Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  On the downside, I also knew that anything I discovered in Krüger’s house that night would be worthless in court. My warrantless entry, not to mention our having placed an illegal tracking device on his vehicle, could invalidate any evidence obtained later—possibly even poisoning the entire case. Nevertheless, another young woman’s life hung in the balance. Given the situation, I didn’t see any other way.

  I thought a moment. Then, in reply to Snead’s question, I said, “The plan is for all of you to remain here while I reconnoiter the property. I’m going to sniff around, maybe look in a few windows,” I added, lying.

  When it came to Taylor and Deluca, it wasn’t an issue of trust. As I had with Lieutenant Long, I simply wanted to provide them with some measure of deniability, should things come to that. Trusting Snead, however, was another story. “I’ll stay in contact, but I’m going to mute my phone, so you won’t be able to talk to me,” I went on. “Depending on what I find, we’ll go from there.”

  “Great plan,” Snead muttered.

  “You sure about this, Kane?” asked Taylor.

  I shrugged. “Anyone have a better idea?”

  No one answered.

  “Okay,” I said. Then, leaning across the seat and rummaging through the contents of my glove compartment, I withdrew a flashlight, a pouch containing a lock pick set, and a pair of latex gloves.

  Although Taylor noticed the pick set, she remained silent.

  Upon pocketing the flashlight and pick set, I stepped to the pavement and pulled out my phone. After setting my ringer and speaker volume to mute, I called Deluca’s cell. As he answered, I dropped my phone into a jacket pocket. “Hear me okay?” I asked, speaking in a normal voice.

  Deluca gave a thumbs-up from the rear of the car.

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  As I turned to go, Taylor rolled down her window. “Kane?”

  I looked back.

  “Be careful.”

  Walking briskly up the moonlit street, I approached Krüger’s residence. Upon reaching his security gate, I again checked the house. It sat at the end of a long paver driveway, partly hidden in trees and shrubs. The lights were still out.

  After snapping on my latex gloves and vaulting the six-foot gate, I paused on the other side. Reaching inside my jacket, I withdrew my service weapon. Easing the slide rearward, I checked the Glock to confirm the presence of a chambered round. I had thirteen more in the Glock’s magazine, and a pair of spare magazines in my shoulder rig as well.

  Satisfied that I was ready, I started up the driveway, staying close to the trees along one side. When I reached the house, I looked through a window facing the street.

  Nothing was moving inside.

  Deciding to take a direct approach, I crossed to the front door, holding the Glock behind my back as I topped a short flight of stairs. Standing on the landing, I peered through a side window, spotting a security panel in the entry. Not surprisingly, the system was off. If Krüger were holding a hostage inside, the last thing he would want in his absence would be for the police to respond to an alarm.

  I listened.

  Nothing.

  I tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Above the knob was a Kwikset SmartKey deadbolt, described by the manufacturer as “unpickable.” Although no lock was impossible to pick, rake, or bump, I didn’t have the time. Besides, I figured there had to be an easier way in.

  I turned to leave, then hesitated. Although the house was dark, I wanted to make absolutely certain no one was present. If Krüger were inside, it would be better to know before attempting an illegal entry.

  Holding the Glock ready at my side, I rapped on the door.

  Dr. Krüger paused in the bedroom, resisting an impulse to turn on the lights. Over the past minutes his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and besides, his preparations were nearly complete. With the final five-gallon gasoline container now in place, he was ready to tackle a far more enjoyable task in the basement.

  Of course, fire investigators would detect the presence of the gasoline accelerant. There was no way around that. As a result, the conflagration would undoubtedly be ruled as arson, invalidating his insurance coverage. There was no way around that, either. Still, the property wouldn’t be a total loss. He could still sell the lot, whose value had risen astronomically over the past several years.

  As for who was responsible for the blaze—well, that would forever remain a mystery. The authorities, including Kane, might suspect, but they wouldn’t know . . . not for certain.

  After all, why would Dr. Krüger torch his deceased parents’ residence?

  Why, indeed?

  Upon arriving at the Black Mountain property, Dr. Krüger had spent an amusing hour in the basement getting acquainted with his latest acquisition. Initially Ms. Brady had resisted, as had most of his young women. It was gratifying to see how quickly the lovely Lisa’s attitude had changed after just a few jolts from her training collar.

  Because anticipation always played an important part in the process, Dr. Krüger had delayed drugging his attractive visitor until completing his upstairs preparations. Now that a container of gasoline sat in nearly every room of the house, it was time to proceed to the evening’s main event.

  Once again, it pained Dr. Krüger to have so little time to enjoy his new guest, but short and sweet was better than none at all. And with that pleasant thought, he turned to make his way back through the darkened house, heading for the basement.

  Suddenly, a sound.

  Someone knocking?

  Dr. Krüger froze.

  Someone was at the door.

  “I’m on the front landing,” I said aloud, checking in with Deluca. “No movement inside. I’m heading around back.”

  Walking quickly, I made my way around the side of the house, looking in every window on the way. Upon reaching a terrace at the rear of the property, I found a door leading into the garage. Like the door at the front entry, it was protected by a “pickproof” SmartKey deadbolt.

  Clearly, someone didn’t want intruders.

  Hands cupped to an adjacent window, I peered inside.

  The dimly lit space beyond was empty, with the exception of a single vehicle.

  In one of the four garage stalls, someone had parked a Chevrolet Astro van.

  “White Chevy van in the garage,” I said aloud.

  Squinting through the glass, I also saw what appeared to be an entrance into the main house.

  Coming to a decision, I removed my jacket and wadded it against the window. Using my elbow, I gave the glass a sharp rap. The pane shattered, clinking to the floor inside. After removing several remaining shards of glass, I reached through. Straining to extend my arm, I twisted a thumb latch on the entry door.

  After redonning my jacket, I opened the door.

  I listened.

  No alarm.

  I slipped inside.

  Except for the van, a mountain bike, and several cardboard boxes stacked in one corner, the garage was empty.

  I felt the hood of the van.

  Cold.

  Quietly, I moved to the door leading into the house.

  I tried the knob.

  Again, locked.

  This time the deadbolt was a Baldwin.

  With a smile, I pulled out my pick set. Working quickly, I inserted a tension wrench into the deadbolt’s keyway and twisted, maintaining slight pressure with my left hand. With my right, I scrubbed with a pick, raking the Baldwin’s pins. One by one, all five clicked into place. Thirty seconds from starting, I rotated the cylinder.

  I was in.

  42

  Forever Blind

  Before moving into the house, I stopped in a mudroom just off the garage, giving my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness.

  Although I had my flashlight tucked in a jacket pocket, I could already see fairly well in the moonlight filtering in from outside, and I decided not to use it. While I waited, I listened. W
ith the exception of an appliance hum from somewhere close and the ticking of a clock from farther inside the house, I heard nothing. Nevertheless, before locating Krüger’s basement, I decided to search the main floor to confirm that the residence was unoccupied.

  “Back door was unlocked. Taking a look inside,” I said aloud, starting to move.

  The first room I entered was a kitchen: central island, eight-burner stove, double oven, an eating counter with stools, and a breakfast nook to one side. At the far end was an alcove containing a washer/dryer combo and small desk. I also noticed a door with a self-closing arm at the top.

  The basement?

  I crossed the kitchen and cracked the door. A stairway led down, accessing a pitch-black space below.

  Check it out?

  Not yet.

  Clear the ground floor first.

  I retraced my steps, easing back through the kitchen.

  Glock extended in a two-handed grip, I crept deeper into the house.

  From his hiding place in the pantry, Dr. Krüger listened as the intruder moved past. Moments later he heard the man pause in the dining room. “Gas cans everywhere,” the man said aloud, undoubtedly communicating with someone outside.

  Dr. Krüger recognized the voice.

  Kane.

  This can’t be happening.

  But against all reason, it was.

  There has to be a way out.

  Dr. Krüger regretted not having one of his handguns. Several were stashed in the Rancho Bernardo house, but it had never seemed necessary to keep a weapon in his parents’ residence. He had a pistol concealed in the van, of course—in case he were ever stopped at an inconvenient moment.

  Could he sneak to the van and get it?

  Too risky.

  Besides, a gunfight with Kane would probably end badly.

  Examine the facts.

  Kane had broken into the house, which meant he didn’t have a warrant. Again, Kane was playing outside the rules. At some point he would descend to the basement, which presented possibilities. After careful consideration, Dr. Krüger decided that with an adjustment to his endgame plan, things might still work out.

  Clearly, he would be unable to dispose of his latest victim before starting the fire. She and Kane must die together, leaving their bodies for investigators to discover in the ashes. Nevertheless, with a little luck, nothing that happened there that night could be tied to him.

  With the gas accelerants in place, the fire would spread so quickly that Kane’s associates, wherever they were, would have little time to react. In the confusion sparked by the blaze, Dr. Krüger could slip unnoticed out the back. Upon retrieving his bike and traversing the golf fairway, it was a short ride to an unguarded residents’ gate to the south.

  And from there, to freedom.

  Granted, the presence of the bodies and the circumstance of the fire would put Dr. Krüger under considerable suspicion. Nevertheless, once he had returned to his own residence, there would be nothing to actually prove any of this was his doing. The authorities might suspect, but they would have no physical evidence to support that suspicion. Otherwise, why had Kane undertaken an illegal search in the first place? In fact, Kane’s breaking into the Black Mountain property made anything discovered there inadmissible in court.

  For that matter, who was to say that someone other than Dr. Krüger—the real Magpie, for instance— hadn’t been using Krüger’s parents’ vacant house for his own purposes, setting up poor Dr. Krüger to take the blame? What’s more, hadn’t Dr. Krüger already been proved innocent by the earlier surveillance?

  With a sense of renewed confidence, Dr. Krüger decided that in the unlikely event he were ever to face charges, with a smart lawyer and a sympathetic jury, he would never be convicted.

  After checking the kitchen and dining room, I moved quietly through the rest of Krüger’s house—clearing bedrooms, bathrooms, closets, a gigantic living room, an office filled with servers and computer equipment, and a den. With the exception of the living room and den, all lacked even the barest of furnishings. On the other hand, almost all contained a five-gallon jug of gasoline.

  As a precaution on my way back to the kitchen, I unlocked the front door, leaving it ajar. “Front door’s open,” I said quietly.

  Upon returning to the kitchen, I grabbed a stool from the counter and crossed to the alcove. “Main floor is deserted,” I said aloud. “Checking the basement.”

  I opened the self-closing door and jammed the stool in the doorway, making certain it stayed open. Stepping through, I paused on the top landing.

  Darkness below.

  I listened.

  A hushed roar, like a furnace.

  Otherwise, nothing.

  I withdrew my flashlight and turned it on. Gun atop my opposite wrist, Glock and flashlight now joined as one, I eased down the stairs.

  Along one side of the staircase, someone had installed a ramp.

  Something to help transport victims?

  I stopped at the bottom. A passage led off into the darkness. I shined my light down the narrow hallway.

  To the left, a door with an observation slit.

  Farther down, two additional doors and a furnace at the end.

  Gun out front, I eased forward.

  I stopped at the door with the observation slit and shined my light through the glass. On the other side I saw what looked like a prison gate, with vertical iron bars running floor to ceiling.

  Heart pounding, I tried the door.

  It was unlocked.

  I stepped through, swinging my light over the windowless room beyond.

  I heard a sound.

  I froze.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered, stabbing my light into the darkness.

  Caught in my beam, a young woman crouched beside a small bed, cowering in her underwear.

  “Please don’t hurt me any more,” she begged, her long, dark hair falling in her face. I felt a chill, noticing a dog-training collar circling her throat.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “I’m a cop.”

  The young woman squinted into my light. Lowering the beam, I swung it over the rest of the room. Against one wall, a cabinet and shower. Nearby, what looked like a chemical toilet. On the ceiling, an industrial light, like something you might see on a ship. And a webcam.

  “Get me out of here,” the woman sobbed, close to hysteria.

  I lifted the light to my face and brought my finger to my lips, signaling her to be quiet.

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

  I checked the iron gate.

  Locked.

  “I don’t have the key,” I whispered.

  “He wears it around his neck. Please, please, get me out.”

  “I’ll come back,” I promised. “I have two other places to check.” Then, seeing something in her face, “Is he still here?”

  “Oh, God,” she said. “You don’t have him?”

  Suddenly I heard a door slam.

  I rushed back into the hallway.

  “Don’t leave me, you bastard!” the young woman screamed. “Get me out of here!”

  I bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

  The door at the top was locked.

  With a sinking feeling, I smelled gasoline.

  “Maybe we should go in,” said Deluca.

  Snead glared. “And compound Kane’s illegal entry by adding more bodies to the mix? That’s your idea of fixing things?”

  “Actually, it is,” Deluca replied. “What do you think, Taylor?”

  Taylor hesitated. “Kane told us to wait, but we haven’t heard anything from him since he entered the basement. He might need help.”

  “God damn it, it sounds like you two knew he was going to enter that house,” said Snead.

  “Krüger may be holding another victim in there,” Taylor replied. “What exactly did you expect Kane to do?”

  Just then a woman’s voice sounded from Deluca’s cellphone. “Don�
�t leave me, you bastard,” she screamed. “Get me out of here!”

  A moment later came the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

  I glanced down. Gasoline was flooding down the stairs, pouring in from beneath the door.

  Krüger.

  I didn’t want to touch off the gas, but I had to back him off. Eyes stinging from the fumes, I pulled off my jacket and wrapped it around the muzzle of my Glock. Firing through several layers of fabric, I sent a half-dozen man-height rounds through the thick wooden door. A moment later the flow of gasoline lessened to a trickle.

  “Deluca, Taylor,” I yelled, yanking my cellphone from my pocket. “I’m in the basement, through a door off the kitchen. He’s going to torch the place. The front door’s open.”

  I turned up my phone volume in time to hear Deluca respond, “. . . on our way.”

  “I smell gas,” the girl screamed from below, her voice now filled with panic. “Oh, Jesus, he’s going to burn us like he did those cops. Get me out!”

  Hoping one of my bullets had connected, I turned my aim to the lock. I blew through the remainder of my magazine, firing into the doorknob and jamb. Although the .45-caliber slugs made a mess of the wood, the door didn’t budge. Apparently things didn’t work like in the movies.

  As I was inserting another magazine, I heard Deluca yell from the other side. “Kane! Stop firing!”

  “I’m stopping.”

  “Where is he?” shouted Snead, also calling from the other side.

  “I don’t know,” I called back. “Be careful. He may be armed. And get this door open.”

  Unfortunately, all that my shooting had accomplished was to jam the door. Even with Deluca and Snead shoving on one side and me pulling on the other, it still took some time to pry open.