Rall glared at him. “You’re claiming it’s a fake?”
“You tell me,” said Jarsdel. “We’ve all seen the pictures, we’ve all experienced a taste of what gets this guy’s engine going. C’mon, does this really read like the kind of person who makes incisions in people’s skin and, um…” He glanced at Mailander, then went on, “copulates with the wounds? And this bit of ridiculousness, the way he spells lieutenant, starting it with l-o-o. Why all of a sudden does he regress into phonetic spelling here? His syntax, his diction, both point to someone with an education. ‘Playing my wits against yours.’ But the l-o-o thing seems like a deliberate attempt to dress himself down a couple notches, throw us off, make us think there’re gaps in his knowledge. Later he gives himself away, though. He actually closes with ‘adieu.’ It’s pretty amazing.” Jarsdel laughed. “Pretty amazing how he misspells ‘lieutenant’ but gets ‘adieu’ right, don’t you think? Why does he struggle with one Gallicism and not at all with another?”
Mailander looked at him with her usual expression of suspicious dislike, but she appeared to be listening nevertheless. “The details are right. If it’s not the Creeper, how’d he know everything?”
Jarsdel had anticipated the question. “Whoever wrote that letter is either in law enforcement or connected to the police in some way. Maybe paid for the information. There’re quite a few people familiar with this stuff by now. Any one of them could’ve given it up.”
“Why?” Mailander again.
“What do you mean?”
“Why fuck with the task force? What d’you gain from that?”
The answer was obvious. A double-indemnity life-insurance payoff. One million kicked up to two in case of wrongful or accidental death. Of course, you couldn’t collect if you’d been the one who’d killed her. But he’d been wrong about Sponholz, so actually the answer wasn’t obvious at all.
To the group, Jarsdel said, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Jarsdel had his back to the door that day, and had to turn in his seat to see who’d entered. When he did, he found himself eye to eye with Lieutenant Sponholz. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen anyone look so exhausted, so absolutely gutted. His cheeks were hollow, the cleft in his chin now a small crater. Even his hair looked thinner.
“LT,” said Rall. “Didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“Hate being useless, just sitting around at home.” Sponholz slunk into the room and found a chair. He eyed Jarsdel. “Shall I repeat the question?”
“I was saying, sir, that I don’t know why anyone would try to mislead the task force.”
Sponholz appeared dazed. “Sorry, must’ve missed something. Why’re we assuming someone’s trying to mislead the task force?”
“We’re not assumin’, LT,” said Rall. “That’s only Detective Jarsdel’s pet theory.”
“Based on?”
Rall gestured at Jarsdel to explain himself. He exchanged looks with Mailander, and thought she might’ve given him the hint of an encouraging nod. “Well, as I was telling the group before you came in, sir, the note feels pushed. Guy I used to be partners with at Hollywood Station told me I needed to watch more movies, which I did in fact end up doing, and I’m glad because this stuff is painfully overwrought.”
Sponholz massaged the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t even know what we’re looking at. Anyone have a copy for me?”
“Take mine.” Al-Amuli handed one of the letters to Sponholz, who read it quickly and without expression. Once he was finished, he grunted and tossed it onto the table. “Who has the original?”
“It’s at the lab. Should be almost done.”
“Good. Well, far as the letter goes, I don’t know. I see the detective’s point about the tone, but that’s often the way folks like this operate. They’re playing out their fantasies, pretending to be Moriarty because it gives them the kind of power and mystique they lack in their humdrum little lives.”
Rall’s phone buzzed, and he snapped it up to his ear. “Yeah.” He held out his hand to indicate he needed it quiet, though no one had said anything. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, thanks.” Excited, he hooked the phone back onto his belt and planted his palms onto the conference table. “Okay people, listen up. They got a ninhydrin print off the letter, but it’s not the Creeper. Doesn’t match any of the exemplars. Somebody new.”
Sponholz looked startled. “New?”
Rall nodded. “Big thumb print, clear as can be. Thumb only. FSD tech said it was the prettiest print he ever raised, almost like the guy was tryin’ to ID himself. Popped up right away in the database, and they’re sending me the full package now.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Sponholz. “If it’s not the Creeper, then how would he know all the details in the letter?”
“An accomplice,” said Al-Amuli, shaking his head in amazement. “Creeper’s not gonna be too happy when he learns his partner blew the whole game.”
Mailander regarded him coolly. “Big rush to judgment.”
“Whatever. I could say the sky’s blue, and you’d find a way of arguing with me.”
“Enough,” said Rall. His phone gave a single chime, and in a blink it was back in his palm. He scrolled through the information he’d received, his face as still and severe as granite.
“What’s it say?” asked Sponholz.
“Hang on, LT.”
“Who is it?”
Rall didn’t answer. Sponholz searched the faces of his detectives, his eyes oddly desperate. “Do any of you know who it is?”
He was behaving strangely, even pitifully. From head of Homicide Special to a doddering old relative, the one who’ll quiet down again as long as no one engages with him.
Rall held to the phone to his ear again. “Hey, you got a minute? OFD, my ass—you’re gonna want this one.” He smiled. “Could be. Come on up and we’ll talk.” He put the phone on the table and gave it a vigorous spin. It whispered in several brisk circles before slowing down. When it stopped, one end pointed more or less at Al-Amuli. Rall leveled a finger at him. “Don’t worry, we ain’t gonna kiss. I want you to get an arrest warrant. I’ll send you the details while you’re in transit. Try to get Judge Monson if you can.”
He turned to the others. “Let’s go ruin someone’s day.”
24
Putting a man in custody changed his relationship to the world. A moment earlier, he’d been free to walk or drive or fly as far as he wanted, could speak to anyone for any reason, could eat whatever his wallet or his charm could buy him. Once the cuffs were on, that immediately changed. His life was no longer solely his own; in fact the percentage of it he actively controlled was reduced to somewhere in the single digits.
Some men wept when they were arrested, some panicked, others submitted in a state of stunned, dreamlike silence. The rest raged, cursed, or fought—fought hard, gladly willing to trade a pine box for a steel cage if that’s what it took.
Jarsdel never took pleasure in being the one to make an arrest, disliked in particular the span of time after one wrist was secure, but not the other. That was when suspense was at its greatest—the limbo between free and not free, the last possible second a person could decide he really wasn’t interested in going to jail that day. A moment like that, short as it was, could seem to go on a long time, especially when you were alone with a suspect.
The arrest of Gaspar Bengochea was unlike any Jarsdel had ever seen. No opportunity to mount a last stand, neither the frantic, flailing kind nor the blaze-of-glory, Butch-and-Sundance variety. At the Gaspar Bengochea level, the arrest was a perfectly timed piece of flash-mob choreography in which all the participants knew exactly what to do. All except the target, of course. For him, there wasn’t even a hint of the ax until well after it had fallen. No sirens, no knock on the door. Radio chatter was coded, with no mention of the target’
s name or address in case he had a scanner.
Rall and his SWAT buddies had waited until Bengochea pulled into the sharply downward-sloping driveway to his apartment’s garage. A maintenance truck from the Department of Water and Power pulled tight in behind him, blocking his escape, and then the action kicked off. Before the gate had even lifted off the ground to admit the car, four officers in full tactical gear charged in, faces wrapped in balaclavas. Two from either side of the building, quick, M4s raised. Rall leaping from the DWP truck, Remington pump angled at the ground. Shouting, loud. Jarsdel, watching in a van across the street, saw the driver’s silhouette jump in surprise. Hands raised, shaking. Too slow for Rall. A slap of the shotgun’s stock against the window. Safety glass spraying, Bengochea yanked out so fast his legs go sideways.
Now Jarsdel was back home, back at Hollywood Station. It had the closest interview room, and Rall wanted at their suspect before he could come to his senses and decide to lawyer up. Every cop in the station was crowded around the monitors, trying to fathom the man wiping his eyes and rubbing his abused wrists. He was in his early twenties, skinny, wearing khakis and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, buttoned all the way to the neck, Cholo style. Probably to make himself look bigger and tougher than he really was. His head was shaved tight on the sides, the long hair on top slicked back—although most of it hung down in his face.
“Good to see you.”
Jarsdel looked to his right and saw Barnhardt. She also was fixated on the interview room’s two monitors.
“Me or the guy in there?”
“Both, I suppose.” She smiled at him. “Good catch.”
“Had nothing to do with it. Wish I could say I did, but I didn’t. Put his thumbprint smack on a taunting missive he sent our way.”
Barnhardt returned her gaze to the monitor. “He’s a little big, isn’t he? I thought his shoe size was six-and-a-half.”
“Yeah, it’s not him, not the Creeper.”
“He isn’t? What do you mean? I’m confused.”
“At this point we’re figuring an accomplice of some kind. Friends, or maybe they do burglaries together. Either way, this guy knows stuff that, collectively, would either have to make him an accessory or a police officer. And we checked. He isn’t a police officer.”
Barnhardt considered the man on the screen, then turned back to Jarsdel. “Priors?”
“Nothing too sexy,” Jarsdel confessed. “Stolen credit card, with just enough purchases to knock it up to grand theft. That’s what got him printed, I presume, though he does have two juvie charges. One open container and one curfew.” He thought about that, then added before Barnhardt could bring it up, “Those were the same night.”
“Huh. So he’s basically a pretty normal guy—other than the Creeper connection.”
Jarsdel looked at her as if she’d gone crazy. “That’s a pretty big ‘other than,’ don’t you think?”
“What I mean is he doesn’t really fit the profile.”
“There is no profile. Not for what we’re hunting.”
“Of course there is,” said Barnhardt. “How old’s he?”
Jarsdel sighed. “Twenty-two.”
“And by the way you said that, I’m guessing you probably know most serials are in their late twenties to early thirties. They also tend to have long and troubled histories with law enforcement. You have anything else? Or even anything sealed back in juvie?”
“No. But I’d like you to consider the case of Dennis Nilsen if you’re going to get statistical on me. No contact whatsoever with police until his arrest. And he killed at least twelve men. You also have to remember I’m not saying this is our actual killer, merely some kind of voyeuristic hanger-on.”
Barnhardt met his eyes. “You’re not thinking objectively.”
“Really? What’s more objective than physical evidence?”
“Normally I’d agree. But I’ve been looking at Creeper scenes from the start, and he’s never had any help. And the kind of stuff he does is personal to him. It’s not to impress anybody. It’s not a show. It’s his routine, designed to please only himself. We just happen to come along afterward, but he’s not trying to shock us. That’s just his mind, his fantasies made real. He’s not a performer. Those victims, those moments are his, and he certainly wouldn’t have a partner.”
Jarsdel wasn’t interested. “Got a thumbprint the size of Wyoming says you’re wrong.” If she said anything else, he didn’t hear. He pushed through the crowd toward the monitors. “Creeper Task Force, excuse me.” Suits and uniforms parted grudgingly until he was up front with Mailander and Al-Amuli.
As they watched the screens, Rall entered the room carrying a medium cardboard box, which he placed on the table between himself and Bengochea. Several cops near Jarsdel hushed their friends. “Shut up, he’s in,” someone said. All conversations fell silent. Mailander turned up the volume on the interview anyway.
“How’s it goin’?” Rall sat, scooting forward in his chair, which made awful squeaking, rasping sounds. Mailander turned the volume down a little.
“Not good,” said Bengochea.
“Yeah? Not doin’ too good?”
“Don’t know why I’m here.”
“You don’t, huh?” Rall reached into the box and pulled out one of the murder books. “Bill and Joanne Lauterbach, January 31.” He dropped it on the table with a smack, then reached back into the box. “Maja and Steffen Rustad, March 2.” He dropped the second book on top of the first, then kept going, picking up speed. “Esperanza, Martín, Sebastian, and Juan Carlos Santiago. Sam, Beth, and Wally Verheugen. Benjamin, Margot, Bowie, and Zephyr Galka. Got the dog on that one, too. Natalie, Brian, and Emma Minchew.” He pulled out one last book. “Amy Sponholz.” He let it fall onto the stack.
Bengochea gaped at the pile of blue folders, then at the man questioning him. “You’re saying I did something to these people?”
Rall didn’t answer. He rested his hand atop the books and pushed them in Bengochea’s direction. The suspect recoiled. “No, no, no. I never hurt nobody in my life.”
“Sure, okay. Hey before we go on, I’m just gonna go over a couple things with you.” Rall explained Bengochea his rights, then asked, “So you wanna talk to me?”
“No man, I mean I told you, I don’t know anything.”
“So you stoppin’ the interview?”
“I don’t—”
“You can. It’s within your rights. But if I were you I’d want to get this cleared up. You don’t know what’s goin’ on, I’m gonna need your help explaining this.”
Rall reached back into the box. It reminded Jarsdel of when magicians pulled ever more impressive items from a hat. But Rall’s hand came out gripping a glassine envelope, not a rabbit or a goose. He gave it a couple shakes, and the contents slipped out onto the table.
It was a color copy of the latest Creeper letter, Bengochea’s own thumbprint pointing back at him in vivid ninhydrin purple.
“What’s that?”
“You want me to tell you what this is? Why don’t you tell me?”
“Because I’ve never seen it before.”
Rall sat back, crossing his arms. “I love lies, man. People think cops don’t like being lied to, but I love ’em, because they’re as good as the truth. Either way you’re locked in. Now you just locked yourself in with that bullshit. Just denied seeing this letter, but that”—he pointed at the print—“is yours. Right thumb.”
Bengochea’s eyes went wide—the expression of one betrayed by a long-trusted companion. He turned his hand over and examined his thumb. Finding no answers there, he began reading the letter. “No,” he said, after only a few seconds. “I didn’t write this.”
“These ain’t your pants, huh?”
“What?”
“When you work patrol, you do a lot of pat-downs. Be surprised how many guys, when
you find somethin’ on them, tell you those ain’t their pants. That’s what you just did, basically, only this letter’s wearing you.”
Bengochea opened his mouth to speak, but Rall raised a hand. “Do me a favor. Just stop for a minute. Take a few breaths, collect yourself. Whatever else you feel like saying, I want it to come from you knowing this shit’s all over. There’s no talking that’s gonna take that print off that letter. That part’s done, okay?”
He got up and left the room. Jarsdel and the others watched the door close on the monitor, then looked up to see the big detective coming down the hall toward them. “Give him an hour to think about it.”
On the screen, Bengochea sagged forward onto the table and began sobbing into the crook of an elbow. His thin body shook under the oversized clothes.
Rall nodded approvingly. He noticed Jarsdel standing next to him. “Then you’re up.”
* * *
By the time Jarsdel entered the interview room, Bengochea had stopped crying. Now he slouched in his chair, staring at the wall across from him. As he sat, Jarsdel positioned his chair directly into Bengochea’s line of sight. Even so, the suspect seemed to be looking past him.
“Good evening. I’m Detective Jarsdel. Can I get you something to drink? Or maybe you’re hungry?”
No answer.
“You’ve had quite a day. I don’t blame you for feeling a little rattled. But you gotta look at it from our perspective. Most-wanted man in California sends us a letter, and your thumbprint’s on it. We gotta get to the bottom of that, of why that is. The quicker you help us figure that out, the quicker we can all get on with our lives.”
No answer.
Jarsdel felt himself growing frustrated. “There’s another way to see this, and that’s basically as your last opportunity to tell us your side of the story. We know you weren’t inside any of the houses, okay? We know that. You weren’t physically involved. That’s a very important thing. That’s the difference between a life sentence and a plea bargain. Maybe the situation’s even better for you, I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t even believe him that he was really the Creeper. Maybe you guys are roommates, and you just happen to lean on the worst possible sheet of paper at the worst possible time. But it’s a fact that you know who he is. That’s nonnegotiable. I think you can agree with that, right? So let’s start there. You give us this name now, and I can’t even tell you how big that is for you.”
What Waits for You Page 31