by Rick Mofina
“This is different, Ann. It’s not the same.”
“It is the same! Your name is out there on every story about every creep that rises from the sewers of this city.” She had tapped his keyboard. “And they can find us, Tom. You know they can.”
“Ann.”
“You back off. Pull away. You’re getting too close. You go to Sydowski and give it up.”
“Ann, please.”
“Tom, you’re not a cop.”
“Ann, this is huge.”
She had taken his face in her hands.
“That’s just it, don’t you see? You get the story, but we pay the price for it.”
“Annie, don’t do this. Please.”
Her eyes filled with fear as she searched his. They knew each other well enough to know he couldn’t give up this story. Not now. That was a cold, hard fact.
“All right,” she had said. “I’ll take Zach to Newport Beach for a few days.”
“Ann.”
“No, it’ll be fine, Tom. It’s a good time. Lana’s been bugging me to come. We’ll go to Disneyland, or something. You stay here and finish what you started.”
“You’re sure?”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
He had nodded. She had kissed him, then left him there staring at the pictures of Carla Purcell’s murder.
Reed turned in his chair now, sitting there unshaven in his sweatpants and T-shirt, in need of a shower, breakfast, and coffee. But he kept working because he was not going to Sydowski with this information. Not yet. He needed to work on it. Who knew where it could lead? It was shaping up to be a national story. Secretly Reed envisioned one of the pictures stretched across the front page. The home movies of a serial killer at work. He shuddered. They had to stop this guy. To take this thing any further Reed was going to need help. From the inside.
Wyatt.
He was a computer cop. He was part of the investigation. And he owed Reed.
FIFTY-FIVE
Wyatt forced himself to push aside Iris Wood’s case as he drove to Olivia’s house for dinner.
Face the truth. You’re not part of that file. You never were. Sydowski hammered it home. They don’t want you.
And so far he had struck out on his secret computer probe. Gricks was right, whoever was behind it was good. Coming at him head-on would be like flying into the sun.
Wyatt couldn’t prove a link between the killer and Iris Wood’s computer. His suspicions had been diminished by Sydowski’s case status meeting. He had to admit Sydowski was a hell of a detective. He had twenty-one suspects, he was searching rental cars, was consulting other police departments, had submitted the file to VICAP.
Tom Reed at the Star knew more about the case than he did. Wyatt was so far out of the loop, he couldn’t even see it. And by putting the FBI on Iris Wood’s computer, Sydowski made it clear that nobody in the SFPD counted Wyatt among them. After all this time, he was still being shunned, still paying the price for Reggie Pope’s shooting. Nothing had changed. They didn’t believe him. They never would. Never.
One person believed him.
Wyatt reached for the tiny gift-wrapped box, with the elegant bow, in the seat beside him as he parked in front of Olivia’s big Edwardian house.
The gate squeaked as he entered the yard, a breeze hissed through the trees carrying the softest sounds of music. Wyatt went to the rear where the music got louder. He stopped near a large shrub. It was Olivia. He saw her through the open kitchen window. Standing there watching her, a feeling came over him. She looked so good. Concentrating, slicing vegetables while the music played. At that point he knew he had fallen in love with Olivia. She believed him. She had accepted him. Had healed him. He felt stronger, ready to face whatever fate was holding for him because he would always have this moment.
Dinner was chicken Kiev. Dessert was Olivia’s homemade apple pie. It was the best meal Wyatt had eaten in a long, long time. Later, they sat on her rear porch sipping wine, enjoying the quiet.
“Olivia, do you ever think about what it would be like to have kids, have a family?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curious.”
“Yes,” she said over her wine glass. “It would be wonderful to have children.”
“You would be a wonderful mother.”
“What about you? Ever think of being a dad?”
“Sure. I think of all the dad things like Little League. Fishing. My dad and I built the coolest soap box racer when I was ten. Painted it sapphire.”
“What about diapers, braces, and tummy aches that keep them up all night?”
“All part of the job.”
As the evening darkened and they refilled their wine glasses, Wyatt figured the time was right to reach into his pocket for the small gift-wrapped box.
“I got you a little something.”
Olivia was taken by surprise, opening her present, a necklace with a fine gold chain. It sparkled in the evening light.
“Ben, it’s beautiful!” She blushed, “Help me put it on.”
They stood, Olivia turning so he could fasten the clasp at the back of her neck. Then she kissed his cheek. They remained on the porch, finishing their wine, gazing up at the half-moon rising.
“Guess we’re a couple now, huh, dear?” Olivia giggled.
“Guess so.”
“You know, Ben. Things have been good for me since we met. It’s been nice. You know what I mean?”
“It’s been nice for me too.”
“I’ve just been feeling good about things. Like, I’ve just decided to visit my only relatives. My mom’s sister in Chicago. I haven’t seen them in years.”
“That’s great. When are you going?”
“In a few days. Just a short trip.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
Olivia set down her wine glass. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the whole house.” She grabbed Wyatt’s hand.
Olivia showed him every room, including the top-floor turret with its huge window offering the view of San Francisco’s skyline and the bridges. They kissed there as the lights of the city twinkled. Then she showed him each of the five bedrooms. The last one on the tour was hers.
Wyatt liked how the room smelled good, liked its huge bay windows, the king-size bed. He saw her computer on the desk.
“You go on-line much from home?” Wyatt checked out her PC.
“A little. You know, chat rooms. Like pen pal stuff for shy people.” She grinned, twisting the necklace he gave her.
“Be careful. Never give out personal data. You never know who’s lurking out there.”
“Yes, Officer, I’m careful. I mostly use it to do orders for Caselli’s from here.”
Wyatt spotted the printouts of news stories about Reggie Pope’s shootings. He stared at Olivia with a question written on his face.
“Ben.” She stepped closer. “I just wanted to learn more about you, how they treated you.”
He saw understanding in her eyes as he took her into his arms, pulling her to him. They kissed, a long, deep kiss. Olivia pulled him closer to her bed.
The computer whirred and twilled as quietly as a cobra.
A new message was coming for livinsf.
FIFTY-SIX
Les Brinkhaus set down his mug of early morning coffee next to his terminal. His extension rang. It was his supervisor.
“Stand by, Les. Going to get you to run some ad hoc queries for a fresh one from the West.”
“All right.”
Brinkhaus was an MCS, a major case specialist, with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, headquartered within the Critical Incident Response Group, known as the CIRG building, at the academy in Quantico. The unit hummed with soft conversations, clicking keyboards, phones, as some thirty-five FBI crime analysts queried the massive stand-alone computer database for serial links among violent crimes across the country. The program divided the nation into six regions, E-1, E-2, E-3, for the eastern
half; W-1, W-2, W-3 for the west, with supervisory agents and crime analysts assigned to each region.
Brinkhaus handled “specials” and was the coordinator for all ViCLAS queries the Royal Canadian Mounted Police made to the FBI’s program, which allowed the two agencies to compare U.S. and Canadian cases.
The retired veteran Memphis homicide detective loved the work. “Keeps the gray matter active,” he told friends from Tennessee. Although, Brinkhaus admitted, he spent much of his time convincing detectives all over the damned place that their information was safe, that his job was to find similarities and put investigators in touch with each other. “Hell, son, I worked homicide for nineteen years, you don’t have to tell me how precious your hold-back is. It’s sacred. Wouldn’t trust it to the Lord himself. I know. But you got to ask yourself, when you look into the eyes of the victim’s family, can you honestly tell them, ‘Yes, I tried everything to solve it, I swear. Everything,’ and then sleep at night?”
The FBI loved Brinkhaus for his near evangelical commitment to the program. Brinkhaus, a natural southern charmer, liked working with detectives across America and the RCMP, a fine, world-class police force, he would tell the other VICAP analysts.
He took a hit of what passed for coffee, reflecting on the recent unsolved Canadian case Art Lardner submitted over the encrypted fax. As requested, Brinkhaus had queried the key physical evidence, the shoe impressions and some letters thought to be airport codes. Nothing yet. But he was constantly comparing the file on the U.S. data bank. In fact, he was starting one when his line rang. Again, it was his supervisor.
“All right, Les. It’s coming from San Francisco. Should be there now. Here’s the file number. They think they got a traveler. See what you can do.”
Brinkhaus keyed in his security key codes to the file submitted by Inspector Walter Sydowski, SFPD. He’d heard of that guy. A legend. Okay, partner, what do we have? Brinkhaus was quick, went right to the evidentiary mode, key fact: “shoe impressions. The descriptive BWI -- for Baltimore-Washington International.
Brinkhaus’s eyes widened ever so slightly over his bifocals. He immediately went to the Canadian case, which had the descriptive B and forensic theory, the short airport code list of possibles including BWI for Baltimore-Wash --
“Gotcha!”
Brinkhaus reached for his phone, punching the area code, to call the RCMP.
“Lardner.”
“Art, you know that case of yours with the descriptive letter?”
“Yeah, you got something for us?”
“I have a possible match. Real similar case in San Francisco. Let me reach out to the PD there and have him get in touch with you. Stand by.”
Brinkhaus called the San Francisco homicide detail. They patched his call through to Sydowski at home. He was in the aviary when it came.
“Sydowski.”
Brinkhaus could hear chirping.
“Inspector, Les Brinkhaus, VICAP Quantico.”
“Yeah.”
What’s with the birds? Was the guy in the forest?
“I think we have a case very similar to yours.”
“That right? Where?”
“In Canada.”
“Canada? What’s the match?”
“Look, we protect everyone’s file. Here’s the number for the RCMP contact, Art Lardner. He’ll give you the case investigator. It’s a fresh homicide. You guys should talk.”
“Thanks, Les.”
Reesor was driving home with his son from a Bulls-Raptors game when his cell phone rang. He called Sydowski from a pay phone while his son cranked up the radio in the car. It took four minutes for the two detectives, separated by a border and three time zones, to feel each other out and decide now was the time to pull out all the stops; it only took sixty seconds for them to agree Iris Wood and Belinda Holcomb were murdered by the same man.
Their cases matched on several points. Victims: SWF; murder scene: public, shoe impressions made by a Colossal Sports Strider, male size 11. Airport code for BWI. Both were quiet types who went on-line from home.
Sydowski sent Reesor his suspect list with twenty-one names and a copy of the shoe impression. Reesor sent Sydowski the shoe impression found at the murder scene in the Toronto theater.
Reesor and Winslow checked the twenty-one names with Toronto hotels and struck out in the first call-around. One hour later, a manager called back. The Palace Arms near the airport.
“Detective Reesor, a room was reserved using the credit card matching one of the names you supplied us. But another person took the room, paid cash.”
“Fax me all the names, dates, credit card information.”
Reesor got Winslow to alert their boss for a warrant to search the hotel room for prints or trace. Reesor then called San Francisco.
“We got a hit from your list: Harlan Wells, Maryland,” Reesor told Sydowski. “But a Foster Dean of Washington D.C., took the room. The dates put both names here for the murder. Likely aliases. We’ll check the names with her employer, neighborhood, and try some other things.”
“Okay, Reesor this is good. We’ll get working on this at our end.”
In San Francisco, the SFPD located the car rented from United Coast by Harlan Wells of Laurel, Maryland. A judge signed a warrant for them to impound the vehicle, a new blue Ford Taurus. It was transported to Hunter’s Point where crime scene techs scoped it. Horace Meeker from the lab assisted as they scoured it for any trace evidence. Sydowski studied the photographs of Harlan Wells, looking hard into his eyes and the scars on his face. Calls had been placed with the Maryland MVA. Details on the names had been entered into NCIC. Sydowski sent Reesor photos of Harlan Wells from his Maryland driver’s license and security camera at the United Coast rental outlet at San Francisco International.
In Toronto, Detective Jackie Winslow had credit card confirmation that a Foster Dean had flown from Toronto directly to Calgary within four hours of Belinda Holcomb’s murder. A Harlan Wells had rented a car and then a room at the Timberrock Hotel in Banff.
“Jackie, call the car rental agency at the Calgary Airport. Get the particulars. See if the car’s still out, get the VIN, tag, run the vehicle through CPIC. We’ll alert the RCMP in Banff.”
Within fifteen minutes a CPIC dispatcher in Ottawa called Reesor.
“The subject’s vehicle was stopped by RCMP outside Sparwood.”
“British Columbia?”
“Yes.” The dispatcher gave Reesor the time, date, the Mountie’s name and regimental number. “The driver was cited for “Section 146, sub three of the B.C. Motor Vehicles Act.” The dispatcher was reading from a computer screen.
“Speeding?” Reesor said.
“Right. Exceeding posted limit. No ticket issued.”
“The operator?”
“Eugene Vryke, 3466 Cromley in Hyattsville, Maryland. Want DOB and particulars?”
“Yes, send me the data. Can you query NCIC?”
Reesor called the Sparwood RCMP detachment and asked for the member who had stopped Vryke.
“That’s Allan Krell. He’s on patrol about thirty minutes away.”
Reesor explained the urgency. His call was patched through the radio to Constable Krell’s car. He agreed to return to his office immediately and compare the photos of Harlan Wells and Eugene Vryke. When Reesor hung up, Winslow had more news.
“Marty,” her hand was over her phone’s mouthpiece. The suspect’s rental car was dropped off last night at the agency’s outlet in downtown Vancouver.”
“Last night? Get them to grab the car, Jackie. I’ll alert Vancouver homicide and the Mounties out there.”
After completing his calls, Reesor called Sydowski. “Walt, Reesor here. Our guy may still be in Canada. Dropped off a rental last night in Vancouver.
“We’ve got several good latents from his trunk. See who they belong to.”
“Try the name Eugene Vryke.” He spelled it. “I’ll send you particulars.”
“How’s that name come up
?”
“Harlan Wells rented a car out of Calgary. RCMP made a traffic stop on the rental driven by Eugene Vryke, 3466 Cromley in Hyattsville, Maryland. Here’s -- hold on --”
Winslow was on the line with Constable Krell in Sparwood, nodding emphatically to Reesor. “Sparwood says Vryke and Wells are the same guy.”
“Walt, the Mountie who made the stop confirms that Vryke and Wells are the same guy.”
Sydowski weighed the situation. In a short time, they had gone from a galaxy of suspects to one. A moment passed as the two detectives considered their next step.
“We’re less than twenty-four hours behind him, Marty.”
“We’ve got his picture.”
“We should release it, safeguard the public, ask for help, turn up the heat.” Sydowski stared at the board and Vryke’s face. “I got a feeling he wants to come home,” he said. “Better alert our border people.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Eugene Vryke sat in a right-side window seat, of the wide-body Eagle coach as it rolled south out of Vancouver along British Columbia’s Highway 99 to the border at Blaine, Washington, some twenty-five miles away.
The forty-seven-seat charter bus was filled with sports fans bound for Seattle’s Safeco Field where the Mariners were playing the L.A. Dodgers.
A boy about 16 was in the seat next to him, part of a father-and-two-son delegation. The younger sibling across the narrow aisle was about twelve, well-behaved and well supplied with red hair and freckles like the snoring dad. The teen was reading Sports Illustrated.
Vryke gazed upon the flowers of Peace Arch Provincial Park, knowing that as his time drew near, he had become sloppy. More vulnerable. It had almost ended for him when the traffic cop stopped him in the mountains. But it didn’t. If he could return safely to the United States and complete the critical details for his final meeting, he would succeed.
He must succeed. He could not afford to fail. Time was running out.
Traffic was congesting. Lanes choked with southbound big rigs, RVs, cars, vans. The Blaine crossing was one of the busiest between the two countries. The bus’s big Detroit engine growled and its Jake brakes hissed as they began inching their way to the U.S. border, now less than a quarter of a mile away.
