The Big Kill

by Michael Morley

  “Because you knew I’d be pissed at your lady snooping in my case.”

  It was his turn to smile. “Something like that.”

  “Can I get a promise from you that from now on I’m first on your information list?”

  “You have my promise.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled her sweetest smile. “Within the hour, our boss, Mr. Dixon, is going to call to tell you that you have to front a media conference tomorrow.”

  “I thought I’d gotten out of that.”

  “You got a postponement, that’s all.”

  “Okay. So, I believe the plan is to give the media some snippets of your profile.”

  “That’s right.” She warmed to the conversation. “Only the plan’s changed a little. It will be a joint press conference with the LAPD—just you, me, Chief Rawlings and Commander Pryce.” She anticipated his objection. “I know you told the old man we didn’t quite see eye-to-eye, so I shan’t speak. But I have to be there. Are you able to live with that?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good. The first part of the conference will be a public declaration from Rawlings that the FBI is taking the lead in both mall cases. Then Section Chief Dixon and I have a personal message we want you to deliver to the UNSUB responsible for the shootings.”

  “We’re still going to talk about two UNSUBS for the murders and bombings?”

  “We are, if we’re pushed. But in relation to your prepared speech, you will only address one—and you’ll do it very personally.”

  “I’m fine with that. What’s the message?”

  She opened a slim document file and slid a single sheet of double-spaced typing over the desk.

  Jake speed-read it. “It’s certainly very personal.”

  She knew where his comments were leading. “It has to be exactly like this, Jake. No alterations, no watering down by our mutual friend Doctor Holmes. Can you please do this without having to seek her approval?”

  He waved the paper. “Has this been run past Dixon and Fox and the LAPD?”

  “Everyone’s approved it. We just need you to deliver it.”

  27

  FBI Field Office, LA

  If Angie had to back out of the case—the one she knew she shouldn’t really have shunted her way into in the first place—then she was determined to leave behind the best notes she’d ever written.

  Geography usually played a large part in her offender profiles. Normally, the crime scene gave a lot of clues to the UNSUB’s behavior and lifestyle, and she used those basic facts to build a pyramid of assumptions. She’d generally know whether the offender used a car or not. Where the position of the death scene was in relation to major roads and footpaths. What social groups congregated in the place where the attacks had happened. Those answers mostly pointed her in a particular direction.

  Not this time.

  No one understood how the offender had left the mall. The Sun Western complex could be just as easily exited by car, motorcycle, bus, bicycle or on foot.

  It was pretty much a block on its own, bordered by the Avenue of the Stars, Century Park West and then Santa Monica and Constellation boulevards. By car, those routes could take you north, south, east and west out of LA. An offender could have been in Pasadena within thirty minutes, Malibu within forty-five or Anaheim within the hour. Indeed, if Danielle Goodman was to be believed, this was exactly what had happened.

  Only Danielle was wrong.

  Angie was sure of it.

  In fact, she figured the UNSUB hadn’t used a vehicle. At least not one parked nearby and not during the crazy rush to get away. Given how well everything had been planned, he would have known that the parking lot would have been jammed once the bodies started falling. He would probably also have known that in an area like Sun Western, a car was not the best mode of transport. Traffic was always as thick as syrup and once cops got an eye in the sky, there was no escape. On top of that, car license plates could be as damning as fingerprints, and no matter how careful you were, just sitting in a vehicle left enough DNA in there to prompt a crime lab to throw a party.

  Nope. Angie was sure the UNSUB had simply walked away on foot.

  The question was, in which direction?

  She pulled up a Google map, one marked with every building, shop and bus station.

  The InterContinental stood bottom right of frame, the Hyatt Regency, center frame, and Stars Inn, top left of frame. They were all only a few minutes’ walk away. If the perp had somehow managed to get out of the clothes he’d worn in the mall, then he could have gone to any of those hotels and disappeared into one of a thousand rooms.

  Angie tried to think it through some more.

  He would also have had to leave the hotel in different clothes as well.

  It made her wonder if they should be looking for a guest. An out-of-towner enjoying what the FBI referred to as “recreational homicide.” He could have holed up after the hits, then checked out when the heat died down. Danielle might be right—by now he could be out of state, or out of the country via LAX.

  The other possibility was that he was a hotel worker. A maintenance man or cleaner. The uniform would have been perfect for getting in and out of the hotel, maybe even passing unnoticed through the mall.

  She ran through how that might have worked.

  He could have stashed the clothes somewhere in the mall—or even in the sports bag.

  That was it.

  The holdall hadn’t only been to conceal the weapon; it had been to carry his getaway clothes as well.

  It made sense.

  Again she had the thought that he might be a manual worker. Employed and living nearby.

  She turned her attention to the map and eyed the usual housing catchment areas for lower-paid city workers. They weren’t so far away. You could catch a 28 bus from Avenue of the Stars, make a quick change at La Brea and Olympic and then be out at Inglewood within an hour.

  She looked across the timetables. There were plenty of buses regularly leaving Santa Monica Boulevard. With a couple of easy changes, the number 4 would get you as far north as Sherman Oaks within sixty minutes. Conversely, going east, you could be downtown within the hour, and going west you could ride out as far as Santa Monica itself within thirty-five minutes.

  Angie sat back and reviewed it all. Before the first cops had even reached the mall the UNSUB could have been holed up in a hotel minutes away—or out of town and almost into another state.

  More than ever, she was sure that Danielle Goodman had gotten it all wrong. This was not a killer on a road trip, no modern-day Charles Starkweather. He was a thousand times brighter and more dangerous than that. He was a new breed of homicidal monster—a hybrid of a Spree and a Serial. Maybe the deadliest category of criminal ever identified.

  28

  SKU Offices, LA

  Time wasted away and Jake never got ahead of the curve.

  Every minute of every hour, someone was at his door or on his phone.

  It seemed to him that Crawford was under so much pressure the old guy was in danger of having a heart attack.

  No way would he ever want that job.

  Less than an hour ago the head of the FBI had talked to the office of the president.

  Shit had started to fly.

  And people were arranging the wind tunnels so it came thick and fast in the direction of the LA Field Office. The talk was of “heads rolling” if there wasn’t a quick result.

  It was eight o’clock when Jake shut down his computer and called it a day. He had a date with Angie and wasn’t going to miss it. They’d made progress the last day or two and he wanted to build on that. Ruis was under strict instructions not to call. Not unless the UNSUB struck again or they had an address for a door to go and bust open.

  The restaurant was called EPOC and it was the place Jake had first taken Angie when they started dating. It was a lot less pretentious than its name suggested. Teak flooring, vanilla walls with spotlit paintings by local artists,
and round tables draped in starched white and brown cloths. The food was a long way from Michelin-starred, but there was a hearty range of steaks and a hot chocolate soufflé to die for.

  He arrived early. And nervous. It reminded him of their first date. Way back then, his emotions had been more sexually loaded. The attraction had been blisteringly physical. He just had to look at her and he’d been in trouble. Nowadays she still thrilled him, but it was different. The excitement was a steady buzz, the attraction somehow richer and deeper than just being physical. And when she wasn’t around he felt incomplete. As if he’d run into battle without a gun. Life was just wrong when he was without her.

  Jake’s chosen table was in the corner with his back against the wall. Some habits die hard. Through the window he saw her on the sidewalk, hair flowing, tan bag over her shoulder, a focused look on her face. She was still as slim and beautiful as a swimwear model. No hint of the baby inside her.

  His child.

  The thought had taken some getting used to. But he had. He wondered if that was how Nature worked. Once you’d gotten over the Taser shock of being told you were a parent-in-waiting, some odd hormones kicked in and started to make it seem desirable.

  The restaurant door opened. Angie looked around, spotted him, smiled and made her way over. “Hi,” she said from a distance, her face full of color from the walk.

  “Hi yourself.” He got up and kissed her clumsily. This was even more like his first date than he’d thought.

  Angie looked at him quizzically as they settled.

  A waitress handed out the cards and introduced herself. “Hello, folks. I’m Sandy and I’ll be looking after you tonight. Can I get you something to drink while you’re making up your minds on the food?”

  “Just some mineral water,” said Angie.

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  “What kind, sir? We have Miller, Peroni, Bud—”

  “Any. You choose.” He just wanted her to go. Needed to talk to Angie. Get things said.

  “Large or small, sir?”

  “Any. Whatever you decide. Please just leave us for a minute.”

  Sandy gave him a startled look, found her waitress smile then vanished.

  “What was that all about?” asked Angie.

  “This.” He slapped his big hands in the middle of the table, then moved them away.

  She stared at a small, open velvet box and the gold and diamond ring sparkling there.

  “Angie Holmes, will you please make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?”

  29

  Douglas Park, Santa Monica

  They made love all night. Slower. Gentler. More meaningfully than they’d ever done.

  Their bodies tied a bond. Made a vow. They were to be a family.

  A family.

  Jake had never known one. And Angie wished she hadn’t known hers. Now they were going to start their own. Be parents. And not screw up. It was as scary as fuck and he knew she was just as excited and simultaneously freaked out as he was.

  But she’d said yes.

  Said it and cried when he’d put the ring on her finger.

  Now he slept. A deep sleep that wasn’t populated with politicians and photographs of dead people. In his drifting dreams he pictured the wedding. The birth. The child in Angie’s arms, pressed to her breast then, full and sleepy, handed over to him and laid across his chest to love and cherish.

  The dream didn’t stretch any further. He didn’t know the sex of the child. Didn’t see the first steps or hear the first words. All that was being saved for future dreams and future days.

  Jake woke with Angie stuck to him.

  She’d fallen asleep with her injured arm laid across his stomach as if it were a pillow.

  He moved slowly and peeled her off so he didn’t wake her. It was 6:30 a.m. Through the window he could see the day was already blast-furnace hot.

  Jake got up, made coffee and scrambled eggs. He shaved and showered then dressed in a lightweight gray suit with crisp white shirt and gray tie.

  At seven-fifteen, he squeezed a jug full of fresh orange juice and put together a bowl of chopped fruits with snowy dollops of low-fat yogurt. He brewed more coffee and went in to resuscitate Angie. “Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty. Believe it or not, it’s time to go again.”

  She squinted at him. Groaned. Tentatively stretched her bad arm. Grimaced.

  “Breakfast is served.” He raised the tray to her bleary eye-line and approached the bed.

  “Hrrm. Thanks.” She pulled herself up. “Was last night really real?”

  His smile lit up the room. “Really, really real.” Jake laid the tray next to her. “I love you, Mrs. Mottram.”

  The name sounded odd to her. “Holmes-Mottram. We’ll hyphenate it.” She kissed him then playfully pushed him away. “Now get me a T-shirt, I don’t want to dribble food all down me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, could be fun.” He dipped a finger in yogurt and smeared her lips.

  She licked it away and said firmly, “T-shirt! You damned near busted my arm again last night, you animal.” She pulled up the covers and noticed the diamond on her finger. “The ring you got is beautiful. Did I tell you that?”

  “You did. I’m glad you like it.”

  “Come here.” She put a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him again. “Forget the T and get your ass back in bed.”

  30

  FBI Field Office, LA

  Chips had finished early the day before and, as was his way, he’d come in early to make up the lost time. For the past hour he’d been plowing through more of the mall footage and had stuff to point out to his boss.

  Angie came in wearing a powder blue jacket and skirt with matching shoes. But that wasn’t what caught his eye.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” He rushed to her side as she approached her desk. Then he squealed with delight. “Oh, my God, you’re engaged.” He grabbed her hand and lifted it for inspection. “It’s so bee-you-tee-full!” Then he smothered her in a hug, careful not to crush the damaged arm.

  Angie came out panting for breath. “Wow, I think Jake should have asked you. That’s an even hotter response than I gave him.”

  “Sister, I would certainly have said yes if that hunk of man had asked me.”

  “He’s taken—just you remember that.” She saw his T for the first time. It was mauve with white letters that asked CAN DYSLEXICS READ BETWEEN THE LINES?

  “That’s not funny,” she said, half-seriously. “Not if you’re dyslexic.”

  He smiled mischievously. “Ah, but if you are dyslexic then you won’t be able to read it, so there’s no chance of it offending.”

  Angie shook her head in despair. She could see an empty coffee cup on his desk. “I’m gonna make myself some joe, you want another?”

  “No, thanks. ’Fore you do that, I have to show you something.”

  She followed him to his desk.

  “I’ve been going over the footage again.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were being forced off the case. “What have you got?”

  “It’s this bit that interests me.” He hit play on his media controller and the screen filled with the silent, all-too-familiar images. “It’s when Mr. Sicko has shot everyone and walks around finishing them off. First, he makes sure that Mrs. Murison is dead.” Chips tapped the screen. “Even though he’s not closest to her. Now, why do you think that was?”

  “When I first saw it, I thought maybe just because she was an old lady and perhaps there was a tiny spark of humanity inside him and he wanted to put her out of her misery.”

  “And now?”

  “Jake told me the bomb was planted by a kid pretending to be a relative of hers, but you keep that to yourself, it’s not to leave this room. Right?”

  He drew a pretend zip across his lips.

  Angie gave him her fuller answer. “Now it looks like the UNSUB may have deliberately targeted her. And perhaps after killing her he always
had it in mind to desecrate her memory, defile her even after death.” She looked at the frozen picture of the killer on the screen. “Does he behave oddly with any of the other victims?”

  Chips nodded. “Not with his victims. Not specifically. But there is something.” He fast-forwarded the footage. “Look at this and tell me what you think.”

  The section played. It was a moment after the killer had finished shooting. The sports bag on his shoulder slumped down and he lifted out his hand. The weight of the weapon made the bag point to the floor. The UNSUB was heading out when he stepped in blood. He looked down, wiped it off his sneakers and then walked on.

  “I don’t see the significance of this,” said Angie. “Is it the blood on his shoe that I’m supposed to be interested in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She looked again at the screen. “I guess he’s wiping it off because he’s reasonably smart and forensically aware. He knows CSIs will look for footprints and maybe trace him from the tread pattern.”

  “It’s not that. Let me show you.” Chips got up and paced to the middle of the room. “I’m the killer, right. Bag over shoulder.” He dropped his shoulder and held his hands as though there were a gun on his right side.

  “Other side,” said Angie, straight away. “The UNSUB had the bag slung so it hung on his left side, meaning he’s either left-handed or ambidextrous.”

  “Sorry. I’ll make the switch.” He moved the imaginary weight to his other hip. “I’m walking out. I step in blood. I look down and realize it. Now watch what I do.” Chips put the flat of his foot down about six inches away from where he’d trodden, then he dragged his leg back and forth three times like a dog scratching earth. “Look correct to you?”

  “I guess.”

  He rushed back to his computer and hit play. “That’s not what the UNSUB does. He steps into the blood. Sees it’s on his foot and then, he doesn’t step out or make the motion I did.”

  Angie leaned closer to the monitor. “Run it again.”

  He played the section. “See? There’s no scraping of the sole. He points his toe, like he’s a ballet dancer, brings it down at an angle, then upward, almost as though he’s drawing a hockey stick in the blood.”