by Steve Gannon
“The late hour of the murders and the lack of a discernible daily pattern-your man killed one family on a weekday and the other on a weekend. Both suggest that he lives alone and doesn’t have to account to anyone for his presence.”
I nodded. “You went over the crime reports. Any thoughts on those you want to share?”
“A few,” said Berns. “I suppose this is as good a time as any to delve into particulars, again with the caveat that what I’m about to say is educated speculation. First, because serial killers rarely cross races, our man’s choice of victims indicates he’s white. He knows the area, so he’s probably living in Southern California, most probably working at a job that doesn’t bring him in close contact with the public. His ritual is advanced and highly developed, suggesting he’s killed before and is well along in his killing cycle. Age is one of the hardest things to nail down, but I’d say he’s in his mid- to late thirties, although he could be older. The complexity of his murder protocol, his suspected reconnoitering prior to killing, and the variations exhibited between the scenes-using a gun instead of a plastic bag to kill the Larson child, for instance, or disabling the garage lights in different manners, or varying the eyelid cuts-reveal our man to be highly intelligent. I suspect, however, that this particular killing cycle is new to him. He’s still improvising-perfecting his ritual, fantasy, whatever you want to call it.”
“I thought you said he had killed before,” objected Barrello.
“Not like this. In the past he’s probably hidden his murders. I suspect he’s entering a new phase, which in itself is extremely unusual. Most repeat killers pick a routine and stick with it.”
“So why’s he changing?”
“The guy’s going public,” I answered.
“Exactly,” said Berns. “His choice of high-profile targets, his symbolic act of leaving the victims’ front doors open, and his failure to conceal the bodies indicate a desire for recognition. It’s something killers of his ilk often crave. Along those lines, it’s common for them to save newspaper clippings and the like. Some even try to assist in the investigation.”
“Offering their invaluable services as a witness,” said Barrello.
“Right.”
“Those of you manning the hotlines be on the lookout for anyone seeming overly helpful,” said Snead.
“Especially after the next murders,” added Berns.
“So we can expect him to kill again?” asked Snead.
“Without doubt. The time interval between the first and second killings was twenty-five days. Typically, we look for a decrease in the cooling-off period.”
“It’s been four days since the Palisades murders,” noted Huff. “By your reckoning, if we don’t nail this guy in the next three weeks, he’s going to strike again.”
Berns nodded. “Probably sooner than that. In all likelihood, the brutality of the attacks will also escalate. Another thing to look for-repeat killers routinely save trophies and souvenirs. Your man is probably taking something from each of his victims. A ring, an article of clothing, possibly even the missing body parts from the women.”
“I thought you said he was smart,” someone in the back noted. “Keeping incriminating evidence doesn’t make sense.”
“True,” agreed Berns. “It isn’t logical, but in this case our man can’t help it. More than any other type of killer, serial murderers are driven by a desire to recapture the pleasure of their acts, often returning to the scene to gloat, savor the murders, even toy with the police.”
“Maybe that’s something we can use, too,” I said. Then, to Snead, “How about putting some surveillance on the scenes?” I suggested, deciding not to mention that I had already requested a stakeout on the Larson residence.
“I’ll run it by Metro,” Snead said reluctantly.
“I’ll do the same on our end,” said Huff. Then, turning back to Berns. “Any religious significance to the candles found at the scenes?”
Berns shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Or he could’ve brought them ’cause he knew he would be turning off the lights,” reasoned Barrello.
“What’s with the cut eyelids?” asked someone else.
Berns considered carefully. “I don’t know. If Kane’s supposition is accurate, the killer’s forcing the husbands to watch might indicate he needs a witness to whom he can prove himself. He’s undoubtedly not only a sadist, but also a necrosadist-he has to see his victims die in order to achieve sexual satisfaction. As his rage seems directed not only at women but toward entire families, mutilating the husbands and having them watch could play a part.”
I spoke up. “What about what he did to the women?”
“When it comes to the wives, the mutilations and torture are the killer’s signature, the ‘why’ of his act,” answered Berns. “For him, savaging the women is analogous to sexual intercourse, with the knife representing the penis. The shallow cuts around the face and neck are made first, symbolizing foreplay. The final deep thrusts represent orgasm, with the killer probably masturbating at that point, or possibly even having a spontaneous orgasm.”
“Sick bastard,” growled Barrello.
“The spermicidal gel and tissue tears in the vagina and anus attest to some type of penetration,” Berns went on, referring to one of the forensic findings covered earlier. “Possibly penile. But if so, it was most likely postmortem, with repeated episodes possible. The absence of sperm can be explained by the use of a prophylactic. Given the planning evident in other aspects of the crimes, I feel that if your man used a rubber, it was motivated by a desire to avoid leaving evidence and isn’t indicative of any squeamishness on his part. Once again, it’s a sign of the premeditation typical in the work of an organized killer, differing from the spontaneous markers usually left by a spree-type murderer. Placing the husbands’ bodies back in their beds and then covering his victims with a blanket might ordinarily suggest some sort of regret on the killer’s part. In our case, I think it’s simply another part of his ritual.”
“Any significance to his murdering the children first?” asked Huff.
“I’m not certain,” Berns answered. “We’ll know more when we’ve seen him kill again. For now, we have a predatory, sexually motivated killer who’s presumably choosing his victims based on common physical or psychological characteristics. Both women were attractive brunettes, married, and had children. He finds them, stalks them, personalizes them, and plans the act. Then, at a time of his choosing, he kills them.”
Again, the room fell silent.
“As Detective Kane observed earlier,” Berns concluded somberly, “the man for whom you’re searching enjoys watching people die. He enjoys it a lot, and he will definitely do it again.”
14
Mom! Brian’s looking at me!”
Julie Welsh found her daughter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Heather,” she sighed, “if all he’s doing is looking at you…”
“He’s staring, Mom.”
“Am not,” said Brian in a taunting singsong seemingly indigenous to all younger siblings. “Besides, it’s a free country.”
Julie slowed to enter the Spyglass Hill community of Las Palmas, speeding up again as a security guard spotted her windshield sticker and raised the gate barrier. “Brian, do me a favor and quit staring at your sister.”
“But Mom…”
“Please, Brian. And Heather, don’t be so sensitive. I have a lot on my mind right now without listening to you two squabbling in the backseat.”
“It’s not me, Mom. It’s Brian. He’s-”
“Heather, stop right now. You, too, Brian. Your father will be home in less than an hour, and you know how he’s been lately. If you don’t have your chores and homework done by then…”
“If you don’t have dinner ready by then…” mimicked Brian.
“One more word out of you, young man, and you’re grounded,” said Julie harshly, fighting a surge of irritation she had felt building all afternoon. There just didn�
�t seem to be enough time in a day to get things done, and she didn’t even have a steady job, as Wes so regularly pointed out.
Well, I’d like to see him get two kids off to school, clean the house, shuttle Heather to the doctor for allergy shots, take Brian and his sister to the orthodontist, and do all the other so-called little things it takes to keep a family going, Julie thought angrily. All he does is go to work. With a flash of guilt, she abruptly remembered that she still hadn’t taken the BMW in for a bodywork estimate. It would undoubtedly be the first thing Wes asked when he got home.
After turning on Cambria and hanging a right on Montecito, Julie pulled into her driveway, stopping to push the garage-door remote. As the garage door lumbered open, she checked the clock on the dashboard, deciding that if she hurried, she could get dinner going and still have time for a cocktail before Wes arrived. And tonight, she thought, I need one. Maybe a couple.
Fifty yards down the street, a white van marked “McMurphy Electric” idled at the curb. Inside, Victor Carns lowered a curiously shaped antenna resembling a fish backbone, with short aluminum tubes fastened like ribs to a central connecting spine. A cable ran from the antenna to a piece of electronic equipment sitting beside him.
After setting the antenna on the floor, Carns turned his attention to the electronic instrument. He made several adjustments to the controls. His brow furrowed as a train of flat-topped pulses marched across the screen. Another adjustment, and the blocky pattern slid right, stabilized… and held.
Carns covered the apparatus with a beach towel. Smiling, he dropped the van into gear and drove slowly down the street, glancing at the Welsh residence as he passed. With an effort of will he forced his eyes back to the road, remembering the softness of the woman’s skin as he had taken the pen from her fingers.
Next week, he promised himself. At the latest, the week after.
Soon.
15
Tell me something, Kane. Your wife ever talk dirty in bed?”
I eased into the right lane of the Santa Monica Freeway, then glanced at Deluca. “You don’t actually expect me to answer that, do you?”
Deluca grinned. “Why not?”
“Because it’s none of your damn business.”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I just heard that some guys get turned on by women talking dirty when they’re having sex. Personally, I don’t see it. My ex-wife did it a lot. Definitely turned me off.”
I exited on Lincoln Boulevard, ran a yellow light at the first intersection, and took the freeway overpass south. “What kind of things did she say?”
“Mostly stuff like ‘Get off me, you turd!’”
I chuckled. “There’s just no pleasing some women.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Deluca scanned the sprawl of car lots and taco stands slipping past his window. “What was the name of the repair shop? Sam’s Auto Body?”
“Pete’s. There it is.” I swerved into the right lane. Ignoring a digital salute from a driver behind us, I parked in front of a one-story cinderblock building with a perimeter of razor wire topping the roof and enclosing fences. Despite the defensive coils, almost every surface of the building-like most of the walls, billboards, and freeway signs in the area-displayed an indecipherable spray-can chaos of gang names and ghetto scrawl.
As I stepped from the car, I checked the lot adjoining the repair shop. Several German imports, a Volvo, and a number of American vehicles sat behind the fence-some still dented, some repaired. A moment later I spotted a rust-colored Infiniti. “That look like persimmon to you?” I asked, pointing out the vehicle to Deluca.
Deluca rubbed his chin. “I’d say closer to magenta. Maybe a fuchsia.
“Thanks, Paul,” I said, starting for the entrance. “When you retire, I predict a great future for you as an interior decorator.”
Inside, after passing several repair bays and a paint station enclosed in plastic drapes, Deluca and I arrived at a dingy office in the rear. As we entered, a balding man glanced up from a well thumbed Penthouse magazine. “Is this about the Larson murder?” he asked as I flipped out my shield.
I nodded, noting the name sewn on the man’s coveralls. “You the owner here, Al?”
“Yep.”
“Where’s Pete?” asked Deluca.
“Sold out a long time back. Moved someplace in Idaho.”
I glanced around the fly-bespeckled office. “Can’t say as I blame him. Is that the Larsons’ Infiniti out by the fence?”
“The red one? Yeah. It’s been finished since last week. We didn’t release it because of some insurance mixup. Mrs. Larson was supposed to come down Monday and straighten things out.”
“Straighten out, as in pay?”
Al shrugged. “We don’t release cars till the bill’s settled.”
“What about the insurance money?”
“The other driver’s company refused to pay.”
“Why?”
Again, Al shrugged.
I sighed impatiently. “Okay. Let’s take a look at the car.”
Al rummaged through an assortment of keys hanging on a pegboard, finding a small ring with a tag displaying a license number and the name “Larson.” I plucked the ring from his fingers. Two keys. Both bore the Infiniti logo. No house key.
Deluca and I followed the owner out to the lot, exiting behind one of the repair bays. When we arrived at the Larsons’ car, I noted a layer of grime covering its surface. I drew my finger through the dust, then bent to inspect the asphalt beneath the engine. No drips. “How long has it been sitting here?” I asked.
“Like I said, since last week,” Al answered. “What are you guys lookin’ for, anyway?”
I ignored the question. “Who worked on it?”
“I think Alonzo did the body work. Smitty… Charlie Smith did the paint.”
I unlocked the driver’s-side door and tossed the keys to Deluca. “Check the trunk.”
Leaning into the vehicle, I noticed a door-opener remote affixed to the visor. The fastening clip lined up perfectly with grooves that time had pressed in the simulated-leather surface. If someone had removed the remote, they’d taken pains to replace it exactly. Using my pen, I teased the device from the visor and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag.
“Not much in the trunk,” Deluca called from the back. “Just the spare and a jack.”
I flipped open the glove compartment, noting maps, a pack of matches, napkins, and a flashlight. A quick search revealed nothing under the seats or in the ashtrays. “Nothing much here, either,” I said, backing from the car. “Let’s go talk to Alonzo and Smitty.”
“Smitty’s workin’ today, but you’ll have to wait to see Alonzo,” said the owner. “He drove down to Mexico to visit family. Left yesterday and won’t be back till next week. Hey, you don’t think one of my guys had something to do with the murders?”
“When next week?”
“Friday, I think. I could check the schedule.”
“Do that,” I said. “While you’re at it, I would appreciate a list of every employee you’ve had working here for the past two years.”
Al’s expression turned surly. “That’s gonna be tough. I don’t see why I gotta-”
Another citizen eager to help. “This isn’t a request, Al,” I said. “In case you missed it the first time around, we’re investigating a multiple homicide. If you force us to get a warrant, I guarantee you’ll regret it. For instance, I have friends down at Immigration, and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they dropped by here and found that half the guys you have working are missing their green cards. You follow me?”
Al’s face darkened. “I follow.”
“Good. Now, there’re two things I want you to bear in mind when you’re making out that list for us. First, we need the names of all your workers, not just the ones you’re carrying on the books.”
“You won’t bring in INS?”
“Not as long as you cooperate.”
“What’s the other t
hing?”
“Don’t talk to Alonzo before he gets back. For that matter, don’t mention our visit to anybody.”
When Deluca and I returned to task force headquarters, I noticed a pink message slip lying on my desk. A name was scrawled across the top: Graysha Hunt.
“You want me to run with this?” asked Deluca, riffling through the employee list we had received from the repair-shop owner.
I sat at my desk and picked up the phone. “Yeah. Check the local database first, then run everybody through the DOJ computer. Be sure to add Al’s name, too. And make a copy for Barrello.”
“Right.”
I dialed the number on the slip. As the phone started ringing on the other end, I rocked back in my chair, gazing at Lieutenant Huff’s wall chart. The list had grown considerably since morning, apparently swollen by names supplied by solicitous citizens via the hotline. I sighed gloomily.
“Palisades Properties. Graysha speaking.”
“Hello, Graysha. Dan Kane returning your call. You have something for me?”
“Oh, hi,” said Graysha, suddenly sounding out of breath. “I… I put together the list you wanted. Agents who’ve shown the property on Michael Lane. Their client registries, too.”
“Any of them give you a hard time?”
“No, but I didn’t mention what was involved. Will you be calling them?”
“Maybe not me, but someone here will.”
“When they do, I’d appreciate it if they didn’t, uh-”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your name stays out of it. You want to fax me the list?”
“Okay,” said Graysha, her tone anything but certain.
I rattled off the task force fax number. “You’re doing the right thing,” I added.
“I hope so. And I hope you catch this guy. If there’s anything else…”
“If there is, you’ll hear from me. And thanks.”
After hanging up, I thought a minute, then looked around the room, spotting a Hollywood detective named Terry Liman at a desk near the windows. Head down and making notes on a yellow legal pad, Liman was laboriously going through a mountain of the Larsons’ bills and records.
