A harsh rap on the roof broke the rhythm of his thoughts. He turned his head to see a uniformed police officer, his fist still resting on the roof of the truck where he’d knocked.
“Good evening, sir.”
The Samaritan looked for a partner, didn’t see one. He glanced in the mirror to see a police cruiser parked twenty yards behind him. Empty, but with the headlights on. The standard words came naturally to him. “Is there a problem, Officer?” Perfect. Just what a normal person would say. He widened his eyes a little, trying to look appropriately nervous.
“Step out of the vehicle, please.”
The Samaritan blinked and then unbuckled his seat belt. He opened the door and got out.
The cop asked him to stay there and circled the truck, shining a flashlight over the surface. The Samaritan watched as he reached the flat bed and played the beam of his flashlight over the inside. There was nothing there, just a neatly brushed-out space. The cop came around to the driver’s side, extinguishing the light and attaching it to his belt again in a practiced, one-handed move.
He looked to be a lifelong beat cop—late forties, with hair shaved close to his scalp in a way that suggested he was bald under the hat.
“Are you the owner of this vehicle, sir?”
The Samaritan nodded. “Yes.”
“License and registration, please.”
He hesitated a second too long. The cop, whose eyes had been scanning the interior of the vehicle, stopped and looked at him more closely. The Samaritan looked at the cop’s throat. His carotid artery was right there. It would be possible to reach out and render him unconscious in less than a second. He could take him away, make sure that this body was never found.
But a police car would be difficult to dispose of, and the police officer’s movements would certainly be traced to this point. Another worry: what if he had already run the truck’s plate?
“Is that going to be a problem, sir?” the cop asked, his hand moving slightly closer to the holster at his side.
He shook his head, murmured an apology. He reached in the driver’s side window and retrieved the documents from the glove box. Far less risky to play along. It wasn’t as if this stop was going to lead to anything.
The cop’s eyes held on him for a moment, then dropped to look at the license. The Samaritan kept his hands stiffly by his sides.
“You still live here?” he asked as he read the address.
“Yes, I do.”
“Nice place.”
“I like it.”
There was nothing to worry about. The photograph was his, and although the name was fake, there would be no way to tell that. The license and registration were both entirely genuine, and the vehicle had been purchased and registered under the same name. The cop could confirm that with a very quick check.
In the end it wasn’t required. The cop nodded and handed the documents back.
“Thank you, sir. Just a routine stop.”
“Not a problem, Officer.”
The Samaritan got back into the truck and watched the officer return to his vehicle. He waited for a moment and then realized that the cop was waiting for him to leave first. He obliged, starting up the engine and pulling smoothly back onto the road.
He watched the police car in the mirror until he rounded a corner and lost sight of it, and then he allowed himself a smile. Perhaps it was the brush with authority, a reminder that his time was limited, but all of a sudden, he felt the first stirrings of the urge.
It would be time to hunt again very soon.
1996
“Pretty cool, huh?” Kimberley said, smiling proudly.
He didn’t say anything, but smiled quickly as he surveyed the small knot of buildings. They were empty and silent, preserved over the years by the relatively temperate climate. A cool breeze was channeled through the corridor created by the buildings. An old sign, suspended by chains from one of the awnings, creaked softly, but otherwise it was quiet.
Robbie had suddenly developed a new enthusiasm, after bitching and moaning most of the way. “How did you know about this place?”
Kimberley pouted theatrically and rolled her head at that. He admired the way her dark hair bounced around her eyes. “I could tell you, Robbie, but I’d have to kill you.”
There was a low, partly broken-down fence adjoining the last building in the main row. Kimberley sat down on it first and he leaned against it alongside her, waiting for Robbie to catch up.
“Hey, Robbie, how about a picture to remember today by?” She turned and looked up at him. She was a few inches shorter, even though she had a couple of years on him. “It’s a good day, isn’t it?” she said to him.
He reached into the backpack again. He moved some of the top layer of contents about—Kimberley’s Walkman, some loose cassettes—and found the camera. It was a disposable, the kind people used for casual photography in the years before digital took over. He tossed it to Robbie, who fumbled it and cursed as it dropped to the ground.
“Jeez, at least give me a heads-up.”
Robbie took a picture of the two of them and then joined them on the fence. They sat there for a while, resting and enjoying the quiet for a moment. Then Robbie regained his breath and started talking again. He decided to leave them there and explore further.
There was a big house set on raised ground, a little distance away. It looked more substantial, more . . . real than the thin skeletons and shells farther back. It was a wide building with wood siding and a big porch along the front, with a small dormer window set into the center of the roof. When he reached the porch, he looked back. Kimberley and Robbie were sitting on the fence, pointing at the view. He thought about calling out to them but changed his mind. He put his hand on the door handle and twisted it. It was unlocked. He didn’t know why that surprised him.
He opened the door, and the smell of dust and stale air greeted him. There was a stairway straight ahead. He remembered the little window and assumed that the stairs led up to an attic room. He climbed them and found a low-ceilinged space with a wide, unbroken expanse of floorboards. There was a small table in one corner, but the space was otherwise unfurnished. The window he’d seen from outside was glassless and looked back down the way he’d just come. He went to the window and put a hand on one of the thin wood partitions. Kimberley and Robbie were still there at the fence, Kimberley throwing her head back and laughing as he watched.
Without realizing it, he’d tightened his grip on the partition, and he was surprised when it snapped in his hand. He stepped away from the window and looked around him at the attic space.
It was what he had been looking for, almost without knowing it. A quiet space. A private space. A house without an owner in a town without a name. A place where he could do things that no one would ever know about.
I’d checked out of the Sherman Oaks hotel that morning. I was traveling so light that there was no benefit in staying in any one place longer than one night. Everything I had with me fit comfortably in a single bag in the trunk of the Chevy. The manager in the new place told me the room was the best in the hotel, because it was the only one with an entirely unobstructed view of the Hollywood sign.
Perhaps out of a sense of obligation, the first thing I did when I entered the room was to turn out the lights and go to the window. The sign looked white and clean at night, but I knew it would be old and dirty from up close. I also knew they’d erected fences to stop people from getting too close, either to steal a piece of history, or to carve out their own place in it by jumping off the top of one of the letters to kill themselves. I didn’t suppose I was the first person to think of it, but it seemed like a pretty good metaphor for Hollywood itself. Look but don’t touch. Don’t get too close.
I thought about Carol again, for the second time in as many days. I wondered where she’d gone; wondered if she’d headed west, too. Perhaps she was out there in the city, one of the million pinpricks of light in the darkness.
I unbuttoned my shirt and touched a finger to the long, white scar on my chest. Not the stab wound Wardell had given me, but the one that predated it by a few years. The scar hadn’t bothered me in a long time, but it had itched all day today. I ran a fingertip down the smooth line of raised tissue.
I watched the Hollywood sign and thought about how it was a beacon that brought people to this town from all over the world. A siren call that lured in the unsuspecting to be chewed up and spat out by this unforgiving town. A city of new arrivals, of people reinventing themselves and their pasts. Prime targets for the Samaritan.
I thought Allen would use the number I’d given her tomorrow. But if she didn’t, I had to be ready to draw the Samaritan out.
Almost two days without sleep, and yet Allen somehow found it difficult to switch off when she made it back to her apartment a little after midnight.
She gave up after an hour or so and moved to the living room couch.
Three Days of the Condor
with Robert Redford was the late movie. She watched twenty minutes but found herself unable to concentrate, so she began to look over the case files again. She sketched out a timeline showing the locations of potential Samaritan cases arranged by date. The cases roamed all over the map. Clusters of murders over the span of a few weeks, followed by a break of a number of months, and then a new cluster in a different city. Going back a long time, maybe five years, starting in North Carolina. That got her thinking again about Blake, the guy who’d appeared out of nowhere with an offer of help and an FBI character reference. She knew Mazzucco was reluctant to let him in, but she was starting to seriously consider dialing the number on the plain business card. With the feds now involved, it was the one thing she could hold on to for now, maybe a way to stay ahead of the pack.
She understood Mazzucco’s wariness, of course, but she trusted her own instincts. She didn’t think Blake fit the Samaritan’s profile, and not just because of what Agent Banner had said. There was something about his manner that seemed . . . solid? Dependable. And he’d given them the Peterson lead, so he evidently knew his stuff.
And yet, it would be interesting to see if she could rule him out. She spent some time on the Internet and the phone attempting to build up a picture of Carter Blake, and beyond confirming that his driver’s license was legit, found it far more difficult than she’d expected. The DL did give her one thing, though: he’d mentioned flying into town on Sunday night, and flying required identification.
At some point, she had finally succumbed to exhaustion, because the next thing she knew she was waking with a start, having overslept by an hour.
When she opened the door to the conference room, she saw that there were three men and one woman around the table: Mazzucco, Lieutenant Lawrence, Lieutenant Anne Whitmore from the chief’s office, and another man in a dark suit whom she didn’t recognize: the FBI liaison. Lawrence glanced pointedly at the wall clock as she sat down. Even Mazzucco looked a little pissed at her.
“Sorry.” She smiled, hoping the bright sunlight streaming through the window didn’t highlight the dark circles around her eyes too much. “Still getting used to the traffic in this town.”
The FBI guy returned the smile and reached his hand across the table. “You’re not from here?” he said, adding, “Special Agent James Channing . . . Jim,” as they shook. He was in his mid-forties, she guessed. In good shape, broad shoulders, a healthy California tan. No dark shadows under his eyes. He’d probably woken up at five a.m. and gone for a ten-mile run before oatmeal and fruit juice.
“I’m from DC, originally. Metro PD, transferred out here six months back,” she said, keeping it short so as not to aggravate the others further.
Channing nodded. He glanced at Lawrence. “Do we need to . . . ?” he asked, meaning did they need to stop and bring Allen up to speed.
“I don’t think so. Detective Allen knows everything we know.” He fixed Allen with a stare. “Probably more.”
She avoided his gaze and cleared her throat. This was the last thing she’d wanted, to be on the back foot for this meeting.
“So how’s this going to work?” she said, speaking to Channing, her tone deliberately challenging.
Channing blinked and took a moment to collect himself. “This thing is big; I don’t have to tell you that. We’ve had people chasing down possible leads on this killer since Lieutenant Lawrence got in touch yesterday afternoon.”
He hadn’t taken the opportunity to stress the
yesterday afternoon
, so either he was being very diplomatic about the fact the LAPD had sat on information about a homicide investigation that crossed state lines, or Lawrence had left that part out. She was betting on the latter.
“As I was explaining before you came in, we’ve now identified potential linked cases in a further four states, bringing the total to eleven states. Potential victims? Over sixty.”
Lieutenant Whitmore broke in then. She had dark hair trimmed short, was about five two and of slight build: diminutive in appearance, but with a loud, assertive voice that brooked no dissent. “It looks like the bastard is doing a regular American tour. I hope he’s signed up for frequent flier miles.”
Allen had met Whitmore only once before and didn’t know her well enough to tell if that was a joke. It would make catching the killer a hell of a lot easier if he had been dumb enough to travel using commercial airlines, but given the profile she’d built up already, she very much doubted it.
“We don’t know for sure that all of those cases are connected, of course,” Channing continued. “Could be fewer, could be more. The best way to find out for sure will be to catch this guy and ask him.”
Allen smirked and looked at Mazzucco. “There you go. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Take it easy, Allen,” Lawrence said.
The smile faded from Channing’s face and he turned back to Allen. She wondered if he was riled and was irritated to see he was being . . . patient with her. That was the only way to describe it. “You did a great job making the case-to-case link between here and some of the other states, Detective,” he said. “No one’s questioning that.”
Mazzucco spoke next, probably because he knew Allen would say it if he didn’t. “But now the big boys can take over.”
Channing sighed, almost inaudibly, but loud enough for Allen to hear and take some satisfaction. He looked at Lawrence, as if to say,
Can you step in here?
No help was forthcoming.
“A little more blunt than I would have liked,” Lawrence said after a second, “but I guess that is what we’re here to establish, Agent Channing.”
“That’s not how we work, Lieutenant. We don’t see any value in freezing out local expertise. I’m here to liaise—”
“You can skip the five steps of handling local cops, Agent. What does it mean in practice? In this case.”
Channing nodded, smiling as though he was glad he was able to talk straight, person to person.
“The Bureau is investigating these murders as one multistate case. Are we best placed to carry out this work nationwide? Absolutely. The homicides on your patch are very recent, and you’re already running a very effective investigation, from what I’ve seen. Do I want to throw that out just because of some historical pissing contest we’re supposed to be having with the LAPD? Hell no, I don’t. I need you on board. We need everyone on this.” He made eye contact with the four of them, finishing up with Allen for the last sentence.
Allen found herself caught between hating and admiring him, because his manner was effective. She could see why he’d been chosen for the sensitive job of liaison to the LAPD. She’d be amazed if he didn’t transfer to politics sometime soon with these people skills.
There was a knock on the door and Allen turned around to see Felicia from reception sticking her head around the door, as though she didn’t want to open it too far. “Lieutenant Lawrence?”
Lawrence looked up. “The shrink? Send him in.”
Felicia closed the door again and returned a few moments later, opening it wide. The consultant psychologist walked into the room. He was quite tall and very thin. He carried a leather briefcase and wore a light gray suit and a matching tie over a crisp white shirt. “Dr. Gregory Trent,” Lawrence said, greeting him as they shook hands. “This is Lieutenant Anne Whitmore, from the Office of the Chief of Police, and Special Agent Jim Channing of the FBI. You probably know Detectives Mazzucco and Allen already.”
Trent smiled briefly as he shook hands with Allen. She didn’t know him, in fact, but she’d seen him around, and she knew how much he billed per hour. She knew Lawrence liked him because he was thorough as well as being fast: a rare combination that enabled him to command exorbitant rates.
When the introductions were done and coffee poured, Trent opened his briefcase and took out a couple of documents. “Before I get going, I’d like to ask you for your take on the perpetrator of these three homicides,” he said, addressing all five of them. He spoke with a British accent that had had the sharp edges sanded off by a decade or more in Southern California.
“Actually, it’s looking like a lot more than three—” Channing began.
Trent cut him off abruptly. “We’ll get to that. My brief was to compile a profile for the unknown subject who killed, mutilated, and buried the three bodies you found out in the Santa Monica Mountains. That’s what I’ve focused on.” He paused and looked at each face in turn. “Now, I’m aware that since I was commissioned, it has come to light that the individual responsible may have committed crimes in other jurisdictions. From my appraisal of the additional information sent through to me yesterday evening, I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that there is a very strong likelihood that you’re on the right track with these apparently linked investigations in other states. In fact, it preempts one of my key recommendations. So, with all of that in mind, I’m interested in the primary investigators’ take on the killer.”
All eyes moved to Mazzucco and Allen. Mazzucco scratched his neck where there was a small patch of razor burn and looked at Allen before answering first.
“Definitely not a first timer was my first instinct, and it looks like that’s been borne out already. All three victims bore very similar wounds. No hesitation, no deviation. He wasn’t experimenting with anything different, just doing what he’s used to.”
No one in the room called Mazzucco on his use of the male pronoun, Allen noticed. They were all used to the convention in homicide investigations of referring to unidentified murderers as
he
. It was not just a figure of speech, but also a safe bet, considering the miniscule proportion of women who ended up being convicted for serial murders of strangers. Allen herself would be amazed if it turned out the Samaritan was a woman.
Mazzucco had paused, as though figuring out how he could put the next thought into words.
“It was like the victims had been . . . processed. You know what I mean? He knew what he wanted to do and went ahead and did it as carefully and as efficiently as possible. The graves were like that, too: just deep enough to keep them from the coyotes. He got rid of their clothes and belongings and made their vehicles disappear. If it hadn’t been for the landslide, we’d have three missing persons cases and we’d still be none the wiser about this guy.”
Trent looked pleased but didn’t say anything. He switched his gaze to Allen.
Allen cleared her throat, thinking about how to structure her answer to avoid discussing the suspicions she’d held on to for longer than she should have. “The MO for the abductions is starting to look pretty consistent, for these three anyway. He targets lone female drivers at night. Smart, because they’re the most vulnerable, the easiest to deal with. At first we were working on the assumption that he gets them to stop somehow, but one of the victims made a call to Triple A, reporting a breakdown before she and her vehicle disappeared. That means it’s possible he’s finding people who have broken down, offering them help, and abducting them.”
“Hence the name you people have come up with for him,” Trent said.
“Don’t blame us,” Allen said. “You know how it is; you can’t sell newspapers without a catchy name.”
Trent angled his head. “I would argue that it doesn’t do your investigation any harm, Detective. If a name brand for our killer helps more of the public pay attention, it makes your job easier in terms of keeping people safe and vigilant.”
Allen didn’t say anything, but she thought he might actually have a point. “The Samaritan” was a useful-enough name for the purposes of public awareness. It even suggested the situations in which people should be most wary. Assuming he continued to stick to the MO, of course. There was no guarantee that he would, particularly because he’d done things differently in other areas.
Jim Channing sat back in his seat once he was sure Allen didn’t want to speak further. “Dr. Trent,” he said, doing a reasonable job of covering up his irritation at being interrupted earlier. “I think we’d all be interested in your expert take on the type of individual we’re dealing with here.”
Trent paused for effect, a twinkle in his eye betraying how much he was enjoying the attention, the weight of expectation. “I’ve worked in the field of forensic psychology for more than twenty years. I’ve used my skills to assist this department and others to track down a great many murderers. Bear that in mind, please, when I tell you that I think this individual, this . . . Samaritan . . . is without a doubt the most dangerous psychopath I have ever investigated.”
In the end, Dr. Trent’s report didn’t throw up anything they hadn’t been expecting in terms of gender, race, or personality type. The thing that surprised Allen was how unsurprised Trent seemed by the revelation of dozens of previously undetected cases in other states.
The psychologist’s opinion, having looked closely at all of the information available on the three initial homicides, was that they were looking for a high-functioning psychopath with a strictly methodical approach to his work and a great deal of experience in killing human beings. In terms of a profile, Trent thought they should be looking for a white American male in his thirties or forties. Intelligent, wily and physically strong. From the initial evidence, he thought it was likely that the individual was a native of Los Angeles, as suggested by his choice of abduction method and body disposal site, and further by the fact he’d found a way to make the vehicles disappear, rendering the trail even colder. In the light of the potentially related cases that had surfaced in other states, Trent conceded that his initial opinion of the Samaritan being from LA was open to question but was adamant that he must at least have spent enough time here to develop strong local knowledge. He opined that there was no reason he couldn’t have used LA as a base from which to travel to his other hunting grounds.