by Jason Dean
‘Vietnam?’ Bishop asked. ‘You don’t look old enough.’
‘Good genes and regular exercise, I guess.’ Price found the correct key and unlocked the door. He opened it to reveal a thin stairway, with light coming from the basement. He entered first and said, ‘Anyway, the colonel showed up at my door a few days later, and once he picked me up off my knees, told me he only wanted one favour in return.’
Bishop joined him at the bottom of the stairway and looked around. They were in a low-ceilinged, narrow room that ran the length of the property. Three fluorescent tubes in the ceiling provided light. There was a large wooden workbench at this end, most of its surface taken up with the inner workings of various locks. The brick wall to Bishop’s left was covered with shelves full of various tools. Five metal filing cabinets were lined against the wall ahead, next to a long black desk with mandatory computer and accessories. Built into the same wall was a waist-high safe with a keypad lock. To Bishop’s right, a sliding wall sectioned the room off from a smaller area at the street end. He could make out weights and gym equipment back there. Which explained Price’s comment about regular exercise.
‘What was the favour?’ Bishop asked.
Price walked over to the safe, knelt down and keyed in a twelve-number code. ‘Told me I was to be his personal safety deposit box and that if ever somebody came along and quoted me the serial number of my first rifle, I was to give him this and leave him to it.’ He opened the safe door and pulled out an old, metal, military-style footlocker about two feet in length and a foot wide. The lid’s locking hasp was secured to the steel loop on the front by a simple key padlock.
‘Weird thing is, me and the colonel never really got on when he was my CO. Never anything concrete, but I always had the suspicion he was one of those who thought a brother should know his station and be satisfied with Private First Class.’ He shook his head. ‘Shit, I dunno. Maybe he changed over time.’
‘People do,’ Bishop said. ‘And you don’t have to like somebody to trust them.’ He nodded at the lockbox. ‘You look inside after he died?’
‘Be easy, wouldn’t it?’ The locksmith stood up and shrugged. ‘Part of the deal was that I not give in to temptation, even if that happened. He guaranteed there was nothing illegal in there, just some kind of inheritance, so I gave him my word and that’s how it’s been ever since. Whatever’s in there doesn’t belong to me. I get curious every now and then, but not enough to break my promise. I’m stupid like that.’
‘Nothing stupid about keeping your word,’ Bishop said and crouched down in front of the locker. He placed the padlock in his palm and inserted the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. He turned it clockwise and the padlock clicked free.
Bishop worked the padlock through the loop, placed it on the floor and took the metal hasp in his hand. Then he opened the lid.
EIGHTY-FIVE
The footlocker contained a simple black box file, like the ones found in almost any stationers. It was made of stout board with wooden ends, and had a flush-fitting lid with a press button lock on the side. This particular one was worn with age, with no labels to identify its contents.
Bishop reached in and pulled it out. It was heavier than he’d expected.
‘Here, use this,’ Price said and slid his ongoing projects and tools to one side of the workbench. Bishop brought the file over and placed it on the heavily scarred surface, along with his cell phone. Then he pressed the lid lock and opened the file.
The interior was packed tight with paperwork, all held in place by a metal spring-loaded clamp. Everything was in plastic sealed evidence bags or clear wallets. He released the clamp, gathered everything in both hands and spread it all out on the worktop.
Standing on the opposite side, Price said, ‘Want me to leave you to it?’
‘Up to you,’ Bishop said with a shrug. If Price felt the need to stick around Bishop wouldn’t stop him. Besides, he figured the man had a right to see what he’d been guarding all this time.
Bishop picked up an evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper. Inside was an abandoned draft of a letter. The almost childish handwriting tilted heavily to the right, but every word was clearly legible.
It read: This is the Zodiac speaking. I am the killer of the taxi driver by Washington Square . . . The words ‘killer’ and ‘Square’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘murderer’ and ‘Street’. It continued: . . . and Maple Street last night and . . .
The letter finished there.
Ebert must have changed his mind, or started another draft. Either way, Bishop knew he’d found Hoover’s Zodiac file. At some point, these things had all been in contact with the serial killer. Even though the letter was sealed in an airtight evidence bag, Bishop felt dirty just holding it.
Bishop saw Price still standing there and handed him the letter before pulling out another evidence bag. It contained a piece of folded black material with no markings. Frowning, he put it to one side and picked up two more bags, each containing a hardback book. The larger one was a manual on ciphers and codes. The smaller one gave a history of the Roman alphabet.
Busy boy, Bishop thought. He could almost picture the patient in his hospital room, sitting on his bed, patiently teaching himself the perfect system with which to screw with the press while he randomly picked off members of the public.
‘Hey, is this for real?’ Price said, studying the unfinished letter with wide eyes.
‘I sure hope so,’ Bishop said and glanced down as his cell phone made a beeping sound. A message had arrived. He opened it up and read, No luck. U? It had to be from Aleron. He quickly keyed in a reply: Yes. Talk later. and sent it off.
He grabbed another wallet and pulled out a three-page typed memo addressed to Director Hoover. It was dated November 17, 1969. Bishop saw Arthur Mandrake’s name and signature on the last page. According to the report, Ebert had admitted himself voluntarily in December 1967, complaining of frequent blackouts and gaps in his memory after smoking a few joints with friends one night.
Bishop had known plenty of people who smoked. Which meant he was aware that weed was no more dangerous than alcohol, and far less addictive. And it certainly didn’t have the power to turn a person psychotic. But he guessed maybe it could act as a catalyst for someone with an underlying psychological condition. It seems the docs thought so too and a diagnosis of ‘manic depressive illness’ was made shortly after his admittance.
Attached to the memo was a hospital report listing the dates Ebert went missing, as well as his final discharge papers from the hospital. He released himself and re-joined society on December 17, 1969. Bishop knew the killings had stopped by then, so they must have finally found a drug that worked. Or at least one that kept him on an even keel. Bishop hoped so. He didn’t like to think what might have happened if Ebert stopped taking his medication. Or how many other unsolved murders there’d been during the last forty years.
‘You should find this interesting,’ he said to Price, slipping the sheets back in the wallet and passing them over.
Then he picked up a file labelled FBI Forensics Report. Inside were blood results from a black, cotton executioner’s-type hood found in Ebert’s room with a crosshair logo stitched on the chest. Which explained the mysterious evidence bag he’d just handled. Bryan Hartnell, the surviving witness of the murder of Cecelia Shepard at Lake Berryessa, reported that the killer had worn a garment just like it. The test results showed traces of Shepard’s and Hartnell’s blood on the cloak, as well as hair samples that matched Ebert’s. They also found Ebert’s prints all over the two books and stationery.
From Bishop’s viewpoint, it was all pretty damning. Even though his own case had taught him the danger of jumping to conclusions, this kind of evidence was hard to ignore.
Bishop checked his watch. 23.58. Thorpe was due to call in two minutes and he had a strong feeling the bastard would be punctual. Unless he wanted to play games. Either way, he knew Thorpe badly wanted these files, bu
t he still hadn’t discovered why. What was it about Ebert that made this information so valuable?
‘This is some unbelievable shit, ain’t it?’ Price said as he went through Mandrake’s paperwork. ‘News networks would pay big money for this.’
‘I guess,’ Bishop said and dropped the forensics folder in front of him. He reached for one of the polypropylene wallets and pulled out six flimsy carbon copy sheets held together by a paper clip. They were copies of Ebert’s billing records from November ’68 to December ’69. They stated that all his bills were paid for by the Kebnekaise organization.
Kebnekaise. There was that name again. Bishop suddenly remembered the note Luke had given him and reached into his pocket for it. He’d not had a chance to check before now.
Unfolding it, he saw a page of double-spaced text giving a brief profile of the company. Bishop assumed Luke had hijacked it straight from some government server. It confirmed its current status as a non-profit organization and listed the Willow Reeves Rest Home in San Francisco, California as its sole holding. It also recorded the company’s date of registration, August 7, 1967 and the fact that it was awarded tax-exempt status the next year on May 19. Then came a year-by-year listing of the organization’s gross turnover. The figures weren’t impressive. To Bishop, it looked as though the place was just getting by. Then came the names of its current board of directors. None of the four names did he recognize.
But there was one more line of text underneath, giving the name of the person who originally registered the company. That was a name he did recognize. And if it meant what he thought it meant, Bishop could understand why Thorpe was so obsessed with the file. And why he’d gone to such lengths to obtain it.
Bishop pursed his lips as he sorted through the two remaining items on the worktop. There was a report by an Agent Gilbert Deveraux, listing everything found in Ebert’s room on November 20, 1969, most of it on the table in front of him. Underneath that, Bishop found Ebert’s original hospital admission sheet. It was inside a beige card folder with Ebert’s name and date of birth typed on the front. Inside, glued to the top right corner, was a forty-year-old black and white headshot of ‘Timothy Ebert’.
Bishop felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was it. Once you had the final piece, everything fell into place. Everything. But even though it only confirmed Luke’s findings, it was still a jolt seeing the faintly familiar face staring back at him. The family resemblance was remarkable. Last time he’d seen it had been almost five years before. On the evening news. A brief piece covering the guy’s death from natural causes, with some predictable speculation on how his son was taking it. But the fact that he was dead made absolutely no difference to the file’s significance now. Bishop knew that. It was what that particular face represented that mattered most. This file would be worth a fortune to the right people. Which meant the wrong people would almost certainly pay even more for it.
Just then, a brief gasping sound made Bishop look up. Price threw the papers he was holding on the floor and placed both hands on the edge of the table with his arms straight out. His lips moved, but no sounds came out. He stared at a point above Bishop’s head for a few moments, then he slumped to the floor.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Thorpe. A silenced Glock in his hand.
EIGHTY-SIX
Bishop’s instincts took over and his left hand pulled the Beretta from his waistband in less than a second. He aimed it dead centre on Thorpe’s forehead. The sight on top of the barrel remained perfectly still, as though connected to its target by an invisible rod.
‘Drop it,’ Bishop said.
‘Sure thing, Jimmy.’ Thorpe smiled, made a star of his hand, and the piece fell to the floor with a loud clunk. Then he came forward, stooped down to pick up the papers Price had dropped, and approached the desk.
With the barrel of the Beretta never wavering from the man’s head, Bishop circled him and backed towards the stairs.
Thorpe laughed and moved into Bishop’s previous position, rummaging through the wallets as though the gun didn’t exist. ‘So you found the tracking device, huh?’ he said. ‘Bet you quit looking after you found that first one, right? Come on, Jimmy, you should know by now I never do anything half-assed.’
Bishop picked up Thorpe’s gun and knelt down next to Price, still keeping an eye on Thorpe. Price’s left leg was bent at an angle under the right and a small pool of blood crept out from under the silk of the kimono. He placed his fingertips at the man’s jugular and it was a few seconds before he felt a pulse. Bishop couldn’t see where the bullet had entered, but unless Price received help straight away he didn’t see much hope.
‘Don’t waste your time,’ Thorpe said. ‘A locksmith who doesn’t secure his own front door properly deserves everything he gets.’
‘You’re real good at shooting people in the back, aren’t you?’ Bishop said, rising. ‘But then, you’ve had plenty of practice.’
Thorpe smiled. ‘Now, now, Jimmy. You wouldn’t be trying to bait me, would you?’
‘Maybe you should just tell me where Jenna is. Before we see how many parts of your anatomy you can do without.’
Thorpe glanced up from the papers in his hands, still smiling. ‘You know, they say a man with a gun can get almost anything he wants, unless the man without one has an edge. How about it, Jimmy? You think I just blundered in on impulse, or could it be I’ve got something up my sleeve?’ With exaggerated slowness, Thorpe put his hand in his pants pocket and brought out a cell phone. Bishop watched him place it on the workbench and felt his advantage slipping away like water down a drain.
Thorpe said, ‘You can send it now, Danny,’ and pushed Bishop’s phone across. He went back to reading and fifteen seconds later Bishop’s own cell beeped twice. ‘Pick it up, partner. Danny’s sent you a midnight movie.’ Thorpe looked at his watch and said, ‘Actually, ten past.’
Bishop grabbed the cell with his free hand and accessed his messages folder. It contained an MPEG file and he opened it.
The footage was shaky and showed a medium shot of Jenna. She was fully dressed and bound to a sturdy wooden chair in the centre of a well-lit, high-ceilinged, windowless room. From the refuse strewn across the floor and general air of neglect, Bishop guessed it was a disused warehouse somewhere. The only other furniture was a long wooden table next to Jenna’s chair. On the table was a black box and a selection of sharp-looking cutting implements laid out in a neat row. There were two more equally neglected rooms in the background, each one divided by a wall containing an entranceway wide enough to accommodate a large truck. In the last room, Bishop could make out a human figure lying in a foetal position on the floor. Maybe a homeless person had found a way in and never had the chance to regret it. Beyond him, or her, was an open doorway with a couple of steps just visible, leading up.
The camera moved in closer on Jenna. She was slumped in the chair with her face towards the floor, hair falling over her cheeks. Bishop couldn’t tell if she was conscious or not. Then Danny panned down to her feet and Bishop saw the electrical wires wrapped around her big toes, held in place with medicinal bandages. The camera moved along the wires until it reached their source on the table: the black box with four dials on the front. Bishop could swear he actually heard it humming. Danny pulled the camera away and a blurred hand came into view and touched one of the dials before the picture returned to Jenna in the chair.
Bishop closed his eyes. Then opened them. He knew what was coming.
Jenna’s head suddenly snapped back hard. The high-pitched scream that came from the phone’s speaker made Thorpe jump, and then laugh. Bishop’s grip on the phone tightened so much he thought it might break. He watched her body fight against the bonds as the voltage surged through her. He counted twelve seconds before the screams ended and the electricity was turned off.
He watched Jenna dry-heave and spit repeatedly on the floor, before she finally fell back against the chair, exhausted. He knew she’d been trying t
o rid herself of the acid-metallic taste in her mouth. It was a peculiar taste, Bishop knew. One that stayed in your mouth for days as a nice little reminder.
Then Jenna’s eyes opened and she turned her head towards her tormentor. She stared directly into the camera for a moment and then screamed, ‘You goddamn freak dog! This is what gets you off, is it? Are you so—’
The movie clip ended, cutting her off in mid-cry.
Bishop looked up. Thorpe hadn’t moved. But nor had his own hand. The gun was still pointing at Thorpe’s head. His finger was still on the trigger. An ounce of pressure, he thought. Maybe two. Just that much and Thorpe’s trail of bodies would stop. But it wouldn’t yet, of course. Not quite yet. With Danny listening at the other end of the line, Bishop understood who was in control for the time being.
As Bishop slowly lowered the gun, Thorpe said, ‘The left hemisphere in charge now? Okay, that was just something to soften her up a little. You saw the knives on that table? Well, Danny’s gonna take great pleasure in using them on Jenna unless we come to terms here.’
‘What terms?’ Bishop said. ‘Your file’s right there. Just tell me where she is.’
Thorpe shook his head. ‘Guns first.’
Bishop stepped forward and placed both pieces on the workbench, then took a step back. Thorpe slid them over to his side, picked up his Glock and pulled a disposable hypodermic from his jacket pocket. He placed it on the table near Bishop.
‘Hang fire for a while, Danny,’ he said and closed the connection on the phone. Then he picked up a file on Ebert and started reading like he had all the time in the world, only looking up every now and then to check Bishop hadn’t moved. Bishop watched him and thought of the knife in his ankle holster. He thought of how he could reach it before Thorpe put a bullet in him. And once he reached it, he could practically guarantee Thorpe would talk. Bishop knew how to make him sing like a lark.
