Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Fine,” said Allison, again lowering her head.

  A feeling of dread began expanding in the pit of my stomach. That was the second time someone had suggested that the body in the Botanical Garden was the work of The Magpie—a serial killer who, as far as I knew, was operating exclusively in the Pacific Northwest.

  I needed to see those online photos.

  Unfortunately, I was fearful of what they would show.

  Later that evening, after Allison had departed with Katie and Travis and McKenzie were upstairs cleaning up after dinner, Dorothy and I retired to our outdoor swing. By then the sun had dropped behind Point Dume to the west, lighting the horizon in shades of orange and gold. We sat awhile without speaking, gazing out over the sand and enjoying the last light of the day. The tide was out, and mounds of seaweed, driftwood, and crab hulls littered the beach to the water’s edge. I also noted that a southern swell had started to build offshore, presaging heavy surf for the next few days.

  Dorothy finally broke the silence. “We haven’t had much time to talk since you returned, Dan. How are you doing?”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. A lot on my mind.”

  “The new investigation that Ali mentioned?”

  “Yeah, that. And Nate, of course.”

  “Nate is going to be okay. He’s made a lot of progress over the past month. It’s the new case that’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “Dorothy, I can’t really discuss—”

  “I don’t need details,” she interrupted. “Just tell me why you’re so upset.”

  “You noticed, huh?”

  “You’re not that hard to read, Dan. Talk to me.”

  I hesitated. “Okay,” I said. “I’m worried the UCLA case is going to turn into another high-profile media frenzy.”

  “And in the past, that’s exactly the type of investigation that has cost our family dearly.”

  I remained silent.

  “Dan, Catheryn’s death wasn’t your fault.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that,” I replied. “And on some level, I believe it, but . . . I don’t feel it inside. If it weren’t for my job, Catheryn would still be alive, and that will never change.

  “And now, as much as you would like to forget her loss and bury yourself in work, you don’t want something like that to happen again.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Dan, there’s more involved here than your guilt over Catheryn. Don’t you see how your withdrawal is affecting everyone around you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Dorothy.”

  “You may not, but I do. I hate to see you so sad.”

  “What about you?” I demanded. “After all that’s happened, can you honestly say you’re happy?”

  Dorothy hesitated. “Am I happy? Mostly, I suppose,” she said, turning to face me. “But life isn’t about being happy and having everything go perfectly. That’s just a dream. The truth is, life doesn’t always go perfectly, and no one will always be happy.”

  When I didn’t reply, Dorothy asked, “Do you remember what you said at Ali’s wedding reception?”

  Though surprised by her question, I thought back, bringing my wedding toast to mind. “I reminded everyone that we are all going to experience tragedy and loss before we exit this world, and that all of us are going to be hurt, and get sick, and feel pain, and lose people we love.”

  “Sounds almost word-for-word,” Dorothy observed. “I keep forgetting that memory of yours.”

  I looked away. “It’s a curse more often than a gift.”

  “What else did you say that evening?”

  “Dorothy . . .”

  “What else did you say?”

  I shrugged. “I concluded by pointing out that sad fact was exactly what made cherishing moments like Mike and Ali’s wedding so important, because moments like that made our lives truly worth living.”

  “Do you believe those words?”

  “I did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “You have to believe in life, Dan. Despite all our family has lost, my faith helps me do that. I know you have doubts when it comes to religion, so you’ll have to find another way. But find that way, Dan.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “You have to. Pain and loss are part of being alive; that’s simply the way things are. The important thing for you now is to find hope and meaning and possibly even joy in life, even when things go wrong. Maybe especially when things go wrong.”

  “Where’d you get that, your knitting circle?” I shot back, regretting my words the instant they cleared my lips.

  Tears started in Dorothy’s eyes, but she didn’t look away, even for an instant. “Catheryn was your wife and the mother of your children, but she was my daughter as well,” she said. “I loved her, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, seeing in Dorothy’s eyes the same courage and resolve that had been Catheryn’s. And as Dorothy held my gaze, I also realized the ultimate source of Catheryn’s strength. “I didn’t mean that,” I mumbled.

  “I know you didn’t,” Dorothy said gently. “Listen, Dan. I realize you’re worried about endangering our family again with this new case. Let me ask you something. Are you doing what you truly want to do in life?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “All right, I’ll ask an easier question,” Dorothy pushed on. “How many promises have you made over the course of your lifetime? Not promises like, ‘I promise to take out the trash,’ or ‘I promise to get a haircut.’ I mean important promises.”

  “Where are you going with this, Dorothy?”

  “I have a point, and it’s this: How many of those promises have you broken?”

  Unprepared for her question, I found myself taking an unexpected moral inventory, my thoughts traveling back over years of broken vows.

  When Catheryn and I had married, I vowed always to be faithful. Shamefully, it was a promise I had broken.

  When our first son, Thomas, was born, I had promised to be the best father possible. Another broken promise, a betrayal that had ultimately cost the life of our firstborn.

  After Tommy’s death I had attacked my family in a drunken rage of anger and self-pity, later promising to somehow make everything all right. Although I hadn’t touched alcohol since, life moves on, and some things can never be mended.

  And years later at Catheryn’s funeral, upon accepting responsibility for my wife’s death, I had pledged to never again disappoint those I loved. To my shame, I was uncertain whether I had done everything to keep that vow.

  And later still, on a night when Nate had attempted to take his own life, I had promised to accompany my son on every step of his road to recovery, and that I would never again betray his trust. Although I hadn’t outright broken that one, I wasn’t certain I had done everything possible to keep it, either.

  And worst of all, Catheryn—whom I had promised to love and protect—gone because of me.

  Not much cause for pride.

  “Dan, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” Dorothy continued, sensing my discomfort. “I know you would never break an important promise. I was just trying to make the point that you’re an honorable man.”

  I started to object, but she silenced me with a raise of her hand. “I know that at times you have doubts about yourself . . . but I don’t. Otherwise I would have never let you marry my daughter. So what I want from you now is another promise, and it’s one I want you to keep.”

  “What?” I asked numbly.

  “I want you to promise to take a long, hard look at yourself, and to make an honest assessment of what is truly important in your life. Then I want you to decide what you want to do with your remaining time on Earth . . . and commit to it,” she replied, her eyes never leaving mine. “Will you promise to do that?”

  I hesitated. Finally, with a sigh, I nodded.

  “Say it,” she said.

  I hesitated a moment more.

  “Say it.”


  “I promise,” I replied at last.

  Dorothy smiled. “Good. I’m going to hold you to it.”

  Just then my cellphone rang. I checked the screen. The call was from Lieutenant Long.

  I listened on the phone for less than a minute. “What?” Dorothy asked as I disconnected, seeing something in my expression.

  “That was my boss. I’m wanted downtown at headquarters.”

  “Now?”

  I nodded, not certain what was going on myself. “Right now.”

  8

  Evening News

  One hundred and forty miles to the south, in the San Diego residential enclave of Rancho Bernardo, Dr. Erich Krüger poured himself a generous portion of Macallan single malt Scotch.

  Cut-crystal tumbler in hand, he retired to his living room and turned on a flat-screen TV that took up most of one wall. Settling back in a leather armchair, he lifted a remote control and flipped through the channels, finally settling on CBS Evening News.

  Dr. Krüger relaxed as the news report began, feeling a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.

  It had been a good day.

  The UCLA murder story came on after station break, following a national news roundup. As Brent Preston, a blond, self-assured network anchor launched into his report, Dr. Krüger leaned forward, listening intently.

  “A sixth victim has been discovered in The Magpie murders, this time in Los Angeles,” Mr. Preston began. “The body of a young woman was found early yesterday in the UCLA Botanical Garden. Early this evening, a photograph of her corpse appeared on the internet, with the label “Miss June” written across the bottom. This latest victim joins five of the killer’s previous ‘calendar’ murders, one for each month. Here with more from Los Angeles is CBS correspondent Allison Kane.”

  The scene shifted to another news desk, this one presumably in Los Angeles. A strikingly attractive newscaster with a mane of reddish-auburn hair and pale green eyes assumed the reporting reins—her presence, in Dr. Krüger’s opinion, a definite improvement over that of Mr. Preston.

  “Thanks, Brent,” said the female correspondent. “This morning LAPD detectives returned to UCLA to continue their investigation of this gruesome killing. In the past, The Magpie has always kidnapped a new victim near the dumpsite of his previous kill. As yet, however, no one has been reported missing from the area.”

  Dr. Krüger took a sip of Scotch, wondering whether he had made a mistake in the choice of his latest acquisition. Allison Kane certainly seemed worthy. Actually, more than worthy. But then again, given the contentious history between her father and Captain William Snead—a history widely reported in the national media—his current selection of a female guest made the game much more stimulating.

  The scene shifted again, this time to a crowded street with the UCLA Botanical Garden in the background. A large, rough-looking man with flinty eyes and unforgiving lines in his face was wading through a throng of reporters, ignoring questions from all sides. Dr. Krüger recognized him immediately, over the past months having seen the man’s image in numerous news reports.

  “Considering the way the body was displayed, could this be the work of The Magpie?” a female reported shouted, thrusting a microphone in the detective’s face.

  Kane hesitated, seeming caught off-guard by the question. Sensing an opening, the reporter followed up with another. “Does this mean The Magpie has taken another victim?”

  “The Magpie?” said Kane, his eyes hardening. “I have never been able to fathom why you news people insist on coming up with some cutesy-pie name for every dirtbag who commits this kind of crime. The Magpie? Really? As far as I’m concerned, whoever killed that young woman and hung her up in there like garbage is bottom-feeding scum, and I intend to see he gets exactly what he deserves.”

  “And what’s that?” asked the reporter.

  “Use your imagination,” said Kane, pushing past.

  Dr. Krüger’s expression tightened. Eyes narrowing like gunsights, he downed a gulp of Scotch and stabbed the TV control, sending the screen to darkness.

  Bottom-feeding scum?

  Things weren’t supposed to go like that.

  Dr. Krüger finished his drink in one long swallow. Then, lips compressed in a bloodless slash, he strode to his bar.

  Another drink?

  No.

  Video gaming?

  No, again.

  Something better . . .

  Leaving his tumbler on the bar, Dr. Krüger strode to his den. Sitting at his desk, he booted up his computer, logging on to a private, password-protected server that hosted his webcam streams. Scrolling down, he selected a feed labeled: “IR/Playpen.”

  Ella was awake in her cell, stumbling around in the darkness, her hands outstretched, helpless, as beautiful as ever.

  Not for the first time, Dr. Krüger felt the urge to take her immediately.

  Unfortunately, that would spoil the game.

  No, he would put off taking his pleasure.

  Nevertheless, the cravings were becoming unbearable.

  Granted, he would force himself to wait . . . but not much longer.

  Soon.

  9

  A Visit with the Chief

  The LAPD police administration building, a ten-story, 500,000 square-foot behemoth of stone and glass colloquially known as PAB, had replaced the aging Parker Center—the LAPD’s former headquarters—in 2009.

  Occupying an entire city block and surrounded by some of the city’s most iconic architecture, PAB serves as the center for the department’s four command bureaus and its twenty-one wide-ranging patrol divisions. In addition to the core building, a civic plaza, a public auditorium, a police memorial, and several terraced gardens surround the central structure—design elements intended to suggest a “nature-based experience,” as well as symbolizing the department’s new era of openness and connection with the city. Unfortunately, I had yet to experience much of the latter. The administration of the LAPD through the offices of the mayor, the police commission, and the city council had always been rooted in the world of politics, and upon passing through PAB’s front doors, I knew to expect more of the same.

  After leaving Catheryn’s Volvo in a parking structure on West First Street, I walked a short distance back to police headquarters, working out the kinks in my legs. My thighs had started cramping while driving Catheryn’s considerably smaller vehicle, and I once again hoped my Suburban showed up soon.

  Upon arriving at PAB, I hung my shield on my jacket pocket and proceeded to a reception desk near the rear of the lobby. “Detective Kane,” I said to a female duty officer stationed behind the counter. “Here to see Chief Ingram.”

  “Yes, sir.” The duty officer glanced at my creds, found my name on a roster, and issued me a temporary visitor’s ID. From there I took an elevator to Chief Charlie Ingram’s tenth-floor suite. I still hadn’t figured out why I had been summoned, especially at that late hour, but I suspected it had to do with the UCLA murder. Whatever the case, I knew I’d find out soon enough.

  I had met Chief Ingram on more than one occasion, and in each instance I had found him to be reasonably intelligent, occasionally charming, and as honest as one could expect any senior administrator to be. Unfortunately, he and I had failed to see eye-to-eye several times in the past, and the results had not been pleasant. Thanks to my successful conclusion of a recent investigation, I was once more in the chief’s good graces—at least for the moment—and it was a situation I wanted to continue.

  After stepping from the elevator, I proceeded down a broad, well-lit hallway to Ingram’s tenth-floor office. A secretary there led me past several spacious rooms and a darkened conference area to the chief’s private suite. As I entered Ingram’s inner sanctum, he glanced up from his desk, pausing in a conversation with Assistant Chief Owen Strickland.

  Smiling, Ingram rose to shake my hand. “Dan, glad you could join us,” he said.

  “Didn’t know it was optional,” I repl
ied. Ingram’s grasp was firm and dry, and he held my eyes for a moment before resuming his seat. Like many individuals in positions of power, he had a gift for making one feel special. On the other hand, I had seen him do the exact opposite, and more than once.

  “Detective Kane,” said Assistant Chief Strickland, not offering to shake. “I think you know everyone here,” he went on, regarding me with a look of ill-concealed distaste.

  Realizing that Strickland and I still had issues to resolve, I glanced at the somber group assembled in the room. Against a far wall I spotted the broad, friendly face of my boss, Lieutenant Nelson Long. As an African-American, Long had earned every promotion and commendation he’d received on his rise up the LAPD ranks, and I was glad to see him present. He was talking with Captain Lincoln, commander of the West L.A. division. Both were standing with Deputy Chief Jon Chow from West Bureau, the operations unit charged with oversight of six LAPD divisions, including mine. All three officers in my immediate chain of command nodded in my direction without comment, doing nothing to lessen my curiosity.

  Also present was FBI Assistant Director in Charge Alan Shepherd. ADIC Shepherd was accompanied by a handful of agents, many of whom I recognized from the Los Angeles field office. A few nodded my way as well.

  To my surprise, Special Agent Sara Taylor was also standing with the Bureau group, her unexpected presence lighting the room like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Taylor had on a white blouse, dark slacks, and a matching jacket that accented her slim figure. Prior to the NFC kayak race, she had cut her mid-length blond hair even shorter—claiming that her hair was the last thing she wanted to fuss with when competing. On Taylor, like everything else, short hair looked great.

  Catching Taylor’s attention, I shot her a puzzled glance. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, indicating that she had no idea why we were there, either. I was about to cross the room to join her when Captain William Snead, my departmental nemesis, strode in. I groaned inwardly. Snead and I had problems going back to patrol days. Since then I had served under him on two task-force investigations, and I had vowed there would never be a third.