“Your grandmother?”
“Yeah.”
“What took you down to Lawndale and Compton?”
“Same thing. Manager laid me off but said there was a job going at a branch in Lynwood, so I worked there a time.”
“And Mrs. Knapp, the lady you killed, what happened with her?”
Attorney Sourpuss stepped in quick. “I advise you not to answer that, Alfonso.”
O’Brien sensed this was the make or break moment. “That’s not a good call.” He leaned across the table and made sure his gaze hooked the young man’s. “If I walk you past our CSI unit you’ll be deafened by the sound of high fives and back-slapping going on in there. From ballistics to DNA and back again, they’re putting enough together to see you fry—worse than any chicken you ever delivered. So I suggest, Alfonso, you play the cooperative scumbag card and answer the lady’s question.”
O’Brien leaned back and let his words sink in.
Angie followed up. “What happened with Mrs. Knapp, Alfie?”
He chewed his lip and considered his options. Finally, he gave it up. “I lost it with her.” He shrugged. “I can’t explain. It’s like when I’m hitting the women, this pain inside me gets smaller.”
“I understand,” said Angie. “You felt strong.”
“Strong, yeah. Like I was in control. Only fucking moment of my life I felt like my shit was together.”
Angie knew she had to get him to be more specific. “Did you mean to kill Lindsey Knapp?”
“No!” he snapped.
“So tell me how it was.”
He swallowed and looked down at the table. “It was like I said. I just beat her.” After a few seconds he tilted his head up at Angie. “The more I hurt her, the better I felt. I couldn’t stop. Once I’d started I just couldn’t stop.” He dropped his gaze again. “I’m sorry.”
Angie looked across to O’Brien. His eyes said he had heard enough. “Listen, Alfonso, you need to go through it all. Everything you did. Not just to Mrs. Knapp, but to all your victims. You do that, put it all in a full statement to the lieutenant”—she looked to the attorney—“and I’ll see you get some psychiatric help.”
The lawyer nodded her consent and Angie rose. “You understand me, Alfie?”
He nodded.
“You ready to give that statement?”
He put his free hand to his face and mumbled, “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Angie started to walk away.
“Wait!”
She turned.
“I’m sorry ’bout last night—about your arm an’ stuff.”
10
SKU Offices, LA
It was gone lunchtime when Jake called Angie’s cell.
“Hi there.”
He could tell from the background noise she wasn’t at her apartment—the place he’d hoped she’d be. “Please tell me you’ve not gone into the office.”
“I’m not at the office.”
“But you’re somewhere, right?”
“Everyone’s somewhere, Jake.”
“You know what I mean. You’re somewhere working, rather than somewhere resting, like you know you should be.”
She smiled at his concern. “I’m fine. I’m with O’Brien. We just got a confession out of a guy for the Lindsey Knapp homicide and the serial rapes.”
He knew better than to tell her off and mar the moment. “Congratulations. Now can you please go home and rest?”
“Yeah, I can.” She softened her tone. “Hey, thanks for your note this morning, it was a nice thing to wake up to.”
“I’d rather have woken you myself.”
“I bet you would.” She pictured what that might have been like. “What time you going to be back tonight?”
“I’m not sure. There’s this memorial service down at the mall. I guess I’m going to be expected to put in an appearance.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to go and put your feet up. I gotta go now but I’ll call you later.”
“Make sure you do.”
Just as she hung up, Danielle Goodman knocked on Jake’s door and opened it.
“You got a moment for me?”
He put the phone down. “Looks like I have.”
She floated in, wearing a buttercup yellow dress that was ludicrously bright.
“I’ve written up a profile on the Sun Western slayer and wanted to run it by you.”
“Glad to hear it. We need all the help we can get on this one.”
“Like I said to you and Agent Costas yesterday, I still think you’re after someone in the Starkweather mold.”
“Like Harris, you mean?”
She tensed. “Profiles often fit more than one suspect—you know that. Just because he wasn’t your UNSUB doesn’t mean the profile was wrong.”
“I take your point. I’m not blaming you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
He nodded to the paper in her hand. “So—do you have any further ideas of what kind of stressor set our guy off?”
“I still favor it being something to do with that particular store, maybe a row with an assistant or a sacking from a position there. Here—look at my profile.” She handed it over. “Point number three suggests a physical deficiency; it might be eye-related and connected to the store.”
“We’re checking their employment records.” Jake looked through her jottings.
1. MALE 18–25.
2. AFRICAN AMERICAN.
3. HAS MINOR PHYSICAL OR MENTAL AFFLICTION THAT MAKES HIM SELF-CONSCIOUS.
4. STRONG SOCIOPATHIC TENDENCIES.
5. LIVES ALONE IN RENTED ACCOMMODATION.
6. UNDERACHIEVER.
7. HIGH SCHOOL EDUCATED.
8. OWNS MOTOR VEHICLE.
9. UNEMPLOYED OR IN MENIAL LABOR.
10. HAS ISSUES WITH AUTHORITY.
11. HAS BEEN/IS MEMBER OF GUN OR RIFLE CLUB.
12. MAY HAVE GANG ASSOCIATIONS AND ACCESS TO ARRAY OF WEAPONS.
13. IS MOVING FROM STAGE ONE (GUIDED) OF SPREE ACTIVITY INTO STAGE TWO (RANDOM).
He put the paper down and gestured for her to take the seat opposite. “Can you talk me through points eleven and twelve?”
“Be glad to.” She pulled out the chair. “At the moment, I see them as an option. Either the UNSUB was a member of a gun club and had access to weapons, maybe even permits, or—and I do favor this more—he was a gang member who got belittled by the leaders and wanted to demonstrate his dangerousness.”
Jake wasn’t convinced. “I’m not sure either holds water.”
“Why?”
“Well, I didn’t see any amazing gun skills out there in the mall. The cowardly sonofabitch used a weapon powerful enough to wipe out half an army from only a hundred meters. It was total overkill. A gun enthusiast would have used something smaller, more tailored for the job. A pro shooter wouldn’t have had a MAC in a bag, he’d have had a Glock in a holster.”
The psychologist nodded. “So, option two—the gang link?”
“I’m struggling there as well. Gang shootings are usually gang on gang. When civilians get wasted there’s generally a good reason why—they crossed, disrespected or threatened someone. I can’t see that being the case in the mall. Another thing—gangs are always hierarchical; soldiers don’t go on sprees like that to show their prowess to bosses, it just brings the kind of heat no one wants.”
She looked offended. Her prime theories had just been shot down in flames. “I’d urge you not to discount these observations too easily.”
“I don’t and I won’t. I’ll think and rethink every point you’ve made and believe me, I’m grateful for all your input. One worry I share though is your final point. You think he’s on the shift?”
“I do. You know that in the Guided Phase, Sprees stay in their geographical comfort area?”
“Yeah, they usually kill their way toward a specific target. The most important hit
is the last.”
“Exactly. Well, I think the mall was his big hit, or his last, but he may have drawn so much attention that focus on whatever targets he had set has been lost.”
“So now he goes random? On the run, out of state, but still with murder in mind?”
“That’s the theory. The Spree loses direction, focus and purpose. The next kill will be a rush of blood, spontaneous and disorganized. Then you know what happens.”
“Suicide by cop.”
“If you’re lucky. Only I don’t think this guy’s going to go out alone. He’ll want to take as many uniforms with him as possible.”
11
FBI Field Office, LA
“Oh, my God!” Chips jumped out of his seat as Angie walked into the office. “You look terrible.”
“You sure know how to make a girl feel good.”
“Why on earth are you here?”
“Here is where I work.” She shrugged her purse off her good arm.
He pulled her seat out for her. “Sit down. Let me get coffee, water, pillows.”
“Don’t fuss!”
“Sister, I need to fuss. I was born to fuss.”
Angie hit the power button on her computer as he headed to the pantry. “Hang on!” she shouted. “Show me your T.”
Chips turned and smiled. The shirt was Coca-Cola red. It featured a full frontal can of soda and the question DO FAT DRUG DEALERS SELL DIET COKE?
She smiled. “It’s okay. Go get the coffee.”
“Still black?”
“Yeah.”
“And are you still off chocolate and ice cream?” He rolled his eyes knowingly.
The comment threw her. “Yes, as it happens I am.”
He tilted his head inquisitively. “Do you have anything to share with your loyal and highly discreet coworker?”
“How about a few bruises and a busted arm?”
“I’m getting the coffee.”
Angie watched him go, then put her hands on her waist. It didn’t feel like she was showing too much weight. Not already. She squinted down at her breasts. They felt tender, but right now everything felt tender. Maybe it was wishful thinking but they looked bigger. Rounder. Better. Yeah, she was kidding herself. She’d always wanted bigger, rounder and better, but with her luck, pregnancy wouldn’t even grant that wish.
The computer took an age to load, and when it had, she wished it hadn’t. Her mail was jammed with all the stuff she hated: reminders for monthly reports that she had to submit; research papers to read; interdepartmental teleconferencing requests.
Chips saved her from having to make a start. “There you go, black and hot, just like an ex-friend of mine.”
“You’re getting worse.”
“I know.” He headed to his desk. “I’ve got something that I think you might find interesting.”
“Are you trying to be intriguing?”
“Do I have to try?”
“Much harder.”
He grabbed his laptop and returned to her desk. “This is something I edited from the mall footage.” He put it down and pressed play.
Angie watched the screen. It was CCTV footage from Judy-Ju’s. “I’ve seen this.”
“I know.” He was used to her impatience. “Watch again.”
She studied the grainy shots of the young black man moving from wounded shopper to shopper, executing them in cold blood. “Sorry, I don’t get it, Chips.”
“Wait.” He pointed at the screen. “Here you go. See what happens after his last victim, watch the guy who tries to tackle him.”
Angie watched. A man in his thirties, who had been protecting his toddler and wife, got shot to pieces. The killer turned and walked out. But right after it Chips had edited a reprise, in slow motion, not of the victim but the shooter.
Something fluttered from his left hand.
She hadn’t seen it at normal speed. It had been lost in the body turn. All attention had been on the bag with the gun in it.
“What do you think?” Chips looked excited. He rewound it and played it again. “It could be an accident but I don’t think it is. Look closely and you see he’s still got something in his hand. It’s a tissue or a note.”
Angie bent so close to the monitor she almost rubbed her nose on it. “No, it’s no accident, Chips. Watch his face. He checks that he’s dropped it. It’s something we’re meant to find.”
She dialed Jake’s cellphone.
It tripped to voicemail. She replayed the footage at normal speed as she left a message. “Jake, I just saw some footage from the mall. You probably know this already, but the Spree drops something. Right before he walks out of the store, he dips in his left pocket, takes out some paper and lets it fall. It’s not an accident. If you view the tape you’ll see he glances at it as he heads out. Call me, I’ll talk you through it.”
Only as she hung up did Angie remember her boss’s warning to stay out of the case.
12
SKU Offices, LA
Jake and Ruis had just finished a team briefing when he picked up Angie’s voicemail.
“Damn!” He clicked off the phone and slid it back into his pocket.
“Trouble?”
“Yeah, kind of. Do me a favor, get onto the labs and kick their asses.”
“For some specific reason? Or do you just feel the urge to know an ass is being kicked?”
“There’s a suggestion the UNSUB dropped something at the mall, right after he executed the last victim.”
“A suggestion? From whom?”
“Doesn’t matter. Find out if there’s a note, a card, a slip of paper among all that trash that got picked out of the blood.”
“I’ll do it now. Catch you back in the office.”
“Thanks.” He shouted at Ruis’s disappearing back, “I’ve got to see Crawford about some press stuff.”
“Lucky you!”
A few minutes later, Jake entered his boss’s office and found him with sleeves rolled up, minus jacket and tie. It was a bad sign.
Dixon looked up at his visitor. “Tell me something good, Jake. I need an illegally high fix of positive news, to keep me from slashing my wrists and taking a warm bath.” He motioned to a seat.
Jake took it. “Coconut water can be used in emergencies instead of blood plasma.”
“No way. Are you shitting me?”
“Not at all. The water, not the milk, is liquid endosperm. It’s sterile and has an ideal pH level. I learned it in the army.”
“Never taught me that in the air force.”
“Should have joined the Marines. Anyway, are you off the suicide list now?”
“Just about.” He sat back in his chair and took off his glasses. “We’re gonna face more cutbacks. I’ve spent the afternoon trying to make a yard go a mile.”
“We’re down to the bone, Crawford. You cut anything more and you cause the kind of damage that might be permanent.”
“I know.”
A knock on the door stopped their conversation.
FBI Media Manager Ryan Fox walked in. Midthirties with thinning blond hair, dressed in a suit as blue as his eyes.
Dixon turned to Jake. “Ryan’s been fielding calls all day. Bit of a siege from what I understand.”
“The peasants are certainly revolting. LA Times wants to ride along with SKU. USA Today is setting a feature for the weekend on why LA is becoming the Spree capital of the country.”
“Great,” said Jake, sarcastically.
Ryan ticked the rest off on his fingers. “CBS News is doing a live broadcast from out on Wilshire as we speak. NBC and Fox have both got requests in to film in the incident room. I’ve done holding pieces on a million radio news bulletins and they’re all running phone-ins on ‘How safe are our streets?’ Unless Obama gets caught screwing a hotel maid or Donald Trump comes out as gay we’re going to be top story and hammered for the next few days.”
Jake could feel bad news coming. “So what have you got in mind?”
Ryan loo
ked to the section chief to deliver the message.
“You need to front up a presser, Jake.”
His face said that wasn’t something he’d relish. “I’d rather you did it. You’re the one who has a way with words.”
“Not this time,” said Dixon. “After your heroics at the Observatory, seeing you in front of a camera will reassure people.”
“We’d like to schedule something for tomorrow,” added Fox, enthusiastically. “How about late morning?”
Jake knew he’d been set up. “Fine. Though Christ knows what we’re going to say.”
“Give them some of Danielle’s profile,” suggested Dixon. “The press loves profiles. It’ll keep them slobbering until next week.”
“Can I get a copy?” asked Fox.
Jake shook his head. “No offense, but I don’t want the full profile seen by anyone nonoperational. I’ll mail you a summary.”
“Thanks. Is it an idea to have Danielle there as well?”
“It is. A very bad idea.” Jake explained himself to Dixon. “We don’t see eye-to-eye on some points. Best not to have us disagreeing in public.”
“It is usual to have the profiler there,” said Fox unhelpfully.
Jake shot him a scalding look.
He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, I’m just here to advise you.”
“Advice noted,” said Dixon. “No profiler, Ryan. I guess we’re all going to this memorial service tonight, so let’s make sure no one says anything to any reporters. The three of us should meet at nine in the morning and finalize what we’re going to say. Okay?”
They both nodded and Fox headed for the door.
Jake wanted a private word before he followed. He waited until the press guy had gone.
“Something on your mind?” asked Dixon.
“Yeah. There’s been a development.”
“Good or bad?”
“I’m told the UNSUB may have deliberately dropped some paper at the scene. Labs are processing it at the moment.”
Dixon rubbed tired eyes. “If it’s a note, you know what it means, don’t you?”
The Big Kill Page 3
