Sight Unseen

by Iris Johansen

  Kendra turned toward the agents behind her. “Kind of like you and your comic books, Metcalf.”

  He shrugged. “Or you and your music therapy.”

  “Point taken.” She studied the whiteboard. “I can imagine there could be an element of hero worship in Myatt, but he may also enjoy one-upping the serial killers he copies.”

  Lynch nodded. “If he’s really working with Colby, what do you make of the fact that Myatt hasn’t reproduced his murders?”

  “Respect,” Reade said. “He doesn’t want to insult the master.”

  “Or he’s been saving it,” Kendra said. “As much as I hate the thought, what if he’s planning something even bigger?”

  “We’re up against a ticking clock,” Lynch said. “The only man who might know his identity will be executed in three days.”

  “Could we reach out to the governor?” Metcalf asked. “Maybe he’d agree to stay his execution until our investigation concludes.”

  Griffin shook his head. “The problem is that Colby was damn cagey in his responses to us. He never came out and said he was in communication with the killer or even admitted he knew who he was. Anything he said could fall under the category of screwing with the heads of the people who brought him down.”

  “Plus, the governor wants this execution to happen,” Lynch said. “His constituents have been demanding it ever since Colby put those kids’ heads on a pike. That kind of thing has a way of whipping up strong emotions. Anything we want from Eric Colby, we’d better get in the next seventy-two hours.”

  Kendra felt that familiar chill. “I want nothing from him.” She nodded toward the stacks of files. “Are those the logs that the warden gave you?”

  Griffin nodded.

  “Anything there?”

  “Nothing yet, but we’re still going through them.” He glanced at Metcalf. “We had a strange phone call a little while ago. It actually concerned you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Have you ever heard of Bobby Chatsworth?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “Probably not. He works in England. He’s a minor broadcast personality. I was going to say reporter, but that’s giving him too much credit. He’s been on a tear pushing to get the death penalty reinstated in the UK.”

  “Really?”

  “It’ll never happen, but he’s made quite a name for himself. Which was obviously the point. Anyway, he’s been doing his show from northern California to capitalize on the Colby execution. He and his team were actually at San Quentin yesterday the same time we were.” He paused. “They want to interview you.”

  “Why me?” Kendra asked.

  “You’re the one who captured him.”

  “I beat his brains out with a rock.”

  “Even better. We told them you never spoke to the press about your cases, but they claim that their investigative reporting has uncovered some information that might be helpful to us. If you consent to an interview.”

  “I hope you hung up on them.”

  Griffin checked his watch. “Actually … Chatsworth’s producer is in the conference room upstairs.”

  “What?”

  “I made no promises. I only said if they gave us what they have, I’d let them meet you and pitch you on the idea of an interview.”

  Kendra glared at him. “Are you rolling out the red carpet for every nutjob who claims to have a tip? Or just the ones who want to impose themselves on me?”

  “Hear her out, politely decline, and we’ll see what they have.”

  Kendra looked over at Lynch.

  He shrugged. “We could subpoena their materials, but I have a hunch they would refuse anyway. If this guy likes to showboat the way his reputation suggests, he’d love nothing better than to see himself as a crusading reporter caught in a U.S. First Amendment case. It would be quicker to just hear them out.”

  Kendra muttered a curse. “Fine. But if I see a camera, it’s going right out the window.”

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Kendra joined the FBI team in the conference room where Lily Holt was seated at the table’s head with a thin binder in front of her. The woman’s choice of seating and regal posture immediately annoyed Kendra. It seemed as if she was positioning herself as the CEO, and they were her underlings.

  She didn’t stand as they came into room. “Dr. Michaels, nice to meet you.”

  “Please make this fast, Ms. Holt.” Kendra sat in the chair closest to her. “As you can imagine, we’re all very busy.”

  “As am I,” she said.

  “I have one question for you,” Kendra said. “Why on earth do you want to give Eric Colby any more attention than he’s already been given? Don’t you realize that’s exactly what he wants?”

  “What Eric Colby wants has no bearing on what we do. It’s what our viewers want.”

  “They want to see a diseased maniac ranting and raving with an inflated sense of self-worth?”

  “No.” Lily gave her a tight-lipped smile. “They want to see him die.”

  The producer’s icy demeanor left Kendra momentarily speechless.

  “Trust me,” Lily continued. “We’re not putting him on a pedestal. It’s clear he’s a vile human being, and this world will be an infinitely better place once he’s not in it.”

  “I heard that your show advocates the return of the death penalty in England.”

  “Yes, it’s been half a century since Great Britain has executed a prisoner, yet over two-thirds of the population now favors capital punishment. Bobby Chatsworth and his show just reflect the frustration that society has with the justice system.”

  “Are you sure that he’s not helping to shape it?”

  “I’ll let sociologists be the judge of that. What I can say is that we’ve devoted a lot of airtime lately to people whose lives have been touched by violent crime. Citizens are outraged. They feel that the perpetrators of these horrible crimes have forfeited their right to share the planet with the rest of us.”

  “Enter Eric Colby.”

  “As soon as the execution date was set, we knew this was a story our viewers would have interest in. This is a system that works. Not often enough, perhaps, but the families of Eric Colby’s victims will see justice done in a way that victims in the UK never could. We’ve interviewed police officers, a retired FBI agent, and several close relatives of Colby’s victims, all in an effort to paint a portrait of the man. A portrait of a monster.”

  “Then what do you want with me?”

  “You witnessed the horror in the way no one else did. You saw Eric Colby murder two FBI agents. Then you survived an attack from him, the only person to do so. Not only did you survive, you were the one to finally bring him down. Your story will always be intertwined with his, Dr. Michaels.”

  “You’ll never be done with me, Kendra…”

  Colby’s words. Colby’s voice echoing in her head.

  Again.

  Shake it off. He would soon be a memory, no more than a bad dream.

  “I have no interest in helping you perpetuate his memory.”

  “Don’t think of it that way. Think of it as having the last word on Eric Colby.”

  “His actions speak for themselves. And nothing will speak louder than his dying in front of a roomful of witnesses.”

  “Bobby Chatsworth begs to differ. We saw you leaving the prison yesterday. What did you and Colby say to each other?”

  “I’m not going to discuss it. Not now, not ever.”

  “Dr. Michaels, if you’ll just sit down with us for ten minutes…”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  “I came here in good faith—”

  “You’re here because I agreed to meet with you, which is a courtesy I never extend to people in your profession. Ask around.”

  “I have.”

  “Then you know I’ve already given you something that I never expected to give. Now, what do you have for us?”

  Lily’s lips tightened. �
�I do hope you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She folded her hands in front of her. “Okay, a deal is a deal.” She was silent, trying to decide where to begin. “In addition to victims’ families and law-enforcement officers, we’ve also conducted several interviews with people who have corresponded with Colby and even visited him in prison. Over the weekend, we interviewed an attractive young woman who actually proposed marriage to him.”

  Kendra didn’t even try to hide her revulsion. “What’s most disgusting is that she’s probably not the only one.”

  “She isn’t. The ironic thing is, even Colby thinks these people are nuts. We’ve spoken to several journalists, a movie producer, and a true-crime author who seem quite captivated by him.”

  “So?” Griffen said impatiently.

  “It’s no secret you’re investigating the serial murders here in San Diego, and suddenly you all have cause to visit Eric Colby just days before he is to be executed. You obviously believe there is some link between Colby and this killer. We don’t know if you’ve received a credible tip or found some evidence, but it’s clearly a path you’re exploring.”

  “We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Griffin said.

  “Of course not. But it occurred to us that we still may be able to help each other. We’ve spoken to many of the people who represent Colby’s most likely allies in the outside world.”

  “We already have all of his visitor’s logs,” Griffin said.

  “I’m sure you do. But what you don’t have”—Lily pulled three DVDs from her binder and placed them on the table—“are these.”

  Kendra picked up a DVD. “And these are?”

  “Raw interview footage of the people I was just talking about. I’m sure you may have already begun interviewing them yourselves, but this could prove helpful to you. They’re an odd bunch.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Kendra dropped the DVD back onto the table. “So this is what you wanted to give us in exchange for an interview with me?”

  “That was my boss’s idea. He’ll be angry that I didn’t hold out for that on-camera interview with you, Dr. Michaels. Somehow, I think this is more important than that interview. But this actually isn’t all. Contrary to our reputation, we actually take our research very seriously. We check our sources very carefully.”

  Lynch’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “What did you find out?”

  “It’s more like what we didn’t find out. There’s a crime author named Lance Kagan. He’s written a few articles for the pulp true-crime magazines. He wrote Colby and said he wanted to write a book about him. Colby agreed to see him a few times.”

  “And?”

  “The man who came to see Colby, the man we later interviewed … wasn’t Lance Kagan.”

  Kendra tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that true-crime writer Lance Kagan exists, but he has no special interest in Eric Colby. He lives in New Mexico, and he had no idea someone was using his identity to visit a death-row prisoner.”

  Kendra looked back at Griffin. “You have to undergo an application process before you’re allowed to visit a prisoner. Don’t they verify the identity?”

  “Yes.” Lily answered for him. “They do, but evidently he had some excellent fake credentials. Plus, on his first visit, they would have fingerprinted him. Whoever he is, a complete set of his fingerprints are on file at San Quentin State Penitentiary. I’m assuming that if they run them at all, it’s just to see that they don’t match a convicted felon’s.”

  “Exciting.” Reade suddenly entered the conversation, her expression eager. “Did Colby know he wasn’t really talking to Kagan?”

  “We brought up the subject at yesterday’s interview with Colby. He acted as if he had no idea what we were talking about.”

  “That means nothing,” Kendra said. “He’s a stone-cold psychopath.”

  “We’re of the same opinion,” Lily said. “So the answer to your question is that we have no idea if he knew. But you can look at Colby’s interview footage yourself. It’s on the third disk, the same one as the phony Lance Kagan.”

  Kendra glanced at Lynch, then at Griffin. She knew they were all thinking the same thing that she was: Was Kagan their Myatt? But there was no way they’d put that thought into words before a tabloid TV journalist.

  Lily looked at the projector on the other side of the room. “Go ahead and pop in the DVD. I’ll go through it with you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Griffin said. “We’ll call you if we have any questions.”

  “I really think it would be best if I’m here when you—”

  “We’ll watch it later,” Lynch said. “But thank you for coming in. This could be very helpful.”

  Lily glanced hopefully at Kendra. “Worth at least a ten-minute interview, don’t you think?”

  As annoying as Lily was, Kendra had to admire her persistence. And she had kept her word when she could have backpedaled on that promise. “I’ll consider it.”

  “I can have a crew here tomorrow, anywhere you choose.”

  Kendra stood up in dismissal. “Give me your card. I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  LILY HAD NO SOONER BEEN ESCORTED from the conference room when Reade grabbed the third DVD, popped it into the player, and fired up the projector.

  Metcalf picked up the remote and smiled. “I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a show since the last episode of Breaking Bad. Who wants to make the popcorn?”

  Griffin crossed his arms. “Just get this guy on-screen. I want Kendra to take a good long look at him.”

  Metcalf scanned through the interview footage, playing a few seconds each time a new subject appeared on screen. Each segment featured a header card that gave the name and a brief description of each interviewee.

  It opened with a long shot of Bobby Chatsworth himself, walking and talking among the dozens of protestors they had just seen at the San Quentin East Gate the day before. After a few seconds, Metcalf scanned to the first interviewee. He appeared to be transfixed by the demure prospective bride discussing the simple yet tasteful wedding she envisioned in the prison chapel.

  “Man,” Metcalf said. “If we don’t arrest her as a serial killer, she’s just nutty enough to be a reality-TV star.”

  “Skip it,” Griffin snapped. “Get to Kagan.”

  “Sorry.” Metcalf advanced to the next interviewee. “Here we go,” he said, reading the header card. “Lance Kagan, true-crime author. Okay, Kendra, you’re on.”

  She eagerly stepped front and center. The on-screen image faded in, and—

  Her hopes plummeted. “It’s not him.”

  “Are you sure?” Lynch asked.

  “Positive. Damn. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  Griffin frowned. “Well, he still goes to the top of our list of Colby’s suspicious prison visitors. I’ll get in touch with the warden and have them transmit those fingerprints to us. We need to find out who this guy really is.”

  Reade stood up with her laptop. “Well, I have another one we should look at.”

  “What do you have?” Kendra asked.

  “I finally got all of Colby’s prison visitor logs in my database. I just now cross-referenced them with the names we gathered from online discussions about you, Kendra. I got a hit. He’s a local.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She glanced at her laptop screen. “David Warren. He has a Little Italy address, probably one of those funky lofts. On his visitor application, he listed his occupation as ‘artist and dreamer.’”

  Lynch rolled his eyes. “Great.”

  “He’s obviously a big admirer of Kendra’s, which would fit the profile of our copycat. He commented on many of her cases in the online forums. But he also visited Colby for some reason.”

  “You’re right,” Lynch said. “We should talk to him.” He turned to Kendra. “Shall we take th
is one?”

  Kendra nodded emphatically. The disappointment she had suffered about the identity of Kagan was still with her. She did not want this morning’s work to be a complete waste.

  “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  “WARREN’S BUILDING IS BEING marketed as a collection of artist lofts,” Kendra said as she walked with Lynch toward the Ash Street address. The building was nestled in the heart of Little Italy, which had recently emerged as a trendy neighborhood of restaurants, coffee shops, and art galleries.

  Kendra glanced down the street. “I like this neighborhood. I come here most Saturday mornings for the farmer’s market.”

  “That’s interesting. I stay away from here most Saturday mornings for the exact same reason. Street closures aren’t my thing.”

  “Huh. You might think it was worth it if you used veggies for something other than a garnish for those strong alcoholic drinks you pound back.”

  “You may have a point there.” Lynch found David Warren’s name on the building directory and pressed the buzzer.

  After a moment, a young man’s voice came from the intercom. “Yeah?”

  “David Warren?”

  Long pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “My name is Adam Lynch. I’m here with Kendra Michaels. We wondered if we might—”

  The buzzer sounded, and the front door unlocked.

  Lynch grabbed the door and swung it open. “Looks like I found the magic words: ‘Kendra Michaels.’”

  “Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.”

  They entered the lobby and climbed the open stairway to the third floor. Except for the light hardwood floors, the building interior was entirely white, with a minimalist aesthetic that bordered on antiseptic.