You Can’t Stop Me (9 page)

Slowly, she turned toward the Messenger, her wide, uncomprehending eyes settling on the big revolver; her eyes tightened just a little, as if she were trying to make out something in a haze. She didn’t scream, didn’t raise a hand, just sat there numbly as the killer raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

Two in the chest straightened her this way and that and then she sank slowly to her left, tipping in slow motion, her eyes still on the gun, but no light in them now, glassy, as dead as the dolls on a nearby shelf.

As dead as the eyes of his own child.

When the little girl settled onto the floor, her lifeless hand stretched toward the kitchen and her mother, and—despite the open eyes—she seemed to be napping peacefully he walked out.

A terrible thing, but it had to be done.

Justice could not prevail without the sacrifice of innocents. If he had learned anything in this life, it was that.

In the kitchen, he withdrew the compact garden shears, knelt prayerfully, and, in one crunching, almost bloodless stroke, removed the mother’s wedding ring and the finger it adorned. This time he had brought his own plastic baggie, and needn’t steal one from the deceased homemaker.

At 10:45
P.M
., J.C. Harrow—in front of a rambling one-story stucco home in Placida, Florida—was lit by spots mounted atop a
Crime Scene!
bus. Maury Hathaway had his camera on sticks with the teleprompter below the lens. Nancy Hughes stood nearby with the boom, though Harrow held a microphone with the UBC logo on it, more for show than necessity; the sound person’s headset allowed her to communicate with the crew in the production half of the semi nearby.

Next to cameraman Hathaway, perched atop the wooden box (an “apple box,” in the trade), a wide-screen monitor allowed Harrow to see himself standing there in HD glory, his gray suit crisp, his white shirt open at the throat, but despite expert make-up, he could see the tiredness in his face, and the additional white working into his dark brown hair. To him, he appeared far more than a mere year older than when the show had premiered last season.

He had already been on briefly, at the top of the hour, to give a general introduction to tonight’s show before tossing the baton to Carlos Moreno, who’d guided the first forty-five minutes of the program through four other crimes, each segment hosted by another
Crime Seen!
reporter. With the exception of Moreno, all of these were canned, even the segment-host wraparounds pre-recorded.

“On-air feed!” Hughes announced.

The picture on the monitor switched to a commercial in progress, followed by the familiar
Crime Seen!
title card, over which was suddenly stamped a severe stenciled
Killer TV
logo—tinny audio, piped on set, made the mysterious, synthesizer-heavy theme seem a little silly to Harrow.

Carmen Garcia’s voice, a confident contralto, spoke over the title card: “Tonight we debut
Crime Seen!
’s
Killer TV
segment…”

A publicity shot of Harrow filled the screen.

“…with host J.C. Harrow on the road in Placida, Florida….”

Helicopter shots of quiet little Placida by day rolled across the monitor.

And now Carmen filled the screen, her attractive office-worker demeanor replaced by the glamorous aura of a star worthy of a
TV Guide
feature article (see this week’s issue). She wore a black suit with a white silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough. Her dark hair was perfectly coiffed, and her makeup looked invisible (thank you, Hair and Makeup Department).

Positioned in front of the
Crime Seen!
semi-trailer, a
Killer TV
logo prominent to her one side, she spoke into her own UBC handheld microphone: “This quiet village was the scene of a tragedy that our forensics investigators have tied to the similarly tragic crime out of which
Crime Seen!
itself emerged.”

Under that had played file footage from Des Moines Channel 8 of police outside the Harrow home on that terrible night. The host glanced away as Carmen’s voice continued.

An assistant director, also with a headset, had a pointing finger held upward, like a starting gun, waiting as Carmen said, “And now, here is your host, J.C. Harrow….”

The AD’s pointing finger aimed itself at Harrow.

“For there to be a war on crime,” Harrow said, invoking the catchphrase he’d made famous on
Crime Seen!
, “we must
all
be warriors…. Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.”

Last year, he had worked hard, with the help of many behind the scenes, to combine a serious, almost grave demeanor with a confident, somewhat affable vocal tone.

“I know there are a lot of expectations about what’s been happening this summer, and what we’ll be doing with our new
Killer TV
segment this fall.”

Looking right through the camera, Harrow said, “Public response has been mostly favorable, from snail mail to blogs to Twitter…and we thank you for that. But there’s been criticism too.”

Harrow turned left, where Arroyo’s camera (and another prompter) waited, providing a tighter shot. “I’ve been accused of exploiting the deaths of my wife and son…out of a desire for fame, or in a misguided effort to keep my loved ones ‘alive.’”

In Harrow’s earpiece, director Stu Phillips in New York whispered:
“Make them wait for it, J.C.”

Finally Harrow said, “You may be right.” His smile was sad—that it was intentionally so made it no less real. “And I can guarantee my wife
would
be offended, if I turned this into a media circus.”

In cameraman Arroyo’s ear, director Phillips said,
“Go in tighter, Leon…nice and tight….”

“On the other hand, I believe Ellen would support me—
does
support me—in bringing our son’s murderer to justice. She would encourage me to do everything in my power to do that—and David would feel the same, where his mom was concerned.”

His eyes were tear-filled. Though he was reading the words, words he had only co-scripted, the emotion was genuine.

“And until we have their killer or killers, I promise you this—I will not speak to you of my family again.”

Harrow turned back to Hathaway’s camera position, who was ready with an even tighter close-up.

“I understand that some of you may find what we’re doing distasteful, and if we offend you, turn us off, switch the channel…but as you do, ask yourself—would you do any less for
your
family?”

The monitor revealed that the director in New York had cut away to a pre-recorded wide shot of the ranch-style home at night with lovely palm trees and a full moon touched by dark smoky clouds providing a picturesque, vaguely film noir effect.

Over this image Harrow was saying, “Carmen, could you bring us up to speed?”

Back on camera at the semi-trailer, Carmen said, “Thank you, J.C. Over the summer, our
Crime Seen!
team has been very busy following leads.”

Dingle was waiting with hand-held to follow her up the stairs of the trailer and inside. A pan of the lab revealed bustling activity within, staged but convincing (Carmen had spent much of the previous afternoon rehearsing her forensics stars, much to their dismay).

Nearest was Michael Pall, sitting at a computer monitor. The diminutive DNA scientist wore a white lab coat with his name on the left breast over the UBC logo set within a magnifying glass (Harrow had put his foot down, and the
Killer TV
logo was conspicuously MIA). Under the lab coat, Pall wore a light blue button-down dress shirt and a darker blue tie with a geometric pattern.

Carmen guided Pall down a path of easy questions concerning the DNA of the corn leaf found at the Ferguson crime scene. They were not on prompter, but the exchange was very much canned.

“Does that mean we know where the killer is from?”

“No,” Pall said, “that’s too big an assumption. But we’re making progress.”

“How so?”

“We know where in Kansas that particular corn seed was sold. It will help us narrow down where the killer might have traveled.”

“Anything else?”

Pall gestured toward a table on the other side of the lab, where Billy Choi sat at a computer screen displaying two bullets side by side. Under his UBC-insignia lab coat, Choi wore a navy blue T-shirt emblazoned with a huge badge and the words
NYPD HOCKEY
.

After introducing Choi as the resident firearms expert, Carmen said, “What’s the story of these bullets, Billy?”

Playing to the camera, Choi said, “These two slugs represent evidence developed using NIBIN.”

“NIBIN?”

“National Integrated Ballistics Information Network.”

“Which is?”

To Harrow, the pair seemed to be competing for the camera, trading smiles, but the audience probably thought they were just flirting a little.

Choi was saying, “NIBIN’s an imaging system and database of firearms-related evidence developed by the FBI and the ATF in partnership. Each had their own ballistics imaging programs—Drugfire at the FBI and IBIS at ATF—but NIBIN allows the two to communicate, and share information.”

“What have you learned using this technology?”

Choi pointed at the bullets on the screen, and the camera moved in, Harrow’s monitor filled now with the two bullets. “The bullet on the right came out of Stella Ferguson—from a nine-millimeter automatic, a completely different type of bullet than the one used in the murders at the Harrow home.”

“Does that mean different perpetrators in these two cases?”

“No, just that a different weapon was used. May or may not be the same killer, but there are significant similarities in the crimes…Still, the weapons don’t match.”

“To the layperson,” Carmen said, “these bullets look the same.”

“Actually, they’re not.”

As Dingle’s shot widened, Choi moved to another monitor, where a picture of a third bullet was waiting. “This slug came from Ellen Harrow. It’s bigger, the striations completely different.”

Looking at a bullet pried from his wife’s chest, televised or otherwise, sent acid rushing into Harrow’s stomach, and, involuntarily, he pictured his wife and son on the floor back in their home.

What was the son of a bitch who did it thinking, if he was watching this?

“What about the bullets on the other monitor?” Carmen was asking. “You said you had a match for one in the Ferguson murders—but not the Harrow case?”

“No,” Choi said. “This is new—that comes from a double murder in Rolla, North Dakota, two years ago.”

“Where has that led you?”

“Check back next week,” Choi said, delivering a scripted line very naturally.

The show was running smoothly, and Harrow was of course pleased.

But he also knew that by serializing this investigation on live TV, he was giving the killer a tutorial on what evidence they were finding, and how close they were coming to him. Of all the risks they were taking, this was the worst—instead of closing in on the killer, they might well drive him to ground, and never track the bastard down.

Carmen turned to camera and asked, “J.C., why didn’t the police in Florida pick up on this connection?”

Back on, Harrow said, “Carmen, they did run the bullets through NIBIN, but Rolette County in North Dakota—like many rural areas—hasn’t widely participated in the program. Only recently, through the state crime lab in Bismarck, did the information get into the database. The match we found has only been available for the last few weeks.”

“J.C.,” Carmen said casually, but scripted, “I understand you interviewed the surviving member of the Ferguson household.”

“Yes,” Harrow replied, framed against the stucco home in the moonlight, “this afternoon I spoke with Placida city marshal Ray Ferguson, here in his home.”

Microphone lowered, Harrow watched the monitor.

In a two-shot, sunlight filtering in sheer-curtained windows in the background, Harrow was seated in a straight-back chair facing a sofa where Ferguson sat.

Paunchier and generally older-looking than Harrow—though possibly as much as five years younger—Ferguson wore boots, jeans, and a blue denim shirt with a gold badge embroidered over the left breast. Jowly, with empty blue eyes and a wide nose, he had thin, bloodless lips over a strong chin.

“Marshal Ferguson, we’re sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ferguson said, with a tiny nod. His baritone was soft spoken, with a touch of drawl. “I consented to this, Mr. Harrow, because I know you suffered such yourself.”

“Marshal Ferguson, would you tell us about that night, almost a year ago to the day?”

Ferguson had been expecting the questions, but the words hit him like tiny punches. His eyes glazed over.

“Marshal, I apologize for my bluntness. But I have to ask.”

He nodded. “Well, after work, I came home, and the lights weren’t on. Which surprised me, ’cause it was well after dark. Stella’s car was in the driveway, and that was when I first got spooked, really spooked. Just knew something was wrong.”

“Go on.”

“Rest of the block was quiet, but what really shook me was that the lights, in the other houses? They were all on. I’d kinda hoped that somehow it was…you know…a power outage or some damn thing.”

As he watched the monitor, Harrow winced when a close cut to the marshal’s trembling hands in his lap underscored the man’s misery. His own hands began to tremble, and he marveled that he’d been able to summon his inner cop enough to conduct this interview.

“I just ran into the house,” Ferguson was saying. “Or anyway I did after I got the door unlocked, which was another thing—Stella never locked the door when she knew I was coming home.”

Neither had Ellen.

“I suppose,” the marshal said, “he locked up after himself, to keep somebody from discovering what he’d done too soon. Of course, he’d have known I’d have a key. Do you suppose he wanted me to find them, Mr. Harrow? Did he do the same to you?”

“Please go on, sir.”

“Sorry,” Ferguson said. “Anyway, I went in, and there they were…all dead. All lying in the entryway, like they were there to…greet me. But it wasn’t…wasn’t me, was it?”

“Then you called the sheriff’s office.”

“Yes, and they arrived within minutes. Coroner told me that Stella and the kids’d only been dead for about an hour. If I’d got home earlier that night…? Maybe they would still be alive.”

“Marshal, that kind of speculation doesn’t do any good. Did you get home at your regular time?”

“Right around. Not much to marshaling in Placida, Mr. Harrow.”

“Nothing unusual that day?”

“No. On the way home, though, I did have a traffic stop. Not that that’s unusual.”

Sitting forward, Harrow asked, “Did you tell the detectives about it?”

“Oh yeah,” Ferguson said. “Perfectly routine. Guy was a salesman from Tampa, just passing through. Sheriff’s office and state patrol both did an extensive investigation into the guy. It was nothing.”

Live again, Harrow brought up his mic and said, “We interviewed Marshal Ferguson for an hour, and, thanks to his years as a trained investigator himself, he shared with us several puzzle pieces that for now we must withhold…because we know that our audience very likely includes the perpetrator of these crimes. Carmen, I understand you have more to share now, with our team….”