by Linda Berry
“He hasn’t hurt a kid in weeks,” Kellor said. “Seems he’s preoccupied with you.”
“He’s having fun at my expense. When the heat cools down, he’ll strike again. Sexual predators can’t resist their cravings.”
Kellor nodded in agreement. “He’s probably got his next victim all lined up.”
Lauren clenched her jaw. Thank God Courtney was safe. Hatred for The Strangler rushed through her like venom. The urgency of the situation was not lost on her. He was watching. She had no choice but to track him down right under his nose.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE RAIN turned into a persistent drizzle. It was nasty work combing through the mud-slicked sports field, the trolley car ravine, and the soggy knolls of Cypress Park. Rain dripped steadily off the hood of Lauren’s jacket, and the legs of her jeans were soaked through. It was ten thirty a.m. Instead of heading for bed, she had felt driven to get out of the house right after Kellor left for forensics with the bagged evidence, and Schuster resumed surveillance. It had been impossible to sleep after The Strangler’s latest exploit. He could be watching her right now, but she had no alternative except to keep searching for some obscure lead.
She approached the restrooms located in a small concrete building surrounded by a thick carpet of brown leaves shaken from the sycamores. Inside, the walls were scrawled with graffiti and the air was damp and drafty. The industrial disinfectant failed to disguise the ammonia scent of urine. After searching each restroom thoroughly, she stood in the doorway, gulping clean air into her lungs. The rain was coming down hard, and scores of puddles were widening across the grounds.
Heart sinking, she recalled the report Peanut gave the day of The Strangler sighting. She had seen a dark figure lurking near this building, but when she investigated, he had vanished. Lauren considered giving up her search and heading home to bed. Pushing the hood back from her face, she picked up a faint metallic ping blending with the patter of rain on leaves. Staying under the eaves for protection, she rounded the corner, walked to the rear of the building, and quickly discovered the source. The rush of water emptying from a drainpipe had cleared enough debris on the ground to expose a small patch of rusted metal. Lauren scraped dead leaves aside with her boot and was astonished to find a three-foot-square cover set into a sturdy concrete base.
Her pulse quickened. The Strangler’s escape route. The entry must be to an old electrical shaft, one of a half dozen built in Noe Valley during the Forties, connecting a network of underground tunnels once used for electrical cables. The system had been abandoned decades ago and the tunnels were now empty. When Peanut searched this area, she must have just glanced behind the restrooms and saw nothing suspicious. Lauren looked more closely and saw that the lock had been cut clean through. She slipped her fingers into the recessed handle and pulled, hoping her years of weight training would pay off. It gave. She lifted, muscles straining, until it slammed backward to the ground with a muffled thud. The slither and drip of water echoed from the hollow stone chasm and a sour smell rushed up to meet her. Peering down, she estimated a twenty-foot drop to the bottom.
Now would be a good time to request backup, she reasoned. But upon further reflection, she knew that would be a mistake. She’d been ordered not to pursue this case. Unless evidence existed below that showed beyond a doubt that The Strangler had used this shaft, her discovery would only get her into trouble. She had to find that evidence. Time was running out.
Lauren hiked back to her Jeep, checked the Glock 19 in her waistband holster, and double-checked the Tomcat .32 in her ankle holster. She grabbed a flashlight and paused to scour the park. The Jeep was the only vehicle in the lot. In this downpour, no one else was out. On her way back to the shaft she stopped periodically and looked behind her. Nothing human moved. The rain was coming down at an angle, muffling all other sound.
Lauren cast a light beam into the dark pit below. A rusty metal ladder was bolted to the wall. She took one last look around her, blew out a breath, grasped hold of the rungs, and began her descent.
At the bottom of the pit, the damp air reeked of mildew. The narrow passageway stood about nine feet tall, four feet wide, with a dirt floor and concrete walls. The cables had long since been stripped away, and the concrete was now riddled with cracks oozing moisture. Stagnant pools collected in shallow depressions and cobwebs hung like veils. Lauren heard rats scurrying just beyond her flashlight’s circle of light. The buried, earthen world closed in on her.
Unwilling to release the handrail, Lauren gazed upward, blinking against the rain, capturing a glimpse of daylight. Fighting a strong urge to hustle back up to safety, she remained rooted to the muddy floor, picturing The Strangler’s four young victims; Bernadette, Ginger, Melissa, Tina. Pitted against their ruthless predator, the girls never stood a chance, never had an opportunity to fight back. Lauren had to win this battle for them. Clutching the flashlight in her left hand and the pistol in her right, she stepped away from the ladder and entered the dark subterranean world of The Strangler.
***
Lauren lost her sense of time and distance as the opening fell far behind. Blackness closed in on all sides except for the wobbling sphere of light projected in front of her. No sign of human presence, just an endless tunnel of stained, leaking walls flecked with mold. The air was moist and thick. Dripping water beat a deadening rhythm into her brain.
When she reached the first intersection, she cast her beam to the east. Nothing. Casting it to the west, something on the ground reflected light. After using a sharp stone to etch an arrow into the concrete as a marker, she turned down the western passageway. The reflected object turned into a gin bottle, a trace of liquor ringing the bottom. Lauren’s heart raced as her beam revealed more litter—sandwich packaging, an empty milk carton, a Snickers wrapper. Someone’s idea of a dream meal. The milk carton had an expiration date. Two weeks old.
Lauren heard a faint, distant noise. She froze, trying to detect its source. Was it coming from the main path? Acoustics down here were deceiving. She clicked off the light and blackness engulfed her. In the darkness the sound seemed amplified. Not rats. No, this was more deliberate—an irregular, but steady pattern. Someone was slowly approaching, seemingly dragging one foot. Flattening herself against the damp wall, Lauren stood motionless. Her heart punched against her ribs to the maddening drip-drip-drip of water. Sweat broke out on her face and the hand gripping the Glock got clammy.
The steps grew louder. Closing in.
The walls pressed inward. Lauren’s breathing grew shallow. Blood roared in her ears. Knowing she was panicking, she tried to focus on her breathing. Slow and even. Slow and even—.
The footsteps stopped perhaps twenty feet away. The Strangler? Waiting for her to make a move? Was he armed? She couldn’t fight what she couldn’t see. Raising her pistol high, she clicked on the beam.
The tunnel was empty.
Adrenalin shot through her like a bolt of electricity. She had to get out of there. This was a fucking stupid mistake. Her beam caught a blur of movement from above. Crushing weight bore down on her back, flattening her to the ground, sending shock waves of pain from her skull through her chest. The air left her lungs in a single whoosh. The Glock and flashlight slid from her fingers. She lay momentarily stunned, her assailant’s strong limbs holding hers immobile in a spread-eagle position, his hot breath panting on her neck.
The flashlight lay inches from her hand, its beam cascading away from her. Struggling against the pain throbbing in her skull, she inched forward, dragging her attacker with her.
“Fuck,” a man growled. The crook of his arm yoked her neck and squeezed.
Lauren’s eyes felt like they were bulging out of her skull. She gasped as her oxygen was cut off. Her hands trembled with the effort to reach the flashlight. One fingertip brushed the metal, then two. It rolled toward her. On the verge of fainting, her fingers tightened around the shaft and she hammered it over her head, striking her attacker’s head wi
th a loud thud.
He shrieked and loosened his hold.
Lauren bit savagely into the flesh of his wrist.
With a piercing cry, he yanked his arm away.
Lauren bucked him off, rolled out from under him, and grabbed the Tomcat from her ankle holster. She released the safety and fired a round over his head. The explosion was earsplitting, reverberating through the tunnel.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m not armed.”
Lauren gulped in a lungful of air and blinked hard to clear her vision as she struggled to her feet. The beam illuminated a man lying face down, arms spread straight out. She recognized his jacket. Tan corduroy. Same as the one worn by The Strangler the day he posed as Duff. “Turn over,” she hissed. “Try anything, you get a bullet in your head. Understand?”
“Yeah.” He turned slowly. Her excitement evaporated. The man on the ground could have been forty, or sixty. Hard to tell by the sunken jaw line and bloated face ravaged by alcohol. His red-veined nose had been broken and poorly set, and a laceration on his forehead dripped blood where her flashlight landed a blow.
“Stand up. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Grimacing with pain, he obeyed, struggling to his feet on wobbly legs and then listing to one side. One leg was shorter than the other, which explained the irregular pattern she heard. Now she could see the jacket was too large for his scrawny frame. Lauren identified herself as an off-duty police officer.
The man looked relieved. “I thought you were gonna kill me. The gun and all.”
She leaned over and retrieved her Glock, shoved it into its holster. “What’s your name?”
“Vince. Vincent Pera.” Blood trickled down the side of his face.
“What are you doing down here?”
“I live here.” He gestured above him.
Lauren cast the beam up the wall and made out an alcove about six feet off the ground and four feet deep.
“Ain’t much, but the price is right.” His face twisted with pain. Most of his teeth were missing. “Man, you didn’t have to hit me so hard.”
“You didn’t have to strangle me,” she said sharply. Lauren felt a touch of empathy for the man, but she sensed a street-smart toughness behind his meek performance that kept her alert. He was incredibly strong for such a scrawny guy, and he might have killed her if she hadn’t hit him. “Where’d you get that jacket?”
“Found it.”
“Where? Down here?”
He nodded, pulling his expression into a mask of concern. “You ain’t gonna take it, are you?”
“If I do, I’ll make sure you get another one.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Answer my questions and you’ll get a bag of groceries and a clean sleeping bag. Deal?”
Vincent nodded with enthusiasm. “Can I pick out my own food?”
“Sure.”
His rheumy eyes glazed over at the prospect.
“When did you find the jacket?”
Vincent shrugged. “Dunno. Weeks ago. I stay down here mostly. Don’t make much difference what day it is.”
“Did you see who left it?”
He nodded. “Some asshole.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Naw. Just saw his flashlight darting about. He came down in a hurry. Same way you did. He never saw me, but I watched him the whole time. He left some stuff behind. Then I followed him out. He knew how to get to the alley behind the church. That door ain’t so heavy.”
Lauren’s pulse picked up. “Behind Pillsner Cathedral?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he leave anything else?”
Vincent looked at her pleadingly. “I’m hungry. I could use a drink.”
“Hang in there with me, Vince. Just a couple more questions. What else did he leave?”
“Stupid crap. A wig. Glasses. I got ’em up in my loft. In case he came back and got mean. I figured I’d give ’em back his stuff.”
“Has he been back?”
“Yeah. Next day. He didn’t like that his stuff was gone. He was cursing real loud, and shit. He scared me. I hid in my loft till he left.”
“Did he come down again?”
“Yeah. At night. A few days later. He woke me up walking by my loft. Looked scary. He had on a long black dress.”
Lauren flashed on the monk’s robe The Strangler wore the night of Steve’s murder. “Think carefully. Could it have been Halloween?”
“Dunno. S’pose so. Wait. Yeah, it was Halloween. They were having a big deal at the church. I got free food. Want me to get you the crap he left?”
“No.” Lauren didn’t trust Vincent for a second. He could have a weapon in his loft. He would get his groceries and bedroll, all right, but not until he’d been thoroughly grilled at the station. She’d let forensics come back and do the job of collecting evidence. Her part was done.
“Just show me the way out of here. The way the man went. Don’t try anything stupid. My gun will be trained on the back of your head.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
VINCENT PERA proved to be a far better witness than Lauren ever imagined. The cramped interrogation room at Valencia Station intimidated most, but to Pera, it obviously represented uncommon luxury—safe, dry, warm. Seated at the scarred metal table across from Dave Valona and Josie Keach, Pera’s expression remained alert while his rheumy eyes darted about with keen interest. Lauren sat next to him, silently observing the proceeding. Pera’s alcohol abuse had not dulled his craftiness. He took immense delight in being the center of attention, and after being coaxed by food and gentle handling, he dropped his pretense and revealed a mental acuity that surprised her. His elusive responses to questions revealed his desire to draw out his cozy experience for as long as possible.
One tuna sandwich and cup of black coffee later, Pera admitted to being very aware of the world above the tunnels. “I ain’t just some mole, y’know.” He took a few seconds to suck at his remaining teeth. “I get outta the hole every day. Get a li’l air, a li’l exercise. Read the paper. I always know what day it is. I mark ’em off on my calendar. Ol’ trick you learn in the slammer. Mark one day off at a time.”
Pera’s record showed a history of petty crimes—small time theft, vagrancy, disturbing the peace, and some short-term jail time, mostly drying out in rehab. Hardly a career criminal. But Lauren recalled his death grip on her neck. Sometimes it just took a nudge to elevate someone to a whole new category.
“Do you know what day it was when the man came down wearing the long robe?” Keach asked.
“Yeah, I know,” Pera said with an amused gleam to his eye. “Halloween night.”
“You know what time it was?”
“A little after ten o’clock. I looked at my watch when he rushed by.”
Valona cast a glance at the mirrored window, and asked gruffly, “How’s about getting another sandwich in here? And more coffee.”
Seconds later, the door opened, and a detective entered. He dropped off a sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a carton of milk, and a Snickers bar.
Pera grabbed the sandwich and scowled at the rest. “What’s this crap? I can’t eat sugar. Hurts my teeth. Can’t drink milk, neither. Got that allergy thing.”
“Lactose intolerance,” Keach said.
“Yeah. That’s it.” He bit into the sandwich, chewed slowly, and swallowed. He stared at the window, held up his cup. “Hey, how ’bout that coffee?”
The detective returned shortly with a fresh cup of coffee and left.
Pera grinned. “Love this room service.”
“So, Mr. Pera,” Keach said patiently, “Were the milk carton and Snickers wrapper found in the tunnel yours?”
“Hell no.”
“Anyone else been down there besides our suspect?”
“Nope.”
Bingo, Lauren thought. Most likely, the litter was left by The Strangler. She and Keach exchanged a look of suppressed excitement. The Strangler made a mistake leaving the wi
g, glasses, and litter behind, never dreaming he had a witness. Hopefully, Forensics would lift his prints or get his DNA. If he was in the system, The Strangler might well be within their grasp.
Valona continued the questioning, his pudgy face showing no emotion. “You told Officer Starkley you stayed in your loft after he went by. That correct?”
“Yeah, I said that.” Pera narrowed his eyes. “But that was only half true. After a while, I followed ’im. I wanted to know who this asshole was who kept crowding my space. I watched ’im from the shaft opening after he got out in the alley behind the church. He pulled off his robe and folded it up. Real neat, like. He had regular clothes on underneath. Then he went into the back door of the church. I waited, but he didn’t come out. I followed ’im in, found out about the choir show and free food. Forgot about the jerk. He ain’t been back in the hole since.”
Valona and Keach were now sitting at attention. Pera had just placed The Strangler in Pillsner Cathedral at the time of Steve’s murder.
“Was he carrying anything? A guitar or violin case?” Valona asked.
Something large enough to conceal a rifle, Lauren thought.
“Nah.”
Valona removed his black knit hat to reveal a sheen of sweat on his bald head. “Did you get a look at his face?”
“Yeah. I saw ’im.”
“Could you identify him in a lineup?”
Lauren held her breath.
Pera studied his nails, enjoying the suspense. He looked up at the mirrored window and said with an intense gaze, “Like he was my own brother.”
Lauren felt a charge of electricity. She knew it also rippled through the observation room, where Jack and Sgt. Birenski were posted.
Valona showed him the sketch of The Strangler. “This the guy you saw?”
Vincent studied the sketch for several long moments. “Yeah, that looks like ’im, but something important ain’t there.”
“What’s that?”
“When the man took off his robe, his head looked just like yours, Detective.” Vincent grinned broadly. “Bald as a stripper’s ass.”