You Can’t Stop Me (7 page)

“Why what?” Harrow asked.

Pall looked at Harrow over the top of his glasses.

Harrow said, “You know about the show.”

“I live in Oklahoma, J.C., not a cave.”

“You follow it?”

“I saw Friday’s episode. You think it’s a good idea, J.C., investigating something so close to you?”

“It’s a good idea if I surround myself with the right people.”

“Have you eaten? I could eat.”

Pall called a waiter over and ordered salad, steamed vegetables, and a small rare filet.

Harrow said, “Make it two.”

When the waiter was gone, Harrow said, “Michael…” No one called Pall “Mike” that Harrow knew of. “…have you thought about retirement?”

Pall studied Harrow. “And here I thought you came to offer me a job.”

“You’ve got your time in, and qualify for a full pension. You’re single, at least as far as I know, which means you’d be free to travel. I’m here to offer you a chance to do a little moonlighting.”

“How many months you guaranteeing?”

“Nine. But it will mean more money than two full years at your current job. And there’s a possibility—just a possibility—that we might keep the team together, if we’re successful.”

“The team? Or the ‘act’? This sounds like show business to me, not law enforcement.”

“You know me better than that, Michael. This will be professional all the way.”

“Who else do you have?”

“My second is lined up—Laurene Chase.”

“Oh. Well. That’s a very good start. Here’s our food!”

They ate.

They had a drink after. They had another drink, and after Pall finished his, he asked, “When do you need an answer?”

“The sooner, the better,” Harrow said. “You’re my first choice in this position—but I have other names I can go to.”

“I’m the first you’ve approached?”

“In this slot, yes. Only other team member signed on is Laurene. We go to work June first.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pall said.

When Harrow left the meeting, he had no idea which way the scientist was leaning. Pall was a lot of things, but easy to read was not one of them.

The next stop took Harrow to Shaw and Associates, a commercial crime lab in Meridian, Mississippi. Sixty-five, with white hair and an easygoing smile that spoke of confidence and success, Gerald Shaw had left public life for the private sector over twenty years ago. Now, his crime lab was the most respected of its kind in the nation, if not the world.

After small talk over a cup of coffee, Harrow got to the point and asked for the loan of chemist Chris Anderson.

“Loan?” Shaw asked, arching a black eyebrow that seemed stark next to the white swooping over his forehead.

“We’ll pay him,” Harrow said, holding up a palm. “You can take him off salary and even bennies, while he’s with us.”

“Well, doesn’t that sound like a sweet little deal,” Shaw said genially. “And just who’s gonna cover his workload?”

Harrow had known Shaw was a sharp businessman, and was prepared for the haggling. “We’ll pay for a sub. If you have any expenses lining up a sub, we’ll pay that, too.”

Shaw grinned sleepily. “Well, that does sound a little sweeter. But it’s up to the boy himself. If Chris wants to go, fine—you got yourself a deal.”

Born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Chris Anderson had played basketball in high school well enough to make All-State, but not to get a scholarship. His grades, though, had been another matter—exceptional in math and science, Anderson had earned a full ride at the University of Alabama right there in his hometown. He took his first trip north to attend graduate school at the University of California-Berkeley, probably the nation’s best chemistry grad school.

Tall, with blond bangs, Anderson had the playful brown eyes and wide smile of a boy-band singer. Not yet thirty, he was something of a prodigy in the forensics field—Shaw paid the young man double what he could have made in public law enforcement.

After Harrow outlined the plan, Anderson—who had never watched
Crime Seen!
—turned to Shaw. “Mr. Gerald, how do you feel about this?”

A hand settled on Anderson’s shoulder. “Might be a good idea, Chris. I’ve known J.C. for years. He’s a good man, and it’d get you out of the lab for a while. Some field work would be good experience for you.”

The young man considered that. “And my job would be here when I got back?”

“You bet, son,” Shaw said. “Whenever you want it.”

Turning his fresh face to Harrow, Anderson said, “Well, then, sir—when do I start?”

Two days later, in New York City, Harrow found himself in a rundown Brooklyn tenement building, standing in a dark hallway in front of apartment 406.

He knocked and waited.

Nothing.

He was just getting ready to leave when the door swung slowly open and he found himself staring at a bleary-eyed young man wearing only a bed sheet wrapped around him like a sarong. The son of an Asian father and Caucasian mother, Billy Choi was an ex-New York cop and former Golden Gloves boxer. Harrow had run into the criminalist at various IAI functions, where they’d shared war stories over drinks, even teaming up for conference role-playing sessions.

“J.C.,” Choi said, rubbing the sand from his eyes, his normally swept-back jet-black hair a bird’s nest. From the lack of surprise, the guy might have seen Harrow five minutes ago.

“I come in?” Harrow asked.

Choi stepped out of the way, gestured with one hostly hand, and Harrow entered. To call the place a rathole would have been an insult to rats, the young man’s housecleaning skills limited to hiding the real mess beneath empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes.

“Is it helpful in your work, Billy?”

“Is what?”

“Living at a crime scene?”

“Pretty funny, J.C. When I wake up, I might laugh.”

“Mind a question?”

“Hit me.”

“Can you play nice with others?”

Shrugging, Choi said, “Not according to the NYPD. Gross insubordination, they call it.”

Harrow gave him a long hard look. “They also call it striking a superior officer.”

“Nothing superior about him,” Choi said.

“Oh?”

“Well, maybe. As in King Asshole.”

“Ah.”

“J.C., I just hit him.
You’d’ve
killed his ass.”

But Harrow merely looked at the young ex-officer. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Choi could not take Harrow’s gaze, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah, man, I know—I screwed up royal.”

“Question stands. Can you play nicely with others?”

“Does it matter?”

“Might. You watch my show?”

“I’ve seen it. Hey, nice gig, bro.”

“You see Friday’s show?”

“What’s today?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Harrow said, and brought him up to speed.

“I’m in,” Choi said.

Harrow shook his head. “Answer the question first.”

“I can play well with others,” Choi said, a kid forced to recite in front of the class.

“No bullshit, Billy—I’ve got the second chance you’ve been looking for. But if you screw me over, you won’t be able to land mall cop.”

“No bullshit,
sensei
,” Choi said, earnestly. “I promise ya, J.C. You give me the chance, I’ll be a right guy. No more screwin’ up.”

“And you would walk away from all this?” Harrow asked, gesturing around the dire apartment.

Billy grinned. “For you I would, J.C.”

Harrow was halfway down the crummy corridor of Billy’s building when his cell chirped. The caller ID said it was Pall.

“Michael,” Harrow said. “Good to hear from you.”

“Thought you should know,” Pall said, “I put my papers in this morning—end of the month’s my last day.”

“You heading for a beach, or coming aboard?”

“Send me an airline ticket. If it’s to Hawaii, I’ll head for the beach.”

“And if it’s to LA?”

“Then I’ll come work for you.”

In Casper, Wyoming, at the state crime lab, Harrow met up with the last candidate on his Dream Team list—Jenny Blake.

A petite blonde with blue eyes, Blake was painfully shy, and Harrow was well aware that her limited social skills could hamper her in the over-the-top world of television.

That limitation aside, the twenty-five-year-old had tremendous computer skills. As a teenager, she had used those skills to lure child predators to her foster parents’ house in Casper, Wyoming, before calling the local police. Her legend spread to the Wyoming state crime lab, where a friend had passed the story on to Harrow. After college, Blake joined that same Wyoming crime lab.

Of all the potential members of the team, the shy Blake would likely be the hardest to convince to join up.

Their mutual friend introduced the pair over coffee in the crime lab’s breakroom, then excused herself.

Harrow laid out his pitch with quiet intensity and what he felt was sincere eloquence…and Jenny Blake turned him down cold.

Her shyness made her tremendously uneasy about the whole television aspect of the job, but having been raised in foster care, she had as much empathy for a parent who had lost a child as she did for the children who were preyed upon by adults.

“Jenny, this isn’t about television,” he told her. “That’s only a means to an end. Thanks to the network, we can afford the best people in their fields—like you.”

“I’m happy here,” she said.

“I just need to borrow you for a while. Jenny, this person, these persons…”

“Unsub,” she said.

“Yes, this unknown subject killed my wife and my son. David had a great future in front of him, and it was taken from him, stolen from him, and…we believe this unsub has killed many others, young people like my son, children too. And this is my chance to stop him.”

“Here,” she said. She was handing him a napkin.

“What?”

“You’re crying.”

He didn’t realize. He dried his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Harrow had seldom set foot in the conference room used by the top UBC execs and, for that matter, the board itself. You could have played touch football in here, if it weren’t for the long narrow table of dark polished wood bisecting the space. The walls were beige and blank, lacking even framed posters bragging of hit shows, not that UBC had many. Tables in a back corner held shining stainless steel urns of coffee, orange juice, ice water; and offered baskets of breakfast pastries, fresh fruit, and yogurt cups on ice.

At the front of the room, behind Harrow, was a mammoth plasma screen that could display one huge image or dozens of smaller ones. Just behind Harrow at his left was a cameraman capturing his every move, and at his right, a female audio guy’s boom was a sword of Damocles over his head. Two more cameramen were positioned on either side of the table—not directly across from each other, of course—and a male sound guy with a boom was catching the talk at the table.

Way at the back, near the craft service area, stood network president Dennis Byrnes in a light gray Brooks Brothers, black shirt, and charcoal tie, arms Superman-style at his waist; next to him, of course, was Nicole Strickland, arms folded across the admirable shelf of her breasts, like a bodyguard in Donna Karan.

Harrow turned his attention to the people seated at the table. Nearest were the five forensics experts that made up his dream team; farther down were Carmen Garcia and a contingent of top production personnel.

They were chatting among themselves, the ones already acquainted taking the lead. One thing law enforcement professionals and TV/film people had in common was an affinity for taking advantage of any free food and drink on deck, and this group was no exception.

“All right, everyone,” Harrow said, loud, firm, but not unfriendly, and the group settled down. “I’ll start with my thanks to all of you for walking away from other work, at short notice, to be part of this innovative, and likely history-making investigation.”

He gestured toward the back of the room.

“I also want to introduce you to the two people who have made this possible—network president Dennis Byrnes and our executive producer, Nicole Strickland.”

Polite applause rang in the room, like friendly fire, the faces of the new people turning toward the execs.

Harrow gestured. “Would you like to join me, Dennis?”

The cameraman closest to the execs swung his attention their way, as did the boom operator.

Byrnes smiled and shook his head and raised a palm. “No, J.C. I’d just like to say that UBC—from Nicole and me to every member of the board—is behind the
Killer TV
team all the way.”

Some curious frowns appeared, and the faces turned toward Harrow again.

“That’s how our remote segment is labeled,” Harrow told them, his embarrassment showing through. “
Killer TV
…we’re a kind of show within the show. It may be a little undignified, but Dennis tells me it’s tested well….”

“Certainly has,” the exec affirmed.

“…and of course that’s the be-all-and-end-all in television.” Harrow gave up a wry smile. “And, anyway, it’s a small concession, considering the financial support the network’s providing.”

Nicole spoke up, her alto a musical, lovely thing (at least when she wasn’t berating or firing somebody): “You’ll all receive directories of the numbers back here at home base, including mine. While I’d appreciate you staying, whenever possible, within the chain of command…I have five assistants, who would also appreciate you helping justify their salaries….”

A few polite laughs.

“…do not hesitate to call me directly, if there is a matter of urgency. Six o’clock Friday night comes promptly at six o’clock every Friday night…meaning we do not stand on ceremony. We don’t have that luxury.”

“And now,” Byrnes said, “we’re going to do our job, which is to get out of your way and let you do yours.”

The execs made their exit to one last nice round of applause, the enthusiasm of which may have been influenced by relief to see them go.

Harrow took the seat at the head of the long, narrow table. “Now that the two two-hundred-pound gorillas are gone, we should start by acknowledging the four-hundred-pound gorilla still in the room.”

No one said anything, but their eyes were on him like magnets on metal.

“I’m heading up an investigation into a crime in which I carry an enormous emotional stake. It breaks a rule so basic, hardly anybody bothers formulating it
as
a rule.”

Kind smiles.

“So here is your fallback, people. If the need arises, Plan B is to remove me from the case, and Laurene Chase will take over as lead investigator. Laurene?”

Nearest him at right, she stood, and nodded at him, and then at everyone around her.

Harrow went on: “I can be replaced at the network’s whim…no, no! No argument there, that was a basic part of the agreement to fund our efforts. And I can be removed at Laurene’s directive.”

Laurene said, “The man speaks the truth.”

Harrow said, “If you have concerns that you don’t feel comfortable expressing to me, I understand—you won’t be going behind my back, because we’ll just call it part of that chain of command Ms. Strickland mentioned. Go straight to Laurene.”

Billy Choi said, “Laurene, fire J.C.’s ass, would you?”

Everybody laughed. Harrow gave Choi a tiny look that said,
Thank you
, for breaking the ice.

“The second thing,” Harrow said, “is that we’re going to be on camera pretty much every second we’re working. You will not be followed into restaurants, your hotel rooms, or restrooms. And your free time, what little there’ll be of it, will be your own. Everything else is fair game…” He looked right at the camera. “…unless either Laurene or I say otherwise.”

Harrow rose and walked deeper into the room, his camera- and soundman following. “I want to start by introducing you to the crew who’ll be keeping us company. There will be others, but these five on camera and sound are among the best in the business, as some of you already know…and they’re the ones who’ll be trailing us the most.”

As he made introductions, those seated at the table craned when necessary to take in their electronic shadows.

“First, sneaking up behind me, is a thirty-year veteran in the business, including ten years at UBC—Maury Hathaway.”

Maury peeked out from behind the shoulder-held camera, and smiled and nodded, and people said, “Hi,” “Hey, Maury,” and the like. The husky Hathaway wore khaki cargo pants and an open-front button-down shirt over a Grateful Dead T-shirt, his blond hair graying around the longish edges.

“Working sound for Maury is Nancy Hughes.”

A slender young woman, blonde hair tied in a loose ponytail, dipped her boom to them and gave them a toothy smile. She wore jeans and a loose white T-shirt.

“Across the way is Tim Ingram.”

A wiry black guy who looked barely out of his teens gave the group a boom bob and a wave. He wore a brown T-shirt with a white silkscreen of some hip-hop star not on Harrow’s radar.

“Down and across from me, that’s Leon Arroyo.”

Cameraman Arroyo’s smile was huge, his teeth very white. A light-skinned Hispanic with wavy black hair and a full beard, Arroyo wore baggy shorts and a multicolored rayon shirt that looked slept in.

“Down at the far end of the table—close to the food, you’ll note—is Phil Dingle.”

Dingle, a spade-bearded, affable, not quite heavyset six-footer in a black shirt and chinos, came out from behind his eyepiece to grin and say hey. “You won’t know I’m here,” he said.

Harrow moved down the table. “Our lead investigative reporter and segment host is Carmen Garcia. She found the clue that jump-started the investigation.”

The group turned to her, and she gave them a megawatt smile and a crisp nod. The Ozomatli T-shirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a designer suit that cost probably ten times her old weekly salary.

The tousle-haired, well-scrubbed Midwestern girl had been replaced by a stylishly coiffed California female with flawless makeup and freshly lacquered nails.

The willowy brunette rose and said, “I’m not going to lie to you—this is the biggest job I’ve had in broadcasting, and I owe J.C. a debt of thanks for believing in me. I’ll have some production assistants, who aren’t here today, who you’ll meet later. But to echo Nicole—we can’t stand on ceremony. Come to me with anything. Anything.”

She introduced the newcomers to two Avid editors, three post-production sound editors/mixers, and three writers, who would be accompanying them all the way.

“We are doing more than investigating,” Carmen said. “We are creating a segment for a weekly reality show. Some of what we do will go out live, but many of our interviews will be edited along the way, and ready for air.”

Laurene said, “Ms. Garcia—”

“Carmen.”

“Carmen—our job has to be finding, and stopping, this killer, or killers. That’s our primary concern.”

“It’s a concern we all share. But you’re also the stars of our show. And the show pays the freight. You saw how positive the network president was about what we’re doing. J.C., would you care to tell us all why Mr. Byrnes is our biggest fan now?”

Harrow, who had made his way back to the head of the conference room table (his camera and audio shadows too), was just taking his seat.

“Glad to, Carmen. And if your dignity was bruised by
Killer TV
, I’m here to tell you we’re largely underwritten by toilet paper, among other enthusiastic sponsors.”

A mix of laughter and groans greeted that.

Harrow was saying, “We are making a lot of money for UBC, or at least right now we are. If we don’t deliver, the financial plug could get pulled.”

Carmen picked up (and all eyes followed): “You’ll take time out for interviews, sometimes in advance of air, sometimes live, and you’ll be giving a certain amount of your time over to working with our writers, who’ll make your expert findings and opinions user-friendly to laymen.”

Billy Choi said, “We’ll be scripted?”

“You will at times read off teleprompters, yes. And when you speak ‘off the cuff,’ it will be on approved subjects, and within parameters approved by UBC Legal.”

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna travel with lawyers?”

Harrow said, “Not yet, Billy. I talked Byrnes out of that. But if we overstep, intentionally or not, that could come.”

An uncomfortable silence draped the room.

“All right,” Harrow said. “Some of you know each other, by reputation anyway. But I don’t believe anyone here but me is familiar with
all
of you. So I’m going to ask you each to introduce yourself and give us a little backstory…as they call it in the TV game.”

Without prompting, Harrow’s second-in-command—sleek in a lavender silk blouse and black slacks—rose and cast a cool, professional smile on her colleagues, her cornrows of ebony hair shimmering. “Laurene Chase, chief crime scene investigator, Waco PD. Currently on leave of absence.”

Next to Laurene, the short, short-haired, bespectacled, broad-shouldered Michael Pall rose. He appeared vaguely nerdy in a nice but clearly off-the-rack blue suit with blue and red striped tie. He gave his name, tagging on only, “DNA scientist, Oklahoma State Crime Lab.”

Billy Choi pointed a finger and fired it, gunlike, at Pall saying, “Federal Building—’95. Helped put McVeigh away. Nice job, man.”

Pall tried not to react, but a smile flickered.

Next to him sat Chris Anderson, the improbably handsome Beach Boy of a chemist and lab tech from Meridian, Mississippi. He half rose, and introduced himself in his soft southern accent, but when he mentioned the Shaw and Associates lab, the other forensics experts sat up a little.

Across from Anderson sat Jenny Blake, her blue eyes studying the tabletop as her fingers fiddled with a ballpoint pen.

“Jenny Blake, computer stuff,” she said, not rising, without really looking at anyone at the table.

Harrow barely nodded at the next-in-line criminalist when Choi popped up and said, “Billy Choi, crime scene analyst, tool mark and firearms examiner formerly of the Big Apple, now of sunny Los Angeles and…” He turned straight to the nearest camera. “…breakout star of
Crime Seen!
on You Bee Cee.
Book ’em, Danno!
”

This goofy performance cracked up the whole team, even Jenny and Harrow. It was just the tension break they needed, and once again the team leader sent Choi a little appreciative smile and nod.

As the
Book ’em, Danno
laughter subsided, Harrow patted the air and said, “All right, all right…let’s get down to it.”

Anderson sat forward, his intensity undercut by his Southern drawl. “Where do we start, Mr. Harrow?”

“It’s J.C, Chris.”

“Yes, sir.”

Everyone laughed.

“And you all know the basics already—so let’s start with our new evidence. Carmen, you found it—care to walk us through?”

Carmen was ready with a remote. The massive screen behind Harrow came alive and showed the evidence bag that held the single leaf.

She said, “This corn leaf was found in the driveway of a home in Placida, Florida. Stella Ferguson and her two children were shot in their home in a manner very similar to J.C.’s family.”

He felt eyes flick toward him, but remained neutral.

“Stella’s husband, Ray, was town marshal of Placida.”

This news narrowed the eyes of the other forensics experts, and their attention was rapt as she went on to explain the circumstances—including the severed wedding-ring finger—and how the case had gone cold, until she’d spotted the leaf.

Laurene asked, “How did you even know to look at that leaf? Even the state investigators missed it.”

Carmen’s grin was not terribly professional, if very winning. “Hey, I’m a farm kid. You use what you know. And I knew that leaf was wrong…but that was all I had for sure. I took it to J.C., and he was able to hook me up with the right expert—Dr. Brent Caldwell at Settler Seed.”

Slack-jawed, Choi asked Harrow, “You knew lookin’ at the leaf what
seed company
made it?”

Before Harrow could explain, the DNA scientist, Pall, did it for him: “No, but he knew that Settler Seed would have DNA samples from every plant put out by every commercial seed company in the world. Naturally, they have samples from every plant they manufacture; but also samples from every competitor’s plant. They need to make sure that they don’t infringe on someone else’s patent and, likewise, to make sure the competition isn’t infringing on theirs.”