The back wall of the closet showed two open seams in the Sheetrock, which didn’t make construction sense. The Sheetrock should have been taped, spackled, and painted. He checked the carpet, running his hand over it and finding it damp. The entrance. He pushed on the panel but it didn’t move. Running his penlight beneath the shelf, he spotted the latch. It slid to the left. He pushed against the Sheetrock and it opened. He ducked, stepping through the hidden doorway and into a darkened shed. Tasting the fresh air felt as good as diving into a pool on a hot summer afternoon. He could feel his system purging the exhaust.
Dewitt turned and popped the panel back into place, then shined the light around. The shed was cluttered with broken lamps, televisions on their sides, windowpanes, and bits and pieces of furniture. At the opposite end, two mattresses leaning against it as a muffle, a rubber hose running from its oversized muffler, was a black Schwinn mountain bike retrofitted with a small engine like those used on mopeds. The rubber hose then ran through what appeared to be a homemade filter, plugged into the wall above the Sheetrock panel, no doubt directly entering the duct work to Room 12.
The addition of the moped motor to the bike would make light work of what otherwise would have been a long and at times difficult ride from Carmel to Seaside. The ruggedness of the mountain bike’s frame and suspension would allow the killer to use off-road and back-road routes where, even at five in the morning, he would not be spotted. Here, then, Dewitt found himself standing in the midst of a forensic gold mine. Much, if not all, of the evidence necessary to convict the killer was in this room.
Without a weapon, and without backup, Dewitt was far too vulnerable. He picked his way past the bike and opened the shed door slowly, peering outside as he did so. He spotted a small doghouse at the far end of the string of rooms. The dog could bark and announce his escape. A single room window glowed a third of the way down the building.
His frustration built; he hated to leave all this evidence behind, even for a few minutes. If the man should discover his escape… However, at the moment, he was defenseless. He cut around the end of the building, holding close to the motel wall. The man’s absence had confused him until he saw his Zephyr was gone. The routine obviously included outfitting the victim’s car while the victim was being asphyxiated.
The thing to do now was reach a phone and call in for backup. He ran in shadow toward the abandoned car wash.
No pay phone.
A block later, he located a pay phone, but some fool had torn the receiver from it. Across the street was a bar—had to be a phone in the bar.
Ginny answered.
“The Just Rest’Inn,” Dewitt said, out of breath, the patrons looking at him, listening in. “It’s him! Need backup! Hurry!”
At that moment, through the soot-coated window, Dewitt saw the first in a series of brilliant yellow flashes erupt from Room 12. Sections of roof exploded skyward, the fire licking hungrily into the darkness and sweeping quickly along the roof, room to room. Dewitt dropped the receiver and ran outside. The entire motel was ablaze.
Dewitt sprinted toward the fire, sirens already sounding in the distance, a radio police car racing through an intersection and speeding toward the inferno.
He came to an abrupt stop then, stunned by the sight before him. A man—the same man from the aquarium, quite possibly the man who had killed Anna and had just tried to kill him—was standing across the street from the motel, a dog on a leash by his side, his face orange in the glow of the fire.
From this distance, the man’s voice was lost to the roar of the fire, but Dewitt saw the man shout at the Seaside patrolman. A moment later, the cop’s attention fully upon him, this man turned and pointed to Dewitt with an unmistakable intensity.
He pointed the finger of accusal.
9
WEDNESDAY
1
Seaside detective Peter Tilly, with his Wheaties body and surfer looks, came striding into his captain’s office, where Hindeman and Dewitt awaited him.
“Talked to McNeary,” Tilly informed them, “the arson investigator for the ladder boys. Says no question it was arson—”
“Brilliant,” Dewitt said.
Tilly glanced at him oddly. “And that the far end of the motel is a complete meltdown. Says Marney’s Salinas crew won’t come up with nothing but ash in there.” It was 2:30 in the morning. To Dewitt, the last few hours had gone by like minutes. “There’s an interesting wrinkle here,” he added, looking at Dewitt again and pulling a chair over to the two of them.
“We’d like to interrogate him,” Hindeman interrupted.
“That’s the wrinkle. Like I explained to Dewitt here, he says Dewitt broke into the motel, planted some shit, and lit the place off. Claims he nearly died in the fire.”
“Well, he’s a fast thinker,” Dewitt said. “I’ll give him that much.”
“Not that easy, Dewitt,” Tilly said confidently. “You said he moved your Zephyr, ‘cause it wasn’t where you parked it.”
“So?”
“Our boys found the car parked behind the bowling alley.”
“The Zephyr?”
“Not the end of it. Keys were above the flap. In the backseat of the car, they found some fusing and three five-gallon gas cans. Empty,” he added with punctuation. “You got an explanation for that?”
Dewitt stared ahead blankly. He could feel Hindeman’s eyes boring into him.
Tilly continued, “Man says he didn’t have any reason to run from the cops because he’s got nothing to run from.”
“You haven’t booked him?” Hindeman asked.
“Booked him? On what charges?”
“Try murder one,” Dewitt said.
“Based on?”
“That key fit the room. By his own admission, he was managing that motel. He’s got a dog that fits the description. He fits the description Clare gave us. He’s the same guy I saw at the aquarium. What do we need here, a signed confession?”
“Something that will hold in court,” Tilly said bluntly.
“This is bullshit!” Dewitt hollered.
“James,” Hindeman reprimanded. “Who’s questioning him?” he asked Tilly.
“Morn and me. Listen, we want him too, but he’s playing it real cool. Claims Dewitt here rented a room from him on Saturday night and met a big heavy guy drove a Mustang. He remembers the car. Sound like anyone you know?”
“He’s building himself a backstop,” Dewitt said. “He knows we’ve got him.”
“He’s getting it all on the record, is what he’s doing. At this point he’s a witness, Dewitt, not a suspect. Now, if you had seen his face inside that motel room—”
“I told you: It was dark.”
“You see my problem?” Tilly asked Hindeman. “We don’t got squat.”
“I’m not liking the sound of this one bit,” Dewitt told no one in particular.
“Book him, Tilly,” Clarence Hindeman said.
“On?”
“Suspicion of arson. Attempted murder. That should hold him a few days.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Mirandize him, fingerprint him, and get those prints up to Ramirez. I want to know who this guy really is.”
“Says the name is Quill, Michael Quill. I ran the name,” Tilly said. “No priors.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Hindeman said.
“Save his clothing,” Dewitt said, “in separate bags. Get him into a jump suit. Treat the clothes like a murder suspect’s. Get them over to the lab following the proper chain of evidence procedures. And take a hair sample from the dog—”
“The dog?” Tilly questioned, glancing to Hindeman for support. His eyes said, Is this guy crazy?
Dewitt was nodding furiously, the fatigue taking its toll. “You want some irony?” he asked. “That guy hung my dog, but in the end, his dog is going to hang him.”
2
At nine o’clock the next morning, following two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee, Dew
itt sat at his office desk in a coma, missing Emmy very much. The last seven days of his life felt more like a month; Clare seemed more like a dream. In his mind’s eye, he saw the man who called himself Quill standing unperturbed in the glow of the motel fire, the leashed dog at his side.
Quill’s arraignment had been set for early afternoon in hopes of giving the lab a chance to tie Quill to the murders. It was a pins-and-needles morning for Dewitt. Everyone seemed to have something important to do but him. He was attempting to write a report on the incident at the motel, on his third draft now because the first two had seemed so fantastic: Would anyone believe a drain pipe had saved his life? The men of the task force were busy showing Quill’s photograph to the bike shops, hardware stores, and Anthony De Sica in hopes he might be identified. Nelson continued to pore over the Vacaville files.
Dewitt feared they might lose Quill to a justice system that favored the accused. He was convinced of the man’s involvement. Those around him were not. He knew of too many Quills of this world who had walked out of a station house free men, never to be heard of again. Such thought proved considerably distracting. The work on the report went more slowly.
At 10:20, Shilstein called from the Atascadero State Mental Hospital. “Dewitt,” he said, “according to Collette, the man you’re after is named Michael Quinn, not Quill. His psychiatrist at Vacaville was Dr. Harold Christiansen. I’ve had a brief talk with Christiansen… an illuminating talk. I believe I’ve persuaded him to share with you. He practices in the city. I’d get my butt up there if I were you, ASAP.” He provided him Christiansen’s phone number and closed with, “That system of Collette’s is awesome.”
Dewitt placed an immediate call to Ramirez at the Sacramento DOJ, who, though initially hostile, warmed when Dewitt had a specific name against which to run “Quill’s” prints. A direct comparison could be made by eye—by human!—and spare taxing an already overworked computer system. Ramirez promised to leave a message if he couldn’t reach Dewitt directly.
Dewitt took a twelve-noon puddle jumper from Monterey to San Francisco International.
3
“So you’re the infamous Detective Dewitt,” Dr. Harold Christiansen said from behind his desk. Through the window behind him, Dewitt could see a piece of the Golden Gate Bridge—as well as several empty lots where houses had once stood before the October earthquake. Christiansen was a big man with a clipped gray beard, hard eyes, and a firm handshake. He dressed casually in a thousand dollars’ worth of haberdashery. “Oddly enough, I might as well know you, Detective. I’ve known of you for quite some time.” He motioned for Dewitt to sit.
“From Quinn?” Dewitt asked.
Christiansen nodded, concern stealing his welcome. “I contract out to the state for their more interesting cases. It allows me to maintain a substantial private practice while, at the same time, doing my bit.” He smiled cordially.
“Quinn is in custody. We think he may be our ‘suicide killer.’ If you’re able to share any pertinent information…”
“I won’t stonewall you, Detective. Then again, I do have certain responsibilities to my clients. Confidentiality serves a useful purpose. Hopefully, it protects the client when he needs protecting. In this case, the public may need more protecting than the client. If Quinn can’t obey the rules, then he still requires treatment. It’s as simple as that.” He hesitated. “I am more familiar with this than you can imagine, Detective,” he continued confidently. “Tell me what you know.”
Dewitt reviewed the case for him, including Collette’s vivid description of his chess partner’s past.
“He’s right, you know? Quinn is suspected in half a dozen violent crimes. Missing persons cases. He’s only been convicted of killing a few cats and dogs. Thus,” he said, raising a finger, “his insidiousness.
“On the surface he had led a fairly normal life up until the departure of his common-law wife with their son. In fact, it wasn’t normal. Quinn’s father, a fisherman in New Bedford, Massachusetts, was a violent alcoholic, regularly beat his wife in front of his son. Quinn was a runaway at the age of fourteen. He fled clear across country to the Bay area. He was a radical in the sixties. Experimented with drugs. Dropped out of state college, where he was doing well in hotel administration. Odd jobs for a few years. Serious binges with alcohol. Then the child. It was his big moment. Temporary fulfillment. His wife deserted him, taking their son with her. Some people we see become violent, resentful, even aggressive after such a loss. Quinn became a recluse, remaining in a darkened room for weeks at a time, living on a combination of street drugs and alcohol. He experimented a good deal with hallucinogens during this period.” He turned a page of a file. “This rejection shattered his self-worth. His criminal history begins some six months after the departure of his family. Mind you, all of this is sketchy, all of it related in third person—the psychopath’s way of avoiding any self-implication—but it ties in surprisingly well with missing persons files during the same period.
“As you’ve mentioned, Quinn certainly qualifies as a trapper, I’m quite familiar with the trapper theory, and I accept it, although others in my profession remain skeptical. Is he beyond bloodletting? I wouldn’t count on it. Michael Quinn is capable of anything.” He glanced at Dewitt. “We try our best to categorize psychopaths, Detective, because it allows us a broad overview of those with whom we are dealing. As an organized nonsocial, Quinn’s kills were always carefully planned, the body always moved a great distance. From what I’ve read, this behavior seems to fit your kills down there, as well. In all the cases, the victims’ cars had been moved. Your cases share that, I believe.
“I should explain something, lest you think me irresponsible in my neglect to become involved. I have been following your investigation through the papers, Detective, all week. When I read about Detective Lumbrowski in the paper, I faced a very difficult decision… and herein lies the delicacy of my position. I didn’t feel it was ethical to come forward and offer information about Quinn, when in fact that information might have nothing to do with the case, and could possibly lead ‘hungry’ authorities to an innocent man. This, despite my own personal suspicions. I’m no detective, after all. Dr. Shilstein approaching me on your behalf, however, I view in a completely different light. You coming to me, you see? No, I can see in your face that that doesn’t make sense to you.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I could have made an anonymous call to you, an overture of some sort, I don’t know. I considered it. These are the demons I must live with, and I face them often. I can only be grateful that you reached me as soon as you did.”
“I need one thing cleared up. You do believe Quinn is capable of the suicide murders?”
“He’s capable of murder, certainly, though he’s never been convicted of any, never directly confessed to any, and no bodies have ever been found.”
“Would you testify to that fact—that he’s capable of it—if necessary? Professionally?”
Christiansen considered this for a long time, a good deal of which was spent staring into Dewitt’s eyes. “On a witness stand, I would have to be extremely careful. But if subpoenaed, I would certainly appear. That bothers you, I can see. And I can understand why.” He cleared his throat. “As for copying another person’s methods—Collette in this case—for a man of Quinn’s intelligence, that’s not difficult to imagine. By definition, Detective, the ‘trappers’ that we’ve seen don’t give up. They return to reset the trap, or to change traps. You must realize there is both the snare and the pit; there is poisoning and there is the net…” Briefly, Dewitt believed Christiansen was enjoying this, like the person who tells the horror story around the camp fire, watching the other squirm. “The trapper is an extremely patient hunter. There are tribes in Africa that will spend weeks digging a single pit deep enough to trap a cat—walls so steep the cat can’t jump out.”
“‘Don’t give up?’” Dewitt asked. “Give up on what? Are you saying there’s a purpose behind these kills?”
“I am.” Christiansen looked Dewitt in the eye. “I believe Quinn is merely using Collette’s techniques to accomplish his own ends.
“Quinn can’t walk away from his own personal demons. You must realize that the vast majority of the criminally insane either don’t consider the repercussions of their crimes in the least or are totally convinced that they are smarter than the people out to stop them. I’m talking consciously, of course. Subconsciously, it’s difficult—wrong—to generalize. We often hear that the patient understood the impropriety of his crimes but was unable to control himself. Not so with Michael Quinn. My guess is he understands exactly what he’s doing.”
Dewitt considered this in a heavy silence. Had he actually come from a few carpet fibers through reams of evidence and witnesses to arrive at the identity of the killer? He felt a dizzying elation at the thought. It was a much more potent feeling than he had ever experienced as a forensic investigator. This was the addictive nature of detective work, he decided. Like waving your baton in the 1812 and hearing those cannons go off.
“He killed my daughter,” Dewitt said.
Christiansen said almost inaudibly, “I’m so sorry. His hate runs very deep. I have a theory I could share with you, but I should warn, it’s nothing more than a professional hunch. More than a hunch, actually. You might call it professional extrapolation. I won’t be held to it.”
“Agreed.”
He cleared his throat, toyed with his gray beard, and said, “First you need some facts you clearly don’t have. I can extrapolate from there. Michael’s wife, Patty, took their child when she left, as I’ve said. Patty was also a victim of substance abuse, and apparently felt little or no maternal responsibility toward the child. Not wanting her son to be with her inconsistent husband, she took the infant and delivered him to her sister’s for safekeeping. Ironic, because the sister was in worse shape than she was. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, you might say. The sister abused the child sexually, physically, mentally. In the boy’s early teens, she sold his services to homosexual men and fed her drug habit with the profits. It took Michael Quinn over ten years to eventually track down the whereabouts of his child. This ‘trapper’ mentality of his forbade any direct confrontation. He placed his son under surveillance, and in the process discovered what was going on. Enraged, and burdened with the guilt that he had not come to his son’s rescue earlier, he decided to get even. He lured the young man out of the apartment by making him believe he had won a free double feature at a local theater. That night, having determined his sister-in-law was passed out asleep in the apartment, he set the building afire, killing her.
Probable Cause Page 21
