Blood of Others (28 page)

Tears of blood
under Mary’s eyes.

Then Carla Purcell’s profile,
as she is being carried to the Pieta.

Then her corpse posed atop the
dead Christ, on Mary’s lap in the Las Vegas Church.

Reed bit his thumb, studying the
images.

Was this for real? Had Carla
Purcell’s killer recorded her murder? Could he be staring at actual pictures of
it?

Reed set his magnifying glass
down on his desk, rubbing his whiskers, his weary eyes. He had been up much of
the night, researching his break in the story. He went on-line, scouring Nevada
news databases in case he missed anything. He searched the
Pieta
in case
it was linked in other homicides. He was thinking of calling Darlene Purcell in
Las Vegas when he heard Ann start the shower.

Reed had returned home late from
the paper last night to find Ann asleep. She was upset with him for abandoning
her at the banquet. He couldn’t blame her. He had put her through so much. But
last night had been critical. His instincts had paid off. He stared at the
pictures. It was monumental. Ann had to understand.
“Look at this stuff.”

Somehow through skill, luck, a
glitch, or a combination, Sebastian Tan had taken the scrap of data from Carla
Purcell’s sinister e-mail and traced it to the source, penetrated its system,
enabling these images to slip out before the counterstrike took effect.

It had to be linked to Iris Wood.
And how many others?
The hypertext on the images was
long, broken-off filled with alien symbols. He needed to know more before he
could break the story and he had to be careful.

Zach had been up, coughing in his
bathroom. Reed had hurried to him.

“I’m all right, Dad.”
Zach
had splashed water on his pallid face.
“Really.”
He had blinked a smile
at Reed.
“I maybe got sick a little bit on my bed.”

“I’ll take care of it.”
Reed tousled Zach’s hair.
“You go have some juice or something before
school.”

Zach’s bed had been fine. Reed
had looked at the model battle ships, the movie posters and comic books in his
son’s room.
He’s growing up too fast.
Reed had been about to leave when
he heard it.
Scratching.
Above Zach’s bed. It had stopped. Reed had
looked around, grabbed a bat and tapped the ceiling, then heard the scraping of
tiny claws.
Mice?

“What are you doing?”
Ann
had stood in the doorway for a moment, then walked off.

“Ann.”
He had stopped her
in the hallway.
“You have every right to be angry.”

“Tom, you’re becoming obsessed
with this story.”

“You have to understand why.”

“Tom, I can’t understand what
on earth would make you do what you did last night. You could’ve made a call.
You could’ve waited a few hours. What was so important? Tell me.”

“I’ll show you. In the study.”

They closed the study door. Reed
had explained his trip to Las Vegas, the information about Carla Purcell in the
files her mother gave him. He had passed the critical e-mail printout to Ann,
explaining how he had rushed from the banquet to the paper to get Tan to trace
it. He told her what had happened next, then placed the images in her hand.

Ann had looked at them.
“They’re
real?”

“Her mother told me Carla’s
body was posed on the statue in the church. I visited the church, saw the
statue. Tan used her e-mail, the strange one seeking forgiveness for past
sins.”
Reed had tapped the pictures.
“This is what he got. Ann, this is
the church, the statue. That is Carla Purcell.”

Ann’s hand had covered her mouth.
She had begun shaking her head and turning the pictures over.

“Give them to Sydowski.”

“What? No. I’m building a
story.”

“Give them to Sydowski, Tom,
and back off.”

“Ann, I’ve been suffering
Brader and doing my best work here.”

“Tom, you’re consumed by it.
Did you forget everything we all went through the last time you got too close
to something like this?”

“This is different, Ann. It’s
not the same.”

“It
is
the same! Your
name is out there on every story about every creep that rises from the sewers
of this city.”
She had tapped his keyboard.
“And they can find us, Tom.
You know they can.”

“Ann.”

“You back off. Pull away.
You’re getting too close. You go to Sydowski and give it up.”

“Ann, please.”

“Tom, you’re not a cop.”

“Ann, this is huge.”

She had taken his face in her
hands.

“That’s just it, don’t you
see? You get the story, but we pay the price for it.”

“Annie, don’t do this.
Please.”

Her eyes filled with fear as she
searched his. They knew each other well enough to know he couldn’t give up this
story. Not now. That was a cold, hard fact.

“All right,”
she had said.
“I’ll take Zach to Newport Beach for a few days.”

“Ann.”

“No, it’ll be fine, Tom. It’s
a good time. Lana’s been bugging me to come. We’ll go to Disneyland, or something.
You stay here and finish what you started.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just promise me you’ll be
careful.”

He had nodded. She had kissed
him, then left him there staring at the pictures of Carla Purcell’s murder.

Reed turned in his chair now,
sitting there unshaven in his sweatpants and T-shirt, in need of a shower,
breakfast, and coffee. But he kept working because he was not going to Sydowski
with this information. Not yet. He needed to work on it. Who knew where it
could lead? It was shaping up to be a national story. Secretly Reed envisioned
one of the pictures stretched across the front page. The home movies of a
serial killer at work. He shuddered. They had to stop this guy. To take this
thing any further Reed was going to need help. From the inside.

Wyatt.

He was a computer cop. He was
part of the investigation. And he owed Reed.

Wyatt forced
himself to push aside Iris Wood’s
case as he drove to Olivia’s house for dinner.

Face the truth. You’re not
part of that file. You never were. Sydowski hammered it home. They don’t want
you.

And so far he had struck out on
his secret computer probe. Gricks was right, whoever was behind it was good.
Coming at him head-on would be like flying into the sun.

Wyatt couldn’t prove a link
between the killer and Iris Wood’s computer. His suspicions had been diminished
by Sydowski’s case status meeting. He had to admit Sydowski was a hell of a
detective. He had twenty-one suspects, he was searching rental cars, was
consulting other police departments, had submitted the file to VICAP.

Tom Reed at the
Star
knew
more about the case than he did. Wyatt was so far out of the loop, he couldn’t
even see it. And by putting the FBI on Iris Wood’s computer, Sydowski made it
clear that nobody in the SFPD counted Wyatt among them. After all this time, he
was still being shunned, still paying the price for Reggie Pope’s shooting.
Nothing had changed. They didn’t believe him. They never would. Never.

One person believed him.

Wyatt reached for the tiny
gift-wrapped box, with the elegant bow, in the seat beside him as he parked in
front of Olivia’s big Edwardian house.

The gate squeaked as he entered
the yard, a breeze hissed through the trees carrying the softest sounds of
music. Wyatt went to the rear where the music got louder. He stopped near a
large shrub. It was Olivia. He saw her through the open kitchen window.
Standing there watching her, a feeling came over him. She looked so good.
Concentrating, slicing vegetables while the music played. At that point he knew
he had fallen in love with Olivia. She believed him. She had accepted him. Had
healed him. He felt stronger, ready to face whatever fate was holding for him
because he would always have this moment.

Dinner was chicken Kiev. Dessert
was Olivia’s homemade apple pie. It was the best meal Wyatt had eaten in a
long, long time. Later, they sat on her rear porch sipping wine, enjoying the
quiet.

“Olivia, do you ever think about
what it would be like to have kids, have a family?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curious.”

“Yes,” she said over her wine
glass. “It would be wonderful to have children.”

“You would be a wonderful
mother.”

“What about you? Ever think of
being a dad?”

“Sure. I think of all the dad
things like Little League. Fishing. My dad and I built the coolest soap box
racer when I was ten. Painted it sapphire.”

“What about diapers, braces, and
tummy aches that keep them up all night?”

“All part of the job.”

As the evening darkened and they
refilled their wine glasses, Wyatt figured the time was right to reach into his
pocket for the small gift-wrapped box.

“I got you a little something.”

Olivia was taken by surprise,
opening her present, a necklace with a fine gold chain. It sparkled in the
evening light.

“Ben, it’s beautiful!” She
blushed, “Help me put it on.”

They stood, Olivia turning so he
could fasten the clasp at the back of her neck. Then she kissed his cheek. They
remained on the porch, finishing their wine, gazing up at the half-moon rising.

“Guess we’re a couple now, huh,
dear?” Olivia giggled.

“Guess so.”

“You know, Ben. Things have been
good for me since we met. It’s been nice. You know what I mean?”

“It’s been nice for me too.”

“I’ve just been feeling good
about things. Like, I’ve just decided to visit my only relatives. My mom’s
sister in Chicago. I haven’t seen them in years.”

“That’s great. When are you
going?”

“In a few days. Just a short
trip.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

Olivia set down her wine glass.
“Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the whole house.” She grabbed Wyatt’s hand.

Olivia showed him every room,
including the top-floor turret with its huge window offering the view of San
Francisco’s skyline and the bridges. They kissed there as the lights of the
city twinkled. Then she showed him each of the five bedrooms. The last one on
the tour was hers.

Wyatt liked how the room smelled
good, liked its huge bay windows, the king-size bed. He saw her computer on the
desk.

“You go on-line much from home?”
Wyatt checked out her PC.

“A little. You know, chat rooms.
Like pen pal stuff for shy people.” She grinned, twisting the necklace he gave
her.

“Be careful. Never give out
personal data. You never know who’s lurking out there.”

“Yes, Officer, I’m careful. I
mostly use it to do orders for Caselli’s from here.”

Wyatt spotted the printouts of
news stories about Reggie Pope’s shootings. He stared at Olivia with a question
written on his face.

“Ben.” She stepped closer. “I
just wanted to learn more about you, how they treated you.”

He saw understanding in her eyes
as he took her into his arms, pulling her to him. They kissed, a long, deep
kiss. Olivia pulled him closer to her bed.

The computer whirred and twilled
as quietly as a cobra.

A new message was coming for
livinsf.

Les Brinkhaus
set down his mug of early
morning coffee next to his terminal. His extension rang. It was his supervisor.

“Stand by, Les. Going to get you
to run some ad hoc queries for a fresh one from the West.”

“All right.”

Brinkhaus was an MCS, a major
case specialist, with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,
headquartered within the Critical Incident Response Group, known as the CIRG
building, at the academy in Quantico. The unit hummed with soft conversations,
clicking keyboards, phones, as some thirty-five FBI crime analysts queried the
massive stand-alone computer database for serial links among violent crimes
across the country. The program divided the nation into six regions, E-1, E-2,
E-3, for the eastern half; W-1, W-2, W-3 for the west, with supervisory agents
and crime analysts assigned to each region.

Brinkhaus handled “specials” and
was the coordinator for all ViCLAS queries the Royal Canadian Mounted Police
made to the FBI’s program, which allowed the two agencies to compare U.S. and
Canadian cases.

The retired veteran Memphis
homicide detective loved the work. “Keeps the gray matter active,” he told
friends from Tennessee. Although, Brinkhaus admitted, he spent much of his time
convincing detectives
all over the damned place
that their information
was safe, that his job was to find similarities and put investigators in touch
with each other.
“Hell, son, I worked homicide for nineteen years, you don’t
have to tell me how precious your hold-back is. It’s sacred. Wouldn’t trust it
to the Lord himself. I know. But you got to ask yourself, when you look into
the eyes of the victim’s family, can you honestly tell them, ‘Yes, I tried
everything to solve it, I swear. Everything,’ and then sleep at night?”

The FBI loved Brinkhaus for his
near evangelical commitment to the program. Brinkhaus, a natural southern
charmer, liked working with detectives across America and the RCMP, a fine,
world-class police force, he would tell the other VICAP analysts.

He took a hit of what passed for
coffee, reflecting on the recent unsolved Canadian case Art Lardner submitted
over the encrypted fax. As requested, Brinkhaus had queried the key physical
evidence, the shoe impressions and some letters thought to be airport codes.
Nothing yet. But he was constantly comparing the file on the U.S. data bank. In
fact, he was starting one when his line rang. Again, it was his supervisor.

“All right, Les. It’s coming from
San Francisco. Should be there now. Here’s the file number. They think they got
a traveler. See what you can do.”

Brinkhaus keyed in his security
key codes to the file submitted by Inspector Walter Sydowski, SFPD. He’d heard
of that guy. A legend
. Okay, partner, what do we have?
Brinkhaus was
quick, went right to the evidentiary mode, key fact: “shoe impressions. The
descriptive BWI -- for Baltimore-Washington International.

Brinkhaus’s eyes widened ever so
slightly over his bifocals. He immediately went to the Canadian case, which had
the descriptive
B
and forensic theory, the short airport code list of
possibles including BWI for Baltimore-Wash --

“Gotcha!”

Brinkhaus reached for his phone,
punching the area code, to call the RCMP.

“Lardner.”

“Art, you know that case of yours
with the descriptive letter?”

“Yeah, you got something for us?”

“I have a possible match. Real
similar case in San Francisco. Let me reach out to the PD there and have him
get in touch with you. Stand by.”

Brinkhaus called the San
Francisco homicide detail. They patched his call through to Sydowski at home.
He was in the aviary when it came.

“Sydowski.”

Brinkhaus could hear chirping.

“Inspector, Les Brinkhaus, VICAP
Quantico.”

“Yeah.”

What’s with the birds?
Was
the guy in the forest?

“I think we have a case very
similar to yours.”

“That right? Where?”

“In Canada.”

“Canada? What’s the match?”

“Look, we protect everyone’s
file. Here’s the number for the RCMP contact, Art Lardner. He’ll give you the
case investigator. It’s a fresh homicide. You guys should talk.”

“Thanks, Les.”

Reesor was driving home with his
son from a Bulls-Raptors game when his cell phone rang. He called Sydowski from
a pay phone while his son cranked up the radio in the car. It took four minutes
for the two detectives, separated by a border and three time zones, to feel
each other out and decide now was the time to pull out all the stops; it only
took sixty seconds for them to agree Iris Wood and Belinda Holcomb were murdered
by the same man.

Their cases matched on several
points. Victims: SWF; murder scene: public, shoe impressions made by a Colossal
Sports Strider, male size 11. Airport code for BWI. Both were quiet types who
went on-line from home.

Sydowski sent Reesor his suspect
list with twenty-one names and a copy of the shoe impression. Reesor sent
Sydowski the shoe impression found at the murder scene in the Toronto theater.

Reesor and Winslow checked the
twenty-one names with Toronto hotels and struck out in the first call-around.
One hour later, a manager called back. The Palace Arms near the airport.

“Detective Reesor, a room was
reserved using the credit card matching one of the names you supplied us. But
another person took the room, paid cash.”

“Fax me all the names, dates,
credit card information.”

Reesor got Winslow to alert their
boss for a warrant to search the hotel room for prints or trace. Reesor then
called San Francisco.

“We got a hit from your list:
Harlan Wells, Maryland,” Reesor told Sydowski. “But a Foster Dean of Washington
D.C., took the room. The dates put both names here for the murder. Likely
aliases. We’ll check the names with her employer, neighborhood, and try some
other things.”

“Okay, Reesor this is good. We’ll
get working on this at our end.”

In San Francisco, the SFPD
located the car rented from United Coast by Harlan Wells of Laurel, Maryland. A
judge signed a warrant for them to impound the vehicle, a new blue new Ford
Taurus. It was transported to Hunter’s Point where crime scene techs scoped it.
Horace Meeker from the lab assisted as they scoured it for any trace evidence.
Sydowski studied the photographs of Harlan Wells, looking hard into his eyes
and the scars on his face. Calls had been placed with the Maryland MVA. Details
on the names had been entered into NCIC. Sydowski sent Reesor photos of Harlan
Wells from his Maryland driver’s license and security camera at the United
Coast rental outlet at San Francisco International.

In Toronto, Detective Jackie
Winslow had credit card confirmation that a Foster Dean had flown from Toronto
directly to Calgary within four hours of Belinda Holcomb’s murder. A Harlan
Wells had rented a car and then a room at the Timberrock Hotel in Banff.

“Jackie, call the car rental
agency at the Calgary Airport. Get the particulars. See if the car’s still out,
get the VIN, tag, run the vehicle through CPIC. We’ll alert the RCMP in Banff.”

Within fifteen minutes a CPIC
dispatcher in Ottawa called Reesor.

“The subject’s vehicle was
stopped by RCMP outside Sparwood.”

“British Columbia?”

“Yes.” The dispatcher gave Reesor
the time, date, the Mountie’s name and regimental number. “The driver was cited
for “Section 146, sub three of the B.C. Motor Vehicles Act.” The dispatcher was
reading from a computer screen.

“Speeding?” Reesor said.

“Right. Exceeding posted limit.
No ticket issued.”

“The operator?”

“Eugene Vryke, 3466 Cromley in
Hyattsville, Maryland. Want DOB and particulars?”

“Yes, send me the data. Can you
query NCIC?”

Reesor called the Sparwood RCMP
detachment and asked for the member who had stopped Vryke.

“That’s Allan Krell. He’s on
patrol about thirty minutes away.”

Reesor explained the urgency. His
call was patched through the radio to Constable Krell’s car. He agreed to
return to his office immediately and compare the photos of Harlan Wells and
Eugene Vryke. When Reesor hung up, Winslow had more news.

“Marty,” her hand was over her
phone’s mouthpiece. The suspect’s rental car was dropped off last night at the
agency’s outlet in downtown Vancouver.”

“Last night? Get them to grab the
car, Jackie. I’ll alert Vancouver homicide and the Mounties out there.”

After completing his calls,
Reesor called Sydowski. “Walt, Reesor here. Our guy may still be in Canada.
Dropped off a rental last night in Vancouver.

“We’ve got several good latents
from his trunk. See who they belong to.”

“Try the name Eugene Vryke.” He
spelled it. “I’ll send you particulars.”

“How’s that name come up?”

“Harlan Wells rented a car out of
Calgary. RCMP made a traffic stop on the rental driven by Eugene Vryke, 3466
Cromley in Hyattsville, Maryland. Here’s -- hold on --”

Winslow was on the line with
Constable Krell in Sparwood, nodding emphatically to Reesor. “Sparwood says
Vryke and Wells are the same guy.”

“Walt, the Mountie who made the
stop confirms that Vryke and Wells are the same guy.”

Sydowski weighed the situation.
In a short time, they had gone from a galaxy of suspects to one. A moment
passed as the two detectives considered their next step.

“We’re less than twenty-four
hours behind him, Marty.”

“We’ve got his picture.”

“We should release it, safeguard
the public, ask for help, turn up the heat.” Sydowski stared at the board and
Vryke’s face. “I got a feeling he wants to come home,” he said. “Better alert
our border people.”