A middle-aged woman looked over his shabby vest--a fisherman's garment with two dozen pockets--and battered camera bag. She snapped, "You people, you journalists, you're like vultures. Why don't you let the police do their job?"
He gave a chuckle. "I didn't know I wasn't."
"You're all the same." The woman turned away and continued to stare angrily at the smoky courthouse.
A guard came up to him and asked if he'd seen anything suspicious.
Nagle thought, Now that's a strange question. Sounds like something from an old-time TV show.
Just the facts, ma'am . . .
He answered, "Nope."
Adding to himself, Nothing surprising to me. But maybe I'm the wrong one to ask.
Nagle caught a whiff of a terrible scent--seared flesh and hair--and, incongruously, gave another amused laugh.
Thinking about it now--Daniel Pell had put the idea in mind--he realized he chuckled at times that most people would consider inappropriate, if not tasteless. Moments like this: when looking over carnage. Over the years he'd seen plenty of violent death, images that would repel most people.
Images that often made Morton Nagle laugh.
It was a defense mechanism probably. A device to keep violence--a subject he was intimately familiar with--from eating away at his soul, though he wondered if the chuckling wasn't an indicator that it already had.
Then an officer was making an announcement. People would soon be allowed back into the courthouse.
Nagle hitched up his pants, pulled his camera bag up higher on his shoulder and scanned the crowd. He spotted a tall, young Latino in a suit, clearly a plainclothes detective of some sort. The man was speaking to an elderly woman wearing a juror badge. They were off to the side, not many people around.
Good.
Nagle sized up the officer. Just what he wanted, young, gullible, trusting. And began slowly moving toward him.
Closing the distance.
The man moved on, oblivious to Nagle, looking for more people to interview.
When he was ten feet away, the big man slipped the camera strap around his neck, unzipped the bag, reached inside.
Five feet . . .
He stepped closer yet.
And felt a strong hand close around his arm. Nagle gasped and his heart gave a jolt.
"Just keep those hands where I can see them, how's that?" The man was a short, fidgety officer with the California Bureau of Investigation. Nagle read the ID dangling from his neck.
"Hey, what--"
"Shhhhh," hissed the officer, who had curly red hair. "And those hands? Remember where I want 'em? . . . Hey, Rey."
The Latino joined them. He too had a CBI ID card. He looked Nagle up and down. Together they led him to the side of the courthouse, attracting the attention of everybody nearby.
"Look, I don't know--"
"Shhhhh," the wiry agent offered again.
The Latino frisked him carefully and nodded. Then he lifted Nagle's press pass off his chest and showed it to the shorter officer.
"Hm," he said. "This is a little out of date, wouldn't you say?"
"Technically, but--"
"Sir, it's four years out of date," the Latino officer pointed out.
"That's a big bowl of technical," his partner said.
"I must've picked up the wrong one. I've been a reporter for--"
"So, if we called this paper, they'd say you're a credentialed employee?"
If they called the paper they'd get a nonworking number.
"Look, I can explain."
The short officer frowned. "You know, I sure would like an explanation. See, I was just talking to this groundskeeper, who told me that a man fitting your description was here about eight thirty this morning. There were no other reporters here then. And why would that be? Because there was no escape then. . . . Getting here before the story breaks. That's quite a--whatta they call that, Rey?"
"Scoop?"
"Yeah, that's quite a scoop. So, 'fore you do any explaining, turn around and put your hands behind your back."
*
In the conference room on the second floor of the courthouse, TJ handed Dance what he'd found on Morton Nagle.
No weapons, no incendiary fuse, no maps of the courthouse or escape routes.
Just money, wallet, camera, tape recorder and thick notebook. Along with three true-crime books, his name on the cover and his picture on the back (appearing much younger, and hairier).
"He's a paperback writer," TJ sang, not doing justice to the Beatles.
Nagle was described in the author bio as "a former war correspondent and police reporter, who now writes books about crime. A resident of Scottsdale, Ariz., he is the author of thirteen works of nonfiction. He claims his other professions are gadabout, nomad and raconteur."
"This doesn't let you off the hook," Dance snapped. "What're you doing here? And why were you at the courthouse before the fire?"
"I'm not covering the escape. I got here early to get some interviews."
O'Neil said, "With Pell? He doesn't give them."
"No, no, not Pell. With the family of Robert Herron. I heard they were coming to testify to the grand jury."
"What about the fake press pass?"
"Okay, it's been four years since I've been credentialed with a magazine or newspaper. I've been writing books full-time. But without a press pass you can't get anywhere. Nobody ever looks at the date."
"Almost never," TJ corrected with a smile.
Dance flipped through one of the books. It was about the Peterson murder case in California a few years ago. It seemed well written.
TJ looked up from his laptop. "He's clean, boss. At least no priors. DMV pic checks out too."
"I'm writing a book. It's all legit. You can check."
He gave them the name of his editor in Manhattan. Dance called the large publishing company and spoke to the woman, whose attitude was, Oh, hell, what's Morton got himself into now? But she confirmed that he'd signed a contract for a new book about Pell.
Dance said to TJ, "Uncuff him."
O'Neil turned to the author and asked, "What's the book about?"
"It isn't like any true crime you've read before. It's not about the murders. That's been done. It's about the victims of Daniel Pell. What their lives were like before the murders and, the ones who survived, what they're like now. See, most nonfiction crime on TV or in books focuses only on the murderer himself and the crime--the gore, the gruesome aspects. The cheap stuff. I hate that. My book's about Theresa Croyton--the girl who survived--and the family's relatives and friends. The title's going to be The Sleeping Doll. That's what they called Theresa. I'm also going to include the women who were in Pell's quote Family, the ones he brainwashed. And all the other victims of Pell's too. There are really hundreds of them, when you think about it. I see violent crime like dropping a stone into a pond. The ripples of consequence can spread almost forever."
There was passion in his voice; he sounded like a preacher. "There's so much violence in the world. We're inundated with it and we get numb. My God, the war in Iraq? Gaza? Afghanistan? How many pictures of blown-up cars, how many scenes of wailing mothers did you see before you lost interest?
"When I was a war correspondent covering the Middle East and Africa and Bosnia, I got numb. And you don't have to be there in person for that to happen. It's the same thing in your own living room when you just see the news bites or watch gruesome movies--where there're no real consequences for the violence. But if we want peace, if we want to stop violence and fighting, that's what people need to experience, the consequences. You don't do that by gawking at bloody bodies; you focus on lives changed forever by evil.
"Originally it was only going to be about the Croyton case. But then I find out that Pell killed someone else--this Robert Herron. I want to include everyone affected by his death too: friends, family. And now, I understand, two guards're dead."
The smile was still there but it was a sad smile and
Kathryn Dance realized that his cause was one with which she, as a mother and Major Crimes agent who'd worked plenty of rape, assault and homicide cases, could empathize.
"This's added another wrinkle." He gestured around him. "It's much harder to track down victims and family members in a cold case. Herron was killed about ten years ago. I was thinking . . ." Nagle's voice faded and he was frowning, though inexplicably a sparkle returned to his eyes. "Wait, wait . . . Oh my God, Pell didn't have anything to do with the Herron death, did he? He confessed to get out of Capitola so he could escape from here."
"We don't know about that," Dance said judiciously. "We're still investigating."
Nagle didn't believe her. "Did he fake evidence? Or get somebody to come forward and lie. I'll bet he did."
In a low, even tone Michael O'Neil said, "We wouldn't want there to be any rumors that might interfere with the investigation." When the chief deputy made suggestions in this voice people always heeded the advice.
"Fine. I won't say anything."
"Appreciate that," Dance said, then asked, "Mr. Nagle, do you have any information that could help us? Where Daniel Pell might be going, what he might be up to? Who's helping him?"
With his potbelly, wispy hair and genial laugh, Nagle seemed like a middle-aged elf. He hitched up his pants. "No idea. I'm sorry. I really just got started on the project a month or so ago. I've been doing the background research."
"You mentioned you plan to write about the women in Pell's Family too. Have you contacted them?"
"Two of them. I asked if they'd be willing to let me interview them."
O'Neil asked, "They're out of jail?"
"Oh, yes. They weren't involved in the Croyton murders. They got short terms, mostly for larceny-related offenses."
O'Neil completed Dance's thought. "Could one of them, or both, I guess, be his accomplice?"
Nagle considered this. "I can't see it. They think Pell's the worst thing that ever happened to them."
"Who are they?" O'Neil asked.
"Rebecca Sheffield. She lives in San Diego. And Linda Whitfield is in Portland."
"Have they kept out of trouble?"
"Think so. No police records I could find. Linda lives with her brother and his wife. She works for a church. Rebecca runs a consulting service for small businesses. My impression is they've put the past behind them."
"You have their numbers?"
The writer flipped through a notebook of fat pages. His handwriting was sloppy and large--and the notes voluminous.
"There was a third woman in the Family," Dance said, recalling the research she'd done for the interview.
"Samantha McCoy. She disappeared years ago. Rebecca said she changed her name and moved away, was sick of being known as one of Daniel's 'girls.' I've done a little searching but I haven't been able to find her yet."
"Any leads?"
"West Coast somewhere is all that Rebecca heard."
Dance said to TJ, "Find her. Samantha McCoy."
The curly-haired agent bounded off to the corner of the room. He looked like an elf too, she reflected.
Nagle found the numbers of the two women and Dance wrote them down. She placed a call to Rebecca Sheffield in San Diego.
"Women's Initiatives," the receptionist said in a voice with a faint Chicana accent. "May I help you?"
A moment later Dance found herself speaking to the head of the company, a no-nonsense woman with a low, raspy voice. The agent explained about Pell's escape. Rebecca Sheffield was shocked.
Angry too. "I thought he was in some kind of superprison."
"He didn't escape from there. It was the county courthouse lockup."
Dance asked if the woman had any thoughts on where Pell might be going, who his accomplice could be, other friends he might contact.
Rebecca couldn't, though. She said that she'd met Pell just a few months before the Croyton murders--and she was just getting to know him and the others when they were arrested. But she added that she'd gotten a call from someone about a month earlier, supposedly a writer. "I assumed he was legit. But he might've had something to do with the escape. Murry or Morton was the first name. I think I've got his number somewhere."
"It's all right. He's here with us. We've checked him out."
Rebecca could offer nothing more about Samantha McCoy's whereabouts or new identity.
Then, uneasy, she said, "Back then, eight years ago, I didn't turn him in, but I did cooperate with the police. Do you think I'm in danger?"
"I couldn't say. But until we reapprehend him, you might want to contact San Diego police." Dance gave the woman her numbers at CBI and her mobile, and Rebecca told her she'd try to think of anyone who might help Pell or know where he'd go.
The agent pushed down the button on the phone cradle and let it spring back up again. Then she dialed the second number, which turned out to be the Church of the Holy Brethren in Portland. She was connected to Linda Whitfield, who hadn't heard the news either. Her reaction was completely different: silence, broken by a nearly inaudible muttering. All Dance caught was "dear Jesus."
Praying, it seemed, not an exclamation. The voice faded, or she was cut off.
"Hello?" Dance asked.
"Yes, I'm here," Linda said.
Dance asked the same questions she'd put to Rebecca Sheffield.
Linda hadn't heard from Pell in years--though they'd stayed in touch for about eighteen months after the Croyton murders. Finally she'd stopped writing and had heard nothing from him since. Nor did she have any information about Samantha McCoy's whereabouts, though she too told Dance about a call from Morton Nagle last month. The agent reassured her they were aware of him and convinced he wasn't working with Pell.
Linda could offer no leads as to where Pell would go. She had no idea of who his accomplice might be.
"We don't know what he has in mind," Dance told the woman. "We have no reason to believe you're in danger, but--"
"Oh, Daniel wouldn't hurt me," she said quickly.
"Still, you might want to tell your local police."
"Well, I'll think about it." Then she added, "Is there a hotline I can call and find out what's going on?"
"We don't have anything set up like that. But the press's covering it closely. You can get the details on the news as fast as we know them."
"Well, my brother doesn't have a television."
No TV?
"Well, if there are any significant developments, I'll let you know. And if you can think of anything else, please call." Dance gave her the phone numbers and hung up.
A few moments later CBI chief Charles Overby strode into the room. "Press conference went well, I think. They asked some prickly questions. They always do. But I fielded them okay, I have to say. Stayed one step ahead. You see it?" He nodded at the TV in the corner. No one had bothered to turn up the volume to hear his performance.
"Missed it, Charles. Been on the phone."
"Who's he?" Overby asked. He'd been staring at Nagle as if he should know him.
Dance introduced them, then the writer instantly disappeared from the agent in charge's radar screen. "Any progress at all?" A glance at the maps.
"No reports anywhere," Dance told him. Then explained that she'd contacted two of the women who'd been in Pell's Family. "One's from San Diego, one's from Portland, and we're looking for the other right now. At least we know the first two aren't the accomplice."
"Because you believe them?" Overby asked. "You could tell that from the tone of their voices?"
None of the officers in the room said anything. So it was up to Dance to let her boss know he'd missed the obvious. "I don't think they could've set the gas bombs and gotten back home by now."
A brief pause. Overby said, "Oh, you called them where they live. You didn't say that."
Kathryn Dance, former reporter and jury consultant, had played in the real world for a long time. She avoided TJ's glance and said, "You're right, Charles, I didn't. Sorry."
The
CBI head turned to O'Neil. "This's a tough one, Michael. Lots of angles. Sure glad you're available to help us out."
"Glad to do what I can."
This was Charles Overby at his best. Using the words "help us" to make clear who was running the show, while also tacitly explaining that O'Neil and the MCSO were on the line too.
Stash the blame . . .
Overby announced he was headed back to the CBI office and left the conference room.
Dance now turned to Morton Nagle. "Do you have any research about Pell I could look at?"
"Well, I suppose. But why?"
"Maybe help us get some idea of where he's going," O'Neil said.
"Copies," the writer said. "Not the originals."
"That's fine," Dance told him. "One of us'll come by later and pick them up. Where's your office?"
Nagle worked out of a house he was renting in Monterey. He gave Dance the address and phone number, then began packing up his camera bag.
Dance glanced down at it. "Hold on."
Nagle noticed her eyes on the contents. He smiled. "I'd be happy to."
"I'm sorry?"
He picked up a copy of one of his true-crime books, Blind Trust, and with a flourish autographed it for her.
"Thanks." She set it down and pointed at what she'd actually been looking at. "Your camera. Did you take any pictures this morning? Before the fire?"
"Oh." He smiled wryly at the misunderstanding. "Yes, I did."
"It's digital?"
"That's right."
"Can we see them?"
Nagle picked up the Canon and began to push buttons. She and O'Neil hunched close over the tiny screen on the back. Dance detected a new aftershave. She felt comfort in his proximity.
The writer scrolled through the pictures. Most of them were of people walking into the courthouse, a few artistic shots of the front of the building in the fog.
Then the detective and the agent simultaneously said, "Wait." The image they were looking at depicted the driveway that led to where the fire had occurred. They could make out someone behind a car, just the back visible, wearing a blue jacket, a baseball cap and sunglasses.
"Look at the arm."
Dance nodded. It seemed the person's arm trailed behind, as if wheeling a suitcase.
"Is that time stamped?"
Nagle called up the readout. "Nine twenty-two."
"That'd work out just right," Dance said, recalling the fire marshal's estimate of the time the gas bomb had been planted. "Can you blow up the image?"
The Sleeping Doll Page 5