Spree

by Michael Morley

  “Okay. Then what if the UNSUB has been making the jurors suffer by killing someone who mattered to them? Maybe he was close to Hendry and missed him. Wanted them to endure the same fate. So we’re looking for parents, children, brothers, lovers.”

  Chips was already ahead of her. “I know where you’re going. Winston Hendry has no surviving parents, children or named wife. But he does have a younger brother. Warren. Twenty-six. No known abode.”

  She glanced at the clock over the door. “Hell, we need to share this with the inquiry team and share it fast.” She made to go.

  “Hang on, boss. There’s stuff you should know before you let the dogs loose. Neither Warren nor Winston is black.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “What? Our guy is black; all the security pictures show that.”

  He pressed his point. “They grew up in a black hood. But they’re both white. I’ve seen a driver’s license shot of Warren on my computer—I promise you he’s as Caucasian as you and me.”

  She crinkled her brow, then looked around. “Have you printed it off?”

  “No, not yet. I only found it just before you walked in.”

  “Show me.”

  They walked to his computer. He reopened the file from the records office and leaned away from the screen so she could see.

  Angie stared at the young-looking white man. “Jeez. Are you sure that’s him?”

  “I’ll double-check that there’s not been a screwup in records, but if you look at the mugshot of his brother, you’ll see resemblances.” He shrank the screen so it only filled the left of the frame, then opened the file of the other man.

  Angie saw that they had the same brown eyes and nose shape. While Warren’s face was rounder than Winston’s, you could see they were family. “I get that they are brothers. White brothers. But do you think he looks enough like our mall UNSUB?”

  Chips punched more keys and opened a JPEG of the pic they’d issued to the press.

  Angie looked at the photos side by side. “Doesn’t pop right at you because of the cap and the hair, but yeah, I see that it’s him.”

  Chips tapped the screen. “The Lakers cap is the most important part of the disguise. It throws shadows all over the face, distorts nose length, cheek shape and makes ID much harder.”

  Angie pondered the image and made a fresh connection between kills. “And the cap helps fake the hair type, the color and length—just like a Stetson does. The hair we found in the restroom at JZ’s had come loose, not because it snagged somehow, but because he hadn’t glued it in as well as he thought.”

  Chips was filling in blanks as well. “So we’ve pretty much been asking the public to look for the wrong guy?”

  “Seems we did.” She stepped away from the back of Chips’s chair and paced while she gathered her thoughts. Things were coming together, but there were also a lot of unanswered questions. Motive being the big one. “What’s big brother’s rap sheet say?”

  “That I have printed out.” He fished for it on his desk and handed it over. “He was in and out of juvie. Assault. Wounding. Firearm offenses. Gangs Unit will know him. He went to Death Row for shooting a rival gang member. Sprayed so many bullets at his vic he also caught a mother and child across the street. His attorney argued self-defense for capping the other crook and second degree for the civilians. The DA and judge wouldn’t buy it.”

  “Good for them.”

  “They were under a White House directive to clamp down on street gangs and shootings, so there was no room for a deal.”

  “Hence Warren’s festering resentment about his brother’s judicial treatment. Whose colors did Winston wear?”

  Chips searched for clippings on his desk. “Press reports I pulled on the trial say South Side Crips. Ran with the Pirus gang. I’ve not had time to check further with Anti-Gangs or LAPD uniforms.”

  “Pirus—that’s the same outfit as Aaron Bolt.” Angie remembered the picture she’d seen on the TV of Bolt posing with a MAC-10, dressed in clothes identical to the ones the UNSUB had worn during the Sun Western slayings. “I’m wondering if he and Aaron Bolt knew each other, whether Warren was the guy behind the camera when the scumbag we’re about to let go free posed for that picture with the gun.”

  “You mean he copied his disguise from Bolt?”

  A knock on the door turned their heads.

  Cal O’Brien stood there. His eyes were already fixed on the whiteboard. “Is there something you guys want to tell me?”

  23

  Time speeds up once a case gets a break. It was a lesson Angie learned long ago. As soon as she’d finished apprising O’Brien of the breakthrough, events happened lightning fast.

  First off, the lieutenant rushed to the precinct to question Aaron Bolt about Warren Hendry, before he was very publicly released and an apology was issued.

  She and Ruis then briefed the joint FBI LAPD inquiry team.

  Crawford left to discuss the Hendry execution with the Anti-Gangs Unit. Connor Pryce headed back to the LAPD HQ to do the same with the police squads.

  Chips and two female members of Ruis’s team started to focus on the remaining jury members and their families, tracing where they were and detailing covert cover to ensure their safety.

  “There’s a certain irony in all this,” said Ruis as he and Angie drove to the HQ of Cleereroads, Inc.

  “In what way?”

  “Well, if you’re right and Warren Hendry either took that picture of Bolt with the MAC-10, or he’d at least seen it, then essentially he’s fitted Bolt up for a crime he didn’t commit, using a photograph that was taken to celebrate Bolt getting away with a crime he did do. And Warren’s done all that in vengeance for what he sees as the wrongful execution of his dead brother.”

  “Twisted minds always find justification,” said Angie. “I’m kicking myself now for not seeing the significance of the Judge and Jury anagram he left at the mall.”

  “And the memorial attacks? Why did he do that?”

  Angie searched for a motive. “If someone goes to the chair, then they just get buried in an unmarked grave. There’s nothing for the family of the deceased to hang on to. Their shame is all that is memorialized. I guess our UNSUB saw the public service for the mall victims as an insult to his own injury, so he lashed out.”

  The sign to the Cleereroads building loomed. Ruis indicated and pulled into a scrappy front lot. The blacktop was broken by weeds and crawled around a single-story industrial unit. Four identical E Wagons were parked over the far side.

  Angie felt her stomach turn as she walked past them. She imagined Jake’s killer sitting behind the wheel of one of the roadkill clearance vehicles, following him to his apartment.

  Ruis showed his badge in the cheap reception area. A plump girl behind a skinny desk called the CEO on her desk phone. “Mr. Cleere, the agents from the FBI are here.”

  She put the phone down and smiled nervously. “I’ll walk you through.”

  Beyond reception, the building was open plan, noisy and as busy as a train station. A narrow aisle ran past rows of admin clerks cooped behind cubicle screens, garage mechanics hanging up keys of serviced vehicles, and wannabe managers in cheap shirts and skirts passing paper.

  The receptionist stopped at a door marked CEO, knocked and opened it. The man behind the title got up from behind a black, leather-topped desk. He was tall, broad and blond, with gelled hair and an expensive brown suit that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

  “Dominic Cleere, please come in.” He waved them to matching leather sofas. A thin, small brunette drifted in, dressed in a matronly blue skirt and jacket.

  “This is my attorney, Annabella Weir.”

  She offered a weak and bony shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “We’re here in connection with a homicide,” said Angie. “And we need certain information from you.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can.” Cleere sat tall and crossed a spindly leg. “What do you want to know?”

/>   Ruis produced a photo of the white E Wagon. “This is one of your vehicles. You’ll see we’ve blown up the license plate; that’s how we traced it to your company.”

  Cleere looked and passed it to his lawyer. “We have almost a hundred vehicles spread across five hundred square miles of Greater Los Angeles.”

  “And each of them will have been fitted with a tracker system,” added Angie, “so a smart guy like you is able to know that everyone is hard at work and not moonlighting with your vehicles. Plus, you get a discount on your fleet insurance for fitting the bug.”

  Her intuition made him smile. “What exactly do you want?”

  Ruis gave him the answer. “We need the full minute-by-minute movements of that vehicle for the past two weeks, plus the names of every person who drove it matched to those minutes.”

  The attorney started up. “We’re not obliged to give you that information. Perhaps it’s best if you obtain—”

  “I can oblige you,” snapped the SKU agent. “I can get a warrant and have every computer in here seized and taken away while we find what we want. You never know, you might even get them back within a month or six.”

  “Have it done right away, Annabella.” Cleere uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Is there anything else?”

  “There is.” Ruis dipped into his jacket pocket and produced a copy of a photograph. “Does this man work for you? His name is Warren Hendry.”

  Cleere took the photo. “I don’t know. He may.” He stood up and straightened his suit. “Give me a moment and I’ll ask one of my management team.” He walked out, followed by his lightweight lawyer.

  Angie was about to talk when Ruis’s phone jangled. He stood up to take it and her eyes drifted to Cleere’s desk. There was a photo of him and a young blond woman, cheek-to-cheek with a holiday sun beaming almost as brightly as they were. It sparked a painful reminder of losing Jake. Vacations were their precious times. Moments when they could sit back and forget the horrors of their work.

  “Good news.” Ruis returned the phone to his pocket. “Labs rushed a profile on the hair from the restroom at JZ’s. There’s a familial DNA match with Winston Hendry. They don’t have genetics of brother Warren on file, but at least we can prove one member of the Hendry family was in those washroom stalls.”

  “That is good news. I wonder if our killer senses us closing on him?” Angie’s tone was reflective rather than triumphal. “If he does, then there’s a risk he’ll unravel and turn Spree.”

  “Kill the rest of the names on his list?”

  “It’s possible. His whole life is currently dedicated to completing that list.”

  Cleere reentered the room with documents in his hand. Just behind him trailed two suited men, one young and one old. He motioned to each in turn. “These are my executives, Gary Hawkins and John Taylor. John is my EVP of operations and Gary his VP. John, please tell them about Mr. Hendry.”

  Taylor ran a finger nervously under his nose. “Warren Hendry works at our Downtown depot. He’s been standing in as supervisor since the usual manager, Januk Dudek, failed to turn up for work. Gary, here, went to see both Dudek and Hendry.”

  The young VP filled in the gaps. “The super wasn’t home. Neighbors said they hadn’t seen him for days. I went to the depot and informed Hendry of the termination of Mr. Dudek’s position and offered him the post on a trial basis. To our surprise, he turned it down. Said he wasn’t interested in the responsibility.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Angie. “I mean professionally, not physically?”

  Hawkins shrugged. “Smart, I suppose. Calm and controlled.” He nodded to his line manager. “Hendry had volunteered to step in when Dudek disappeared, so Mr. Taylor thought he had initiative, ambition.”

  “He seemed very confident and assured,” added the EVP. “He called us when the supervisor failed to show and took charge.” Curiosity got the better of him. “Can I ask, what’s he supposed to have done?”

  “You can ask, but for now I can’t tell you. Confidentiality is important.” Ruis looked toward the men’s boss. “I need all Hendry’s personal details—and Dudek’s.”

  Cleere took a final look at the papers in his hands, then passed them over. “These are Hendry’s employment particulars, his home address and contact numbers, et cetera, along with staff appraisals over the last two years.”

  Ruis glanced at the printouts. “It says he works 9:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m.; is that right?”

  Taylor nodded. “Yes, it is. Most of our depots do permanent lates.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Cleere answered. “The police and state carry out emergency daytime road clearance; we do the night work and a little daytime support when they’re stretched. We shift everything—dogs, cats, birds… even deer and cattle. You know, around a million animals a year are killed on our roads; it takes a while to scrape up that kind of carnage.”

  Angie was uninterested. It was after six and she didn’t want to learn about the roadkill business. Right now, Jake’s killer might be eating his dinner, or coming home to get ready for work.

  Ruis was ahead of her. “Mr. Cleere, we’re going to have to pay Hendry a visit, and Dudek, too. It’s vital no one from your company calls either of them or attempts any contact without our okaying it. Do you understand?”

  “I do.” He grimaced. “Is this going to end in bad publicity for my company? I don’t want my business damaged by your investigation.”

  Angie felt her blood boil. She got to her feet and launched a parting shot. “Just make sure your employees comply, Mr. Cleere, or I’ll personally make sure you have no business left to damage.”

  24

  Chips kept a close check on Judge Elysia’s social media pages. To his disappointment, there had been nothing from Minos. No matter. He was still buzzing with the excitement of a breakthrough, of spotting the links between their case victims, the Winston Hendry jurors and their loved ones. Angie had pinned down the area in which to look, but he’d been the one to connect the dots and it felt good.

  He was still savoring the success when Elysia finally got a tweet. His eyes locked on the monitor and he could see there was a link embedded.

  Chips clicked.

  It was video of a street. There were trees right of frame, blacktop left, cars zipping by in both directions. There was sound, too, the chirrup of birds in nearby trees and the zoom and fade of passing traffic.

  The young profiler had already checked his own IP masking apps were running but he checked again. This tricky mother might just have been rattling the system somehow, trying to interrogate Elysia’s digital credentials with a program he’d written.

  Chips’s software said he was safe.

  Nevertheless, he dialed the Cyber Squad and spoke to his contact, Sally Brotherson. “Sal, can you access my computer and take a look at what I’m seeing?”

  “Give me a second.” She clacked on her keyboard with painted nails that matched her red hair. “Yeah, I’ve got you. Wassup? This an incoming feed from your UNSUB?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I just clicked a link from Twitter. Can you tell if he’s running some freaky-techie diagnostics on us?”

  She engaged her own search and lock programs. “Can’t say. It’s masked like the other stuff you showed me. Could be. Feed looks live. You should rest easy; our firewalls are so good nothing will get through.”

  “Hang on, it’s moving.” Chips watched the camera jerk forward. It was being carried down the street, waist high, and the lens view was wide-angle.

  The sun hovered directly behind whoever was filming. A shadow fell on the sidewalk—it was of a capped man carrying a box. There were clunks on the video sound and short breaths as though the box was heavy to shift.

  Chips felt his heart tighten. “Sal, do you have any idea where this is coming from?”

  She was glued to the screen as well. “No. I’ve tried running lock and trace but like I said, it’s shielded.”

  “Shit.” He grabbed
his cellphone and dialed Angie.

  The shadow man disappeared as the camera swung right. A small gate came into view. It floated open. The sun was to the right side. Shadow man reappeared on the grass to the left. An oak front door filled the frame. There was the ding of a bell.

  “Hello,” shouted Angie down the phone.

  Chips ignored her.

  The door on camera opened. An inquisitive male face peered out. “Can I help you?”

  “Delivery for Mrs. Payne—Mrs. Robyn Payne.”

  Chips recognized the name. Realized what was happening. This was the home of juror Nate Payne. “Oh, God, where are the cops?” He grabbed the phone. “Angie, the UNSUB’s at the Paynes’ and there’s no protection there.”

  “I’m her husband,” said the man at the door. He stretched out his hands to the box. “I’ll take it.”

  “I’m afraid she has to sign.”

  Nate Payne frowned. “I can sign.”

  “I’m sorry, it has to be her.”

  Payne turned and shouted as he walked into the blackness of the house. “Robyn, delivery for you. Apparently, only you can sign for it.”

  “I’m coming.” Unseen feet thundered down carpeted stairs.

  Angie shouted down the line, “Chips, I’m on to Ruis. We’ll get a chopper up ASAP.”

  A blonde in her late forties appeared onscreen. Red spectacles dangled in a hand. “Hello.” She sounded pleased to see the parcel. Put her glasses on and smiled. “Where do I sign?”

  The gun held beneath the box was silenced and made only a dull phut noise.

  Mrs. Payne made no noise at all.

  Her mouth opened and she blew out air, as if she’d been winded.

  The second phut spun her sideward.

  A third hit her in the face and spattered blood across the door and inner walls of the house.

  Her husband, Nate, came into view. Horror filled his eyes.

  A bullet tore a hole in his shoulder. A second fractured his right ankle.

  “Oh, God, he’s shot them. They’re both dead,” Chips mouthed into the phone, his eyes held by what he saw on the screen.