he didn’t open with the usual inquiry about how she was coping.

  “I hear you’re back at work.”

  She put him on the hands-free. “You hear right.” She exited the freeway and clicked the indicator to turn onto Fourth Street. “You got some news for me?”

  He admired her directness. “Maybe. Some of my team and Ruis Costas’s squad have been going through video footage from the FBI building. They’ve blown up a lot of grainy night footage. Long and short of it, we have two interesting leads—people and vehicles that aren’t from the regular press pack.”

  “You’re right, that’s interesting.”

  “Are you at the joint case conference this afternoon?”

  “Planning to be.”

  “Then you’ll see the footage firsthand.” He moved onto more sensitive ground. “Did you find anything in the letters you took from Jake’s place?”

  She hesitated. “Afraid not.” She almost missed the turn onto Pico Boulevard.