by N. M. Brown
‘Sure, grab the jar and I’ll call them out to you.’
By the time the pizza was finished and the two bottles of beer were drained, Vicki and Leighton sat on opposite sides of the table, looking at a scattering of silver coins peppering the map in a roughly rectangular pattern. The shape stretched like a fractured speech bubble from Riverside northwards, then east to Needles, then south through Lake Havasu City, west to Blythe, and back along to Riverside again.
It looked to Leighton as if the sites marked out a simple, circular route. Most serial killers would produce a map of victims more chaotic than this one. It therefore seemed likely that the regularity of the pattern was down to the specific journey taken by the bus. This meant it was conceivable that there were two or three killers out there. A private bus would provide access and opportunity to victims.
‘What are you thinking?’ Vicki asked.
‘About the criminals.’ Leighton said.
‘What about them?’
‘They will most likely be organised, non-social…’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, a disorganised killer leaves a trail of chaos from opportunistic attacks; an organised killer is careful. Their trail is neat and tidy, latex gloves, controlled violence, and the victims are pre-selected. This map doesn’t suggest chaos.’
‘Well, if you’re right, could they just stop what they’re doing and vanish back into the world?’
‘It’s unlikely – most of them only stop in one of three instances – they either get caught – which happens less than most people imagine – or more often they kill themselves. That allows them to retain their sense of control right until the end.’
‘Or?’
‘Huh?’
‘You said there were three instances. What’s the other one?’
Leighton pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to hell Gretsch was right and his theory was just a dumb fantasy. ‘They sometimes burn themselves out in a final frenzy. This,’ he said, and nodded at the thirty-two coins on the table, ‘might only be the warm up act.’
‘We should inform someone.’
‘I already tried to call it in officially. They won’t listen.’
‘Why not?’
‘I screwed up a few years back.’ Leighton sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. ‘That’s how I ended up working homicide.’
‘I thought you moved because of your daughter’s accident.’
‘It was partly the reason. The night Annie died, I was first at the scene. Nice twist of fate, huh?’
Vicki put her hand on his.
‘It’s stupid how the stuff you want to forget stays with you the most. The rain was battering down, and it was dark. Danny stayed in the cruiser, calling the accident in. I remember hurrying over the wet road to this small red Honda, and how I had to shield my eyes from the flames coming from the cracked engine…’
‘Leighton, you don’t need to tell me.’
‘It’s okay, you should know. At first I didn’t realise it was her car, but as I got closer I saw the licence plate. I just remember screaming her name and pulling on the door handle. Got this in the process.’ Leighton turned over his right hand, revealing shiny patches of white skin where the pads of his fingers had been fused to the hot metal.
‘The smoke was too thick to see inside, but I knew she was already gone. I pulled the door open, but I just made it worse – the rush of air sent the flames into an inferno. The blast knocked me off my feet. But I saw her, in those seconds before the fire took her. It would have been better if I’d been the one who stayed in the cruiser. She was already dead, but still seated – her legs and hair already on fire.’
‘Oh, Leighton.’
‘Danny had to drag me away. I was hitting out at the poor guy, but he saved my life. The fuel tank blew, and the force of it slammed us both off the side of our cruiser. They wanted me to take the entire month off, but I had nothing else to do.’
‘You went back to work?’ Vicki struggled to hide the horror in her voice.
‘I did. And things were manageable for a couple of months, until that Sunday afternoon when we came across a crushed SUV on the freeway. It had hit a patch of diesel and spun out. The driver was inside, banging on the glass. Danny was out of the cruiser in moments, but I couldn’t move. He was yelling to me for help, trying to pull the door open.’
Leighton paused as he became consumed by his own dark memories.
‘Did he die?’
‘No.’ Leighton shook his head. ‘Danny got around the passenger side and pulled him out that way. He was a good cop. After that, I was a pariah in Highway Patrol. Nobody wanted to work with me, and I couldn’t blame them, either. Anyway, that’s how I got transferred to homicide, but the force occupies a small world, and my reputation reached Homicide before I did. Most of the guys thought I was some kind of unwanted burden to drag around murder scenes with them.’
‘That must’ve been tough.’
‘Yeah, for me, and them. But I’m a decent worker, and I slowly got results, earned some respect… I think that pissed Gretsch off even more.’
‘Gretsch?’
‘The chief at Oceanside, and my boss for seven long years. He’s a determined career cop, who resented my presence there from the start. That was the reason I got pushed to retire early.’
‘You mean it wasn’t your choice?’ Vicki asked, her eyes widening.
Leighton shook his head. ‘A few months back, Gretsch invited me into his office. He put his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head. He smiled and asked me how things were going. I remember noting it was the first time the man had ever smiled at me.’
‘What did you say to him?’
Leighton shrugged. ‘I said while dealing with murder could never really be described as enjoyable, I liked my job and felt I had helped solve a number of cases, including the Black Mountain Ranch fiasco that got Gretsch his promotion to chief.’
‘Black Mountain?’ Vicki frowned. ‘Not that thing about the dentist that was all over the news.’
‘Yeah, my noble chief got the credit for that one.’
‘What did he say, in the office, I mean?’
‘He said I had got lucky on that case, that I was over the hill, and my pyrophobia made me a liability.’
‘What an asshole.’
‘I asked what my options were. He told me I could choose to retire, or he could initiate a psych assessment and competency requirement. He already had the papers drawn up for either eventuality. He had them rubber-stamped and ready to go.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I signed the application for early retirement and I left.’ Leighton sighed.
‘Why didn’t you fight it?’
‘The system’s bigger than one pain in the ass.’
‘But surely you could have done something!’
‘Maybe,’ Leighton said softly, but did not sound like he believed it. ‘I guess I just didn’t fancy having some stranger taking a walk through my head.’
The beeping noise from Vicki’s tablet broke the tension with a shrill alert. In response, Vicki swept her finger across the screen and tapped an icon to life.
Frowning as she read the text, Vicki turned to Leighton. ‘It’s an email from a hacker I know from my student days. I asked her to dig into any data linked to the phrase Route King – she’s scraped up the name and address of the person who set up Route King’s site – and it’s local.’
‘Looks like the train trip is off,’ Leighton said and got slowly to his feet.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
At 7.45am, the bright sun was already rising on the car that pulled to a gentle stop outside the two-storey apartment block in a residential area of Midway. The air being drawn through the car’s air conditioner carried the greasy stench of frying meat mixed with cigarette smoke.
‘Okay.’ Leighton turned to Vicki as he switched off the engine. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Officer Sarah Ande
rson,’ she said resolutely.
‘Where’s your badge?’
Vicki pulled the jacket of her dark trouser suit open to reveal a metal star in a leather wallet folded over her waistband. She had to wear it that way because the other side of the badge, which was pressed against her stomach, revealed a dated photograph of Leighton in his Highway Patrol uniform.
‘Excellent.’ Leighton smiled. ‘Now, remember this might be nothing, but he could be dangerous. Don’t say anything unless you have to – impersonating an officer is a criminal offence, but it can’t be proven if you don’t actually speak. Just take out the notepad and write down anything you think important. Okay?’
Vicki nodded and smoothed her hair back. For the first time in weeks, and absurd as the situation was, she finally felt as if she was helping to find Laurie.
‘Right then, let’s speak to the man,’ Leighton said and climbed out of the car.
The scuffed door of the apartment was opened by a short scruffy man in his early twenties. His hair was sticking up and he was wearing three-quarter length pants and a faded Pac-Man T-shirt.
‘Mitchell West?’ Leighton asked as he slid one foot into the doorway – ensuring it could not be closed.
‘Yeah,’ the young man yawned. This was something Leighton had come to associate with guilty people – attempting to appear so relaxed they were sleepy.
‘I’m Detective Jones.’ Leighton held up his badge. ‘This is Detective Anderson. May we come in?’
‘What for?’ West asked.
‘We have some questions we’d like to ask you,’ Leighton spoke slowly. ‘To avoid your neighbours hearing anything and perhaps drawing a false impression of you, I suggest we speak inside?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ the young man said. He tried, unsuccessfully, to remain sounding casual as he ran a hand through his tangled hair.
Leighton noticed before he turned to lead them inside, that their host had glanced momentarily at Leighton’s belt, where his Glock 17 was located. He made a mental note to keep his body out of the other man’s reach.
The young man led his visitors through to a sparse living area consisting of bare orange walls, a black sofa, and a wooden table upon which sat a can of Sprite, a half-empty glass, and a tin ashtray with the remnants of a joint in it. West wandered over to the table and picked up the glass.
‘So, what’s this about?’ he said, taking a small sip of juice.
‘You design websites?’
‘Yeah, I do a bit. Not a crime, is it?’ He raised his chin as if to challenge Leighton.
The older man was not intimidated and continued with his questions. ‘What do you know about a website for a company called Route King?’
West frowned and moved his eyes upwards in a deliberate thinking pose. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘That name doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘That’s strange,’ Vicki said. ‘Because the Regional Internet Registry has verified that the named person who originally registered the domain name for Route King,’ she checked her black notepad, ‘is one Mitchell Webster, which we have discovered is the alias you have used to purchase thirty domains.’
Leighton stared at West, hoping to hell Vicki knew her stuff.
‘So,’ Leighton said steadily, ‘I’ll ask you again. What do you know about the Route King website?’
In one frantic gesture, the young man threw the glass and its contents into Leighton’s face, and then darted towards the open door. Whilst Leighton clutched his stinging eyes, Vicki made a frantic grab for West. He responded by thrusting a half made fist into her face, knocking her to the floor. As he broke away from Vicki, West punched Leighton in the kidneys, then vanished out of the room. Leighton staggered against the sofa, gasping for air, then somehow righted himself.
‘You okay?’ Leighton blinked at Vicki while rubbing his eyes.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied, and waved a hand at him, holding her bleeding nose with the other.
‘Okay, I’m going after him.’
Leighton stumbled out of the door into the bright street to see West roaring away from him on a dark green motorcycle. He got a note of the first part of the licence plate, but it shrank away from him too quickly. In his younger years, he would have been faster, better. He cursed his own stupidity.
Back inside, Leighton found Vicki standing in a small bathroom, holding a bunched-up handful of toilet tissue against her nose. She looked smaller and more vulnerable here in the dark corners of the real world.
‘He’s gone.’ Leighton breathed out. ‘I’m sorry for bringing you here, for getting you hurt. I should’ve come alone.’
‘It’s okay,’ Vicki said. ‘You want to take a look around?’
‘Hell, yes. Whatever his role is in all of this, he certainly wasn’t keen on sharing anything, was he? I’ll let you get cleaned up.’
As he walked out of the bathroom, Leighton unclipped his Glock – just in case West decided to return. There were two doors outside the bathroom. Leighton pushed open the first one to reveal a cramped kitchen where Domino’s pizza boxes were neatly stacked on the floor in an angular column next to a bin overflowing with soda cans.
Proceeding to the second door, Leighton slowly opened it, gun first, and discovered a room that was both bedroom and workplace. The single bed was neatly made with a white bedding set. Opposite this were two computers and a range of neat black devices lined up on a wooden desk. The screen of the computer furthest away revealed a low budget sex movie featuring a woman handcuffed to a bed. Leighton discretely moved over and switched off the machine before Vicki came in. He turned his attention to the desk drawers, all of which were empty.
‘You found the set-up?’ Vicki asked from the doorway.
‘Yeah.’ Leighton smiled. ‘Seems a bit of a small operation. How’s the nose?’
‘Blood’s dried up. You want me to grab any of the technology? I could use it to get us closer.’
‘Yeah, I reckon we’re due it as compensation,’ Leighton said, ‘but let’s make it quick.’ He placed his gun in his shoulder holster but left the strap off, just in case it was required. Behind him, Vicki quickly disconnected cables.
‘Will you be able to hack into them? Is that the term?’
Vicki nodded. ‘I hope so. But we need to take it back to my house.’ Vicki stacked the two remote drives and a notebook into a neat pile. ‘There,’ she said in a nasal tone. ‘All done.’
‘Okay.’ Leighton smiled crookedly. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
Chapter Thirty
At 10.00am, National Park Ranger Frank Mankato, who had been cruising the perimeter of the southern tip of the sprawling desert of the Joshua Tree Park, pulled into the dusty picnic area. Even at this time in the morning, the sand-coloured tables were starting to fill up with families having a snack, or preparing their backpacks before a day of hiking on the long, hot trails.
Frank got out of the vehicle, put his wide-brimmed hat on, and made his way through the area. He smiled congenially and said good morning to the scattered patrons. He made small talk with most of them, mainly ensuring they had enough water, hats, and sunscreen. At this time of year, it was not unusual to get a couple of heatstroke fatalities in the park – during Frank’s first year on the job, they had had two in one day when the temperature hit 105 Fahrenheit.
Picking up some scattered food wrappers from beneath the large metal barbeque, he placed them in a bin and purposely ignored the two female students who were obviously concealing a couple of joints beneath their wooden bench.
Making his way to the edge of the area, Frank unclipped his binoculars from his belt, held them to his eyes, and surveyed the area for any sign of trouble. There were more dangers in the park than heatstroke. Some trails were a less than a meter wide and featured sheer drops on either side.
Maps, and the ability to use them, were also essential – some people chose to mark their path with the endlessly replicated rock formations and cacti as points of reference, only to find
they were walking in wide circles until their water ran out, and somebody collapsed.
The information points at the entrance and warnings throughout the park provided travellers with advice, both on potential dangers, and on how to signal for help by using mirrors or smoke signals. Despite the many warnings, most people still put dumb hope in their fancy cell phones, which had limited – if any – coverage in the park.
Frank’s sweep of the shimmering horizon found no sign of trouble, and he was about to start back towards the car park when his attention focused on a strange, dark object located between two large jumping Cholas, about one hundred and fifty yards from the picnic site. Narrowing his eyes and keeping them fixed on the object, Frank brought the binoculars back up in front of his bronzed face. He had to adjust the zoom, but eventually he got a fix. Whatever the object was, it looked too angular to belong out here.
Tilting his hat brim down over his eyes, Frank jumped off the small mesa on which the picnic site was located and made a small dust cloud as he landed on the baked ground. He walked purposely towards the object, carefully avoiding the aggressive spikes of the jumping cacti, which covered much of the area.
As he neared the object, Frank discovered it was a battered leather suitcase. It was roughly the size of the one used by him and his wife on their annual holiday to Florida. The initial appearance of ripples and small cracks on the surface of the leather suggested the luggage had been exposed to the elements for at least a couple of weeks.
Frank instinctively brought his hand to his radio, but then stopped himself. What would be the point of calling in an abandoned suitcase? Another ranger on clean-up duty would still have to make the trip out here to recover it, and it seemed unlikely the owner would be returning to collect it. It would make more sense to throw the ugly old thing into the trunk of his car and drop it off at the Oasis Park Ranger Station when he stopped in for lunch. Crouching down, he grabbed the handle. He had expected the case to be empty but found it too heavy to move.
Frowning, and with a dawning sense of unease, he glanced back towards the picnic benches, ensuring the tourists were far enough away to remain oblivious. He then grabbed the brass zipper and swept his hand to the side, opening the case.
