Cross Cut

by Rivers, Mal

  She was right, too, the scotch was awful. I drained it down the sink, gulped some orange juice and rested my eyes on the sofa.

  7

  I count myself lucky that I woke at around 4.30 AM the next day. Thirty minutes later and Ryder would have found me laid out on the sofa. As it happens, I managed to get upstairs before she rose for her morning routine. I watched her from my window as she walked out toward the pier with her gear. She walks steadily, without a care in the world. She nods to passersby, as if she’s proud to be a part of the same club; the club that all strange people join when they venture outside at such a ridiculous hour. Me, I’ll happily stare at the ceiling till 8AM, then have a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen until she arrives back at 9AM.

  Staring wasn’t the only activity on the agenda, unfortunately. I packed a bag for the trip I had been volunteered for. Light: two changes of clothes, toothbrush and extra socks. Always pack extra socks. You never know.

  It was grating me somewhat. It would be a nine hour flight with connections, which meant I’d be gone for two whole days, maybe three. I’d probably land at night and have to wait until morning to head for a meeting that may or may not be granted. But, hell, I get paid for it, so I won’t complain—much.

  Melissa and I ate poached egg on toast at the table by the kitchen window. The sun occupied the cloudless sky outside and our thoughts turned to the new case of ours. While it’s true Melissa rarely has anything to do with the detective work, she was always happy to act as the office sounding board, while secretly being interested. As it turned out, she had a very good point about the situation yesterday.

  “Why was everything taken except the business card?” she said, swirling a glass of orange juice. While the lack of personal effects had certainly been raised, the key word here was taken. I don’t think anyone really made a point that the killer may have taken Lynch’s stuff, but had ignored the card for some reason or other.

  Of course, Ryder would have already contemplated such a thought. Probably yesterday, mere seconds after Johns and Mantle had given us the details. As for myself, I was too busy scratching my skull at the two Lynches. One of my major defects, Ryder tells me, is there is only room for the complex. I exhaust my brainpower on the one thing that cannot be approached without taking into consideration the smaller, perceptible items available. I’m not sure I agree. After all, I’m not the one calling for a long-shot flight across America, which could amount to a waste of shoe leather.

  I gave Melissa’s point a few minutes. Given the charade with the fake Lynch, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine it was left there intentionally by the Cross Cutter, or another party, to lead the trail back to us. For reasons unknown. Of course, it could just be simple. Perhaps Lynch really did have nothing else but the card on his person. I doubt I’m the only one who constantly forgets his wallet.

  At 9AM on the dot, Ryder walked through the French doors and strolled past the office. She nodded at us and made her way upstairs to change. Twenty minutes later I was sitting at my desk, looking for available hotels in Richmond, near the airport, when Ryder walked to her desk, gave it a frown, and then straightened it. She was wearing a blue blouse this time. You could barely see her neck. Her hair possessed a slight shine after her morning shower.

  She sat first and said, “Good morning.”

  “It is,” I said. “Any pearls of wisdom?”

  She looked toward the aquarium to her right and smiled faintly at the seahorses before answering. “I’ve told you repeatedly, that despite myth, I do not think on cases at the pier. If anything does come to me, it is only by coincidence.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was just hoping you’d come to your senses, and that you were going to tell me to cancel this flight.”

  She shook her head and tried to seem apologetic. “It’s necessary. Once out of the way, we will know how to approach this.”

  “I still don’t see it. Unless the guy from back then somehow got free and is on the loose again, and then killed his namesake because deep down inside he hates himself, while at the same time leaving that card because he wants you to catch him—”

  Ryder almost grinned and tapped a single finger on her macassar ebony desk. “Your imagination casually flows like a stream, before developing into the rapids that hurtle down a waterfall. Nevertheless, I commend such thinking.” Melissa came in from the kitchen and laid down a cup of coffee and Ryder pressed her lips to the cup. “I would personally like to ignore conjecture until you return.”

  By now I had booked the hotel. I retreated to the sofa to sift through my duffel bag. I packed my laptop inside the side compartment and said, “What about getting started on the crime scenes and the case history? It could take days to go through the material. And that’s if the bureaus are cooperative.”

  “That will still be here when you return. I will arrange a meeting with the FBI. Not the BI. I can’t and won’t tolerate having to deal with agents Hacket and Bloom. If all goes well, I can examine the material here, in my office. If they have any sense, they won’t object.”

  “What’s the deal here, are the FBI on lead?” I asked.

  Ryder pondered it and put her hands beneath her chin. “From the third murder, I would assume the FBI took keen interest. Perhaps even the second. They and the BI supposedly coordinate.” She grinned. “It always puzzles me how two law entities can be at odds with each other.”

  “Surprising the difference a letter can make.”

  “Indeed.” She closed her eyes. “In any case, their procedure problems are not ours. When you return, we will pursue, with or without their help.”

  I gave an affirmative hum while I tied my shoelaces. I went up to her desk, with my bag over my shoulder, and we simply nodded at each other.

  “Your gun’s inside your drawer, right?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Pah.”

  I took that as a yes and walked over to the kitchen and said farewell to Melissa. Outside, the heat is immediately obvious but there is a nice ocean breeze finding its way over Newport Beach. I hopped in the car and looked to the sky and suddenly remembered why I left my home country.

  Such a glorious day.

  8

  On the way to LAX I fight off my urge to take Route 55, which would lead me in the direction of Anaheim, and instead take Route 73. I smile at the lavender patch at the side of the road and then take the 405, the busiest freeway in the whole damn world. Which is okay, because the crime scene in Anaheim will wait for me. Apparently.

  I drive a Lexus with manual transmission, which Ryder imported especially for me. I don’t mind the cars she has in the garage as such, but you just can’t beat the control of a manual gearstick. When I drive I listen to music. I have no definitive taste and it usually changes with the seasons. To me, music is an emotion. During the summer I listen to stuff from the eighties. Rock and pop music mostly. In the autumn and winter, or specifically, when the sky is gray, I like to put on some Radiohead. It may interest you to know that Ryder is quite the fan, but she can listen to them in the summer. I’m not sure what that says about her, emotionally or otherwise.

  When I arrive at the long stay parking lot I’m listening to Martika’s ‘Water.’ I wait for the song to finish and grab my things and leave my handgun, the P230, in the glove box, and then rush to the airport, barely arriving in time for check-in. My flight was at noon and would last up to nine hours, but feel almost double that, especially with the change over at Dallas.

  When I touched down at Richmond it was 11PM and I had had enough. It was too late to get the hire car so I opted for a scotch at the hotel bar. Shortly after I fell onto the bed in my room and didn’t rise till morning.

  10AM, Wednesday, I sat in a small office in the Army Crime Records Division waiting for someone. I’d no idea whom. I spent two hours at the CID headquarters playing pass the message along to get absolutely nowhere. Just minutes before being escorted off the premises, they changed thei
r minds and sent me to this smaller building, where cardboard boxes and folders are left to gather dust.

  I amused myself for a while by inspecting the wall to my left, covered with various rules and regulations that had words even Ryder would struggle to describe, when a large, stocky man wearing some form of army uniform entered the room. He took off his cap and greeted me, and all I could do was look at his bushy mustache.

  “Ah, a private detective. What a novelty. Colonel Smith at your disposal.” He sat and signaled me to do likewise.

  “Adrian York, assistant to Kendra Ryder.”

  “Yes. The name does mean something to me. Largely because I’ve been reviewing the file you wish to see.”

  “Pardon my asking, but, why is a colonel like yourself doing this?”

  “Oh, I’m not with the CID, of course. I happened to eavesdrop on your request that came in yesterday at the head office and I was intrigued. The incident back then caused a mess that the army was lucky to save face with. So when someone like you comes along, asking for a file very few people should know about, people get twitchy. I convinced them to give you a chance.”

  “You say a few people—I take it that whatever happened was largely covered over?”

  “Well, that would be one way to describe it.” He scratched his nose and changed to an inquiring tone. “What is it you’re after here?”

  “Well—” I took a deep breath. “We’re not here to dig up the past. We’re looking into something in the present—the Cross Cutter killings in California, and we think there might be an angle related to those murders twelve years ago.

  The colonel gave it some thought, and then changed his outlook and laughed at me, respectfully. “Oh, come now, really? What possible link could there be?”

  “Beats me. I’m going on what my boss says. Apparently, the method is the same.”

  “I won’t argue that, but it’s just coincidence.”

  “My boss says coincidences are always to be regarded as dangerous. I may as well get to the obvious question—Lee Lynch—he hasn’t escaped and started killing again, has he?”

  “Good God.” He laughed again. “No chance of that.”

  “Is there any chance I could see him?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  I stared at him for a while and he just smiled. He twisted his mustache once and shook his head. “You have me wrong, I feel. The reason you can’t see Lee Lynch is because he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” I said, my shoulders picking up.

  “Yup. Four years ago, at Leavenworth in Kansas. According to his records, he was unstable, never talked to anyone, and had to be confined constantly in a supermax environment. He was fighting a death row sentence for years, but that’s not what killed him.”

  I looked at him, bemused at why he was reading from the file. “You need the file to remember?”

  “Ha.” He twisted his mustache again. “I had little to do with the event back then, or Lee Lynch’s incarceration.”

  “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I could do with talking to someone who knows more than the file.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said, smiling. “The people you want either aren’t here anymore or aren’t here anymore, if you get my meaning. The case back then was handled so discreetly, that there are only a handful of people that could possibly help you. And you won’t find them. Hell, I won’t find them.”

  “Aren’t they on the file?” I asked.

  “You kidding? This thing is redacted to high hell. Damn good thing too. Most of the names aren’t even visible.”

  “I suppose it’s wishful thinking that there’s a non-redacted file?”

  He laughed. “If there was, it would have been burnt in a furnace and then shipped to the moon.”

  “Our tax dollars at work, huh.”

  He laughed again. He continued to glance at the file while still eying me.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “Lee Lynch died four years ago in an attempted escape. He somehow managed to breach the first perimeter on the outside wing. He got as far as the secondary gate, when a guard from an adjacent tower shot him dead. And that’s it. Sorry, but your civilian has nothing to do with this.”

  “He just shot him dead—like that?”

  He nodded. “I suppose so. There was an inquiry, of course, but the guard claimed that he was going for a leg shot or something. It was a few hundred feet away, so nobody saw fit to argue. He left soon after, anyway.”

  I groaned at this point. It was a simple fact that didn’t warrant the two thousand mile flight to Virginia. It was a breeze to think Ryder was expecting something more substantial. Hoping for me to find this Lee Lynch and figure out if there was any way his influence had reached California. Fat chance.

  “You say he talked to no one, no one at all? None of the other prisoners, guards, imaginary friends?” I asked.

  “Well, this is a file, not a memoir. But as I said, it mentions he was in constant solitary confinement. His psych evaluation does mention an unsociable and anxious attitude. Whoever did the report managed minimal conversation and that was all. He became irritated and frenzied easily, especially in small spaces. Perhaps being in prison slowly drove him out of his mind, that’s why he decided to break free.”

  I decided to note some of this down on a notepad. I’m quite good at reporting straight out facts, but it never hurt to be thorough.

  The colonel continued, “So, if you’re thinking someone is continuing a legacy, of sorts, I’d forget it. He had no meaningful correspondence for such a thing. His psychiatric report says as much.”

  I couldn’t help but nod. “I thought as much. So, no one in the outside world knew about the killings in Afghanistan, beside the obvious?”

  “Who knows. Guess it depends who people talk to. The press over here never got wind of it and it was contained, but it would be naive to think the locals at the time never figured out what was going on. Either way, I doubt a killer in the making is suddenly going to take on another’s MO. I’m no psychologist, but I’m sure it doesn’t work like that.”

  “It’s called a copycat,” I said.

  “Nah.” He sniffled. “Copycats copy famous killers for the fame and prestige. To glorify and give tribute. Why tribute something no one in the real world knows about?”

  He made a good point and I had to agree. Cover bands on open mic night never play songs of the unknown. I decided it was hopeless and closed my notepad.

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I said. “Miss Ryder thanks you, albeit from the other side of the country.”

  The colonel nodded sluggishly and screwed his eyes a little as he thumbed up and down the file. “You say—Kendra Ryder apprehended Lee Lynch?” he said, knowingly. He had the same tone as my high school science teacher, who always asked questions with deeper interest. As if the answer was only a small part of understanding something.

  “So she says,” I said as I stood.

  “Hmm.” He twisted his mustache again. “Not what it says in the file. The names are carefully blacked out in the court reports. However, they remain somewhat intact for the incident report. It says the arresting agent was a Dale Huntington.”

  He showed me the file and tapped his finger on the appropriate line. He was right. But that didn’t necessarily mean the file was. I saw no real reason why Ryder would lie about such a thing. Her name only appeared at the beginning of the file, which listed the intelligence that led to the arrest. I could only assume that someone else had taken the glory, and Ryder let it slide. She always looks back negatively at her career. Perhaps this was why.

  The colonel rose from his chair and put his cap back on.

  “I don’t suppose I can make a copy of that file?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. He placed the file on the desk. “I’ll be seeing you. I’ll send someone down to show you the way out in, oh, let’s say, two minutes.” He tipped his cap and winked and then left the room.

  Withi
n those two minutes, I managed to snap the majority of the pages with my cell phone. I had no idea what for, but I never trusted other people’s interpretation of what’s useful, and neither did Ryder. It would be something to read on the flight home anyway.

  9

  I was on the 5PM flight home, leaving an overcast Richmond airport as the plane ascended. There was little else to cover and I didn’t want to wait around in Virginia another night. I’d originally booked the flight for Thursday morning, but shelled out an extra couple of hundred for the privilege of being in my own bed. The expenses were on our client anyway, so the hell with it.

  There was work to be done, and having phoned Ryder earlier, I was aware that she was making headway on the Cross Cutter by way of the first seven murders. No doubt the FBI had caved in to her request. They usually do. I gave her the short version of my trip and simply told her Lee Lynch had kicked the bucket four years ago, and that any link to him was either coincidence, or stretched beyond reason.

  The more I thought about it, though, I was straining towards the latter, and not just because I apparently like the complex. My mind often U-turns when I’ve had a chance to consider things. I recalled Ryder’s earlier words, that the method of killing was hardly unique. I could understand what she meant by it not standing to attention, but it sounded like an excuse now. If you had witnessed something like that firsthand, no matter how long ago, there is no way you wouldn’t immediately suspect a link. Your mind would surely be on how great the link was.

  Another point running through my head was the gap. Lee Lynch was caught twelve years ago, in 2001. Fast forward nine years, and the first reported victim in California appears in 2010. If there was a link, why nine years?

  On the second leg of the journey, I gave consideration to the file I copied back at Quantico, which was a tedious process, having to zoom in and out on my cell phone so I could read the text. It would have been easier to wait and print it out at the office, but I had nothing better to do.