“How so?”
“His mother was the child of an American citizen born out of the country. He has a claim on citizenship. We’re preparing to argue on his behalf.”
“Thanks. He’s also going to need some help in relocating.”
“Witness Protection?”
“In case the Russians are holding a grudge.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“He cracked the case for us, Skip.”
“We understand.”
“Was that all?”
“Lytell wants to know more about the serial killings. More about the alleged perpetrator who was on your staff.”
“What does he want to know?”
“The full story.”
“Okay.”
“In Buddy-speak, what does okay mean?”
“He’ll have it.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can properly prepare it for his consideration. In the meantime, there’s a nationwide alert out for him.”
“And no further concerns regarding any more possible murders.”
“It hasn’t been proven that Farmer was the killer. There’s evidence that points to that conclusion, but until we can interview him, we have to regard the killings as ongoing and unsolved.”
“I’ll inform Lytell.”
“Thank you.”
Wilder was silent.
“May I assume this call is now over?” I asked.
“I suppose.”
“Your grudgingly solicitous attitude is duly noted.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” I said.
I hung up too quickly to hear his response.
SIXTY-THREE
When I returned to my Wrangler, I found myself sandwiched between a blue Honda Accord that had parked inches from my tail and a red Chevy Cabriolet that was about two feet in front of me.
I was in the downtown jewelry district, having just picked up my father’s Rolex from the dealership that had cleaned and serviced it for him.
I began the deking and juking process that would ultimately allow me to maneuver my way out from between the two cars, having dissuaded myself from slapping them both with parking tickets.
I had finally cleared the rear bumper of the Chevy and was just starting to pull into the road when I spotted the black Lexus sedan in my side view mirror, steaming toward me, forcing me to jam on the brakes.
It was only in the seconds before he took the shot that I spotted the barrel of what looked like a Beretta PX4 being leveled at me through the open front passenger-side window by none other than Buzz Farmer.
Reflexively, I ducked below the steering wheel and dropped to the floor, where I found myself face-to-face with the Wrangler’s accelerator. I depressed it with the heel of my hand, causing the big SUV to leap forward and clip the rear end of the Lexus as it raced past me, sending it careening into a tailspin.
Farmer’s shot went awry, slamming into the back of the Chevy in front of me, as opposed to its intended target, my head.
I righted myself behind the wheel and saw Farmer regain control of the Lexus, race forward and make a left turn at the first intersection.
It took several moments for me to stop shaking and realize he was getting away. Stepping heavily on the gas, I followed him into the turn and found the street in front of me empty.
When I hit the next intersection, I glanced both ways and caught sight of the Lexus in the distance. I turned right and chased it.
I wished I was in my squad car with its light bar and siren, which would have allowed me the chance to move more expeditiously through the mid-morning traffic. I realized I was driving as if in some kind of trance, still trembling, aware of how narrowly I’d missed being shot.
The traffic was heavy. I was in a maze of small streets and multiple intersections. I grabbed my cell and rang the station.
When Wilma answered, I explained what had gone down and that I was in pursuit of Buzz Farmer’s Lexus. I asked her to contact all available units, give them my coordinates, and instruct them to locate me and join the fray.
The Lexus was heading toward the freeway. I only realized that it was a different Lexus when Farmer suddenly rammed me from behind, forcing the Wrangler to swerve right and sideswipe several parked cars before screeching to a halt.
As he raced past me, Farmer fired twice, both shots off target. The effort, however, distracted him. The Lexus veered left and clipped the front end of an approaching Toyota Prius, knocking it off course, resulting in it being smacked hard by the Acura sedan behind it.
Farmer jerked the steering wheel and swerved right, narrowly avoiding the two-car accident he had caused. He then accelerated and sped away from the scene.
I was now stopped, confronted by the two drivers whose cars I had sideswiped and scraped. They had leapt from their vehicles and were yelling and pointing at me. With a shrug of regret, I showed them my badge, revved the Wrangler, and sped off after Farmer.
He had transitioned onto Route 32, a four-lane freeway that wended its way west, through the industrial section of Freedom, past multiple factories and warehouses, heading toward interstate Highway One.
Once again I dialed Wilma, this time asking her to arrange helicopter surveillance so we could keep an eye on him from the sky. “I’ve already lined it up and was just waiting for you to green-light it,” she said.
“Light’s green.”
It wasn’t long before I heard chopper noise followed by the appearance of San Remo Two, one of the county’s four helicopter units.
A pair of squad cars driven by Al Striar and Dave Balding linked up with me as I transitioned onto coastline Highway One, following Farmer as he darted in and out of the fast-moving traffic and heading south.
If he had any hope of escaping the surveillance, he knew by our pursuit and the presence of Remo Two above him that evasion had become even trickier. He ratcheted the Lexus up to dangerous speeds.
Although we kept pace, the squad cars and my Wrangler made no effort to overtake him. We were in no danger of losing sight of him. Sooner or later he would either blunder or run out of fuel. Time was on our side.
But as we approached the Pacific beach communities, the traffic grew heavier, forcing Farmer to reduce speed as he maneuvered in and out of lanes.
When I responded to the ringing of my cell phone, Johnny Kennerly asked if Striar, Balding, and I might be able to push Farmer southeast, away from the beach road, toward the Pleasant Avenue turnoff, where Johnny was preparing to string a spike strip diagonally across the road.
“We’ll give it a shot.”
“I’ll get the spike strip in place,” he said. “Just be careful that none of you traverse the strip yourselves.”
“We’re not that stupid.”
“Says you.”
With Remo Two still overhead, the two squad cars and I lined up in a single file on the lane adjacent to the fast one on the left, the one in which Farmer was driving.
After passing him, Al Striar established a position in front of the Lexus, followed closely by Dave Balding, their light bars flashing, sirens wailing. I brought up the rear. As we neared the Pleasant Avenue turnoff, we all began edging further left.
Fearing we might force him off the road, Farmer swerved onto the Pleasant Avenue exit, hurtling forward at speeds approaching a hundred miles an hour.
Striar, Balding, and I slowed, allowing Farmer to put some distance between us, which encouraged him to accelerate even more. He hit the spike strip at an ungodly speed.
All four tires blew out amid a storm of sparks and smoke. Rubber shards flew in every direction. We saw him struggling with the wheel as the Lexus bucked and teetered out of control.
Johnny Kennerly immediately wrested the spike strip from the roadw
ay and we raced on in pursuit of the Lexus, which we saw smash into a guard rail, bounce off and then enter a tailspin that propelled it across the roadway, where it slammed into a pair of parked cars.
Before the Lexus had fully stopped, Buzz Farmer was out of it, the Beretta semi in his hand, racing toward relative safety behind one of the two parked cars.
Striar and Balding skidded to a sideways stop in front of the Lexus, leapt from their respective vehicles and took cover behind them, their service weapons drawn.
I eased the Wrangler to within a few feet of Balding’s cruiser, press checked my Colt Commander, and ducked down beside him.
We were on a cliffside overlooking the Pacific, in a neighborhood that boasted some of San Remo County’s costliest homes. The commotion had attracted a handful of curious residents, one of them photographing the events with her cell phone. Striar hollered for them to take shelter.
Several cars were parked in front of a gated mansion and it was there, from behind a Subaru Outback, that Farmer got off an opening salvo of six shots, two of which slammed into Balding’s squad car.
In a moment of quiet, I called to him. “Buzz. It’s Buddy. Throw down your weapon.”
“Fuck you, Buddy.”
“Don’t risk being shot, Buzz. Put it down.”
“You ruined everything,” he hollered, his voice scratchy and weary.
“We can talk about it. I can get you help. Put down the gun and come out.”
“How did you find out?” he shouted. “How did you know?”
“The three cities.”
“What difference would they have made?”
“Enough to provide a link.”
“That’s a crock, Buddy. It had to be something else. The methodology in each of those cities was different enough to prevent any such link.”
“Surrender peacefully and I’ll tell you.”
“It was something I did, wasn’t it?”
“Give it up, Buzz.”
“There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell those killings could have been connected.”
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
“It was something else. Or someone else. What was it?”
I remained silent.
“Come on, Buddy. What was it? Was it my wife? Was it Kelly?”
“Surrender, Buzz. Don’t let this turn sour.”
Farmer didn’t speak for a while. He peeked around the corner of the Lexus, assessing his chances of escape. Then he stepped out, holding his Beretta by his side.
“I’m not going to jail, Buddy.”
“Put the gun down, Buzz. We’re all of us here your friends and are greatly saddened by this. We’ll treat you with the respect you earned during your service with us. We’ll make certain you get the best psychiatric care.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Buddy. I’m a fucking serial killer, for God’s sake. Treat me with respect? I don’t think so.”
“You’re wrong, Buzz. You have my word.”
He glared at me, raised the pistol and placed it against his forehead.
SIXTY-FOUR
Once again I was in the news and once again I declined requests for interviews and appearances. I credited Marsha Russo with having identified Buzz Farmer as the serial killer and the media swarmed her.
“How did it turn out that I’ve become your media representative?” Jordyn Yates said when I picked up her call. “Prior to my agreeing to represent you, I was a highly regarded attorney in a very prestigious firm. Now, instead of client calls, I’m fielding requests from the likes of Anderson Cooper and Sean Hannity.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Don’t smart mouth with me, Buddy. You have no idea how time-consuming it is for me and my staff.”
“Bill me,” I said.
“That’s not the point.”
“So what exactly is the point? Other than the opportunity for me to listen to you whine.”
“You’re a fucking hero, Buddy. Everyone wants a piece of you.”
“Not interested.”
“You’re nuts. You’re a national phenomenon. Sheriff Buddy Steel. Brings down a Russian drug cartel and a serial killer both in the same week.”
“Coincidence. On their own, neither is newsworthy.”
“Will you at least grant one interview? Stephanopoulos? Norah O’Donnell?”
“I might consider James Corden. But only if I can sing in the car.”
“Is there any chance you might take this a little more seriously, Buddy?”
“It’s already a done deal. But I will hire a publicist to fend them all off.”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll still rep you.”
“I never meant to be a burden, Jordy.”
“I know,” she said. “But it was worth the try.”
After a brief silence, I offered, “May I tell you something? Something in confidence.”
“I’m your lawyer, aren’t I?”
“I’m thinking of dropping out for a while.”
“Meaning?”
“I want off the grid.”
“Stop being obtuse, Buddy. What are you talking about?”
“I’ve had my fill of this circus. I need to stop the world for a while. Take some time for myself.”
“Because?”
“I feel rudderless. Untethered to any recognizable reality.”
“And you think time out will change that?”
“It might.”
“And where are you thinking of taking this time out?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is it you want to do?”
“That’s just it. There’s nothing I want to do. Go for a hike, maybe. Climb a mountain.”
“Utah.”
“Excuse me?”
“I own a ski cabin in Utah. In Deer Valley. I’m not using it. You can have it.”
“You mean I can stay there?”
“Yes.”
“Can I get back to you on that?”
“Whenever.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“You’re really willing to step away from the spotlight?”
“I am.”
“Forgive me for being so old-fashioned. Missed opportunities never fail to haunt me.”
“Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”
“Excuse me?”
“Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”
“What are you talking about?”
She was quiet for several moments, then she said, “Wait a minute. I get it. I know this game. I love this game. The Godfather, right?
I knew she was grinning without seeing her.
“It’s a line from The Godfather. I know it is. I know more lines, too. How about, ‘Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes?’”
When I said nothing, she went on. “He was banging cocktail waitresses two at a time.”
“Jordyn…”
“They shot Sonny on the causeway.”
“Jordyn…”
“I’ll take lines from movies for forty, Alex.”
SIXTY-FIVE
The specter of Buzz Farmer’s death haunted me. When I closed my eyes, the vision of him shooting himself blotted out everything else.
I blamed myself for not having been more forceful. For not being skillful enough to have prevented what occurred. My nights were filled with remorse, my days with distraction.
My rational self argued there was no way I could have thwarted Farmer’s suicide. I wasn’t the threat that caused him to kill himself. He had turned out not to be the image of perfection he had fashioned for himself. And that, he couldn’t live with.
My irrational self charged me with failure. Petrov escape
d prosecution. And, in retrospect, Farmer did, too.
Despite the media veneration, I saw myself as having botched the job. And, instead of facing media adulation, what I was really facing was my steadfastly unforgiving conscience.
And, just as my father was experiencing a respite from the inevitability of his fate, I was staring eye-to-eye at mine.
I stepped off the plane in Chicago, rented a Chevy Camaro, and drove to Rockport. I parked in front of her house and sat there for a while.
It was one of a community of modest homes, all crowded together in a lower-middle class neighborhood, on narrow streets that often doubled as playgrounds and makeshift clubhouses.
Finally I navigated the short cement walkway and the three steps that led to the front door. I rang the bell.
When she opened it, I realized I had seen her before. At the Ralph’s market in Freedom, examining canned goods further down the aisle from where I had unexpectedly run into her husband. He had never thought to introduce us and I hadn’t put two and two together until this moment.
“Sheriff Steel.” She offered her hand. “Kelly Farmer.”
“Mrs. Farmer.”
“Will you come in?”
“Thank you.” I followed her inside.
She was kind-looking, at ease within herself, and pretty in an understated way. She wore no makeup. Hers was a narrow face, full lipped with a slightly upturned nose and a ruddy complexion that emphasized the intensity of her moist brown eyes.
She showed me into a small living room that was also a repository for a great many children’s toys and accessories, as well as a tiny playpen, currently unoccupied.
“Nap time,” Kelly Farmer explained. “We’ll need to keep our voices down.”
I nodded. We sat.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why am I here?”
She nodded.
“To pay my respects.”
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know. But there was something unfinished between me and Buzz. Something unspoken that didn’t exactly end with his death.”
“Such as?”
“I haven’t actually articulated it before. I hope I can make myself clear.”
Again she nodded.
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