The Samaritan

by Cross, Mason

  Allen and I tore past the wreckage and into the alley. It opened out into a courtyard, more apartment buildings facing onto the space on all sides. There were two other entrances on the north and east of the courtyard. Gryski could have taken either. Not speaking, she pointed to indicate that I should take the east route, the one closest to me.

  I ran through the arched tunnel beneath the building and came out on a main road. I looked left and right, saw only cars. No one on foot, which made the task easier. There was another row of buildings and the mouth of another alleyway across the street. I started moving across the road when I heard Allen’s voice, muffled by distance and obstructions, behind me. She was yelling at somebody, telling them to drop something. I turned on my heel and ran back the way I’d come. As I emerged from the archway into the courtyard, I heard two gunshots in quick succession from the opposite tunnel and ran toward the sound.

  “It’s okay,” Allen’s voice called out. “Clear.”

  I passed through the tunnel and out into another alleyway. Gryski was sitting with his legs drawn up in the corner. His head was bowed, his left hand clutching a bloody wound on his left arm, and his weapon lying on the ground.

  “He shot first,” Allen said, as she took a couple of steps forward and kicked Gryski’s gun farther away. She looked like she was in a little bit of shock, but I knew she’d snap out of it in a few moments.

  I knelt down beside Gryski and he looked up at me, seething.

  “Pieprzyc´ twoja˛ matke˛!”

  I ignored the suggestion—my mother’s not around anymore, anyway—and examined his features. Pockmarked skin, a hook nose, bushy eyebrows. Blue eyes. Definitely not Dean Crozier. Definitely not the Samaritan.

  49

  “What did he say?” Allen asked, watching as Blake examined the wounded suspect.

  “Nothing important.” Blake looked up at her. There was consternation in his expression, as though he hadn’t found what he’d expected to. Allen was still optimistic. If Gryski was the Samaritan, they might find evidence in his apartment.

  “I know you speak English,” Blake said, addressing Gryski. “Why did you run?”

  Gryski turned his face away from them both. “I want a lawyer.”

  Blake shook his head and stood up. “Are you okay?” he said, his eyes gliding over the length of Allen’s body, looking for evidence of injury.

  “I’m fine. I guess he decided it would be safer to try to shoot me than to try to outrun me.” She pointed at Gryski’s left leg. The fabric of his jeans was torn and there was quite a lot of blood. It looked like the dog had taken a good chunk out of him. When she’d emerged from the tunnel beneath the apartment building, he’d been waiting and had opened fire. The second time he’d tried to kill a cop in as many minutes, and thankfully, his aim hadn’t improved any. She was glad she hadn’t had to kill him, if only because it meant they would have the opportunity to interrogate him.

  “His mistake,” Blake said.

  He got up and paced around the space, ignoring more insults in Polish and some in English as Allen called in the shooting. As she expected, they told her to stay put and that they’d have uniforms on the scene ASAP. She glanced back down the corridor, wondering what was keeping Mazzucco. Surely he’d have handed over the road accident to paramedics by now. It had been several minutes.

  “I have to wait here,” she said to Blake. “You should go, check out the apartment with Mazzucco. Maybe—”

  Blake was shaking his head. He pulled her a few steps away from Gryski and lowered his voice “I don’t think this is our guy, Allen.”

  “How do—” Allen stopped mid-sentence as she heard footsteps approaching from behind them. She turned to see Mazzucco, a grim look on his face, the phone in his right hand.

  He took in the scene, glanced at Allen to check she was okay, then looked at Blake. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “It was me,” Allen said. “He shot first.”

  “Jesus,” Mazzucco said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Well, at least that’s one piece of good news.”

  “What do you mean?” Blake asked.

  “I just took a call from Lawrence. They found an abandoned car downtown. Blood on the seats.”

  Allen took a second to register what her partner meant. “Burnett’s car? Or Morrow’s?”

  “Neither. This happened tonight.”

  50

  It didn’t take long for some uniformed officers and an ambulance to show up and take Gryski off our hands. The paramedics treated Gryski’s shoulder while the uniforms took statements from Allen and Mazzucco. The chain of events was easy to relay and for them to confirm. Allen and Mazzucco directed them to the secondary crime scene in the corridor outside Gryski’s apartment. The officers checked Allen out and told her the Force Investigation Division would have to speak to her in the morning, which was routine for an officer-involved shooting, but that it would likely be a formality, given the circumstances. The ambulance took Gryski to the hospital, where the cops could read him his rights and start to figure out who he was and why he’d run.

  We were all set to drive to the scene of the abandoned car when Allen took another call that made that journey redundant: the body of the vehicle’s owner had been found dumped in an alley not far from where her bloodstained car was reported.

  Forty minutes later, we were at the scene of the Samaritan’s latest killing: an anonymous alleyway running between two buildings a couple of blocks from the Staples Center. All of the standard players had moved quickly, according to their designated roles. FBI forensics were on the scene, their work well underway. Uniformed LAPD officers had blocked off a perimeter at both ends of the alley. Traditional media and the paparazzi were jostling for attention. Their airborne corps hung overhead in at least two helicopters that I spotted. Such was the speed of twenty-first century media that I found out the victim’s name—unconfirmed as yet—before Allen or Mazzucco, by browsing local news websites. The car had been found abandoned in Valencia Street, a secondary road running between West Pico and Venice Boulevards. A jogger had reported a parked car with the door partially open so the illumination from the dome light revealed bloodstains on the upholstery. The LAPD had locked that scene down quickly, too, but they hadn’t been able to prevent the license plate being grabbed by long-lens cameras, illegally checked and matched to one Alejandra Castillo, a clerk from Silver Lake.

  We were escorted by one of the uniforms past the barriers and into the alley. Thirty yards in, there was a cluster of activity around the body. There were no surprises based on the information I’d already heard. The victim was a young Hispanic woman. She wore a dark skirt and a white blouse—work-wear, as though she’d been on her way home from the office. She was in a sitting position, propped up against one wall of the alley, as though asleep or drunk. Not that someone would make that mistake with even a cursory glance.

  A waterfall of crimson had stained the front of her clothes below her head, which rested on her chest. It didn’t look like there were any other marks on the body, though it was impossible to tell for sure. The blood had pooled on the ground, meaning this wasn’t just the disposal site, but the primary murder scene. I counted the points of difference: three significant deviations from the previous LA killings already, just on a first look.

  Allen and I hung back on the fringes of the small crowd and let Mazzucco move in close as the representative of the latest contingent to arrive. He glanced under the dead woman’s chin and nodded. He turned his head to look at one of the FBI forensics. “Silly question, but preliminary COD?”

  “Bets are closed on this one, Detective. Massive exsanguination from the jugular artery. Looks like one cut, left to right. Perpetrator was probably behind the victim at the time, or he was a lefty. We’ll confirm soon enough.”

  “Any signs of torture? Strangulation or anything?”

  “Not so far, but you know the routine: wait for the autopsy.”

  Mazzucco thanked him and looke
d up at the two of us. I let Allen speak first. “I don’t know about this,” she said.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea.

  “Victim is clothed, left at the scene instead of moved and buried, no signs of torture. Big break from the other three.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But the consistency of the three victims in the hills is the exception. Think about the national picture, Allen.”

  Mazzucco straightened up, brushed alley dirt off the knees of his suit. “Ragged edges look the same,” he repeated. “Take a look.”

  Allen bent down and did as suggested, examining the mortal wound up close. She glanced up at Mazzucco, then at me in affirmation. “I think this is our guy.”

  “I think so, too,” I said.

  “It’s him, all right.”

  The three of us turned at the sound of the voice. A tall, sharp-suited agent was standing behind us.

  “Channing,” Allen said by way of a greeting.

  The man nodded at Allen and Mazzucco and looked at me, waiting for an introduction. I got the feeling he’d be waiting a while as far as my two escorts were concerned, so I held out my hand.

  “Carter Blake.”

  “Special Agent Channing,” he said, shaking it. He looked at Allen as he said it. An economical gesture. It saved him from coming out and saying, Who’s this guy?

  “Mr. Blake is assisting us with the investigation,” Allen said briskly. “As an independent consultant.”

  Channing seemed to consider it. His eyes flicked from Allen’s to Mazzucco’s to mine. Then he shrugged. “The more the merrier.” He was acting like he was fine with me, but I knew he wasn’t. He was just a lot more polished than somebody like that McCall guy I’d met earlier.

  “How’s your case, Channing?” Mazzucco emphasized the word “your” very slightly. I wondered if Agent Channing would catch it. He did.

  “It’s all the same case, Detective, remember?” He smiled. “We’re pretty sure we’ve found another couple of Samaritan murders from eight months ago, a small town just outside of Minneapolis.” Channing stopped, glanced around, as though to signal that he didn’t want just anyone hearing this, and then leaned closer to Mazzucco. “And that’s not all. There’s a possible survivor we’re talking to.”

  Allen stopped feigning disinterest. “A survivor?”

  Channing nodded. “A prostitute. Got into a car with a john; felt threatened when he locked the doors; crawled out of a window when she saw a cop car. He let her go and the cops never got the license plate. The date of the incident was slap bang in the middle of the period the Samaritan must have been there.”

  “Can we speak to her?”

  “Sure,” Channing said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I could tell Allen was about to protest that, but Channing’s phone rang and he turned away from us to answer it.

  “Think we’ll ever get to speak to this survivor?” Mazzucco said under his breath.

  Allen shook her head. “No way. But I guess we’ll get the details secondhand. In the meantime, we have enough to keep us occupied,” she said, looking back at the victim.

  “Same murder weapon, but no torture, and no attempt to conceal the body,” Mazzucco summarized. “Why the change in MO? It’s been working for him so far.”

  “Have you ever heard of the observer effect?” I asked.

  Mazzucco glanced at me, as though he’d forgotten I was there. “Sure,” he said carefully. “By observing something, you change it.”

  “That’s right. You found his dump site; you uncovered the other murders. He knows he’s being watched now, and that’s changing his behavior.”

  Allen took a couple of steps back from the body and rubbed her right temple. “Well, it hasn’t changed it in any good way.”

  I turned my eyes from Allen and looked at the slight, motionless figure that had so recently been a living, breathing person—a person who had died to make a specific point.

  Mazzucco spoke up. “I think he wants to send us a message. He’s not afraid to keep going. He’s not going to hide from us.”

  “Message received,” Allen said.

  “But this tells us other things, too,” I said. “Maybe it tells us more about him than he wants it to.”

  51

  At first, the Samaritan could barely believe the evidence of his own eyes.

  It had been a minor risk, returning to the alley after the police had arrived, but only a minor one. It was something he’d done before. In a big city like this one, with all kinds of bystanders attracted to the aftermath of violence like moths to a flame, there was plenty of cover. There was nothing to distinguish him from the other people. He fit right in. Even if one of the cops had a moment of divine inspiration and decided to accost, or even search him, there was nothing to tie him to the woman in the alley. No blood had gotten on him when he’d cut the woman’s throat. His hands were long practiced, and he knew how to avoid the torrent when necessary.

  The only item he had on his person that might raise questions was the magnetic tracker in his pocket. It would be simple enough to palm and drop if he needed to, and anyway, the device was so small and unobtrusive that it could pass for a parking token.

  He’d made sure to arrive after the police had set up a cordon, so he could mingle with the crowd on the civilian side and observe them at work from afar. He’d spent a satisfying few minutes watching the comings and goings of the cops and the feds, listening to the speculations of the media people and the civilians around him. He’d been on the point of leaving when an unmarked gray Ford had rounded the corner at speed and parked not far from the crowd. He wasn’t surprised by the two people who got out: Detectives Allen and Mazzucco, the primaries assigned to his case. But then a blue Chevy had pulled up behind them and stopped—certainly not a police vehicle. And yet Mazzucco and Allen had hung back, waiting for the driver to get out. There was a flurry of activity among the media as one of the uniformed cops approached the barrier. Some shouted questions, but the Samaritan barely noticed. The driver’s door of the blue Chevy opened and a man in a dark suit stepped out.

  He was a few years older, and his appearance had changed, but the Samaritan recognized him instantly. It was something about the way he moved, the way his gaze read the street. The man in the suit nodded at Allen, and then his eyes started to sweep over the crowd: a precaution, something hardwired into him. The Samaritan put a hand up to cover his face, masking the gesture by appearing to be scratching his forehead. He turned back toward the alley, looking in the same direction as the rest of the crowd, but out of the corner of his eye he monitored the three new arrivals.

  Him. What was he doing here?

  Before the question was fully formed, he had an answer. As soon as the killings across the country had started to be uncovered, he’d known something like this was a possibility. The possibility that someone from his old life would recognize his signature, understand the significance of what he was doing. So this was who they’d decided to send for him. Or had they?

  Allen spoke to the cop at the barrier, who seemed to know her. The cop asked a question, looking warily at the man in the suit. The Samaritan took a chance and moved a few steps closer, close enough to make out Allen’s words: “ . . . helping us out. His name’s Blake.”

  Blake. He was calling himself Blake now.

  The Samaritan hung back from the crowd after the two detectives and the man in the suit entered the alley. No one noticed him walking back down the street, brushing against the back bumper of the Chevy as he stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. No one saw the small magnetic device he slipped under the bumper.

  52

  “This tells us more about him than he wants it to?” Allen repeated. “What do you mean by that?” Allen asked.

  Blake didn’t answer for a moment. He was still looking at the body sitting against the wall, but his eyes seemed to gaze right through it.

  “I need a little time t
o think,” he said finally, snapping out of his thoughts. Then he told Allen and Mazzucco he’d call them first thing and, with that, headed back toward the crime scene tape and out into the street. Allen noticed the way Agent Channing’s eyes watched him as he passed by, though he still appeared to be engaged in a phone call.

  Allen looked back at Mazzucco, who was also watching Blake leave, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “He’s growing on you,” Allen said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Mazzucco turned back to her. “You could use some downtime too, Jess. You’ve been working this thing flat-out since Sunday. Not to mention you could have been killed tonight. Why don’t you follow Blake’s example and get back to this in the morning? I got this.”

  Allen opened her mouth to object, but the look in Mazzucco’s eyes said he’d been plenty accommodating today, and he was standing firm on this one. He probably wasn’t naive enough to think she’d go back home and actually sleep, but he could make sure she took a step back. It wasn’t the worst idea in the world, all things considered.

  Channing had wound up his phone call and was coming back toward the body as Allen made her way out of the alley. She ducked under the tape and ran the gauntlet of media, keeping her head down and avoiding the cameras and phones and recorders thrust in her face as best she could. There would probably be some kind of press briefing once the body was taken away. Probably Agent Channing as well as Lawrence and the chief. It would be interesting to watch on the late news, if only to see who was taking the lead.

  Because her eyes were on the sidewalk, she started when she almost walked straight into the chest of a tall man standing on the edge of the crowd. He wore a leather jacket and a red and blue LA Clippers ball cap, and had been so fixated on the activity beyond the tape that he obviously hadn’t noticed her coming. Irritated, she grunted, “Police, get out of the way.” The man frowned and stepped aside and then turned his attention back in the direction of the alley.