Kane

by Steve Gannon

  Working through the morning and most of the afternoon, Arnie and I compiled three new suspect lists containing the names of local subscribers to various electronic, ham radio, and hacker magazines; employees of Southern California aerospace and engineering firms-especially anyone with access to electronic test equipment-and individuals who, over the past two years, had purchased, leased, or rented a spectrum analyzer. Although the two-year cutoff was an arbitrary limit, our inventories quickly showed signs of becoming unmanageably large, and we had to draw the line somewhere.

  “What now?” asked Arnie at a little after six that evening, eyeing the piles of notes and faxes spread across our desks.

  “It’s too late for any more calling,” I answered. “Let’s start cross-checking this stuff against the task force database.”

  “Now? Hell, Dan, it can wait till tomorrow. It’s time for dinner.”

  “You go ahead. I’m going to keep at it awhile longer.”

  “Suit yourself. See you back at the ranch.”

  After Arnie left I rose from my desk, stretched, stumbled to the coffee station, and poured my seventh cup of the day. After returning to my workstation, I used the disc Deluca had brought me to access the task force database. Next, I began a comparison of our new data with old-name by name, category by category.

  Later that evening I glanced at the time, surprised to see that three hours had already passed. By then, starting with the most promising comparisons-people owning or with access to a spectrum analyzer versus members and employees of the victims’ health clubs-I had barely made a dent. It was going to be a long night.

  I was still working at the computer the next morning when Arnie arrived. Upon entering the nearly deserted squad room, he shook his head in disbelief. “Damn, amigo. You’ve been at it since I left?”

  Wearily, I nodded.

  “Anything?”

  “I just now came up with another possible. Fifth one so far. This one is a guy who purchased a Hewlett-Packard 8590-series spectrum analyzer last February. He also subscribes to a publication called Hardware Hacker.”

  “Any other correlation?”

  “He lives in Orange County and made a credit card purchase of pair of Genie garage-door remotes last April from a local distributor. No connection with the victims, no repair shop tie-ins.”

  “What about the attorneys’ office?”

  “He’s not on their employee list. I was just about to check DMV records.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you. I’m gonna grab some coffee. Want a refill?”

  I nodded. “Black.” I handed Arnie my mug and refocused my attention on the computer screen.

  When Arnie returned, I was no longer fatigued. I sat erect, eyes riveted on the monitor. Sensing something was up, Arnie peered at the screen. “What’ve you got?” he asked, checking the name on top of the readout: Victor Carns.

  “DMV shows three vehicles registered to this guy,” I answered. “A Lamborghini, a Ford van, and a Toyota.”

  “So?”

  “We think the killer was driving a white van when he followed Maureen Baker from her health club in West LA. Later he switched to a dark-colored Toyota when he broke into her house. Plus, some guy driving a blue Toyota bumped Julie Welsh’s car, probably to get her home address. Somebody in a van did the same to Susan Larson.”

  “Damn! This could be the guy.”

  “Maybe.” I picked up the phone. After placing a call to DMV headquarters in Sacramento, I turned back to the screen. “Let’s see what CLETS can turn up.” I printed a copy of the DMV file, then booted up a California police database whose acronym stood for California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System. My inquiries on Victor Carns showed no warrants outstanding, no supervised-release file, no criminal history. FBI records, however, did reveal one interesting bit of information: Nineteen years back Carns had served as an electronics technician in the United States Navy.

  Just then the fax machine cranked out a high resolution blowup of Victor Carns’s driver’s license picture. Arnie and I studied the photocopy, staring at the face of a nondescript man in his midthirties.

  “Looks like an accountant,” said Arnie.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “We had the Baker woman work with a composite artist. This doesn’t much resemble the drawing they came up with, which could explain why nobody at the health clubs picked him out. Height, age, weight, and hair color are close, though,” I added, referring to the DMV printout.

  “A lot of people don’t work well with an artist,” noted Arnie. “The Baker lady might recognize this picture, though. If she tags him, we could revisit the health clubs. We can run his DMV thumbprint against the crime-scene unknowns, too.”

  “We’ll do those things for certain, but right now there may be a quicker way.” After referring to my notes, I again picked up the phone.

  “Who’re you calling?”

  “An attorney’s office in Santa Ana.” I dialed a 714-area code number, then covered the receiver with my palm. “Somebody used their office codes to get a DMV trace on Mrs. Baker.”

  Hearing someone pick up at the other end, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello? Yes, I’m calling about the status of my bill. Would you please connect me with someone in accounting?” Turning toward Arnie, I once more covered the phone. “We don’t have enough to get a warrant for their client list, and we haven’t been able to come up with anything on-Hello? Yes, good morning. This is Victor Carns. That’s C-A-R-N-S. I’m leaving on an extended trip and I want to make sure my account is fully paid.” A pause. “It is? Good. Thank you. You have a nice day, too.”

  I set the receiver back in the cradle. Both Arnie and I stared at Carns’s DMV photo for several seconds. Finally Arnie spoke. “Damn,” he said softly. “You nailed him.”

  I nodded. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough for an arrest, or even a search warrant. But now we know who he is.”

  “What’s next? Turn it over to the task force?”

  “Not quite yet. There’s one more thing I want to check.”

  48

  Later that Saturday afternoon Barrello and I pulled through the Orange County subdivision of Coto de Caza’s north gate, Barrello at the wheel. Winding through a maze of country roads, we passed an equestrian center, a rustic-looking general store, and what seemed an endless parade of white fenced, multiacre estates. A mile farther on we pulled to a stop on Via Pajaro, parking in the shade of a large sycamore. I referred to a brochure we’d picked up earlier at the realtor’s office. According to the enclosed map, we were at the south end of the “Los Ranchos Estates” section of the community, the oldest and most prestigious area in Coto.

  Leaving the engine running, Barrello reached into a paper sack beside him, pulling out a cheeseburger and a carton of fries. “Sucker’s as big as a hotel,” he said, gazing up at an English Tudor-style mansion set high on a hillside across the street.

  Nodding in agreement, I opened the glove compartment and withdrew a pair of binoculars. Sweeping them across the sprawling structure, I inspected Victor Carns’s estate. The main house stood partially concealed behind several large outbuildings and an orchard of fruit trees. Gables and several brick chimneys pierced the structure’s gray slate roof. Two additional wings fanned out on either side, both of these secondary projections easily as large as an average home. No movement on the grounds or inside the house, at least that I could see.

  “You gonna tell me why you think this is our guy?” Barrello inquired around a mouthful of burger.

  I lowered the binoculars and rubbed my eyes, continuing to inspect the huge mansion. “After I’m sure.”

  “You realize Fuentes and I are goin’ out on a limb for you on this, not to mention workin’ on our only day off?”

  “I do, and I appreciate it, Lou. If this pans out, I’ll turn everything over to the task force and step aside. You, Fuentes, and Deluca are going to be heroes.”

  “I’m not risking my pension for that. I want thi
s dirtbag as much as you do.”

  “I know.” I pulled out my cell phone and called Fuentes. “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “Crossing the parking lot,” Fuentes’ voice came back from Plaza Antonio, a shopping mall four miles east. “He’s heading into the market. Just got a basket. Now he’s going through the doors. Want me to follow him in?”

  “No. Stay with his car. Let us know when he comes out.”

  I hung up, then dialed another number. “One last check,” I said as Carns’s home number began ringing. No one answered. Next I tried Carns’s business line, reaching an answering machine. Satisfied, I repocketed my phone. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Barrello downed a final fistful of fries and dropped the car into gear. A few blocks south he turned up a side street, stopping at a weed choked lot past Carns’s estate. From our new vantage Carns’s enormous compound appeared even larger, with a putting green, tennis courts, and a kidney-shaped pool now visible behind the fencing and hedges surrounding the grounds.

  “Holy shit,” said Barrello, his voice tinged with awe. “The guy’s definitely got some bucks.”

  “Seems that way.” I reached across the seat and grabbed Barrello’s partially eaten burger. “Dog,” I said in response to Barrello’s puzzled look. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back if there isn’t one.”

  “How long will you be?”

  I shoved the paper-wrapped burger into my pocket. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Keep in touch with Fuentes and call me if Carns comes out of the market.”

  “Got it,” said Barrello. “You’re just gonna reconnoiter the grounds, look through a few windows, right? For anything more we get a warrant.”

  “Right,” I lied, stepping from the car. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Barrello, but if what I was about to do were ever discovered, I wanted to protect him and Fuentes from the inevitable repercussions-at least as much as possible.

  I crossed the street and climbed a six-foot gate, then followed a winding, pressed-concrete driveway to the front door. Out of sight of Barrello, I used my knuckle to ring the bell. No one answered. With a handkerchief covering my palm, I tried the knob. The door was locked. I groaned inwardly, noticing a Medeco dead bolt above the latch.

  Shortly after graduating from the Police Academy, I had spent time learning the art of picking locks. Over months of practice at home, working on various lock cylinders while watching television, I’d developed considerable expertise. Nonetheless, I had managed to open a “pick-proof” Medeco only once. It had taken a week.

  Giving up on the Medeco, I made my way around the side of the house, discovering a pair of French doors bordering the pool. The lock there was a Baldwin. With a smile, I pulled a small tension wrench and a pick from my pocket. Working quickly, I inserted the wrench into the Baldwin’s brass keyway and twisted, maintaining pressure with my left hand. Using the pick in my right, I raked the pins. One by one, all five clicked into place. Twenty seconds from starting, I rotated the cylinder. Burger in hand, I cracked the door and whistled into the interior. “Here, boy,” I called. Nothing. Rewrapping Barrello’s lunch and shoving it back into my pocket, I entered the house, wiping the knob with my handkerchief as I stepped inside.

  Beside the door, I noticed a security panel. As I’d expected, Carns’s house had an alarm system. Prepared to leave immediately if necessary, I checked a small screen on the panel face. Also as expected, the system was unarmed. Like most people, Carns didn’t set the alarm when only going out for a short while.

  After relocking the door I glanced around, finding myself in a well equipped gymnasium complete with mirrors, chrome plated dumbbells, and Nautilus machines. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I checked a bathroom off the gym, then made my way down a hallway to the main portion of the house. Along the way I passed four guest bedrooms, a den, and a powder room. All were lacking even the barest of furnishings. The living room came next. Past that lay another hallway and a staircase leading up.

  Check the upper floors first. Make sure no one’s home.

  I crept up the stairs. At the top, an oak-paneled library lay to the left. A short corridor ran the other direction. At the end, a pair of eight-foot doors stood open.

  Carns’s bedroom.

  After a cursory look around the library, I searched the bedroom. Dresser: socks, underwear, and T-shirts, all neatly folded. Walk-in closet: shelves stacked with sweaters and shirts, racks containing hundreds of shoes, poles laden with suits, sports coats, and jackets. Bathroom: Jacuzzi tub, marble shower, a jar of hand cream on the sink. Medicine chest: prescription vials-Donnatal, Ampicillin, Imitrex, Midrin-along with a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of black hair dye. I removed a plastic bag from my pocket and deposited several strands of hair that I teased from the hairbrush. I also took a sample of the dye, tipping the mouth of the bottle against a wad of toilet paper and saving the specimen in a second bag. A search of the trash basket revealed an empty pill vial, sure to have prints. It went into a third.

  Moving quickly, I descended to the first floor.

  Right or left?

  I turned right, entering one of the single-storied wings I had seen from the street. The rooms there, like the guest bedrooms I’d passed earlier, were devoid of any signs of habitation. After passing a darkened stairway leading down, I searched the other wing, finding it similarly barren.

  After returning to the base of the main stairs, I entered a third corridor leading to a gigantic dining room with a large kitchen to the left, past which a door accessed the garage. I stepped through. A garage workbench ran the length of one wall. Another door with a simple button lock opened onto a walkway to the tennis courts. The garage had slots for six cars, all empty. No oil drips on the concrete floor.

  Where’s he storing the cars?

  An inspection of the workbench revealed vises, metalworking tools, and an array of electronic equipment-none of which resembled Hank Dexter’s spectrum analyzer.

  Time was running out. Trying not to rush, I reentered the house. Two areas remained to be searched: a door I had spotted at the end of the third hallway, and the stairway to the basement. I glanced at my watch. Nine minutes had elapsed since I’d entered, and I still had nothing that would tie Carns to the murders, at least nothing the task force could use. Although the dye sample, loose hairs, and any latent prints on the prescription vial might prove out, they were worthless because of the method in which I had obtained them. Worse, should their warrantless procurement ever come to light, they could invalidate similar evidence gathered later-possibly even poisoning the entire case. I knew the analysis of any materials I gathered would definitely have to take place on an unofficial basis.

  Although I realized my illegal entry constituted a serious risk, it was one I felt was justified. In addition to making absolutely certain about Carns, I hoped to find incriminating material that could plausibly surface in some other way-thus giving the task force grounds for an airtight warrant, grounds they didn’t have and might never get. Hair evidence wasn’t definitive enough. Showing Carns’s picture at the murdered women’s health clubs might pan out. Then again, if he had altered his appearance, maybe not. And even if he were recognized at various clubs, so what? I felt even more skeptical about Carns’s DMV thumbprint matching an unknown print from one of the crime scenes. Carns had been far too careful for that. Whatever happened, I was certain of one thing: To nail Carns would take more than the circumstantial evidence already assembled.

  Deciding to save the basement for last, I returned to the middle hallway and pushed through the final door, entering what appeared to be Carns’s office. Three desks spiraled out from the center of the room. Two were neat and tidy. Ignoring these, I moved to the third, which was strewn with computer printouts and reference books from an adjoining bookshelf. As I began my search, a single printed word in the jumble of papers on the desk jumped out at me.

  Philharmonic.

  It was in an article that had been published in the Los Angel
es Times describing Catheryn’s appointment as the Philharmonic’s associate principal cello. Stapled beneath was her picture, along with a property report giving our home address. Stunned, I searched further, finding other newspaper articles detailing several of my past homicide cases, as well as another piece about Catheryn. With a chill, I noticed that each mention of her name had been neatly underlined. I stared at the articles, realizing their implication.

  I have to tell Kate, I thought, shaken by what I’d found. Thank God she and the kids are in Santa Barbara.

  With an effort of will, I forced myself back to the business at hand. I quickly searched the rest of the desk, careful to leave everything exactly as I had found it. Next I moved to the file cabinet, discovering Carns’s IRS tax returns for the past eight years. The most recent return gave his present Coto address; five years before that Carns had lived in San Diego. The oldest listed address was in San Francisco.

  Making a mental note of the previous addresses, I replaced the tax returns. As I did, I noted something odd about the reference works lining an adjacent bookshelf. Most were technical publications involving finance and investment strategy, but near the bottom were a number of seemingly misplaced volumes-true crime studies of various modern sociopaths like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, and Randy Craft, along with a book on hypnosis and an array of clinical psychology textbooks. Intrigued, I leaned closer, noting a manila folder jammed between two of the psychology books.

  I pulled out the folder. It contained a psychological evaluation on Carns from a Portland doctor, and another from a psychiatrist in San Francisco. I scanned them quickly. I also found social service documents from upstate New York and a five-year span of outpatient records from a San Francisco medical institution.