by Rick Mofina
“Eventually after I’m gone, you’ll have to start building a new life. You’ll have to find someone new.” Becky brushed her eyes. “I want you to find someone, Joe. Sam will need a new mom for her life ahead, graduation, her wedding, her first baby. I don’t want you to be alone. Okay?”
A door clicked open and Sam rushed to him with a report.
“No cavities, Dad!”
The dental hygienist made notes on a clipboard.
“She’s lucky, Mr. Tanner. In Sam’s age group we usually find a couple.”
“She likes brushing and flossing,” he said.
“Keep up the good work, Sam,” the hygienist said. “I’ll see you again in a few months.”
In the parking lot, Tanner turned Sam to him, bent down and gave her a hug and kiss.
“You know I love you, pal.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Now, we have to get you to school and get me to work.” At that moment Tanner’s phone rang and he answered.
“Joe, it’s Mark Harding. He wrote to me again and directed me to something you should see.”
“What is it?”
“A doll with a woman’s name.”
“One of the five?”
“No, a new name-Amber. Isn’t there a missing person named Amber?”
“Hang on. Are you at your office?”
“No, I’m in Camarillo at the spot where he left the doll.”
“You’re at the freaking scene?” Mindful of Sam, Tanner turned and dropped his voice. “What’s going on? Who else knows?”
“No one else but the ANPA knows.”
“Damn it! Don’t move! Don’t touch anything! Give me your location.”
“We’re not going anywhere. Stand by, I’m sending you my copy of the killer’s directions to where we are.”
Once Tanner got Harding’s map, he forwarded it to task force members and alerted his lieutenant. Then he called Camarillo P.D. and the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office and requested them to protect the scene and “keep things off the air.” He didn’t want a news carnival waiting for him. Then he alerted Brad Knox, advising him to get the FBI to dispatch its Evidence Response Team up to Camarillo to process the material. Then he called Harvey Zurn.
“Meet me at my house, Harv. It’ll be faster for us to drop Sam off at school then go straight to the scene.”
The whole time Tanner was on the phone, Sam amused herself by hopping along the sidewalk cracks. She was happy to be with her dad.
* * *
A knot of Ventura County sheriff’s vehicles and ribbons of yellow plastic tape marked the site along University Drive. As Tanner and Zurn arrived, Tanner spotted Harding leaning against his car, talking to a deputy. Tanner’s jaw muscles throbbed when he interrupted them to pull Harding aside.
“What the hell are you doing, Mark? You should’ve called me before rushing out to play detective.”
“I called you. That’s why you’re here, instead of reading about it. Don’t try to accuse me of being irresponsible or uncooperative. He didn’t write to you, he wrote to me. I’m doing my job.”
“Your job? Take a look around.”
Puzzled, Harding scanned the area as more police vehicles arrived.
“This is a dirt road. You drove all over it. You and your friend with the camera tramped all over it and in the process you destroyed our chance for tire and shoe impressions. You contaminated the scene. Is that your job?”
“I could’ve not called you and you’d be reading about it in the L.A. Times or watching it on CNN.”
“And I would’ve charged you with interfering with an investigation.”
Harding looked off, saying nothing. He knew Tanner was under a lot of pressure, he heard it in his tone. Tanner looked to the scene and let a few moments pass.
“Are we going to slam heads all day out here?” Harding asked. “Or are we going to carry on professionally with our work? The latter, I hope.”
Tanner saw the FBI’s ERT people arriving, ran a hand over his face, then held up a finger to Harding.
“Don’t you move, Mark, understood?”
Tanner left him to consult with Knox as the FBI set up. For the next couple of hours the scene specialists conducted a meticulous analysis of the site and surroundings. They made sketches, took measurements, photographs and searched for impressions. Tanner and Knox studied photos the techs took of the doll and note as deputies canvassed the rural area. A chopper thudded above them taking aerial photographs while Ventura County K-9 units attempted to pick up any trail.
In Los Angeles, the LAPD had sent its crime scene team to the AllNews Press Agency bureau on Wilshire. By that time Harding had made several calls to Magda, who’d alerted Sebastian Strother, who’d called the news agency’s lawyers.
Again, the ANPA cooperated.
From Camarillo, Harding directed L.A. investigators by phone to where he’d placed the original letter and envelope so they could process it for any prints or DNA.
It was only a matter of time before the local press would be tipped to all the activity, descend on the scene and weaken his exclusive. Unable to wait any longer, he approached Tanner and Knox.
“I’d like a few comments before I file my story.”
“I’ve got nothing to say right now,” Tanner said.
“Off the record, then?”
Neither investigator said anything, so Tanner proceeded.
“Do you suspect this is tied to any specific case, any homicides or missing persons?”
“It’s too early to speculate about that.”
“Were you able to secure any fingerprints or DNA?” Harding asked.
“We’re still processing everything, and that’s not for attribution,” Tanner said.
“Come on, Joe.”
“Let me ask you a question, Mark. Did you notice the postmark on the envelope?”
“There was no postmark.”
“That’s right, which indicates he may have walked up to your building and delivered his letter by hand himself, or had someone else do it. We’re getting warrants for your building’s security cameras.”
“I’m quoting you.”
“No, you’re not. I’m telling you this so you get that you’ve cost us time.”
“Quit blaming me, Joe.” Harding turned to his phone and retrieved his photo of the note the killer had tied to the bound doll. “Look, what do you think he means with this line after the name, ‘She’s mine now’?”
“She’s either dead, or she’s going to be.”
A few tense seconds passed before Tanner’s name was called. His partner, Zurn, was at their car, holding up his cell phone and waving it. “I gotta go,” Tanner told Harding. “You and I will talk later. But you’d better call me before you write a freaking word. You got that?”
“I’ll call. Count on it. Jodi?” Harding shouted. “Let’s go back to L.A.!”
Tanner shot Harding a simmering glance, then turned and walked to Zurn. They huddled at their car.
“I think we’ve got something here, Joe.” Zurn held his hand over the phone. “Detective Ed Belinski with Alhambra P.D. wants to talk to you now.”
Tanner took Zurn’s phone.
45
Above the United States
The charter jet climbed out of Detroit and Robert Bowen ran through his calculations again. After factoring in weather, he figured they’d touch down in Van Nuys by ten o’clock local time tonight.
This Gulfstream was a fine aircraft. He liked how the autothrottle performed and how the flight management system made takeoffs easier. As the plane leveled off, last night’s phone call with Claire echoed in his mind.
“Something horrible has happened. One of my patients is missing. There was blood. Robert, please come home, I need you.”
He looked into the endless afternoon sky, then glanced at Tim, his copilot, who had taken over controls for this leg of the return trip.
It gave him time to think.
Things were happening in L.A. an
d it felt as though he’d been away for an eternity. When the charter was in Toronto the other day, his passengers, seven executives from a high-tech startup in Santa Monica, had secured a new Canadian deal for remote areas. That meant extending the tour by adding a last-minute final destination: Iqaluit, the tiny capital of Nunavut, one of Canada’s three territories.
At this time of year, Iqaluit’s temperature was about 30 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit and there was snow on the ground. The group bought additional warm clothing in Toronto before making the four-hour flight northeast.
Iqaluit was in Canada’s north, on Baffin Island, located in the eastern Arctic, near Greenland. A former military outpost, the town now had a population of some seven thousand people.
Bowen found that the air there was sweeter, clearer and, save for the sound of a plane at the airport, the tinny whine of snowmobiles or the lonely yip of a tethered dog, the silence was overwhelming. During his short stay, he’d kept to himself and embraced the isolation even as he enjoyed being in control of what was evolving a continent away.
There, in that cold, remote corner of the planet, he was warmed by a feeling of unstoppable power.
He’d walked to the town’s original cemetery on the shore of Frobisher Bay. He’d been fascinated by the tale a local in the hotel had told him. Because of the permafrost, the graves were not that deep and at times when the earth heaved, you could see coffins in the gaps.
Beautiful, he’d thought.
He took pictures of the pretty white wooden crosses before returning to the hotel, which was on a hill overlooking the town and bay. That evening, he ate alone in his room. Afterward, he drew up his chair to his window and watched the aurora borealis. The dazzling display of colors swirling across the heavens underscored his sense of majesty, as if he were seated on a throne at the top of the world while all of nature entertained him.
After he’d gone to bed and drifted to sleep, his phone rang. It was Claire, still distraught at discovering her patient was missing. Her anguish tore at him, but at the same time his skin tingled.
And so it has begun, he thought.
He’d told Claire he’d be home within twenty-four hours.
After he’d comforted her, he’d been too excited to sleep.
Yes, work was proceeding but I never expected it would unfold like this, with Claire making the find.
His breathing picked up. Fully awake, he’d sat at the desk. As he digested this new twist his sense of power intensified, hot waves of adrenaline rolled over him and he’d become aroused.
He needed to savor the spoils again.
Bowen had turned on his laptop and navigated his way to a short video of Amber Pratt: alive, confined in a wooden box.
His shadow had fallen over her as he’d recorded.
Like the doll, her hands and ankles were bound. She was naked but for the duct tape sealing her mouth. He remembered how she’d pleaded, begged for mercy, how her cries had enthralled him. Now her beautiful eyes were bulging with terror.
She was magnificent.
Bowen inhaled then let it out slowly.
And I am just getting started. Look at that fire in the arctic sky. The glory is mine.
The celestial images of the aurora borealis in his mind dissolved into the distant sea of shimmering light as Los Angeles floated on the horizon.
“You want to take us home from here, Bob?” Tim said.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Amid muted transmissions with the tower, Robert took control of the jet and prepared for landing. His blood rushed and he welcomed the familiar, intimate sensation of absolute supremacy over the world below. He gazed at the infinite immensity of L.A.’s twinkling lights rolling beneath him.
Let the mortals on earth tremble. He was the Dark Wind.
He decided who would live and who would die.
46
Calgary, Alberta, Canada
Private investigator Milt Thorsen was working in the basement office of his northwest Calgary home, occupied with the case on his computer monitor.
His wife, Jean, watched over him from the framed photo he’d hung on the wall after she passed away two years ago. The kids were grown and long gone. He lived alone with Tippy, Jean’s cat, which he’d intended to give away, but had never had the heart.
As he scrolled through files, Tippy hopped into his lap.
“Scram, I’m busy.”
Thorsen nudged her away and resumed examining the life of Robert John Bowen, a subcontract job for Julie Glidden, an investigator from Los Angeles. The case had begun as a straight-up search to confirm the location of Bowen’s ex-wife, Cynthia, to establish whether she’d remained romantically involved with him after he’d remarried. Should’ve been easy, but it presented complications, including a Canadian aspect.
That’s why Julie had turned to Thorsen.
He’d been a Calgary cop for twenty-eight years. He’d worked in Homicide, Major Crimes and Intelligence before retiring to start his one-man P.I. agency. Thorsen’s reputation as a detective was well-known, Julie told him when they first met in Washington, D.C. at an international investigators’ conference.
He turned to the red flags Julie had noted in her search.
A verification of education showed nothing. Where the heck did Bowen go to school? Some databases showed different dates of birth for Bowen. Thorsen, like all investigators, knew that data entry errors were always possible but discrepancies indicated areas of concern.
A troubling picture was taking shape.
Robert Bowen’s records all appeared to dead-end in the U.S. around 2010, as if he didn’t exist prior to that date. How did he maintain his pilot’s license? Thorsen wondered. The TSA in the U.S. was supposed to be tough on screening and security of the certification of airline pilots.
Did he fall through the cracks?
When Bowen married his wife, Claire, in Mexico, he supplied his divorce decree. According to his current spouse, it was supposedly from Montana. A check with Mexican officials was futile. They could not supply a copy for verification and claimed they were unable to locate it. Did he actually supply one? Was it genuine? Or did he bribe a Mexican official? Because a check with all counties and court records in Montana revealed no marriage or divorce for a Robert John Bowen to a woman named Cynthia.
An update in the file from Julie indicated that new information had recently arisen when Bowen revealed that he and his first wife had lived in Canada and were married there.
Thorsen removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and dug into his work. He paged through the handwritten list in his notebook, an old detective habit he’d kept.
Since Julie had contacted him on Bowen, he’d already initiated much of the same probing in Canada as she had done in the U.S.
He’d checked through a range of databases, criminal, civil, court and social. He’d made calls through his network of sources.
Thorsen’s detective radar was giving him a vibe about Bowen.
His life on paper appears to start in 2010. So what was he up to before then? Sure, it’s common for divorces to be dripping with acrimony. People want to start fresh and scrape the past from their lives. Amputate all links to their ex. But for Bowen and his professional certification, there are huge security issues. Maybe he cleared everything with the TSA, with all the government and industry security gatekeepers?
Thorsen shrugged, replaced his glasses and reviewed his queries.
Like Julie, he’d also initiated a second name check and had contacted his sources in all provinces and territories for legal name changes. He’d submitted Robert John Bowen for them to check. In Canada, legal name changes are published unless there’s an overriding concern about personal safety.
Ontario, the largest province, had nothing on Bowen for Thorsen. Neither did Quebec, British Columbia, Nova Scotia and Saskatchewan. Then a friend in Edmonton, Alberta’s capital, sent an email.
Stand by, Milt, I think I have something for you.
“Hear that, T
ip? We could have something?”
The cat yawned, still nursing hurt feelings at being rejected.
“Get over it,” Thorsen said as a new email from Edmonton arrived.
He opened it to a page from the provincial government’s Alberta Gazette, going to the official record for the department of Vital Statistics: Notice of Change of Personal Name for November 2009.
Thorsen scrolled through the page.
“There it is.”
Elliott, Leon Richard to Bowen, Robert John
“Bingo,” Thorsen said. “Gotcha. Now we have some real work to do with Mr. Leon Richard Elliott.”
He reached for his phone.
47
San Marino, California
Stiff from a fitful sleep, Claire stepped into the shower. As the water streamed over her skin she prayed for Amber.
Please keep her safe.
Claire was grateful that Julie had spent the night. She was already up and had busied herself in the kitchen making coffee, pouring a cup when she saw Claire.
“Milk, no sugar, right?”
“Yes, I see you’re still the early riser.”
“Just like the old college days.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Not much.”
Julie set a steaming cup down for Claire then said, “The L.A. Times had Amber’s case on its website, and it was on this morning’s local radio news.”
“Did they find her?”
“No. They just said that she’s missing under suspicious circumstances and they’re looking for her.”
“I’m praying she’s alive,” Claire said.
“We can’t give up hope.”
“This is my fault, all my fault.”
Claire’s despondency surged and Julie went to her.
“Stop blaming yourself.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“What more could you have done? You had the creep arrested when he attacked her in your parking lot.”
“It’s that letter. It was a violation for him to contact her and I should’ve reported it but I thought I’d helped her see that the best thing for her was not to go back to him.” Claire stared at nothing and shook her head. “I should’ve told the police that Eric had contacted her.”
