Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “Another thing. If you lie to me, I’ll know.”

  “Whatever, cop. Let’s get to the part where you’re gonna help.”

  “No guarantees on that. But like I said, there are some things about your conviction that raise a couple of questions.”

  “Oh, really? You think?”

  “Lose the attitude, Brian.”

  “Why should I?”

  I glanced around the cubicle. “What have you got to lose?”

  At that, Brian’s shoulders slumped. “What do you want?” he asked, finally dropping his prison bravado.

  “I want you to tell me your story. And don’t leave anything out.”

  Brian lowered his gaze. “Okay, here’s my story: I’m innocent. I know every buttplug in here says that, but I am.”

  “What about the evidence presented at your trial?”

  “What evidence? My sperm being inside Darlene? She was my girlfriend, for chrissake,” said Brian, beginning to open up. “We screwed that morning. No big mystery there. Same with my prints being all over her bedroom.”

  “And the necktie?”

  “I slept over some nights. I kept a change of clothes in her closet. My pants, shoes, and a couple shirts were in there, too.”

  “But they weren’t around her neck.”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  Brian hesitated, then continued. “Look, Darlene and I got into an argument that morning, right before she left for class. She said she was sick of the drive to East LA, and she was going to move closer to school. My video editing job was in Santa Monica.”

  “And you didn’t want to move.”

  “Hell, no. East L.A. sucks.”

  “No argument there. Then what?”

  “Like I said, we got into a fight. She was unreasonable, as usual. I stomped out. We had fought like that before, and I figured we needed a few days for things to settle down. I drove to work, after which I went home, ate dinner, got stoned, watched some TV, and woke up with cops pounding on my door.”

  “What about the 911 call?”

  “I can’t explain that. I wasn’t anywhere near Darlene’s that night.”

  “That’s it? That’s your story?”

  Brian nodded.

  I stared at him. “I told you not to lie, Brian.”

  “I’m not! Everything I said is the truth.”

  “Maybe. But my gut’s telling me you’re leaving something out. What is it?”

  Brian glanced away.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Just that . . . I loved her,” Brian said softly. “I could never have hurt her like that.”

  I felt a chill. I had what I’d come for.

  “And?” I pushed, sensing there was more.

  “And that morning, her moving to East L.A. wasn’t the only thing we fought about. I think she was seeing another guy.”

  “Someone at school?”

  Brian shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I thought a moment. “She was a grad student at Cal State. Maybe someone in one of her classes?”

  “I suggested that to my lawyer, but her graduate advisor, who probably knew her as well as anyone at the school, couldn’t come up with a likely candidate.”

  “Who was her advisor?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

  “It’s been a long time. Some German-sounding name.”

  “Krüger?”

  “That’s him,” said Brian. “Dr. Erich Krüger.”

  30

  Touch DNA

  Saturday afternoon, upon returning to Los Angeles, I drove directly to the West L.A. station.

  At my request, Lieutenant Long, Taylor, and Deluca were waiting there when I arrived. Though it was the weekend, time was running out for Ella, and everyone involved in the investigation was clocking overtime, hoping for something to break.

  At last, it looked like something had.

  Maybe.

  All three of them listened as I ran down what I had learned at San Quentin. Even before I finished, I could tell they all saw the problem. Several problems, actually—the worst being that when it came to procuring a search warrant, reasonable explanations existed for everything I had said.

  Aken had called earlier that morning, leaving a message that the touch DNA test on Darlene Mayfield’s ligature had come back. Along with Brian Shea’s markers, the profile of an unknown male had been present on the inside surface of the necktie. Aken had run the unknown DNA through CODIS, the Bureau’s Combined DNA Index System containing a database of convicted felons.

  No hits.

  After hearing that, I had phoned Hank Dexter on my drive back from the airport. According to Hank, the 911 recording I had sent him showed clear signs that voice-altering software had been used to make a male voice sound female. In addition, the frequency-altering algorithms matched an earlier version of the Ircam Flux digital tool currently being used by the killer. Nevertheless, without knowing the exact Ircam Flux settings used in the transformation, there was still no way of reversing the process to obtain the original male voice.

  “So bottom line, we have what looks like an earlier Magpie murder,” I finished. “With the exception of the necktie ligature, which I think was added to throw off investigators, Darlene Mayfield was tied to her bed, manually strangled, and raped during or after her death. Or both. Along with matching our killer’s M.O., the use of Flux voice-altering software to incriminate boyfriend Brian ties Darlene’s murder to our present investigation. Plus, the presence of an unknown male’s DNA on Darlene’s throat supports Brian’s claim that he didn’t do it.”

  “And you believe him?” asked Taylor.

  I nodded. “He’s telling the truth.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “This may get Brian a new trial,” Long interjected. “But with the exception of pinning another murder on The Magpie, I don’t see how any of this helps.”

  “I have several ideas on that,” I said. “For one, we’ve been looking for someone who’s familiar with Krüger’s textbook. I think it’s more than mere coincidence that Dr. Krüger was Darlene Mayfield’s advisor.”

  “You think Dr. Krüger is The Magpie?” said Taylor, looking doubtful. “Granted, the guy is a narcissistic jerk, but a serial killer?”

  “Either that, or someone is setting him up,” I reasoned. “Considering the false trails the killer left earlier, I’m not ruling anything out. Remember, it was the supposed ‘niggling’ and ‘paltry’ slip that led us to Krüger’s textbook in the first place. Maybe that lead was intentionally left as well.”

  We all fell silent, remembering the disastrous result of our previous rush to judgment.

  “So how do we determine which is the case?” asked Deluca. “Is Krüger the killer, or is someone setting him up?”

  “If it’s the latter, it has to be someone who knew both Dr. Krüger and Darlene Mayfield, probably at Cal State,” I replied. “Maybe a classmate, or another teacher? Someone Darlene was dating? We have a list of Krüger’s students. We could start with that.”

  “And if it’s Krüger?” asked Taylor.

  I thought a moment. “Has anyone touched your ID since we visited Krüger’s office?”

  “Just me,” Taylor replied, looking puzzled. Then, realizing my reason for asking, “Krüger handled my credentials. We have his DNA.”

  “Right,” I said, withdrawing a paper evidence bag from a desk drawer. “He looked at mine, but he touched yours. Since then, have your creds been in your possession at all times?”

  Taylor pulled out her ID. “They have,” she said, dropping her leather credential folder into the evidence bag.

  I sealed the bag with tape and handed it to her. “Fill out the Chain-of-Custody section on the front and have the Bureau run an expedited touch DNA test,” I said. “We’ll send the results to SID for comparison with the DNA found on the necktie. Oh, and make ce
rtain your techs run a microdissection male profile, in case Krüger’s not much of a shedder. Don’t want his DNA getting swamped by yours.”

  “I have done this type of work before,” Taylor noted irritably.

  Ever since arriving, I had been getting a strange vibe from Taylor. Wondering what was up, I glanced at Deluca. He shrugged and grinned.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing,” he chuckled. “Just admiring your amazing touch with the ladies. Maybe I should take notes.”

  “Screw you, Deluca,” said Taylor, scowling.

  I laughed, at which Taylor glared at me, too. “That goes double for you,” she added.

  “Jeez, Taylor, what’s bugging you?”

  “Nothing.”

  I had been around women long enough to know that “nothing” meant “something,” and I was just too dense to realize it.

  “Let’s get back on track,” Long intervened. “Kane, you said you had several ideas on this?”

  “Just one more. When we interviewed Krüger, he said he had been out of town providing expert-witness testimony at a trial in Arizona. The killer’s ‘Blood Moon’ video was uploaded in Arizona, right?”

  “At a Starbucks in Phoenix, to be exact,” said Taylor.

  I glanced at Deluca.

  “I’m on it,” he said.

  Within minutes, following an online check of Maricopa County Courthouse records and a call to an off-duty assistant district attorney, Deluca confirmed that Dr. Erich Krüger had indeed testified at a murder trial there the previous week.

  We listened as Deluca concluded his inquiry by asking, “And Maricopa County Courthouse is where, exactly?”

  A pause, and then, “Phoenix? On West Washington? Thanks. You’ve been a big help.”

  After Deluca had disconnected, I said, “Looks bad for Dr. Krüger. But if someone is setting him up, whoever it is could have followed Krüger to Phoenix and uploaded the ‘Blood Moon’ video from there.”

  “For that matter, even if we do match Krüger’s DNA to the necktie, his attorney will argue contamination if we ever get the case to court,” Taylor pointed out. “Dr. Krüger was Darlene’s graduate advisor. She often visited his office, where the two of them passed books and papers back and forth, after which she could have touched her neck, and so on.”

  “Bottom line, we might be on the right track, but we’re not getting a search warrant based on anything we have so far,” Long concluded.

  I knew Long was right. Probable cause to issue a search warrant requires just that—probable cause. Krüger was in Phoenix when the “Blood Moon” video was uploaded. So were a million other people. Exotic voice-changing software? What did that have to do with Dr. Krüger? Dr. Krüger’s name came up in an unrelated case from decades back? So what? For that matter, regardless of whether Dr. Krüger’s DNA was present on the necktie, any connection between Darlene Mayfield’s death and The Magpie investigation was as yet unproved—not to mention that a jury had already found Brian Shea guilty of Darlene’s murder.

  Nevertheless, we knew we were on to something.

  “So what do we do next?” asked Deluca. “Is it time to bring in Snead and the Bureau?”

  I glanced at Long. As ranking officer, he had the final say.

  “The SWAT memorial is tomorrow, so not much will be happening until after that,” he said. “By then we should have the comparison result on Krüger’s DNA. How about if we wait until then?”

  “Okay by me,” said Deluca.

  I nodded. “Me, too. You good with that, Taylor?”

  Taylor hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay, fine. In any case, we won’t actually know what we have until the DNA comparison comes back.”

  “Then it’s settled,” I said. “We take our findings to LAPD and the Bureau tomorrow, one way or the other. And if we do get a DNA match on Krüger, we stick to the basics. We sidestep any connection to our current investigation and simply have Aken apply for a cold-case warrant based on new evidence in Darlene Mayfield’s murder. Touch DNA from Dr. Erich Krüger, Darlene’s graduate-student advisor, was found on the murder weapon, and additional evidence has come to light indicating that voice-altering software was used to distort a key piece of evidence presented at trial—bringing into question the original conviction of Brian Shea.”

  “That might actually fly,” mused Long.

  “Speaking of which, if Krüger is our guy, then he has Ella,” said Deluca, “We can’t just sit around waiting for the DNA comparison to come back.”

  “I agree, Paul,” I said. “Let’s put a tail on Krüger right now. I’ll call Lieutenant Huff in Orange County. I’m sure he has contacts in the San Diego Sheriff’s Department who can set up some informal surveillance on short notice.”

  “That’s all good, but what if we don’t get a positive match on Dr. Krüger?” asked Taylor.

  “If we strike out on Krüger, then we concentrate on anyone who might have come in contact with Darlene at Cal State—especially anyone who knew both her and Dr. Krüger back then,” I said. “Teachers, classmates, maybe a boyfriend.”

  “If it’s not Krüger, we should also take a look at any SID personnel who were working at Hertzberg-Davis at the time,” Deluca suggested again. “Nobody downtown is going to like that, but it has to be done.”

  Long nodded. “Agreed.”

  Taylor, who had been sitting on the edge of a desk across from Deluca, rose to her feet. “I’m going to take this to the Bureau,” she said, retrieving the evidence bag containing her ID. “We’re meeting here tomorrow to carpool to the memorial, right?”

  “Nine a.m.,” said Deluca.

  “Okay, see you then. Kane, walk me out?”

  “Sure,” I said, suspecting that Taylor had something to say.

  I was right. As soon as we hit the street, she pulled out her cellphone.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “This,” she said, launching a voice message on her phone.

  A moment later, a drunken male voice slurred, “Your cop boyfriend won’t be around forever, bitch.”

  “Mark?” I guessed, recognizing the voice.

  Taylor scowled. “God damn it, Kane. You promised not to interfere.”

  “I didn’t exactly promise.”

  “I don’t need you to fight my battles,” Taylor continued fiercely. “I told you I needed to handle this on my own.”

  “And have you?”

  Taylor looked away. “Again, none of your business.”

  “Taylor, this is serious,” I said, turning her to face me. “I’ve seen more than one situation like yours end up at the morgue. I apologize for interfering. I do. I’m sorry. I know it’s important for you to take care of this yourself. I just need to know what you plan to do so I can sleep at night.”

  “You don’t understand, Kane,” Taylor replied, abruptly seeming close to tears. “Anything I do just makes him angrier.”

  “I understand just fine,” I said, realizing that Taylor was still terrified of her ex-husband, probably with a good measure of PTSD thrown in as well. “I’ve seen mutts like Mark Taylor before,” I added. “There’s only one way to handle guys like him.”

  “I know,” Taylor sniffed.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Taylor took a deep breath, struggling to get herself under control. When she finally spoke, she appeared to have come to a decision. “On Monday, I’m filing for a new restraining order,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “And this time I’m going to request that it be permanent.”

  “And if he ever hits you again?”

  Taylor hesitated. Then, straightening even more, “If he ever comes at me again,” she said quietly, “I’m going to put him in the ground.”

  I smiled. “Good answer. Let me know if you need a shovel.”

  31

  Busy Evening

  Ever since Detective Kane’s visit earlier in the week, Dr. Krüger had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Staring out a
window near his front door, he realized that time had finally come . . . with a vengeance. At the end of his block, partly concealed behind a stand of oleander, a surveillance vehicle had taken up watch. Though the car was unmarked, Dr. Krüger knew from experience that the hard-eyed man behind the wheel was a cop. Although Dr. Krüger couldn’t spot others, he suspected there might be additional units guarding the mouth of his dead-end street.

  Now what?

  Fighting a blinding headache, Dr. Krüger poured himself a large glass of Scotch. Drink in hand, he retired to his den.

  Somehow he had been discovered.

  That much was clear.

  But as with Kane’s earlier visit, the authorities couldn’t know for certain. Not yet, anyway. Nevertheless, they suspected.

  Or to put it more accurately, Kane suspected.

  Probably.

  No, definitely, Dr. Krüger decided.

  This was no time for wishful thinking. Although Kane might not be able to prove anything yet, he wasn’t going to give up until he could.

  Dr. Krüger still hadn’t determined how Kane had tied the forensic textbook to The Magpie murders. Agent Taylor’s flattery about the killer having read his book hadn’t rung true, so there had to be something more.

  Think!

  What had led Kane to his doorstep?

  Could it have been the bank account in Newport Beach? he wondered again. The private mailbox? The firetrap in Trabuco Canyon?

  No.

  If they had breached his security on any of those, he wouldn’t simply be under surveillance.

  Every way he looked at it, Dr. Krüger arrived at the same conclusion: The police might suspect, but they didn’t know.

  Still, he felt the noose tightening.

  Coming to a decision, Dr. Krüger strode to his kitchen and poured the remainder of his drink down the sink. It was time to take corrective measures.