Into the Dark

by Rick Mofina

  Freeman said, “Ten-four,” into her shoulder microphone, then walked over to Claire, while paging through her notebook.

  “Officer Freeman, what more can you tell us?” Claire asked.

  “It looks like they were going after Dr. Ramsallie’s office.”

  “A dentist’s office?”

  “They went through every office, but it appears they were looking for cash, drugs and maybe gold used in fillings.”

  Dr. Ramsallie approached them, patting his tanned brow and thick moustache with a handkerchief.

  “Please put in your report that for insurance purposes, we have very little gold on-site, just a few pebble-sized pieces for a few crowns, worth only a few hundred dollars. We order gold when we need it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Freeman said. “We’ve noted that information.”

  “I took a closer look from the window. I think a few canisters of nitrous oxide are missing, but I need to go inside to inspect my supplies.”

  “Yes, sir, we have that. Please don’t lift the tape and walk through the scene again. I ask you to bear with us. Our forensic people are on the way. Until they’re done processing, we can’t allow anyone inside.”

  “You must arrest these criminals. They must be punished.”

  “Yes, sir, we’re working on it.” As Freeman waited patiently, Dr. Ramsallie left her alone to continue her business with Claire.

  “How long before we can go inside?” Claire asked. “I was expecting to see patients this morning. We’ll have to scramble to reschedule.”

  “I know. Our crime scene people should be here at any moment. They’ve indicated that they’ll have things wrapped up later today.”

  “Can’t you let us in to get our hard-copy files so we can start calling patients, to tell them what happened?” Claire asked. “Some may be on their way. I need to reach them. Given our recent history in this parking lot, this situation makes me a little anxious.”

  “I know and I assure you that we’re not discounting the complaint history of this address.”

  “So what are you doing about Amber?”

  Freeman nodded. “I’ve requested Alhambra P.D. to check on Amber’s welfare and alert her as a precaution.”

  “You’re aware her estranged husband works at installing security systems?”

  “We’ve requested Sacramento P.D. confirm Eric Larch’s whereabouts for the last forty-eight hours. We want to ensure he’s complied with his bail conditions and the terms of the restraining order. This is all being done as a priority this morning.”

  Claire found some comfort in the actions Freeman had taken.

  “We’re working on all aspects of the crime committed here,” Freeman said. “Unfortunately, we can’t let anyone inside right now, but you must have your files backed up?”

  “Yes, we have to follow professional standards and procedures for securing our files. They’re password protected and encrypted. We have an off-site hard drive and I have my USB with me. It also holds my files, but I’ll call my husband to bring my laptop here ASAP. We don’t live far. We’ll work from that.”

  “Okay good, the detectives will want to talk to you once we get a little more information from the scene.”

  Robert arrived with Claire’s computer moments after the crime scene technicians had suited up, entered the office and started processing it. One of them worked outside photographing the building and neighborhood.

  Robert watched with interest. From the distance he strained to see them working through the windows. “Do they have any suspects?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “They’re thinking they were trying to get the gold from the dentist’s office.”

  Robert never took his eyes off the investigators.

  “I’d read about that trend, thieves stealing gold from dentists.” He turned to Claire. “Are you okay? Is there anything else I can do? I was on my way to get some stain for your planter boxes, but I can stay here with you.”

  For a moment she’d forgotten her feelings of uncertainty about him. The crisis underscored that she could count on him when she needed him. “No, thank you. I’ll call you later. I expect it’ll be a long day. Thanks for rushing over with my computer.”

  Claire kissed his cheek.

  After Robert left, Claire and Alice searched the files on Claire’s laptop, then used Claire’s cell phone to call all of her patients to alert them to the burglary. They’d managed to reschedule morning sessions. To accommodate patients, Claire offered to provide evening appointments later in the week, as well.

  For the next few hours the crime scene experts checked the alarm system and took photographs among their other work. The lead was Detective Cobb, who’d joined the San Marino P.D. after putting in twenty-five years with the LAPD. Cobb and his partner interviewed the tenants one by one. When he got to Claire, she summarized her concerns for him.

  “Okay, they’re done processing things,” Cobb said afterward. “I’m taking you inside first to walk you through your office. Be sure to follow my steps.”

  The desks, walls, cabinets and keyboards were smeared with fingerprint powder-white chalky stuff on dark surfaces and black graphite dust on light surfaces.

  “Whoever came in wore gloves,” Cobb said. “They also smashed the security cameras. They were experienced. Let’s see if they got into your files.”

  The cabinets, although damaged, seemed to have held. They were reinforced steel. But when Claire tried to log in to her computer, it took several attempts and several passwords, an indication that previous attempts had been made by the thieves.

  “What do you think?” Claire asked Cobb.

  “I think it’s possible a former partner would benefit, say for custody or a divorce settlement, from gaining access to a confidential file.”

  “Is that what you think happened? I thought they were after Ramsallie’s gold and laughing gas.”

  “You’ve recently had an enraged ex show up here.”

  Claire recalled Eric glaring at her from the back of the police car after the attack.

  “Now we have a burglary,” Cobb continued. “It could’ve been staged to disguise other intentions.”

  Claire stared at Cobb.

  “It’s just one theory,” he said, shrugging. “But at this point, we can’t rule anything out.”

  31

  Commerce, California

  Leeza Meadows had high cheekbones and eyes that sparkled with hope.

  She was just twenty-one.

  Tanner stared at the photocopy of her driver’s license that he’d paper clipped inside the cover of his file folder for the task force meeting. Leeza was the youngest of the five victims. A few years out of high school, she was working at the Misty Nights Bar amp; Grill to put herself through college. Her eyes blazed with life, he thought, flipping through the other pictures in his file.

  Terror consumed her in one of the photos that had been sent to the AllNews Press Agency. Again Tanner’s gut tightened at the indignity. It had been nearly two days since Mark Harding had alerted them to the letter. In that time the task force had held several case status meetings.

  It was now 9:00 p.m.

  The ANPA had been calling Tanner every thirty minutes, demanding confirmation so they could run their story. Tanner was leading the group’s last meeting before the task force would respond, aware that they’d already missed the agreed upon deadline with the newswire service.

  More than two dozen investigators from a spectrum of law enforcement agencies had taken seats around the table in a meeting room at the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department.

  “Let’s get to this,” Tanner said. “We’ve concluded that the letter and contents originated from the person responsible for Leeza Meadows’s homicide and the four others.”

  “Hang on.” Art Lang, a detective with the LAPD, was drawing circles on his case status sheet. “Are we ruling out the possibility that someone originally happened on the Meadows’s scene, collected the items and sent the
letter in response to the article as a hoax?”

  Tanner acknowledged the theory.

  “Our analysis shows that the photographs are authentic,” Tanner said. “And they were taken before and after her death. Only the killer could’ve taken those images and only the killer would know about, and possess, her missing driver’s license. Only the killer could’ve used her pinky print in the message the Cold Case Unit discovered in Temple City.”

  Lang let a moment pass before nodding, and Tanner continued.

  “Unfortunately,” Tanner said, “the material sent to the ANPA has yielded no suspect DNA or latent prints. Nothing so far. Our guy was careful.”

  Tanner turned to FBI Special Agent Brad Knox, who said that preliminary lab results showed the envelope was sealed with moisture activation of the manufacturer’s adhesive. Examination was still in progress to determine the type of camera used to take the photographs of Leeza Meadows. The writing instrument used for the letter and envelope was a standard felt-tip medium-point marker. The paper was standard, white, twenty-pound recycled. We’re still working on it.”

  Knox said the Behavioral Analysis Unit had found that the syntax of the block-lettered message was indicative of someone of above-average intelligence who craved attention and was likely in a highly regarded position of control.

  “This is someone who enjoys being looked up to. This guy needs to have his ego fed,” Knox said. “Can we get more time before the news agency prints its story?”

  “The letter is their property,” Tanner said. “If we take much longer, they’ll do a story without us confirming it’s from the killer. They’ll say it’s from someone claiming to be the killer and that we’re investigating. We’d lose our chance for some control of the fallout of the story.”

  “Why did we go to the press with this?” Lang asked.

  “When the evidence first surfaced we talked to retired detectives who’d handled the original five cases and we consulted with the FBI profilers. It was suggested we use an anniversary to draw the killer out, if he was still alive. We went to the wire service so we could reach across the country.”

  “It worked,” Lang said. “We’re going to panic Southern California. Every whack-job will be confessing to us. We’ll have to set up for tips. This could get as huge as Son of Sam, the Zodiac Killer and the D.C. Sniper. It’s going to draw intense scrutiny. We’re going to be in the national spotlight once this breaks.”

  “Can we get them to hold back running the letter’s entire contents?” Knox asked.

  “Working on it,” Tanner said, going around the table for last questions. None came. “All right, then we’re as ready as we’re going to be.”

  Less than half an hour after the meeting ended, Tanner arrived home to a dark, empty house. Sam was spending another night with his sister. Kim had been great. When she realized that his long hours would lengthen further, she’d offered to take Sam for a few sleepovers. Sam loved going there, so it worked out fine, gave him time to concentrate on the case.

  In the dim light of his kitchen he texted Mark Harding.

  I’m ready to talk in the a.m. — my office.

  Harding responded instantly.

  9?

  9 is good.

  Tanner went to the fridge, took out a box with a few pieces of leftover pepperoni pizza. He ate a slice with a glass of water. When he finished, he was still too wired to sleep.

  He grabbed his car keys and drove through the night, one thought hammering in his head.

  This case is solvable. The asshole contacted us. It’s our shot to grab him.

  It wasn’t long before Tanner found himself at the edge of Santa Clarita. A lot can happen in ten years, he thought, taking in the new subdivision that had risen in the vicinity of the first homicide.

  But, like a hallowed patch of earth, the exact spot where the killer had left Leeza Meadows’s body, had not been touched. It was deep in a hilly sector that remained undeveloped.

  Tanner parked.

  Scanning the ground with his flashlight, he walked along a path that twisted into the wooded section where ten years earlier Leonard Nallis, the birdwatcher, had found her.

  “At first I thought it was a mannequin, or some kind of sick joke,” Nallis told Tanner, who was a deputy then working out of the Santa Clarita station.

  Now Tanner thought it was strange how his life had gone full circle. He remembered being a young deputy, staring at Leeza’s remains.

  At that moment he’d yearned to be the lead investigator on that case. Now here he was. It was all on his shoulders. He’d gotten exactly what he wanted, but at what cost?

  Tanner turned on his phone. The darkness glowed with the tiny light of his wife’s video.

  “I almost think I can beat this, I–If I don’t beat this, just hug Sam today for me, okay.”

  Tanner swallowed hard.

  He prayed to Becky’s ghost to help him stop the Dark Wind Killer.

  “Help me find him, Becky, before he does it again.”

  32

  Alhambra, California

  A few hours earlier and some forty miles south of where Detective Joe Tanner kept vigil at the first crime scene, Amber Pratt was in her kitchen slicing cucumbers for a salad.

  She was preparing her dinner, having returned home from a full day at the Huntington Library. Taking in the strong, cool smell of the cucumber, it felt good to get back into her routine. These recent days had been among the hardest she’d ever faced, underscored by the nights she’d been forced to spend in a shelter because of Eric.

  Why did he have to make everything so hard?

  And if she wasn’t already dealing with enough, Alice from Claire’s office called her at the library that morning to tell her about the break-in.

  Take it easy, Amber told herself. The police don’t think it has anything to do with Eric trying to find me. He’s moved to Sacramento. Police think the burglars were going after the gold in the dentist’s office, but said they would drop by later as a precaution. All routine, at least that’s what Alice said. I just hope she’s right.

  Amber touched the back of her knife hand to the tear rolling down her cheek, but kept her composure. She had to get on with her life, that’s all there was to it.

  The doorbell rang.

  She went to the front. Glimpsing the black-and-white Alhambra police car in the street, she opened her door to two uniformed police officers.

  “Afternoon-” the older cop with silver hair glanced at his notebook “-Amber Pratt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Officer Ian Tate. This is my partner, Les Campbell. Our visit pertains to a standing protection order and recent charges against your estranged husband, Eric Larch, that took place at-” he flipped through the pages “-at the Simpkins professional building at Garfield Avenue and Huntington Drive in San Marino.”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a burglary at that location in San Marino. Because of the recent history of violence at that address with Eric Larch, of which you were the victim, San Marino P.D. requested we check on your welfare and the security of your residence. May we come in and take a look around?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Their utility belts gave soft leathery squeaks, and Amber picked up the pleasant scent of cologne as she showed them into the house. Their muted police radios echoed as they tested the alarm system before going from room to room checking windows and doors.

  Their presence made her feel safe. She offered them coffee or soda, but they declined. They had other calls waiting. While Tate, the older officer, went outside to check the property and exterior of the house, Campbell double-checked the security system contacts in the pantry, utility room and finally the kitchen, where Amber was flipping through a magazine for a recipe.

  “This is a nice house, and you live alone here?” he said.

  “I’m house-sitting for friends of friends. They’ve been so nice, helping me. It’s been a tough time with the divorce, as I’m sure you
know. I mean, it’s why you’re here.”

  He nodded sympathetically. Despite his nice smile, the young cop seemed shy, excusing himself as he walked around the kitchen island to check the windows.

  “What about you?” Amber asked. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am, all by my lonesome, unlike my partner. He and his wife have four daughters and a lot of worry.”

  “And you? Have you found the right girl, or guy, yet?” She’d attempted a little flirty joke. He looked at her before she realized her mistake. “I’m so sorry, that was rude.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sort of on my own at work, I don’t talk to many people. I’m so embarrassed, forgive me for prying.”

  “You’re forgiven.” He chuckled. “And no, I haven’t found the right girl.”

  They both glanced up at the sound of a loud radio dispatch as Tate reentered the house from the back door, locking it behind him before coming to the kitchen.

  “All right, ma’am, we’re done here,” Tate said. “Your residence is secure and we’ve received word from Sacramento P.D. that earlier this morning they confirmed Eric Larch was in Sacramento at work.”

  “That’s reassuring. Thank you for coming.”

  Amber escorted them to the front door where both gave her business cards. After dinner, she started cleaning up.

  In a small, uncertain corner of her heart, part of her still considered going back to Eric. She unfolded his letter to her and reviewed his tiny, neat handwriting-the I’m sorry’s, his shame, his remorse, his effort to get counseling, his begging her to recall the tender times, their dreams, and his asking her to come back to him so they could start a new life together.

  Think this through, she told herself.

  She let the letter drop to the desktop and cupped her hands to her face.

  When I think of why I married him, I’m so tempted to go back. We had beautiful dreams of our life together. Part of me still loves him and always will love him.