Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

“No argument there.”

  “So we’re in.”

  I glanced and Taylor and Long, then at Deluca.

  “I’m in,” Deluca repeated.

  “I still have some vacation days left,” added Taylor. “Besides, right now the Bureau would be more than happy to distance itself from me.”

  “I’ll run interference, cover for working the case out of West L.A., and provide any necessary investigative authorization,” Long added. “As long as no one looks at this too hard, we’ll be okay.”

  “I . . . well, thanks, all of you,” I said, grateful not to be quite so alone.

  “Now that that’s settled,” Long continued, “and unless someone wants to indulge in a group hug, what do we do next?”

  “We’re missing two things,” I said, smiling at Long’s suggestion. “Krüger’s van, and wherever he’s holding his victims.”

  “Both have to be close to Rancho Bernardo,” Deluca reasoned.

  “Right. When Krüger spotted our surveillance, he waited till dark, then hiked down into the canyon behind his house. From there he proceeded on foot to wherever he was holding Ella. Or maybe he has his van stashed someplace nearby, and he drove.”

  “Either way, the timeline suggests that wherever he was holding Ella, it has to be relatively close,” Taylor added. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have had time to get everything done and still return home before dawn.”

  “And the Astro van?” said Long. “Why doesn’t DMV list his ownership?”

  “I’ve seen that before,” I explained. “For one, he could have bought the van from a private party, paid cash, and never reregistered it.”

  “What about the plates and title?”

  “He steals new plates whenever he uses the van. And if he were to get stopped with a body in the back, having current registration papers would be the least of his worries.”

  “So in addition to the van, we’re looking for a second residence, or a warehouse, or someplace similar where Krüger is holding his victims,” said Deluca. “Property records only show him owning the house on Lunada Point.”

  “Maybe we could place a GPS tracker on that Mercedes he parks in front of his office,” suggested Taylor. “See where he goes. Maybe he’ll lead us to his alternate site.”

  We all knew that placing a tracker on Krüger’s vehicle required a warrant, a warrant we weren’t going to get. Still, Taylor had suggested it. “Taylor, I’m corrupting you,” I laughed. “Good idea, though,” I went on. “I’ll make an unofficial call and see whether I can get that done. In the meantime, any other ideas on how to proceed?”

  “We begin with Rancho Bernardo as ground zero and work our way out,” suggested Deluca.

  “He has to be holding his victims someplace secluded, someplace where screaming wouldn’t be a problem,” reasoned Taylor. “Like a house with a basement.”

  “Right. Along those lines, we could survey building permits in the area for recent additions that could be converted to, say, a soundproof prison,” I added, recalling Krüger’s construction of a wine cellar. “We could also look for a storage garage within walking distance—someplace he could be stashing the van. Another thing: It’s time we found out everything we can about Dr. Krüger.”

  “That’s enough to get us started for now,” said Long. “Unless anything else comes to mind?”

  After a long moment, Deluca spoke up. “There is one thing,” he said, turning to me. “I saw the way that hump looked at you on Sunday, paisano. Dr. Krüger has a hard-on for you. Until this is over, watch your back.”

  38

  Forest Lawn

  Following our meeting with Lieutenant Long, Taylor, Deluca, and I divided up the work.

  Reasoning that Dr. Krüger must have another site somewhere close to his house, we elected to limit our search to residential areas in Rancho Bernardo and surrounding neighborhoods. Deluca made a call to San Diego County Planning and Development Services, starting the task of locating Krüger’s alternate location. Short of turning up Krüger’s name on a deed, we realized that our odds of success were low, but the effort had to be made. On the upside, we had the building permit angle to narrow our search, and if I were able to get a tracking device on Krüger’s car, there was a chance he would lead us to his alternate location himself.

  Using Google Maps as a reference, Taylor started searching for a nearby storage unit where Krüger could be stashing the van. We set an arbitrary two-mile radius on that, reasoning that on the night of Ella’s murder, anything farther away wouldn’t have given Krüger time to do what he did and still walk back before dawn.

  I had previously done some research on Dr. Krüger, but the time had come to broaden our inquiry past simply searching the criminal databases. We needed to know everything we could about Krüger, and that task fell to me.

  The three of us worked together through Tuesday and all of Wednesday morning, by which time it had become obvious that our job was just beginning. Deluca had convinced a helpful secretary at Planning and Development Services to assist him with our San Diego property search, but nothing had turned up so far. Taylor had located a number of possible garage sites for the van, but confirmation was going to require feet on the ground. And despite turning up additional information on Dr. Krüger, including that his wealthy family had originally resided in San Diego, I had yet to make a breakthrough. Last, although I managed to get a warrantless tracking device on Krüger’s car, placed there by an accommodating Sheriff’s deputy, it had shown only trips between Krüger’s home and his office, a visit to a mall, and several aimless hours spent driving around San Diego.

  On Wednesday afternoon, with nothing definite accomplished, I took a few hours off to drive Nate to his appointment with Dr. Berns. In my absence, I suggested to Taylor that she continue my research on Krüger, as she seemed to have hit a roadblock finding a storage site for the van.

  Later that afternoon, following Nate’s counseling session, Dr. Berns stepped out to greet me in the reception area. After shaking my hand, he handed me a new prescription slip for Nate. “It’s time to start tapering Nate’s meds,” he informed me with a smile.

  “That’s great,” I said. “Anything we should know?”

  “Just that we will be decreasing his dosage in increments, with several weeks or so between reductions. There aren’t any hard-and-fast rules here, except that the decrease depends on the person. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Thanks, Sid. I’m really happy that things are going so well. And relieved, too,” I added, glancing at Nate. Then, “Could you give us a minute, kid? I have something to run by Dr. Berns—not about you.”

  “About your case?”

  “Right. I’ll see you outside, okay?”

  “Sure. Meet you at the car.”

  After Nate had departed, I turned to Berns, not certain where to begin.

  “I’ve been following your investigation in the news,” said Berns, sensing my indecision. “I feel terrible for Captain’s Snead’s family, especially after his televised plea to the killer. And although I hate to admit it, the media reports of your targeting Dr. Krüger as the killer are making it sound like, uh . . .”

  “I know how the media are making things sound,” I said. “But between you and me, Dr. Krüger is our guy. I just can’t prove it.”

  “Dr. Krüger? That’s hard to believe. But if it’s true . . .”

  “It’s true.”

  “And at this point he knows you’re on to him, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  Berns rubbed his chin. “That’s a dangerous situation for you to be in, Dan. Whenever a psychopath feels threatened, he will strike back—doing whatever he considers necessary to remove the threat.”

  “Which is me. How about someone close to me?”

  Berns thought a moment. “Good question. That’s hard to say, but one thing is for certain: When backed into a corner, a psychopath will turn and fight. In addition to feeling no guilt or remorse, Dr. Krüger proba
bly doesn’t fear you, either—making him doubly dangerous.”

  “He’s not afraid?”

  “Not the way you or I would be. He undoubtedly views you as a malevolent presence, someone who is attacking him. In a situation like that, a psychopath will typically resort to a purposeful use of violence to end the attack.”

  “Purposeful, huh? So for him it’s a logical decision. No anger involved?”

  “Oh, he’s angry,” Berns corrected. “His retaliation may be cold and logical, but inside he’s raging. He blames you for his troubles, and although his primary goal will be to remove you as a threat, it could also include humiliating and degrading you, maybe even inflicting as much pain as possible.”

  “And to do that, he might target people close to me?”

  “It’s possible. If he did, he would need to factor in your response. That could make a difference, but I wouldn’t rule it out. Be careful, Dan.”

  “You’re the second person who’s told me that. Anything else?”

  “One more thing. Your killer, like most dangerous psychopaths, will undoubtedly have contingency plans. If he feels authorities closing in, he may proceed to Plan B, or initiate some endgame tactic, or whatever. Again, be careful.”

  “Thanks, Sid. I appreciate your input. I’ll see you next week.”

  On the drive back from Orange County, I mulled over Berns’s words. If my family were in danger from Dr. Krüger, as Berns had suggested, I saw three possible options. One was to remove my loved ones from harm’s way, which I had done in the past. Another was to have security units in place for my family’s protection, to which I had also resorted in the past. A final possibility was to eliminate the threat.

  As far as I was concerned, all three were on the table.

  After taking the 405 Freeway interchange toward West L.A., I glanced at Nate, who, for a change, was awake beside me in the front seat. “What would you think about spending some time with Grandma Dorothy at her place in Santa Barbara?” I suggested. “Just till this case is over.”

  “I can take care of myself, Dad.”

  “I know you can, kid. I just don’t want to worry about you.”

  “You think the guy you’re looking for might come after us? Like before?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t take that chance.”

  “Trav is safe in New York, but what about Ali and Katie and Mike?”

  “I’ll be talking with your sister next.”

  “She won’t want to leave.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “I’ll deal with it.”

  Nate was silent for a moment. “Can I take Callie?”

  “Sure. Callie would love a nice little dog-vacation.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” said Nate. Then, “Could we visit Mom?”

  “Now?”

  “I know it’s not exactly on the way home, but I would like to stop by . . . if it’s okay with you.”

  I checked my watch. There wasn’t much of the workday left, and we hadn’t been to Catheryn’s grave in a while. “All right,” I agreed. “We’ll pick up some flowers on the way.”

  Ninety minutes later, following a stop at a market in Burbank for a bouquet of yellow trumpet daffodils, we exited the Ventura Freeway on Forest Lawn Drive. After climbing a long driveway into the cemetery grounds, I pulled to a stop below a rolling, grassy knoll where we had buried Catheryn.

  By then the sun had begun its descent into a layer of smog to the west, lighting the towers of Burbank in the valley below and the mountains to the east with a soft, reddish glow. I twisted off the ignition. Except for a distant rush of freeway noise and an occasional gust of wind, all was still. For a moment neither of us moved. Finally I opened my door and climbed out. “C’mon, Nate,” I said. “Let’s go visit your mom.”

  Heading up the slope, I noticed the smell of newly cut grass. With Nate following a few steps behind, we made our way across a seemingly endless array of brass plaques set into the ground, curving like contour lines in the close-cropped lawn. When we finally arrived at Catheryn’s marker, I noticed that it had tarnished since our last visit, blackening to look more like my lost son Tommy’s plaque a few spaces distant.

  Nate withdrew a yellow flower from his bouquet. Kneeling, he set the bloom on his older brother’s marker. Then, moving to Catheryn’s grave, he set the remainder of the bouquet atop her plaque.

  I felt I should say something, but as usual when visiting the cemetery, I found myself unable to express my emotions. Instead, filled with a sense of futility and sorrow, I sat on the lawn and stared out over the valley below.

  And as I sat, my thoughts turned to other visits I had made to Forest Lawn. Sometimes I had come with family, sometimes alone, but over the years my trips had often been linked with turning points in my life. It was here that Catheryn and I had buried Tommy, accepting that the world could be unimaginably cruel. Later, upon discovering that my children were harboring a secret that had nearly destroyed our family, it was here I had realized my failings as a father. And it was here that I had said a final farewell to Catheryn, who had died because of me.

  And here I was once again.

  I had promised Dorothy to take a long, hard look at my life, and to decide what was truly important. when it came down to it, that really didn’t take much thought. My family was the lynchpin of my existence—Trav, Allison, Nate, Dorothy, Katie—and all the people I loved. The problem that this entailed was simple: At times, my job put them in danger.

  Not always, not even sometimes, but once was too often.

  But as I had told Dorothy, there were things like Ella Snead’s murder that I couldn’t let stand, even if I tried. And worse, if I stopped being a cop, if I just walked away, would I be forfeiting any chance I might have to make up for past mistakes, any chance I might have for redemption—if such a thing were possible?

  “Deep thoughts?” asked Nate, easing down on the grass beside me.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Sad ones, too.”

  “I miss Mom.”

  “I do, too,” I sighed. “I miss her so much. Tommy, too.”

  We both fell silent. Finally I spoke again, changing the subject. “Grandma Dorothy says you’re thinking of skipping college and applying to the Academy instead.”

  “I was going to talk to you about that.”

  “You know you have to be twenty-one to apply.”

  “I know. I thought I’d take a few years off after high school, maybe work for the police department as a civilian employee, then—”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I interrupted. “I have an opinion on that harebrained idea, but now isn’t the time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dorothy also said something about your mom,” I went on, softening my tone. “She thinks Catheryn would have been proud of the young man you’ve become.”

  “Grandma said that?”

  I nodded. “And I agree.”

  Nate smiled. “Thanks, Dad. even with all that’s happened, Mom would be proud of you, too.”

  I thought back, once more shamed by a lifetime of broken promises: My marriage vows. My commitment to be the best father possible. My pledge never again to disappoint my family. And worst of all, Catheryn—lost because of me. I wished with all my heart there were some way to tell her how sorry I was for my failures, but that was not to be.

  “Proud? I’m not so sure about that, Nate,” I said. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, mistakes for which other people have had to pay the price.”

  “That may be, Dad. But everyone makes mistakes. Like you’ve always told us, it’s what you do afterward that counts.”

  “Maybe. I hope that’s true.”

  “It is.”

  I hesitated, surprised to be receiving reassurance from my youngest. Nate was growing up. I paused a moment more, then came to a decision. “Grandma Dorothy also told me something else,” I said.

  “What?”

  I thought back, recalling her words. “She said that pain and loss are part of
being alive, and that the important thing is to find hope and meaning and possibly even joy in life, even when things go wrong.”

  Nate remained silent.

  “What do you think about that?”

  “I think . . . I would like to believe it.”

  “I would, too.”

  Nate looked at me curiously. “It sounded like you just recited Grandma’s advice word-for-word. Did you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you remember exactly what she said?”

  “I do, Nate. For better or worse, I remember everything I hear, everything I read, everything I see.”

  “Must be cool.”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Sometimes it’s not.”

  “Do you remember what Mom told me in her letter?”

  I looked away, caught off-guard by his question. A year prior to her death, on an evening before Catheryn was about to undergo a dangerous surgical procedure, she had written a farewell missive to each member of our family—just in case. Following her recovery, I had saved her letters unopened. It was only after Catheryn’s murder, on a dismal fall morning beside her grave, that Allison had read them to us aloud.

  Turning back, I found Nate regarding me intently. “I remember,” I said.

  “Could you repeat it for me?”

  “If you want. Your mom started off by saying she didn’t think of you as the baby of the family anymore, but that—”

  “Not that way, Dad. Say it the way Mom wrote it.”

  “Nate . . .”

  “Please, Dad.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath. Once again hearing Allison’s words sounding in my mind as she read Catheryn’s letters to us on that cold November morning, I began anew, fighting to steady my voice.

  “My dearest Nate, my youngest. Although I don’t think of you as the baby of the family anymore, you aren’t a man yet, either. You have yet to spread your wings, and I am heartbroken that I won’t be there to watch you learn to fly. Listen to your heart, Nate. And listen to your father. He loves you as much as I do, and he will guide you the rest of the way.”