He tapped his right pants pocket. No car keys.
He was in the apartment long enough to lock all of the doors and windows and scoop his keys from the credenza in the entryway. No way was he going to stay there tonight, or any night in the near future.
As he turned onto the freeway on ramp, his foot came off the gas pedal. The disorientation of nearly losing his genitals must have clouded his judgment. A police report. He should file a police report. Get the Santa Rosa police on the trail of the GTO. Call 911.
Hesitation.
His foot stomped the gas pedal to the floor, kicking the Volvo into turbo. It lurched. To hell with the police. He had to get out of Santa Rosa. Now. His personal sanctuary had been violated, and it was an easy mark for future attack. But where would he be safe? The motel in Mendocino? No way. A different motel? Someone always seemed to find him no matter where he went.
He merged onto the freeway and let the speedometer climb. Strange as it seemed, only one safe place came to mind. As close to Detective Bransome’s side as he could get. It was time to find out if Bransome really did live in the Mendocino Police Station.
Jason didn’t pay a lick of attention to the speed limit as he wound through the near-deserted streets of Mendocino. He sought the company of police. Turning into the police station parking lot, he hit the brakes a little harder than he intended. Detective Bransome’s car was in the lot. He hurried into the building and directly into the detective’s workroom.
“What the hell happened to you? You get some action on the beach?” Bransome didn’t laugh.
Jason hadn’t realized it, but he was still covered with a light dusting of sand—everywhere. He rubbed his head and sand rained from his hair and peppered the floor. The relief of finding Detective Bransome fought against the pent-up panic of his interaction with Lilin. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Went to Santa Rosa … Lilin came by … shot me with a Taser … I got away.”
Bransome stepped toward him, his face intense. “What did you say?”
“Got away.”
“No, before that.”
“She shot me with a Taser.”
“Son of a bitch. You’re one lucky bastard. It was Lilin.”
Jason edged toward panic. On the drive up, he had gone back and forth about whether it really was Lilin, or Agnes in disguise, particularly with what she’d said about not being one of the good ones. But Bransome seemed convinced it was Lilin. “How do you know?”
“In murders like these, we always withhold some of the evidence from anyone not directly working the case. In this one, a common thread in all of the murders is the use of a Taser to subdue the victim. If Lilin is as small as Agnes, she’d have trouble slicing them up unless they were brought down first.”
Jason felt sick to his stomach. “They’re the same size.” This was the first time he fully realized how close he had come to joining the list of victims of Miss Lilin Hahn, serial killer, mutilator of men. He gripped his groin with his right hand and pictured his severed penis resting on his chest, the flashbulbs of crime scene cameras documenting it for posterity. “At least they didn’t feel it.”
“Maybe, maybe not. How come you got away?”
Jason raised his shirt to show a raw wound surrounded by an already forming bruise on his chest. “One of the leads got me here. The other must have glanced off my arm. The arm was dead for a while, and the leg on that side was numb. Good thing I live on a golf course.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“Did you file a report?”
“No. I got the hell out of there.”
Bransome walked behind his desk. “I’ll want to get some information from you, but I have something else I have to take care of first. You’ll want to know about it anyway, so you might as well hang around.”
Jason stopped him on his way out of the room. “You said I’d want to know about it?”
“Oh yeah. I’m a little spacey right now. Ella Hahn is dead.”
“What?”
“As far as we can tell, she was suffocated with her pillow. In her room.”
Jason slumped against a desk. “Poor Ella.” He bolted upright and pointed at his chest. “I have an alibi for this one.”
“Sorry, I’m not worried about that. The security camera got good shots of the guy who did it. An old guy. Hey. You want to take a look? Maybe you’ve seen him. As soon as Saroyan gets back, I’ll have him bring up the clips.”
Jason’s head spun. Everything was happening too fast. His thoughts spiraled to Agnes. “Does Agnes know about Ella? Is she all right?”
“I just radioed Didier. Told her to let Agnes know. I can call her back and check with her.”
“Please.”
Bransome pushed his way through the doorway.
Jason started after him. “Wait. I forgot to tell you something.”
Bransome poked his head back in. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I got a license plate.”
Bransome jumped back in. “Holy crap. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m like you. A little spacey right now. I nearly had my prick sliced off and my throat slit.”
“Forgiven. Let’s get on the computer and see what comes up. I’ll let Saroyan handle the Ella Hahn case for now.”
Jason widened his stance and folded his arms across his chest as Bransome approached. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a condition.”
“A what?”
“A condition. Kind of a demand. I’d appreciate it—”
“You’re not in a position to demand anything. Either you give me the plate number or you go in lockup.”
Jason’s exhalation puffed his cheeks. “That’s what I’m talking about. I’m trying to help you with this case and all you do is hassle me. What happened two years ago was unfortunate, but the people in the lab were the ones who screwed up. Not me. Can’t we get past that? I want to help get this murderer off the street.”
Bransome’s lips moved, but nothing came out. He stood still with a blank stare, like he was mulling a career decision. “You’ve been a help, but you can shove your demand. I prefer an agreement. Since it doesn’t look like you’re going to go away, I suggest we go about our jobs in a professional manner and let the past be just that. But don’t overstep. I can’t push that situation too far back. You have to be open with me, though. Let me know what you find out. Let me know what you’re thinking. Even if it’s speculation.”
Jason grinned. “And I get full disclosure from your end? Not the things that are held back from the press and public, but everything else? And could I get an occasional hint about what you’re thinking?”
Bransome fell back into the vacant stare.
Jason shuffled his feet and glanced at the clock.
“Let’s work on one thing at a time. I’ll back off the attitude. I’ll think about the other stuff. That good enough for you?”
Jason smiled again. “That’s the biggie. I agree.”
“Good. Come on.” Bransome hurried into a back room that had a bank of four computers lined up on a windowless wall. He pulled up one of the small roller-footed chairs and nearly enveloped the entire seat. Two fingers punched keys faster than Jason could with ten, and a password screen flashed, like a strobe. Bransome reverted to single finger keystrokes, each deliberately selected, and the screen went blank, then came back to life with a statewide motor vehicle registry site.
“What was the license plate number?”
Jason pulled another chair over and sat. “It was one of the really old black plates, with yellow numbers.”
Bransome pushed a few keys. “The number?”
“The letters were ZFZ.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“I only have the first number. It was a five.” He cringed, expecting a disgruntled response, but Bransome seemed satisfied.
“With the old plates, that should be enough.”
The computer froze, all except for a small rectangular box at the bottom t
hat gradually filled with an enlarging blue line. When full, the screen flickered to a new display.
“Good. There are only two left. Was it a Volkswagen or a GTO?”
Jason sat up straight. “A GTO. Late sixties or early seventies.”
“Sixty-nine. God, I love those cars. Let’s see who the owner is.”
Jason crowded in to the monitor.
“It’s registered to an Edward Hanson. The address is a post office box in Inverness.”
“Inverness? That’s on Tomales Bay, right? Not easy access, kind of wild?”
“Pretty area, although the yuppies have discovered it. It won’t stay wild for long.”
Jason smiled. “Edward Hanson. I’ll be damned. Edward Hanson. Eddie Hahn. You think it’s an alias?”
“Could be. It would fit.”
“But what would Lilin be doing driving Eddie’s car?”
“Hold on. Something’s coming up. Says here the car was stolen. Not long ago.” Bransome stroked his chin and scanned the ceiling. He slammed his hand down on the table, jiggling the monitor. “It was stolen about the time the murders started. What do you make of that?”
“It’s about the time Gert Hahn died.”
Bransome swiveled to face Jason. “Either Lilin and Edward are working together, or against one another. I don’t think this is all coincidental.”
Bransome’s cell phone rang.
“Okay … Okay … He’s right here … I’ll tell him … You stay with her until she’s feeling better … Okay. Thanks.”
“That was Didier. She told Agnes about Ella. Poor girl is really broken up. She’s asking for you. You going to go?”
“Not tonight.” Lilin was probably watching Agnes’s house, expecting him to show up. “You have a cot or something I can use? I’m starting to fade.”
“The main holding room has several cots. That’s where I’ll be sleeping, if I ever get done with all this. I’ll throw in a breakfast for both of us. Go through that door and make a right. It’ll be on your left. I have to contact the Marin County sheriff to get them on the trail of our Edward Hanson/Eddie Hahn.”
Jason didn’t drift off right away. Agnes had asked for him, but it wasn’t safe to go to her right now. Not safe at home, not safe at the motel, not safe at Agnes’s house. He scanned the holding room. Safe in jail. He’d find another motel tomorrow and check out of the old one. Could he do it without Lilin knowing? Was she watching? Was Eddie?
CHAPTER 27
JASON RAN THE VIDEO THROUGH A SECOND TIME. THE old man hunched as he shuffled along the corridor, his thick white hair neatly parted on one side. That was about all the tape revealed on the murderer’s inbound trip. The screen blanked, and the suspect’s exit came up—same hunched, limacine walk. Same perfectly ordered white hair. The man’s clothing was rumpled, his shirt partially tucked into faded jeans. Not Earl.
Jason hit the stop button, then rewind. He replayed the second clip again, hit stop and rewind. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. The old man’s right hand had a slight, regular shake. The letter flashed in Jason’s mind. The slant of the alphabet. Written by a right-handed man with the shakes.
The tape automatically rewound and started at the beginning. Jason let it play again. Come on, old man, he thought. Tell me about yourself. Why did you kill your sister? Was it because she refused to acknowledge you to one of your twin granddaughters? No. Probably not enough. Because you didn’t want anyone to know that the twins were your biological daughters? That you molested their mother, your daughter? But that was old news. Or was it? Agnes didn’t know. Did Lilin?
The tape started again. It had to be something worse than that. Did Ella say too much, or was she about to say too much? Something that needed to be silenced. Old man, did you molest all of your daughters? Is that why Gert and Ella took Agnes, and why she doesn’t remember anything about her years before that? And why didn’t they take Lilin, too?
He stopped the tape before another cycle. Someone was coming down the hall.
“What do you think?” Bransome’s voice filled the room. “Does he look like the type to suffocate his own sister?”
“Too hunched to see his face. Besides, I don’t know the look of siblicide. But I did notice his right hand has the shakes. He’s probably the one who wrote the letter to Agnes.”
“I didn’t catch that. Good job. I’ll have Saroyan work it up for the evidence file. Anything else?”
“Did he sign in?”
“No.”
Jason chuckled, remembering the difficulties he had at the entrance to the home. “I bet he walked in and greeted the receptionist like he lived there. No need for a disguise.”
“My thoughts, too. You want to take a ride?”
Jason spun around on the wheeled chair. “What’s up?”
“I’m heading down to Inverness, to meet up with the Marin County people. They talked with some guy at the post office there. He steered them to a small house just outside of town. They’re planning to invade the place this morning. They offered to wait until we showed up, and I accepted. You want in?”
Jason didn’t answer right away. It was the first time he’d seen a hint of a rounded edge in Detective Bransome’s demeanor. But a quote came to mind, source unknown: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Bransome didn’t do anything without an objective in mind. But an opportunity was an opportunity. “I’m in.”
“Good. We have to go right now. You’ll be my cameraman. Just snap everything I tell you to. And don’t go off on your own. Let me be the lead.”
The house was really just a cabin—two rooms and a bathroom. The living area had a full kitchen along one wall, and was sparsely decorated with a table and two chairs, a couch and coffee table, and a rabbit-eared television. A double bed and chest of drawers nearly filled the small bedroom. The bathroom had a toilet, sink, and shower stall, so cramped a man could sit on the commode and wash his face in the sink at the same time.
The view out the front windows was beautiful. Through a part in the trees and shrubs across the road, the narrow band of pure blue water that was Tomales Bay reflected glimmers from the late morning sun. The area was quiet, pristine, not yet choked with condominiums and BMWs.
Bransome threaded a beige, canvas satchel over his head, onto his shoulder, and under his left arm. The bag had six small, mesh pockets on the front, and at least two large pockets in the back. It appeared to be homemade.
Each chamber bulged with goodies. A pocket-sized spiral notebook, evidence cards, various types and sizes of bags, fingerprint dusting kit, forceps and tweezers, metal probes, tape measure, assorted other implements Jason didn’t recognize, and who knows what in the large, rear pockets. A sense of kindred preparedness warmed Jason’s core.
Bransome pulled a quad-ruled sketchpad from one of the rear compartments and began sketching the main room. He pushed the tape measure around and between the pieces of furniture, jotting figures onto the diagram.
“Don’t just stand there. Take photos from all four corners.” He tossed a notepad to Jason. “Number all of the photos, even if the flash doesn’t go off. Make a notation for each photo. Subject, direction, things like that. We’ll do the other rooms next. When we finish that, I’ll start taking evidence, and I’ll give you a tag number for each photo. Match that number with your negative number sequence.”
Bransome preferred film to the convenience of modern digital cameras. He’d explained it as a distrust for the latter’s long-term storage potential. More like a lack of confidence. And with the editing power of programs like PhotoShop, a crooked cop could create evidence at the push of a mouse. That was the distrust part.
The camera was a ten-year-old Nikon. Heavy, but nearly indestructible, as suggested by the numerous scratches and dings covering the body. The lens was a macro, capable of everything from an “infinity shot” to a close-up in which a single fingerprint filled the entire frame. And there were no worries about holding the camera steady for the close
photos. Bransome’s pride was a telescoping unipod that stretched to nearly five feet, and collapsed to around twelve inches. The camera mount had a ball-and-socket joint that could be locked in any position with the twist of a knurled ring. He had explained he had it custom-made years ago, complete with a leather case that clipped on a belt, or on a satchel.
Two Marin County officers charged into the cabin and opened cabinets and drawers.
Bransome grimaced. “Do you people mind ransacking the place after I finish doing some police work? You’re contaminating the evidence.”
The officers pulled back to the front porch and mumbled something inaudible.
Bransome was methodical, but he worked faster than the flash recharge time of the camera Jason wielded. “Hold on” was Jason’s main means of communication. In return, Bransome used a restricted repetition of three exclamations to punctuate his work. So far “shit” was leading “nice” by at least a twenty-to-one margin, and there hadn’t been a single “holy crap” since he bagged a matchbook right after walking in the door.
He dusted and lifted prints from every surface. Each time, he requested a photo, recited a number, jotted a notation in his notebook, then filled out an evidence card before attaching the lifting tape to the card.
“With all the dust, there may not be enough oils left for good prints, particularly if they’re more than a week or two old,” Bransome said. “At least we have heat and humidity working for us. Still, we’ll have to take a lot of them, hoping for a few good ones. We may have to smoke some of them. I’ll leave them for last. We’ll take the paper and cardboard back with us and ninhydrin them at the station.”
Bransome walked to the refrigerator and dusted the door and handles. More photos, more notes. He opened the lower door. The only items were old bottles of ketchup, mayo, and apple juice, all half-full. The freezer was empty.
One of the Marin boys peeked in the front door and after a quick look around, spoke in a timid voice. “You mind if we take off for a while? We’re in the way right now. Looks like it’s going to take you some time. The place is secure.”
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