Victims (33 page)

The image appeared moments later, a grainy gray peep show on the phone’s tiny screen.

Tagged at the top with rolling digital time and the I.D. number of a Malibu Sheriff cruiser’s dash-cam.

Six thirteen a.m. Malibu. Pacific Coast Highway. Mountains to the east, so north of the Colony where the beach city turns rural.

The deputy, Aaron Sanchez, justifying the stop on the fifteen-year-old Acura.

Not because of the BOLO; the tags matched a recent theft from the Cross Creek shopping center.

Felony stop. Extreme caution.

Six fourteen a.m.: Deputy Sanchez calls for backup. Then (on loudspeaker): “Exit the vehicle, now, sir, and place your hands on your head.”

No response.

Deputy Sanchez: “Exit the vehicle immediately, sir, and place—”

Driver’s door opens.

A man, small, thin, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, emerges, places his hands on his head.

Flash of bald spot. Bad comb-over.

Deputy Sanchez exits his own vehicle, gun out, aimed at the driver.

“Walk toward me slowly.”

The man complies.

“Stop.”

The man complies.

“Lie down on the ground.”

The man appears to comply then whips around, pulling something out of his waistband. Crouching, he points.

Deputy Sanchez fires five times.

The man’s small frame absorbs each impact, billowing like a sail.

He falls.

Sirens in the distance gain volume.

Backup, no longer needed.

The whole thing has taken less than a minute.

Milo said, “Bastard. They ran the car, found the BOLO, contacted Binchy because his name was on the request.”

“Was the thing in his hand for real?”

“Nine-millimeter,” he said. “Unloaded.”

I said, “Suicide by cop.”

“Whack-job suicide by cop was the Sheriff’s initial assumption because Harrie getting that hard-core to avoid a license plate theft rap made no sense. And initially, they saw nothing in Harrie’s car to make him squirrelly, just fruits and vegetables and beef jerky and bottled water, probably from one of those stands on the highway. Then they popped the trunk and found a bunch more firearms, ammo, duct tape, rope, handcuffs, knives.”

I said, “Rape-murder kit.”

“And stains on the carpet presumptive for blood. What they
didn’t
find was any sign Harrie was running with an accomplice.”

I said, “Because Huggler’s waiting back home for Harrie to return from his grocery run. Somewhere north of where Harrie was pulled over.”

“That’s a lot of territory. What does a kit say to you?”

“None of our victims showed evidence of restraint and none of the females was assaulted or posed sexually. I’d bet on a separate victim pool.”

“Games Harrie played solo.”

“More likely with backup by Huggler.”

“Jesus.”

“It fills in a missing piece,” I said. “Harrie taking Huggler under his wing because of altruism never made sense. He was attracted to a disturbed child because of a shared fascination with dominance and
violence. Think of their relationship as Huggler’s alternative therapy: The entire time the staffs at V-State and Atascadero were struggling to devise a treatment plan for him, Harrie was sabotaging them by nurturing Huggler’s drives. And coaching Huggler in concealing his bad behavior. When Huggler got transferred, Harrie moved with him. When Huggler finally gained his freedom, he and Harrie embarked on a new life together.”

“Foundation for a wholesome relationship,” he said. “Too bad Harrie bit it before the two of them could be booked on the talk-show circuit.”

CHAPTER
37

S
ean Binchy’s second call pinpointed the coordinates of the shooting.

James Pittson Harrie had died 3.28 miles above the Colony, leaving 15 or so miles of the beach city and anywhere beyond for a hide-spot.

Milo said, “Don’t see them scoring a pad on the sand or an ocean-view ranch in the hills. But if they’re still doing the mountain man bit, they could be squatting in some remote place up in the hills.”

I said, “I’m certain they’re cashing government checks, at some point one or both of them ventures out to get cash. So someone’s seen them. My mind keeps fixing on the beach cities above Malibu. Harrie’s used two phony addresses we know about, the parking lot on Main Street in Ventura when he told the Hollywood cops he was Loyal Steward and the dead mail-drop in Oxnard for his driver’s license. Something in the region attracts him.”

“What attracts me is nailing Huggler before he does more damage.
Once the media latch onto Harrie’s death—and they will, a cop shooting’s always a story—he’s bound to rabbit.”

“That assumes Huggler’s wired into the media.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Harrie could’ve made himself Huggler’s sole link to the outside world.”

“No MTV for ol’ Grant, huh?” he said. “Keeps his nose buried in puzzle books until Harrie tells him it’s time to balance the scales with an anatomy lesson? Even so, Alex, when Harrie doesn’t return, Huggler’s gonna get antsy. If fear overtakes him, he might reveal himself and get taken down easy. But if he goes the rage-route, more people are gonna die. And those guns in Harrie’s trunk might not be the total stash. All I need is a lunatic loaded with heavy-duty firepower.”

Balance the scales
.

Unbalanced
.

My mind raced. Braked hard.

A warm wave of clarity washed over me. The tickle at the back of my brain, finally gone.

He said, “You just floated off somewhere.”

“What you just said about balancing the scales reminded me of something Harrie mentioned when I met with him. He asked me about my work with the police then claimed to have no interest in the darker aspects of life. Called them ‘terrible dyssynchronies.’ Obviously, he was lying and I think he was playing with me by alluding precisely to what’s framed the murders from the onset: achieving equilibrium by symbolically undoing the past. And that might help focus the search for Huggler: Start where it all began.”

“V-State,” he said. “They’d go back there?”

“They would if it was part of Harrie’s treatment plan for Huggler.”

“You just said his treatment was encouraging Huggler’s gutgames.”

“I did but I was missing something. Harrie really came to see
himself as a therapist. Like most psychopaths, he had an inflated belief in his own abilities. No need to actually earn a degree, he was already smarter than the shrinks. So all he had to do was learn enough jargon to impersonate convincingly. And when he went into practice, he started right at the top: high-rent Couch Row. He zeroed in on insurance evaluations because they were lucrative, thin on oversight, and, most important, short term with no clinical demands: Patients wouldn’t spend enough time with him to get suspicious and he wouldn’t be required to actually help anyone.”

“Vita got suspicious.”

“Maybe she sensed something,” I said. “Or she was just being Vita. Overall, Harrie got away with it and that had to be a massive ego trip. And that led him to see himself as a
master
therapist. With a single long-term patient. Yes, the past five years have been about bloodlust and revenge, but they’ve also been part of a regimen Harrie devised for Huggler: achieving synchrony by working through old traumas. And what better way to achieve that than by returning triumphant to the place where control was ripped away?”

“Neck-snapping and gut-squishing in the name of self-actualization,” he said. “The hospital closed down years ago. What’s there now?”

“Let’s find out.”

Milo typed away. Moments later, we had a capsule history, courtesy of a historical preservation group: The original plan had been to maintain the hospital buildings and convert them to a college campus. Shortage of funds caused that to languish until six years ago when a group of private developers had purchased the site in a sweetheart deal and put up a planned community called SeaBird Estates.

He found the website. “Luxury living for the discerning? Doesn’t sound like our boys would fit in.”

I scrolled. “It also says ‘nestled in sylvan surroundings.’ Enough woodland and our boys could’ve found refuge.”

He shot to his feet, flung his office door open, paced the corridor a few times, returned.

Using both hands to sketch an imaginary window, he peered through, an artless mime.

“Looks like nice weather for a drive, let’s go.”

CHAPTER
38

F
ifty minutes to Camarillo, courtesy Milo’s leaden foot.

The same exit off the 101, the same winding road through old, dense trees.

The same feeling of arriving at a strange place, untested, unsure, ready to be surprised.

What had once been an open field of wildflowers was planted with lemon trees, hundreds of them arranged in rows, the ground cleared of stray fruit. The logo of a citrus collective graced several signs on the borders of the grove. The sky was a perfect, improbable, crayon blue.

Milo sped past the grove. I peered through each row, looking for errant human presence.

Just a tractor, unmanned, at the far end. The next sign appeared half a mile later, lettered in aqua and topped by a rendering of three intense-looking gulls.

SEABIRD ESTATES

A Planned Community

A few yards up, shoulder-high blue gates were hinged to cream-colored stucco posts. Superficially reassuring but a whole different level of security from V-State’s twenty-foot blood-red barrier.

Keeping them out was different from keeping them in.

A guard inside a tiny booth was texting. Milo tooted his horn. The guard looked over but his fingers kept working. He slid a window open. Milo’s badge pretzeled the guard’s lips. “We didn’t call in no problem.”

“No, you didn’t. Can we come in, please?”

The guard pondered that. Resuming texting, he stabbed at a button on a built-in console, missed the first time, got it right on the second. The gates swung open.

The main street was Sea Bird Lane. It snaked up a slope that picked up as it climbed. Condos appeared on both sides of the road. Landscaping consisted of predictably placed date palms, red-leaf plum trees, beds of low-maintenance succulents that clung to each curve like green cashmere.

Every building was styled identically: neo-Spanish, cream like the gateposts, red composite roofs trying to pass themselves off as genuine tile.

Superficial resemblance to the old V-State buildings. No bars on these windows. No foot traffic to speak of. During the hospital’s tenure, staff and low-risk patients had strolled freely, creating an easy energy. Strangely enough, SeaBird Estates felt more custodial.

Milo drove fifty yards in with a light foot before I spotted an original structure: the mammoth reception hall where I’d been oriented. A sign staked near the entry read
Sea Horse Club House
. As we continued to explore, other hospital structures appeared.
Sea Breeze Card Room. Sea Foam: A Meeting Place
. Former wards and treatment centers and who-knew-what coexisting with new construction. Transplanted smoothly, a wonder of cosmetic surgery.

Finally, a few people showed themselves: white-haired couples,
strolling, casually dressed, tan, relaxed. I was wondering if they had any idea of their neighborhood’s origins when a red-haired man in a blue poly blazer one size too large, baggy khakis, and ripple-soled shoes stepped into the middle of the road and blocked our progress.

Milo braked. Blazer examined us, then came around to the driver’s side. “Rudy Borchard, head of security. What can I do for you?”

“Milo Sturgis, LAPD. Please to meet you, Rudy.”

Mutual badge-flashes. Borchard’s was significantly larger than Milo’s, a gold-plated star that evoked the OK Corral. Probably larger than anything Earp had worn because why offer a generous target?

“So,” said Borchard. Tentative, as if he’d only memorized the script this far. He placed a protective finger on the knot of his clip-on tie. His hair was too long in places, too short in others, dyed the color of overcooked pumpkin. A one-week mustache was a sprinkle of cayenne on a puffy upper lip. “L.A. police, huh? This ain’t L.A.”

“Neither is it Kansas,” said Milo.

Borchard’s eyes tilted in confusion. He puffed his chest to compensate. “We didn’t call in any problem.”

“We know, but—”

“It’s like this,” Borchard cut in. “Residents’ privacy is real important. I’m talking affluent senior retirees, they want to feel private and safe.”

“Safety’s our goal, too, Rudy. That’s why we’re inquiring about a suspect who might be in the area.”

“A suspect? Here? I don’t think so, guys.”

“Hope you’re right.”

“
In
the area or just close to the area?”

“Could go either way.”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” said Borchard. “No one gets in here without my say-so.”

Our easy entry put the lie to that. Milo said, “That’s excellent, but we’d still like to have a look.”

Borchard said, “Who’s this suspect?”

Milo showed him the drawing of Huggler.

Borchard said, “Nope, not here, never been here.”

Milo kept the drawing in Borchard’s face. Borchard stepped back. “I’m telling you nope. Looks like your basic lowlife. Wouldn’t last two seconds, here. Do me a favor and put that away, okay? I don’t want some resident getting their undies all scrunched.”

“Keep it, Rudy. Should you want to post it, that would be fine.”

Borchard took the drawing, folded, slipped it into his pocket. “What exactly this lowlife do?”

“Killed a bunch of people.”

The red dots atop Borchard’s lip bounced as he chewed air. “You kidding? No way I’m posting that picture. The residents hear
killed
, someone’ll have a heart attack for sure.”

“Rudy,” said Milo, “if Grant Huggler gets in here, it’s gonna be a lot worse than a heart attack.”

“Trust me, he won’t.”

“You guys keep it that tight?”

“Tighter than a virgin’s—real tight, trust me on that.”