Into the Dark

by Rick Mofina

  Maybe she went back to Eric? Lord, I hope not.

  Claire went to the en suite bathroom. There was a toothbrush in its holder, clean dry towels on the rack. Claire returned to the bedroom and opened the large closet to clothes and a set of luggage on the floor.

  It doesn’t look as though she packed anything.

  Maybe she’s had an accident and is in a hospital? Or is lying unconscious somewhere?

  Something’s wrong here, I feel it.

  Claire put her hands on her hips and exhaled, thinking. As she inventoried the room, she froze.

  The sunlight drew her attention to something she hadn’t noticed before on the gleaming hardwood floor. She got down on her hands and knees for a closer look, drawing her face to a trail of coin-sized circles that led from the bedroom down the hall.

  They were bloodred.

  “Oh, God.”

  Alarm rang in Claire’s ears as she reached for her cell phone.

  It took several attempts to call 9-1-1 because her hands were shaking.

  42

  Alhambra, California

  “Would you like more water, Claire?”

  Claire was lost in the numbing fog of her thoughts while sitting in the empty meeting room of Alhambra police headquarters.

  Tammy Newberg, a uniformed officer with a perky ponytail, who looked more high school senior than cop, held a glass. Tammy had been with the wave of officers to come to Amber’s house, and had been quite kind. “How are you holding up, Claire? We’re trying to get a number for you to reach your husband. We understand his trip was unexpectedly extended in Canada and we’re waiting to hear back. Is there anyone else we can call for you?”

  A whirlwind had ensued in the few hours since Claire had told a 9-1-1 emergency dispatcher that Amber was missing and that she’d found blood on her bedroom floor. A young patrol officer, Claire had forgotten his name, was first to arrive. He’d kept Claire at the kitchen table while he inspected the rooms. Afterward, the officer reached for his radio and time blurred as he made more calls before taking Claire’s initial statement, careful to ask her what she’d touched.

  Events then blazed by as more police arrived, including Tammy, then Tate and Campbell, the officers who’d last had contact with Amber. All of them talked to the detectives and crime scene people. Claire had overhead one officer say, “Did you look under the sheets of the bed? There’s more blood, a lot of blood.”

  Oh, God, she’d thought.

  A detective caught Claire’s reaction and she had then been taken outside to sit under the umbrella of the patio table. The investigators, focusing on Amber’s history with her violent estranged husband, had advised her that they would need to take a fuller statement and obtain elimination fingerprints from Claire at Alhambra police headquarters.

  A yellow plastic police line was stretched across the front of the house. Claire saw kids on bicycles and neighbors on the sidewalk. She’d read the concern etched in their faces as she was escorted into an unmarked police sedan. The car cut through the city, driving Claire deeper into a state of stunned haziness as one thought screamed over and over from the far reaches of her worried mind.

  Where is Amber? Where is Amber?

  Now ice cubes clinked in a glass and Claire sipped the water Tammy had poured for her.

  “The guys shouldn’t be much longer,” Tammy said. “I got hold of your friend Julie. She’s on her way.”

  Claire thanked her.

  The door opened and the two detectives, Norm Seeton and Ed Belinski, entered, then positioned their chairs.

  “Okay, Claire.” Belinski undid his collar button and loosened his tie. “Let’s take it from the last time you saw Amber to where we are now.”

  Claire took a breath and let it go slowly before relating all that she knew about Amber. The detectives listened with sober, poker faces, saying little, asking an occasional question as Seeton took notes. When Claire finished she asked the detectives what they were doing to find Amber.

  “We’ve circulated her photo and description across L.A., the county, the state and we’ve alerted the FBI,” Belinski said.

  “Is that it? What about Eric, her estranged husband?”

  “Given the case history, his violation of the protection order and the assault, he’s a person of interest. We’ve issued a BOLO for him.”

  “What’s a BOLO?”

  “For police units to be on the lookout for him and arrest him on sight.”

  “Why don’t you just question him? He’s in Sacramento?”

  “He was up until two days ago. Seems no one knows where he is now. He’s missed work and is in violation of his bail conditions for not reporting. He left Amber a message on her machine.”

  Guilt pricked at Claire for not doing something about Amber’s revelation of the letter Eric had written-but that had been an ethical call.

  Hadn’t it?

  “You have to find him.” Claire stared at nothing. “What do you think happened?”

  Belinski blinked as if deciding how far to go in answering.

  “Amber hasn’t reported for work for two days. Her car’s in her driveway. We’re trying to reach her relatives in Orange County. For two days there’s been no activity on Amber’s cell phone, no activity on her bank or credit cards. It doesn’t look good. We’re still processing her residence. We’ve found a substantial amount of blood on the bed, but not enough to make it clear someone died there. The alarm system’s been defeated. She’s a missing person who may have come to harm.”

  “Do you think Eric took her?”

  “Anything’s possible. She could have hurt herself. She could have fled and could be hiding. Maybe she’s been in an accident and is in a hospital. She could’ve been taken against her will. Everything seems to have stopped after her last phone call to her in-laws in Sacramento.”

  Claire covered her face, swallowed air and took a deep calming breath. The detectives gave her a moment before it was broken by the vibration of Seeton’s phone.

  “Your friend’s here for you,” he said.

  As Claire collected herself and her bag, Belinski passed her his card.

  “Call us if Amber contacts you. Or you come across any new information about her or Eric-anything.”

  Officer Newberg took Claire to the reception area where Julie consoled her with a hug before they walked to Julie’s car.

  It was dusk.

  “I can’t go home yet,” Claire said. “Can we just drive?”

  They drove across the city and north along the coast. Claire knew her friend had a lot of questions but appreciated Julie letting her have the quiet. When they passed Malibu, they stopped at a roadside diner where Julie ordered a salad. Claire wasn’t hungry.

  “I’m so sorry for what happened,” Julie said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, tell me.”

  Claire thanked her.

  “I feel it’s my fault. I should have done more. The signs were there. They were all there. Oh, God, I hope she’s alive.”

  Claire stared out the window at the ocean, then reached for her bag. “I have to try reaching Robert again. I’m not sure where he is at the moment, Toronto or Chicago.”

  As her cell rang, Claire looked at Julie.

  Her friend’s concern appeared to have deepened, as if she had something significant to say but was holding back. Claire had forgotten that Julie had taken the new information she’d given to her about Robert and had resumed digging into his past.

  The line broke and Claire heard Robert’s recorded voice, prompting her to leave a message.

  “It’s me. Something terrible has happened. I need you, please come home as soon as you can.”

  Claire hung up, exhaled and shifted her attention to Julie.

  “What is it?” Claire asked.

  Julie shook her head and gazed out the window.

  “Nothing,” Julie said.

  Claire knew that was a lie but didn’t push it. She was still struggling with Amber’s disappearanc
e.

  43

  Los Angeles, California

  Early morning traffic was light. Harding sipped his coffee as he drove to the news bureau, struggling with ideas for his next story. He needed to keep the ANPA out front.

  But how?

  It had been more than two days since he broke his exclusive on receiving the letter, which drew a lot of attention. Local TV talk shows covered the response and switchboards at radio call-in stations lit up. Throughout greater L.A. people were on edge over the Dark Wind Killer’s threat to claim more victims.

  Arriving at his building, Harding stepped from the elevator and into his office, determined to advance the story. His resolve was underscored by his first email of the morning. It was from Sebastian Strother at headquarters in New York.

  Mark: Need an unbeatable follow today before the competition takes this away from us. As you know, the pickup for your exclusive was huge across the country and around the world. Do not rest on laurels. SS

  Harding downed the last of his coffee, tossed the cup into the trash and put in a call to Tanner, thinking maybe he could get an update on tips, or better, maybe the task force had a lead he would share.

  Unable to reach Tanner, Harding left a message then texted him.

  Waiting for a response, he began contacting the victims’ families and friends, the people he’d interviewed earlier. Harding asked those he could reach if the police had given them any progress reports on the investigation.

  No one was aware of anything. In fact, most had assumed Harding was calling to inform them of a break. Several had suggested that he was in a better position to learn of a development than they were.

  After making his last call, he thought for a moment then scrutinized his maps and documents from the splayed files on his desk. He had more research on his computer. A few mouse clicks and he opened a growing folder on his hard drive. It held notes, scanned attachments and the photos that Jodi-Lee Ruiz had taken of the killer’s letter.

  Mining the material for clues, Harding lost track of time. He was oblivious to the office coming to life around him as other news staff arrived with the aroma of fresh coffee. He concentrated on the envelope until an earlier idea returned. It bore an Alhambra postmark-why not call Alhambra P.D.? See if they knew anything and if they’d share.

  He was going through his electronic contact file for a number when he noticed the smell of strawberries as Allison Porter passed by his desk.

  “Here’s some snail mail for you, Mark. Nothing scary looking, this time.”

  “Thanks.”

  He glanced at the handful of letters and an old magazine subscription card from the U.K. How many times did he have to tell them he was no longer interested? He tossed that one and went on to a membership renewal from the press guild; an invitation to speak to journalism students at a college; something from a Beverly Hills charity seeking coverage; and a letter addressed to him in neat handwriting, with the return name:

  Mea Gain

  60606 Deja Vu Avenue

  Burbank, CA.

  Mea Gain? Who’s that? Mea Gain? Deja Vu Avenue? That’s a bit strange, is that a real address? Allison missed this. Two seconds later it hit him that the letter- Oh, Christ-Me Again-Deja vu.

  Using his cell phone he took pictures of the envelope. Then he hurried to the office kitchen and got a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink. He returned to his desk, fumbled for his scissors, noticing a stamp but no postmark, and his pulse kicked up as he sliced open the envelope. It was a standard letter size ten. It contained one page, a map to a location and the words “A gift for you and the Blue Meanies. Better hurry.”

  The Blue Meanies? Harding knew that was a term from Yellow Submarine, the old Beatles album. He also knew that San Francisco’s Zodiac Killer had used the same term in his letters to the press.

  His heart racing, Harding took several pictures of the map with his cell phone camera before carefully putting the page and envelope in a safe place at his desk. He had to go now. He couldn’t risk the chance that other reporters had been tipped, too. That someone else could beat him on this. He grabbed his car keys and nearly bumped into Magda, who was stepping off the elevator as he was stepping on.

  “We need to talk about a follow-up story today,” she said.

  “I think we have one. The killer wrote to me again.”

  “What? Hold on, Mark!”

  “I have to go, I’ll call you.” Harding jabbed the elevator button.

  As the elevator descended, he reviewed the map and mentally planned his route. When he stepped off, he spotted Jodi-Lee Ruiz trotting toward him, juggling her camera bag with her take-out coffee and muffin.

  “Hi, Mark- Hold the elevator!”

  “You’re coming with me on an urgent assignment.”

  “But I’ve already got two this morning.”

  “This is a priority. We’ll take my car.”

  Harding’s phone rang and he answered.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Magda said. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you got that!”

  Harding updated her quickly as he walked with Jodi, who struggled to keep up. After Harding calmed Magda and she understood what had happened she said, “Fine, I’ll alert Sebastian in New York.”

  “Wait! Just tell him we’re working on a tip that may be solid, don’t oversell in case this falls through.”

  “All right, but take a photographer with you and be careful.”

  “I got Jodi with me. We’re on our way. I’ll call you when I know what we have. Then we’ll sort out telling Tanner and the task force.”

  Once they got into Harding’s car, he updated Jodi as he entered the map’s information into his GPS. The drive time was an hour. They went east on Wilshire making their way to the 101. They were bound for Camarillo, a quiet bedroom community north of L.A., once known for its walnut, orange and lemon groves. It had evolved from a small farming town into a suburb of cookie-cutter homes, fast-food outlets, strip malls and big box stores.

  Traffic was good.

  As the morning sun climbed in a blue sky, Harding and Jodi said little until they neared the city.

  “Don’t you think we should call the police or something first, Mark?”

  “Why?”

  “What if this is a setup or a trap?”

  “It appears we’re headed for an open area. We’ll size things up as soon as we get close. We’ll be careful and apply common sense, all right? Look, we can’t risk that he may have tipped other papers, too.”

  Eventually they left the freeway.

  The map ultimately directed them to University Drive, a narrow two-lane road that twisted and turned along the rural fringes of Camarillo. As they moved along stretches of open land and fields bordered with small forests and brush, they saw fewer and fewer cars.

  Jodi grew quiet.

  They both knew the local history and geography. They were getting closer to the site of a former state mental hospital. Even though it had been redeveloped into a university in the late 1990s, some people claimed the area was haunted.

  Harding’s attention sharpened on his GPS and he slowed the car.

  “Almost there,” he said, passing her his phone. “Here, check the map again.”

  Jodi first raised her camera and took a few pictures of the surroundings. She consulted the map and notes on Harding’s cell phone, then the GPS, and she surveyed the area before suddenly pointing.

  “There! There’s the spot! There it is, over there!”

  She took more photos.

  Just as the map directed, they’d come to a small path that paralleled the road near a deer-crossing sign. Harding stopped next to the sign and shut off the engine.

  They got out and took stock of the area.

  Jodi continued taking pictures.

  No other cars. No other hint of life other than the chirp of a bird as the motor ticked down.

  Harding turned to her.

  “Nobody here but us,” he said.
“Let’s do this.”

  She nodded.

  The map indicated the “gift” was about forty paces from the sign into the grass and brush. Harding took one direction, Jodi took another. They counted off paces while examining the ground, uncertain what they were looking for, anxious about what they might find.

  Sweeping the patches of grass aside, Harding scoured the ground as he hit the forty-pace point. He came upon a sun-faded beer can. He used a pen through the drinking hole to lift and inspect it. Nothing at all was unusual. Keeping his head down Harding resumed searching the area, working his way toward Jodi who was doing the same until she shouted.

  “Found it!”

  Harding’s head snapped to Jodi. Her face was clenched behind her camera as she adjusted her lens and took photos.

  Harding rushed to her, then lowered himself.

  Propped against two small rocks was a naked female doll about twelve inches tall with flowing dark hair. Her hands were bound with string behind her back. Her mouth was bound with tape. A small noose was fashioned around her neck and was tied to a tag bearing the words “Her name is Amber. She’s mine now. DWK.”

  44

  Downey and Camarillo, California

  Tanner stared at Polaroid head shots of children displaying gap-toothed smiles as he sat in the dentist’s waiting room ruminating on the murders’ common denominator. Was it social, professional, physical, geographical or movements? All of the women had traveled in the months before their deaths. But travel seemed like a weak connection. Still, there was no way these were random kills.

  Anxious at being away this morning Tanner checked his phone once more. Tips were being followed but he had no messages of significance from across the county or the supporting police agencies. No leads from the LAPD or the FBI.

  As if impulsively reaching for help, he thumbed through his menu and played one of the short video messages from his wife. His heart warmed upon seeing Becky’s face, and he lowered the volume to a whisper as she greeted him with advice.