Oliver said, “I could see a guy like Bob, who thinks he’s hot stuff, resenting being pushed around by dirt-poor, white trash like Pluto.”
Marge said, “But Bert just said that Pluto wasn’t white trash. That he went to college.”
“But he started life as white trash,” Oliver said. “Origins are everything.”
“I don’t buy it,” Webster said. “Why would Bob—even hating Pluto and being jealous of him—just open fire and cause himself all this mess? On the surface, Bob seems like a sensible man. There’s gotta be another reason for him lashing out.”
“I never met Bob,” Martinez said. “But I assume the man has charisma.”
Decker nodded. “Fair assessment.”
“Loo, if there had been a legitimate struggle for power in leadership, who do you think would have won the vote? Pluto, Bob or Venus?”
“Hard to say,” Decker answered. “Pluto was acting as the leader But Venus and Bob weren’t interfering in Pluto’s quest for power.”
“If Bob had chosen to challenge Pluto, would it have been a head-to-head competition?”
Decker thought a moment. “Don’t know. But they certainly were peers as far as rank went.”
Martinez said, “But you don’t know if Bob would have won a popular election.”
“What are you driving at, Bert?” Decker asked. “Shooting the enemy was the only way for Bob to take control?”
Martinez said, “Maybe he could have won an election, but maybe he didn’t want to wait to find out. So he took control the fastest way he saw fit.”
“What he has isn’t real control, Bert. The minute he steps outside, he’s a dead man.”
“But maybe that’s good enough for him. Because now—at this moment—he’s king of the mountain. Sounds to me like typical psycho thinking. Impulsive—act now, pay later.”
Oliver said, “The man is attention-starved. He not only has control over the Order, but now he has the press. You got the press in your palms, you’ve got control of the entire country.”
“Jupiter’s dead, Pluto’s dead, Nova’s dead…” Martinez ticked them off with his fingers. Then he stroked his mustache. “I think Bob not only likes control, he likes killing people.”
Webster asked, “So you’re saying that all of a sudden, Bob discovers homicidal urges?”
“Who said he just discovered them, Tom?” Martinez said. “Could be he’s always had ’em. We know from Europa that Bob got a thrill out of cheating—”
“It’s not the same thing as murder.”
Decker wasn’t sure about that. Criminals loved the thrill of the notorious. He was warming up to Martinez’s ideas—a psycho killer in a cult. Because sects like the Order were magnets for disenfranchised people who longed for a guru to lead them into a new life. Breaking ties with family and former friends. No outside communication. No one keeping track of their whereabouts. Perfect prey for a predatory person…
“Look at Jonestown…look at Heaven’s Gate…look at Waco. Their leaders talked their members—supposedly rational human beings—into mass suicide, killing themselves and, in the case of Waco and Jonestown, their kids as well. If leaders could get their members to do that, surely they could justify a couple of murders that were ‘necessary for the good of the community.’”
“What a field day for a psycho,” Martinez said. “Imagine a closed-door cult with lots of potential victims, and lots of privacy to do your dirty work. Tailor-made for a serial killer. Who knows? Maybe Bob disguised his murders as sanctioned killing—you know, like human sacrifices disguised as rituals or rites.”
Marge said. “You know, we’ve worked Homicide in this area for what…four years—”
“I’ve worked this area for twelve years,” Oliver said.
“About three years after the Order started,” Marge said. “I take it you’ve never heard of human sacrifices?”
“No, but how would I know?”
“It’s a valid point,” Decker said. “As long as the privileged attendants kept their members under lock and key, we wouldn’t have any idea who’s even inside those buildings let alone what was going on.” He stared at the compound. “Bob could have been murdering people for years, burying the bodies on the grounds, and we wouldn’t know the difference.”
No one spoke.
Softly, Decker asked, “Who knows what’s under those rows of vegetables?”
Marge said, “Now you’re just being gross.”
“But it makes some sense, Margie,” Oliver said. “Because who’s going to stop Bob?”
“Jupiter for one,” Webster said. “Unless you think he was a homicidal maniac, too.”
Oliver arched his eyebrows. “A cult of serial killers—”
“C’mon!” Webster said.
“Suppose there were killings and Jupiter didn’t know,” Decker said. “Maybe every time someone disappeared, Bob blamed it on Asnikov.”
“Just like yesterday,” Marge pointed out. “Andromeda and Lyra disappeared and who did they blame? Asnikov!”
“Even if I accept that premise,” Webster said, “which isn’t exactly straightforward…”
Decker smiled. “A few logical leaps—”
“Why would Bob ruin his perfectly quiet, psycho, serial killer setup and start murdering in the open like he did with Pluto? That certainly blew his cover.”
“Things were closing in on him,” Martinez said.
“Also, psychos have a self-destructive need for attention,” Decker said. “Oliver said it perfectly. Guru Bob is one attention-starved boy. Maybe he got a hint of the attention with Jupiter being gone, and he got hooked.”
“Loo, the idea is to get attention without getting caught.”
“Then you’re anonymous,” Martinez said. “That’s no fun.”
Decker paused for a moment. “Let’s back this up from the beginning. What precipitated this whole ordeal?”
“Jupiter’s death,” Martinez said.
“Right,” Decker said, “Jupiter dies—maybe even poisoned to death. My take? Someone wanted him incapacitated, but alive. Because while Jupiter was alive, he could get away with things that he couldn’t do if Jupiter was dead.”
“Like killing people?” Webster was incredulous. “Y’all think that Bob was murdering people and Jupiter turned a blind eye?”
Decker said, “Seeing Bob in action, I think it’s possible that Russo was using Jupiter as a shield for his dirty work. Could be Bob had convinced Jupiter that his victims were enemies of the Order and had to be destroyed.”
“Why would Jupiter believe Bob?” Webster asked.
“Because why would Bob lie? If the old man had been kept isolated, getting his information from only his gurus—”
“To believe Bob, the old man would have to be crazy—”
“Maybe he was. Remember the videotape? Jupiter talking about breaking them in his land. We thought he was referring to outside people like us. Maybe he was talking about his enemies within the Order.”
“Even if Bob could convince Jupiter that the killings were necessary, don’t you think that Venus or Nova or Pluto would have stopped him?”
“Two out of the three people you just mentioned are dead,” Decker pointed out. “Maybe they tried to stop him and Bob took umbrage.”
Marge looked wan. “This is making me sick. I’m beginning to think that maybe Andromeda and Lyra were Bob’s latest victims.”
Decker shrugged in a noncommittal manner. But it wasn’t convincing.
Webster was still skeptical. “Y’all are jumping around a bit…all this speculation.”
Oliver asked, “You got anything better to do with your time?”
“Actually, he does,” Decker answered. “He can go get a subpoena.”
“As soon as you get us the judge’s phone number,” Webster retorted.
Decker frowned. Another thought came to mind. He said, “Look at Nova. That wasn’t an ordinary murder. That was a showpiece! Whoever killed him really enjoye
d himself. Arranging the body in skull and crossbones. Bragging about what he had done. Typical of an organized serial killer.”
Webster said, “Shooting Pluto in the open certainly wasn’t organized.”
“But it was effective,” Oliver countered. “Bob realized his days were numbered, so he didn’t care anymore.”
Martinez said, “You know, if Bob is this sadistic, pleasure-seeking murderer, I think he’d enjoy taking the whole cult down with him—going out in a perverted blaze of glory.”
“Y’all just creating fantasy—”
“No, we’re creating a scenario, Tom,” Oliver said.
“Okay,” Webster said. “Suppose I bought Bob Russo as a serial killer. Suppose I even bought that Bob killed Nova and Pluto because they were a threat to his power base. Why in Mother Mary’s name would Bob decide to kill Pluto in the open like that?”
“He cracked under the strain,” Martinez said.
Webster waved him off. He looked at Decker. “Are you going to explain the Filofax or not?”
Decker said, “You push the enter button, then type in the name—”
Marge’s cellular burst into a shrill ring. Startled, she pushed the button and connected the line. “Detective Dunn.”
Through the receiver came a fierce, whispery female voice. “You’ve got to get us out of here! He’s gone completely insane!”
Marge snapped her fingers to get Decker’s attention. Her heart was beating like a boom box. “Venus, is that you—”
“Listen carefully! Because I only have seconds to talk before he shows up.” She dropped her voice. It was barely audible. “If you don’t do this right, we’ll all die! You hear me! Because he’s booby-trapped the doors and windows. The back door from the garden to the kitchen is probably the easiest to defuse. Because he’s been going in and out of it. So he has to set up something that’s easier to arm and disarm. Got it?”
“Got it—”
“Right now he’s working on electrically wiring the outside fences. So you don’t have much time. Now there’s a hole underneath the fence midway between…”
Static!
Frantically, Marge punched a roam button, hoping to find a suitable frequency to let her airwaves in. But it didn’t do any good. The phone was dead.
Marge swore.
“Venus?” Decker asked.
“I assume so since she’s the only one I gave my card…wait! I gave Terra my card, too. It could have been Terra.”
“Your card had your cell phone number on it?”
Marge nodded. “Venus’s voice is throaty. Terra’s more meek. But I couldn’t tell. All I heard was a scared whisper.”
“Did she say something about the back door?” Martinez asked.
“She said all the doors and windows were booby-trapped, but the back door was probably the easiest to defuse because Bob has been going in and out of it. She said we’d better work quickly because Bob was working on electronically wiring the outside fences.”
Decker said, “Think the call might have been a trap to rope us into action? Europa said that Bob likes playing games. She said that if we waited him out, he’d make a move. This could be it.”
Silence. Then Marge said, “Maybe. Except the voice certainly sounded terrified.”
“Could be legit,” Decker said. “But it could be acting. Cults attract the fringes, and so does Hollywood. Lots of past thespians have wound up with some mighty strange gurus.”
30
After apprising the LAPD brass and FBI of the latest communications, Decker and his crew waited for instructions. Marge was interviewed first, her phone immediately confiscated. Lots of questions; for every ten people, there were eleven opinions. The diversity led the top brass to convene yet another task force operative in the form of—guess what?—another meeting. Even had Decker been invited—which he wasn’t—he would have excused himself. With so many people calling the shots, chances of a screw-up were great.
The consensus was that the phone call had been a trap. Marge took the role of the lone voice of dissent. She stood against the elm tree, staring at the lifeless building, sipping coffee from a paper cup. With her were Decker, Oliver and Special-Agent-in-Charge Bennett McCarry, who had joined the group by default. Their own small task force—one devoid of power and importance, but at least her voice could be heard. She rubbed her eyes, blinking back glare from the overcast, mid-morning sky. Mr. Sun was trying valiantly to break through the pewter clouds.
“If Bob really wanted to hook us, why didn’t he use a kid on the phone? He knows we’d be more likely to take risks for children.”
“Kids are unreliable,” answered McCarry.
“Not the Order’s kids,” Marge responded. “They’ve been programmed to be little robots.”
Recalling her interview with fourteen-year-old Vega, thinking about the glimmer of light behind the young teen’s eyes as she spoke about the Little Prince’s adventures into magical worlds. Such a bright child, yet she had lived out her short life behind concrete walls, her mind crammed with hard-nose sciences, and the false faith of a guru, dropout astrophysicist. A pain shot through Marge’s heart.
McCarry was talking. “…like she was talking under someone else’s orders?”
“The woman on the phone?” Marge asked.
McCarry almost repressed his annoyance. “Yes, Detective. The woman on the phone. Did she sound like she was repeating someone else’s orders?”
Marge pondered the question. “To me, she sounded genuinely scared.”
Oliver said, “Even if it’s a ploy to draw us out, we still can’t ignore it.”
Decker said, “I’m sure the current task force is working on it.”
“Why aren’t you with them?” Oliver asked.
“Guess I’ve been kicked out of the loop.” Decker yawned, then faced McCarry. “So what’s your excuse for hanging around us losers when you could be part of the bigwigs?”
McCarry shrugged. “I like losers. Feel at home with them.”
Decker smiled. He knew a couple of reasons why McCarry elected to stay. First, Decker had clout—albeit minimal—with Bob. Maybe the FBI agent wanted to ride his wave. But more than that, Decker sensed that McCarry had grown tired of useless meetings. He was beginning to warm up to the agent, sensing a reciprocal thaw. There were small signs of mutual trust. Things like McCarry getting Decker’s people fresh coffee when he had exited the task force’s trailer.
The agent asked, “Where are the other two? Blondie and Mustache?”
“Martinez and Webster?” Decker rephrased. “They’re petitioning to subpoena Reuben Asnikov’s files.”
“Which judge are they asking for the warrant?” Marge asked.
“Ryan.”
“Good choice.”
“Asnikov’s a first-class bastard,” McCarry shot out. “Sitting on information while there are kids inside.”
“Asnikov claims he’s never rescued anyone from the Order,” Oliver said.
McCarry said, “You ever mention him to anyone in the Order? See their reaction?”
Marge said, “Couple of times.”
“To them, he’s the devil, right?”
“In the flesh.”
McCarry sipped coffee. “You don’t elicit naked hatred unless you’ve messed them up. Over the years the L.A. Bureau alone has received close to fifty kidnapping complaints against him.”
“Kidnapping complaints from the Order?” Marge asked.
McCarry shook his head. “Order would never contact the FBI about Asnikov. First of all, they’re kidnappers themselves. Second, the gurus all have clouded pasts, I’m convinced of it. No, most of the complaints against Reuben have come from divorced parents. Kidnapping kids for one parent or the other. You know the scenario. Dad decides to stick it to Mom by kidnapping sonny.”
Decker asked, “Does Asnikov kidnap for the custodial or noncustodial parent?”
“He swings both ways. We have at least fifteen cases where he’s taken the
kid away from the court-assigned parent. Although in a few cases, looks like the court made a mistake. I’d say the bulk of his work consists of returning kids to the custodial parent.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Marge said. “That’s restoration.”
“In theory, no.” McCarry’s eyes turned steely. “It’s his methods.”
“It’s your kid, you have the legal rights, the system is failing you…” Marge shrugged. “I don’t see a problem.”
“It’s vigilante justice,” McCarry said.
“To me, it’s plain justice.”
The agent didn’t press it. Decker looked around the area teeming with steel and flesh—cars, trucks, SWAT vans and other assorted vehicles along with newspaper and TV people with cameras, spotlights, makeup personnel (mascara and foundation run in the fog) and sound booms and mikes. In the last two hours, the bodies seemed to have multiplied by mitosis. An ant farm in macrocosm. Everyone just waiting for something to happen.
Decker said, “We could cut the manpower in half without losing anything.”
“At least by half,” McCarry agreed. “What a waste of money.” To Marge, he said, “My techs are wiring your line to our tape machine in one of our equipment vans. They should be done in fifteen minutes. You’ll need to stick around in case someone calls you.”
Oliver said, “In the meantime, Loo, I think we should look for the alleged hole in the fence. See if it even exists. I’ve got a pair of binocs in the trunk of the car.”
“Sure, go look, Scott. Who knows what you might find?” To McCarry, Decker asked, “Does anyone in your agency have any idea if the compound’s doors and windows are really hot-wired?”
“Nobody,” McCarry answered.
Oliver spoke. “The phone call said that Bob was in the process of wiring the fence. I’m just wondering if maybe Bob already has. Like he has a switch to turn it on and off. So we plan our move thinking that everything’s copacetic. Then the moment Bob sees us futzing with the fence, he flips on the juice, turning us into crispies.”
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