by Steve Gannon
I leaned forward. “What else would piss him off?”
“Anything that conflicts with the elaborate self-image he’s erected for himself,” answered Berns. “Typically someone like him cannot tolerate ridicule, especially if it’s directed at his psychological weak points.”
“Which are?”
Berns regarded me curiously. “Aside from feeling rage toward families in general and women in particular, your killer probably has an unconscious desire to prove his masculinity,” he answered. “Based on his treatment of the husbands, I suspect he’s confused concerning his sexual identity and may have repressed homosexual tendencies. In addition, he prides himself on commitment, views himself as infallible, and has an overwhelming compulsion to be in control. He would find anything contradicting these things extremely threatening.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, rising from my chair. “I appreciate your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You’re going to attempt to goad him into action, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re going to try to force him to move up his timetable. You hope he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake.”
I didn’t respond.
“Be careful, Kane. Be very careful.”
I walked to the door, then turned. “No matter what I do, he’ll kill again anyway, right?”
Berns nodded. “You said it earlier. He’ll keep killing until he’s caught.”
I did some last minute Christmas shopping that evening, including a visit to the Jewelry Mart downtown. Afterward I stopped at the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin, one of my West Los Angeles drinking haunts from years past. A throwback to earlier days of deep-red carpets, navigational charts laminated onto tabletops, and photos of sailing schooners with colorful jibs decorating the walls, the restaurant had prospered over the years by offering clientele reasonably priced steaks, chops, and seafood, as well as providing an honest drink and a friendly ambiance for any thirsty patron happening to wander in.
Taking a spot in the back, I peered around the dimly lit bar. With the exception of restaurant staff, I failed to see anyone I knew. Minutes later a young waitress wearing a short white apron and even shorter plaid skirt approached. I ordered a Coke and nursed it for the next quarter hour, wondering whether there had been some miscommunication. By the time I’d finished my drink, chewed the ice, and nearly decided to leave, I saw Lauren Van Owen standing by the hostess station.
I waited until her eyes swept my way, then raised a hand. Lauren hurried over. “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, slipping into a chair across from mine. “I’m surprised you called. Are you sure you want to be seen with me in public?”
“This place is safe. Nobody from the Force ever comes in anymore,” I replied, once again thinking that the newscaster looked even better in person than she did on television. Evidently the same thought had occurred to several other male patrons, a number of whom were now openly eye-humping her from across the room.
“So why’d you call?”
“I’ve seen you on the tube lately,” I said evasively. “National coverage. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Getting an exclusive on that composite drawing helped. On the downside, I had another meeting with Sid Gilmore, our CBS bureau chief. He again requested that I hand over any future scoops to the network.”
“You said that would be cutting your own throat. What’d you tell him?”
“That network could have my material as long as I got to give the report. You know, Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News.”
“Smart.”
Lauren shrugged. “He’s talking about bringing me onboard full-time, but I’m not where I want to be yet,” she said, glancing around the room. “I’ve never been here before. Seems nice.”
“The food’s great if you like steak and seafood.”
“I love meat. I’m a regular carnivore.”
“They have a terrific jazz band on weekends, too,” I added.
“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll check it out sometime. Listen, I have a neighbor watching my daughter, and I know you didn’t ask me here to give restaurant tips. What’s up?”
“Drink?” I asked, avoiding her question a second time.
“What’re you having?”
“Coke.”
“In that case, no. C’mon, Kane. Give.”
“Maybe I do have something for you.”
Lauren eyed me inquiringly. “Is this official?”
“Hell, no. I want total anonymity, like before.”
“Okay. ‘Sources inside the LAPD’ it is,” Lauren agreed. “Why are you doing this?”
I spread my hands. “You delayed breaking the composite drawing story till we finished our canvass, as agreed. I’m just trying to show my appreciation.”
“That’s a crock if I’ve ever heard one. What’s the real reason?”
“Christmas is a week away. Consider it a present.”
“Why do I feel the need for a shovel?”
“You want to hear this or not?”
Lauren reached into her purse and withdrew a pad and pen. “I want to hear it. Go ahead.”
I leaned forward and for the next five minutes spoke in a low monotone. When I finished, I sat back, gauging Lauren’s reaction.
Lauren, who had been writing steadily since I began, set down her pen and gazed at me levelly. “You have another suspect.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, trying to cover my surprise.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. If I’m not mistaken, the material you just gave me is part of a psychological workup on the killer. Not too complimentary, either. I’d say if you wanted to make the guy angry, you couldn’t come up with anything better if you tried. You’re attempting to force his hand. And the only reason you would do that is if you were watching him.”
“I never said that.”
“How about getting me in on the surveillance?” Lauren suggested, her face lighting with excitement. “I could-”
“Give it a rest, Van Owen.”
“Just thought I’d ask.” Lauren dropped her pen and notepad into her purse. “You realize you’re taking a big chance.”
“If we were watching someone, which I’m not admitting, and we were trying to get him to make a mistake, where’s the risk? The guy’s going to do it again anyhow.”
“I’m not referring to that. There’s no we about this, is there? It’s you, Kane. You’re acting on your own, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re going way out on a limb here.”
“I’ll be fine. But thanks for your concern.”
“Why, Kane?”
I rose from the table. “Let’s just say I’ve never been much of a team player. Good luck, Van Owen.”
“You too, Kane. You’ll need it.”
Later that night, once Allison and Nate had gone to bed, I pulled a large cardboard box from the back of the bedroom closet. After retiring to the kitchen, I sat at the table and began reviewing a jumble of family photos, meticulously going through a Kodak chronicle of the Kane family history. Despite best intentions, there were hundreds of pictures that had never found their way into an album, most of them shots taken before we’d gone digital. Working steadily, I occasionally selected a print, found a corresponding negative, and placed them in one of three stacks before me. I had progressed to Nate’s fifth birthday when the phone rang.
“Kane,” I said, lifting the receiver.
“Hi, Dan,” said Catheryn. Although she and I had continued playing phone-tag, we had spoken only once since our last argument, and then our conversation had quickly degenerated to strained truce involving only the polite transference of news and updates on the children. In keeping with my promise to Allison, as well as being reluctant to broach the subject while Catheryn was still in Europe, I had sidestepped discussing the revelations made to me at the cemetery by our children-simply informing Catheryn that Allison and Nate had somethi
ng important to tell her when she returned. Sensing my evasion, Catheryn had withdrawn even more, and our chilly exchange had once more ended on a bad note.
“Hello, Kate,” I said, setting down a picture I’d been studying. I picked up another, a shot taken on a beach in Cancun the year of Allison’s birth. It depicted a considerably younger me sporting a tastelessly loud Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, and a Dodgers cap with the brim turned to the rear. Catheryn, her arm around me, had on a skimpy black bikini and looked great, even though it had barely been months since the delivery. Both of us wore carefree smiles that hearkened back to happier times.
“How are you?”
“Busy. You still in Paris?”
“London. We arrived Monday. We have one more performance here. After that we’re on to Brussels, then Amsterdam, and finally back to London for one more booking and then our flight home next Sunday.” Catheryn spoke rapidly, as if fearing any silences in our conversation.
Recognizing her nervousness, I felt a surge of sadness. “How’s the tour going?” I asked, struggling to keep up my end of the conversation.
“All right. I’m tired, though. Ready to be home.”
“Any change in the time I’m picking you up at the airport?”
“That’s why I’m calling. There’s been a snag in the reservations. Half the group will be taking a later connecting flight out of Dallas/Fort Worth than originally scheduled. I’m not sure which flight I’ll be on.”
“Call when you know.”
“It may be a last minute thing. I suppose I could telephone when I arrive in Dallas. Or maybe I’ll just catch a ride home with one of the other members.”
“Arthur, for instance?”
“I haven’t asked him, but-”
“I’ll pick you up,” I said brusquely.
“Fine. I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Dan.”
“Goodnight, Kate.”
32
Congestion at John Wayne International Airport had been unusually bad that evening, even for a Wednesday. Worse, an accident had snarled southbound freeway traffic, increasing Victor Carns’s return trip home from the Orange County airport by over an hour. Nonetheless, the delay had barely dampened his spirits.
And why should it? he thought as he wheeled through the wrought-iron gates of his Coto de Caza estate. Everything went perfectly. It would take more than a traffic jam to ruin things tonight.
After rolling into the garage and pulling to a stop, Carns revved the engine, enjoying the throaty roar of his most recent acquisition, a V-12 Lamborghini Murcielago. Moments later he twisted off the ignition, raised the distinctive jack-knife “Lambo” car door, and climbed from behind the wheel. Ducking back into the cockpit, he flipped the luggage compartment release. Whistling cheerfully, he walked to the front of the half-million-dollar red exotic and withdrew his flight bag from the wedge-shaped trunk. With a quick tug, he pulled off the OMA/SNA airline tag and tossed it into a trash can on his way into the house. Once inside he turned off the security system, a precaution he used reluctantly, and then only rarely. The possibility of an intruder pawing through his secrets was unthinkable, but Carns also knew that having the police show up at his home when he wasn’t there could prove fatal.
Deciding that unpacking could wait, Carns left his bag at the bottom of the stairs and strode to his office. Ignoring a stack of faxed reports and newsletters that had accumulated in his absence, he crossed to his trading desk and flipped on the TV. Smiling, he settled into his chair and shoved a disc into a playback console hooked to the set.
Carns had recorded the newscast earlier that afternoon, prior to leaving for the Omaha airport and his flight home. At that point neither CNBC nor CNN had picked up the murder, but KETV, an Omaha ABC affiliate, had. Impatiently, Carns shuttled through several commercials before finding the newscast. John Hall’s death was the lead story.
Carns turned up the sound.
“… the death in his home early this morning of United Western Packers executive John Hall, long an icon in the Nebraskan cattle community. Authorities have thus far declined to comment on the circumstances of Hall’s death, but sources close to the investigation have indicated that it may not be ruled accidental…”
Recalling Hall’s final moments, Carns rocked back in his chair. He had been wrong about Hall’s having made other recordings of their telephone conversations. He knew that now, as surely as he knew that never again would Hall pose a threat. With a surge of satisfaction, Carns pictured the CEO in his bathtub as he had last seen him, Hall’s bulging eyes staring up from beneath the surface of the water.
During most of it, Hall, a manipulator to the end, had refused to believe what was happening-bartering, whining, negotiating for his life between occasional sputtering breaths when Carns let him bring his lips to the surface. But at the finish, when Hall finally accepted that he was about die, something had changed in his eyes. Carns had seen it and cherished that exquisite moment, storing it, like many that had gone before, in a secret place inside his mind.
It was time for the network news. Curious to see if other stations were finally running the story, Carns flipped through the channels. He stopped on CBS, hearing a name that for the past days had nagged him with the persistence of a rotten tooth. As he watched, the scene shifted from the network news desk to a terrace outside downtown LAPD headquarters. Carns leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as Lauren Van Owen, microphone in hand, began her news piece.
“This reporter has recently learned that the Candlelight Killer Task Force, working in conjunction with the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit, has developed a psychological profile of the man for whom they’re searching,” she said, briefly glancing toward the stone and glass building behind her. “According to LAPD sources, police are hunting for a white male they believe to be in his midthirties and of below-average intelligence. He’s described as a loner who’s had little or no association with mainstream society and probably works in a menial, low paying occupation.
“Police sources also say that certain aspects of the killer’s crimes indicate that he is impotent and unable to perform normally with women, and that he has marked homosexual tendencies. The FBI behaviorists reportedly base their latter conclusion on heretofore unreleased facts concerning the sexual molestation of all three husbands during their strangulation murders. The killer is also thought to be extremely disorganized and powerless to control his actions, traits authorities feel will soon lead to his apprehension. Officials are asking anyone with information to call the task force’s twenty-four-hour hotline. This is Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News, Los Angeles.”
Carns stabbed the screen to darkness, burning with an emotion he hadn’t felt since childhood.
A homosexual? A queer? And the other hideous things she said…
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Flushed with rage, Carns shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease the excruciating throb that gripped his brain like an unremitting claw.
After what seemed an eternity, the torment eased. Carns opened his eyes.
Wrong! How could they be so wrong?
Thinking back, he recalled the conversation he had witnessed at the Sports Club. At the time he’d been certain that the task force detective’s meeting with the blond reporter had to be more than coincidence. Subsequently, Van Owen’s exclusive revelation of the composite drawing had proved him right. With a smile as cold as gunmetal, Carns suddenly realized the source of her latest information as well.
Kane.
33
Think the guy’s gonna show?”
Sergeant Edward Kinoshita lowered his binoculars and glanced over at Steve Matthews. As he had for most of the past week, Matthews was sitting beside the bed on a folding metal chair and cheating his way through a game of solitaire-laying out cards in symmetrical piles on the bedspread and peeking at hole cards whenever it suited him. He was still losing.
“Beats me,” Kinoshita replied, again raisin
g the binoculars to sweep the darkened street outside. A block down he could just make out Bottrell and Patterson’s Plymouth tucked back in a neighbor’s driveway. Otherwise, nothing. “You got an opinion?”
“Yeah. No way.”
“Why not?”
Matthews turned over a king and transferred a queen stack, uncovering an ace he’d glimpsed two cards back. “Been too long.”
“You’ve worked this from the beginning. How long’s it been?”
“We’re into the third week now.” Matthews yawned, turned up another ace, and pried a two from the discard pile. “We were supposed to pull the plug on Tuesday. Then it got extended, but with fewer guys on the unit. Now we’re just covering the front of the house, nighttime only. I don’t know-maybe somebody knows something we don’t.”
“Personally, I think we’re going to a lot of trouble for a B-and-E.”
“Assault, too. The guy clobbered the maid. Scuttlebutt downtown is that those Candlelight hotshots think this might be connected to their case.”
“So where are they now?”
Matthews shrugged. “Maybe they changed their minds. If you ask me, this has been a bogus stakeout from day one.”
The radio crackled. “Car.” The call was from Whiteman and Madison, a third pair of plainclothes surveillance officers stationed in an unmarked vehicle at Valley Vista and Beverly Glen. “Green Chevy van.”
Matthews turned off the light and joined Kinoshita at the window. A moment later they spotted a van passing the Baker house, traveling west.
The radio crackled again. “Guy lives on the next street up,” said Bottrell from the Plymouth, sounding bored. Unlike Matthews, who had previously worked the day shift, Bottrell had been on night surveillance from the start. “Works at a bar over in Westwood. Gets home about now every evening. He’ll turn left at the stop sign.”
The van slowed at the intersection, swung left, and drove up the hill.
