he says. "Trying to get me rattled and angry right out of the box."
Street yawns in exaggerated boredom. "Where's that cunt Barrett?"
he asks.
"She'll be around," Alan says. "You popped her pretty good in that apartment."
This elicits a nasty smile. "Glad to hear it."
Alan shrugs. "Hey--between you and me? I feel like popping her one myself, sometimes."
Street's eyes narrow. "Really?" He sounds doubtful.
"Can't help it. I'm old-school. I was raised, women have a place." He grins. "And it's under me, not over me, if you know what I mean." He chuckles. "Hell, I've had to slap the wife around every now and then. Just to make sure she remembers where she stands."
Alan has Street's full attention now. The monster's gaze is full of fascination, desire warring with doubt. He wants Alan to mean what he's saying, and this need is overcoming his distrust.
The days of rubber hoses and "good cop bad cop" are long gone. There is an established science of interview and interrogation, tried and proven. It is a dance based on psychology, involving a certain art mixed with tremendous observation. Step one is always the same: Establish a rapport. If Street liked bass fishing, Alan would become an instant sports-fishing enthusiast. If he was a gun nut, Alan would draw him out with a knowledge of weapons. Street likes to hurt women. And so, for now, Alan does too. And it will work. I have seen it work on hardened criminals. I have even seen it work on cops who know this technique and are trained in it. It's human nature, irresistible and inevitable.
"What would the FBI think about that?" Street asks. Alan leans forward, full of menace. "She knows to keep her mouth shut."
Street nods, impressed.
"Anyway," Alan says. "You hit Smoky pretty good. Some of the other guys too. They said you were doing some fancy martial arts in there. You teach, right?"
"That's right."
"What style?"
"Wing chun. It's a form of kung fu."
"No shit? Bruce Lee, huh?" He smiles. "I got a black belt in karate."
He looks Alan up and down, gauging his size. "Are you any good?
Do you take it seriously? Or is it just for show?"
"I spar twice a week, do my kata daily, and have for the last ten years."
I look at Barry. "Alan doesn't know a karate chop from a roundhouse kick."
Street nods. A little dip of man-to-man respect. Alan is connecting with him. "That's good. You have to keep yourself sharp. A big man like you, you could be pretty lethal."
Alan holds his hands open, a "hey, I try" gesture. "I have my moments. What about you? What year did you start with kung fu?"
I see Street pause, thinking. Doing what Alan wants without knowing it. "I don't remember the exact year . . . I was five or six. We were living in San Francisco."
Alan whistles. "Long time. How long does it take--average--for a guy to go from nothing to competent in kung fu?"
Street considers. "That's hard to say. It depends on the person. But as a general rule--four to five years."
Alan is using innocuous questions to create a baseline. He's using a technique called neurolinguistic interviewing, which involves asking the subject two types of questions. One type asks him to remember something. The other requires him to use his cognitive process. Alan is noting Street's body language as he does this, what changes take place when he thinks of information as opposed to remembering it. This is primarily in the eyes, and Street has the classic mannerisms. When Alan had asked him for an actual memory--what year did he start learning kung fu?--Street's eyes had looked to the right. When he had asked him a thinking question--to calculate how long it would take for someone to become proficient--Street's eyes had looked down and to the left. Alan now knows that if he asks Street a "remember question" and Street's eyes look down and to the left, he's probably lying, as he is thinking rather than remembering.
"Four to five years. Not too bad." Alan motions with a hand behind his chair. It is a signal, and I respond to it by tapping on the window. Alan grimaces. "Sorry. Give me a second."
Street doesn't reply, and Alan gets up and leaves the room. A moment later, he is in the observation room with us.
"He may act cool," he says, "but he doesn't know squat about body language and interrogation. I'm going to roll right over him."
"Be careful," I say. "We want him to point us to Jack Jr. You don't know yet how loyal he'll be."
Alan looks at me, shakes his head. "It won't matter." He turns to Barry. "You got that file folder?"
"Right here." Barry hands him a file folder filled with various papers, all of them either unrelated to Street or blank. The name ROBERT STREET is clearly printed on the front of the folder.
The folder is just a prop. Alan is about to change the tone and pace of the interview. It will now become confrontational. In our society, file folders are equated with important information, and the fact that this one is filled with documents will imply to Street that we have a lot of evidence against him. Alan will go in and deliver what's called the "confrontational statement." It's a key point in this type of interrogation, and can be dramatic. Some suspects become so demoralized that they'll actually faint when they're given the confrontational statement. Alan watches Street for a few more moments and then heads toward the door. A moment later he reenters the interview room. He acts like he's reading through the folder. He closes it and holds it so that Street can see his name on it. Alan stands this time, he doesn't sit. He takes a wide stance, legs shoulder-width apart. Everything about him says he is dominant, in control. Confident. All of it is purposeful and calculated.
"Here's the thing, Mr. Street. We know you were involved in the murders of Annie King and Charlotte Ross. We have you pretty cold on this. Fingerprints found at Annie King's apartment have been matched to your prints. We're comparing DNA evidence from Charlotte Ross's apartment to some of your DNA right now, and I'll bet we get a match. We also have the MO you used prior to committing the crimes--the signed receipts you left as an 'exterminator.' We have some pretty good handwriting experts who should be able to tie those to you. We got you. What I want to know is--are you willing to talk to me about this?"
Street looks at Alan, who towers over him, exuding confidence and power, the picture of the alpha male. His eyes widen a bit, and I can see that his breathing has quickened. Then they narrow again, and he smiles. Shrugs.
"I would--if I had any idea what you were talking about."
Street smiles wider, the Cheshire cat. He thinks he still holds a trump card. That we don't know there are two of them. Alan is quiet. Staring at him. In an abrupt motion he turns to one side, picks up the interview table, and moves it against the far wall. He then puts his chair directly in front of Street. He sits down, close. Threatening.
"What are you doing?" Street asks. There is a hint of nervousness in his voice. Some sweat on his brow.
Alan looks surprised. "I just want to make sure I'm getting everything, Mr. Street."
He looks through the meaningless file folder again and frowns. Shakes his head. Acting, acting, acting. He puts the folder down on the floor next to his chair and moves the chair closer to Street, invading his personal space. I watch as he positions one knee just inside Street's knees, creating a subconscious threat to his manhood. The killer swallows. The sweat on his forehead is more noticeable now. He, however, is unaware of these physiological reactions. All he knows is that Alan has filled his world and that he is getting very uncomfortable.
"See, there's a loose end."
Street swallows again. "What?"
Alan nods. "A loose end." He leans even closer now. Pushes his knee in a bit farther. "You see, we know you haven't been acting alone."
Street's eyes open wide. His breathing accelerates. He belches, without being aware of it. "What?"
"You have an accomplice. We were able to figure it out from the video of Annie King's murder. A difference in height. And we know he's the real Jack Jr., not yo
u."
Street looks like a fish on a hook, mouth opening and closing. His eyes are fixed on Alan. He belches again. His hands come down in a protective cupping of his crotch. All of this is reflexive; he remains unaware. Alan leans in closer.
"Do you know who he is, Robert?" Alan asks.
"No!" Eyes down and to the left. Lying.
"Well, Robert . . . I think you do, Robert. Robert, I think you know who he is and where we can find him. Robert, is that true?" Alan uses repetition of his name to create both an undercurrent of accusation and a feeling of there being nowhere to hide. It's like going "hey--YOU" again and again.
Street stares at Alan. He is covered in sweat.
"No."
"What I can't figure out? Why you'd be protecting him." Alan leans in farther. Rubs his chin in thought. "Maybe . . ." He snaps his fingers.
"You know, when two male serial killers are working together, a lot of times they're fucking each other. Well--the dominant one is doing the fucking. That the case here? That why you're protecting him? 'Cause you like catching while he's pitching?"
Street's eyes pop wide open. He's quivering in rage.
"I'm no fucking fag!"
Alan leans in, till they're almost nose to nose. Street is shivering. He belches again. "That's not what the little girl said. Bonnie? Remember her? She said that one of you was gobbling the other one's johnson like he was at a sausage-eating contest."
Street is apoplectic. "She's a lying little cunt! "
"Gotcha," Barry says.
Alan doesn't let up. "You sure? She said that one of you was sucking the proverbial golf ball through the garden hose. She gave a lot of detail. Details a girl her age wouldn't have."
"She's lying! She probably knows about cocksucking because her mother was a whore! We never touched each--"
He stops, realizes what's happened. What he's said.
"So you were there," Alan states.
Street's face goes red. Tears are running down his cheeks. I don't think he realizes this. "Fuck it! Yeah--I was there! I helped kill that cunt! So what? You'll never catch him. He'll get away, you'll see. He's too smart for you!"
"That's a confession from one of them," I say.
Barry nods. "He just bought himself a one-way ticket to the gas chamber."
Alan moves back, just a bit. He keeps his knee where it is, threatening. Street is unraveling before our eyes.
"You know, Robert, we have guys on their way to your apartment now. Robert, I'm betting there's something there that'll help us find out who he is, isn't there, Robert?"
Street's eyes go to the right. Remembering. Then: "No! Nothing!
Fuck you! Stop saying my fucking name over and over!"
"Did you see that?" Barry murmurs, excited.
I had seen it, and a thrill had gone through me when I did. When he'd said no, the eyes had gone down. Down and to the left. He's lying.
There is something in his apartment he doesn't want us to find.
50
WE ARE STANDING in Street's apartment. Barry and I had watched as Alan continued to break Street down, inch by subtle inch. He was unable to get him to give up Jack Jr.'s identity, but he had given up everything else. How Jack had contacted him, how they picked their victims, other facts. He'd signed a confession and was a sweat-soaked, broken, blubbering mess by the time Alan left the interview room. Alan had destroyed him.
The dragon approved.
My cell phone rings. "Barrett."
"It's Gene, Smoky. I thought you'd want to know that Street's DNA is a match to the DNA found on Charlotte Ross's fingernail."
"Thanks, Gene. That's good news."
He pauses. "Is Callie going to be okay?"
"I think so. We'll have to wait and see."
He sighs. "I'll let you go."
"Bye."
"Place is clean," Alan notes.
I look around. He's right. Street's apartment is not just clean--it's spotless. It's the clean of the obsessive-compulsive. It's also devoid of personality. There are no pictures on the wall, not of Street or family or friends. No paintings or prints. The couch is functional. The coffee table is functional. The TV is small.
"Spartan," I murmur.
We wander into the bedroom. Like the living room, it is spotless. The bedsheets are tight, the corners military-sharp. He has a single computer on a small desk facing the wall.
And then I see it. The one thing that's out of place here, that doesn't fit. A small locket, arranged with precision next to a college textbook. I bend over to get a closer look. It's a woman's locket, gold on a gold chain. I pick it up and open it. Inside is a miniature photo of a striking older woman. Someone's mother, I think.
"Pretty," Alan remarks.
I nod. I put down the locket, open the textbook. It's a basic college English text. Inside is an inscription: This book belongs to Renee Parker. It might not look like much, but it's actually MAGIC--ha ha! L It's my magic car- pet. So don't touch, boobie heads!
It's signed and dated.
"That's . . . what? Twenty-five years ago?"
I nod. My heartbeat is quickening. This is it. This is the key. This will show us his face.
I touch the book, running my fingers across the inscription. Perhaps it really will end up being magic.
51
I STAND AND listen to Alan. He's excited. I have the sense that everything is moving faster and faster, heated molecules coming to a slow but inexorable boil.
"We got a hit on VICAP with the name Renee Parker. A doozy."
VICAP stands for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Conceived by an LAPD detective in 1957, it didn't become operational until 1985, when it was established at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at the FBI Academy. The concept is brilliant. It's a nationwide data center, designed to gather, collate, and analyze crimes of violence. With an emphasis on murder. Any and all information on both solved and unsolved cases can be supplied by any member of law enforcement participating, at whatever echelon. Taken as a whole, this mountain of information enables a nationwide cross-referencing of violent acts. He refers to the papers in his hand. "It's an old case--twenty-five years ago. A stripper in San Francisco. Found strangled in an alleyway, and--get this--some of her organs were removed."
My tiredness disappears in a flash. I feel as though I have just snorted caffeine. "That has to be him. Has to be."
"Yeah, and it gets better. They had a suspect at the time. They couldn't find enough evidence to make it stick."
I jump up. "Leo, you'll stay here to act as a contact and coordination point. James and Alan--let's go to San Francisco. Now."
"Don't have to tell me twice," Alan says, and we are moving toward the door, filled with a second wind concocted of adrenaline, excitement, and a little bit of fury. We get outside and I see Tommy, sitting in his car. Still and watchful.
"Give me a second," I tell Alan and James. I walk over to the car. Tommy rolls down the window.
"What's happening?" he asks.
I tell him about the VICAP hit. "We're going to San Fran now."
"What do you want me to do?"
I give a smile, reach over and touch his cheek, once. "Get some sleep."
"Sounds good," he replies. Mr. Laconic, as always. I turn to walk away. "Smoky," he says, stopping me. I look back at him. "Be careful."
I have time to see the worry in his eyes before he rolls up the window and drives away.
For some reason, Sally Field at the Oscars jumps into my mind.
"He likes me, he really, really likes me," I murmur in falsetto. Hysterical bubbles.
52
THIS DREAM IS new. The past and the present have merged, have become one thing.
I am asleep in my bedroom when I hear a noise. Sounds of sawing, squishy sounds. I get up, heart beating fast, and grab my gun from the nightstand.
I pad through my door, weapon drawn, hands trembling at the thought of someone in my house.
The noise
s come from the living room. Cackles have been added to the sibilant squishes.
When I enter, he is there. I cannot see his face, for it is obscured by the bandages around his head. His lips are visible, and they are huge, bloated, red. His black eyes are flat and dead, like bits of burned skin.
"Do you see?" he whispers, snakelike.
I can't see what he's pointing to. The back of the couch is hiding it. A certainty begins to rise in me that I don't want to see. But I must.
I move forward, forward, forward.
"Do you see?" he whispers.
And I do.
She is lying on the couch. He has opened her from sternum to crotch, exposing her organs. Cemetery earth cakes her hair. And one grime-covered finger points at me.
"Your fault . . ." she croaks.
She is Alexa, and then she is Charlotte Ross, and then she is Annie.
"Why did you let him kill me?" Annie's face asks me, as she points, accusing. "Why?"
The man with the bandaged face cackles. "Do you see?" he whispers.
"Their dirty fingers. They point at you, forever."
"Why?" she asks.
"Do you see?" he whispers.
I jolt awake. The cabin of the jet is quiet and shadowed. James and Alan are dozing.
I look out the passenger window to the cold dark night and shiver. Dirty fingers. No need to search for symbolism there. I feel them always, pointing at me from the grave. The ones I did not save.
I'd called Jenny Chang at SFPD from the plane, and she is waiting for us.
"I'm not your friend anymore," she says, tapping her watch to indicate the early hour.
"Sorry, Jenny. Things are pretty fucked up." I fill her in on Callie. Her lips tighten into a straight, angry line.
"No further word on her yet?" she asks.
"No," James replies.
"Christ . . ." she says, staring off.
I hold up my briefcase. "But we got a good hit from VICAP."
The detective in her comes out, sharp and interested. "Tell me."
I give her the gist of it.
"Twenty-five years ago. I came on the force when I was twenty-two. That's before my time. Who was the primary on the case?"
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