Final Victim (1995)

by Stephen Cannell

  Lockwood let it all fly past. He saw no need to start up with Kulack. The game was over.

  “You’re a little rigid, friend,” Fred T. Fred said, looking with disgust at Kulack’s bulging, throbbing neck veins. “What happened down here was a mistake. Our SWAT team had bad information. Looks like this Leonard Land character hacked into the Customs computer, stole Lockwood’s picture and prints, then put it all in the NCIC database, along with a phony Illinois police report saying he killed two cops… . Didn’t happen. I think we should—”

  “Not to be rude or undiplomatic,” Kulack broke in, “but I really don’t give a flying fuck what you think. This turkey is stuffed and already cooking. I wanna get him outta here.”

  “I think,” Fred T. Fred said slowly, “we may have a serial killer operating in Southern Florida. I think this guy wants Lockwood, and John’s agreed to be the bait.”

  “Unless you wanna file some paper with the A. G.‘s office, it’ll have to wait. I’m taking him with me now.”

  Kulack stood, pulled out his cuffs. “Turn around,” he barked and, when Lockwood did, he slammed the bracelets down on his wrist. Lockwood hadn’t been in cuffs since he’d been caught stealing cars as a juvenile. Yet this was the third set of bracelets he’d had slammed on him in less than twenty-four hours.

  Kulack yanked him around and pushed him toward the door.

  “You have to pick him up at the prners’ exit. That’s where the paperwork gets signed,” Fred T. Fred told Kulack, who grunted and left them all standing there.

  Lockwood rode down in an old, slow Otis four-man elevator with Captain Fredrickson. “Listen, Captain, you seem like a pretty okay guy… . I’m worried about Karen Dawson. . “

  “She’s still upstairs. She’ll be fine. She’s about to get released.”

  “I know … but this guy who came after me, he probably was coming after both of us. She’s a civilian. If I’m not here, she’ll be walking around unprotected.”

  “Why don’t you ask Kulack to take her back to Washington as a material witness?”

  “He won’t do it.”

  “Whatta you want me to do?”

  “You’ve gotta put somebody on her … somebody who won’t get faked out. The Rat is smart and he’s dangerous. That computer of his is lethal. It’s an offensive weapon. He can strike from long range through the phone lines. He almost got Malavida and he almost got me. We’re only alive ‘cause we got lucky.”

  The elevator door opened and Fred T. Fred looked at Lockwood. “I’m shorthanded. I’d like to help, but I can’t supply bodyguards to everyone who might get attacked. You should convince her to go back to Washington.”

  “I tried,” Lockwood said. “She won’t go.”

  “Then there’s nothing I can do.”

  Kulack signed the papers and took custody of Lockwood minutes later. He shoved him out the door into the bright Florida sunshine.

  Karen had been naked and sound asleep when the door to her room in the Ramada Inn had been kicked open. She caught a glimpse of three men in black rushing at her, but before she could sit up, they landed hard on top of her and pinned her to the bed. Then they dragged her up, naked, and cuffed her. She hadn’t been patted down. Without any clothes on, she clearly wasn’t armed. She’d been Mirandized, and for the next hour she’d been forced to sit in the backseat of a Miami Sheriff’s car in a Ramada Inn terry-cloth robe and answer questions about the murder of some cops in Illinois. They had quizzed her repeatedly about her relationship to John Lockwood. She had endured it till sunup, when she’d been officially arrested and taken to the Sheriffs Office, where the interrogations began all over again. After a while, she guessed she was not going to be formally charged. She waived her right to an attorney to help calm things down, and eventually things seemed to get straightened out. She was told around ten that they had been arrested because Lockwood’s picture had been placed in the computer at the National Crime Information Center, along with an APB for his arrest for a double police homicide. Miami’s SWAT team had received an anonymous tip. The minute they said the word computer, she knew it was the work of The Rat.

  She was finally released at 11:30 and the fatherly Watch Commander, Captain Fredrickson, offered to take her to her car, which was still in the parking lot of the Ramada Inn. When she asked to see Lockwood, he told her that Lockwood had been taken back to Washington under guard.

  The drive back to the Ramada Inn was strained. Fredrickson was trying to be a good guy, but Karen was in a foul mood. She’d had less than two hours’ sleep, and her unscheduled wake-up call had been unusually aggressive.

  “Look,” she finally said to him, “Malavida’s life is in extreme danger. I don’t think you quite get the gravity of that.”

  “There’s a man outside his door at the hospital,” he said.

  “This killer isn’t going to come within a mile of the hospital. He’ll do something long distance with his computer,” she said, a little too hotly. “Malavida is going to be murdered in there unless you people wake the fuck up!”

  “Miss Dawson, I’m sorry for the inconvenience we’ve caused you, and I am very aware of the menace that Leonard Land might present to Mr. Chacone. However, so far we can’t directly link Land to anything. I don’t have enough evidence to even issue an arrest warrant for the crimes you’re talking about. We have no physical evidence that he killed Candice Wilcox in Atlanta, or Leslie Bowers in Michigan. And as far as Lockwood’s wife … I guess his little girl could potentially pick the guy out of a lineup, but that hasn’t happened yet. Furthermore, all of this is out of my jurisdiction. It’s Tampa’s case. Best chance I have here is, if I get my hands on him, I can voice-print him and maybe get a match with that recording of the phony tip he called in. Maybe then I can get the DA to file on him for attempted murder. But even that is a long shot.”

  “What about his rigging that booby trap and blowing up Malavida?”

  “Tampa PD would have to file that charge, but the way I hear it, technically you were trespassing without a badge or a warrant. I guess maybe they could file on him for arson or endangering or hazardous behavior or some damn thing. But he’d make bail in about an hour.”

  “You’re telling me to go away and shut up?”

  “No. I’m telling you I think you’re right, despite the lack of evidence.” Fredrickson’s voice was soft and his eyes seemed concerned. “I agree this guy’s probably a full-on maniac. But even if I knew where he was, I can’t arrest him until he does something I can prove. I’ve done a lousy job of protecting Chacone, I admit it. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you, so I’d feel a lot better if you’d get on a plane and go back to Washington.”

  There was definitely something fatherly about Fred T. Fred. Karen finally nodded her head. “Maybe that’s a good idea,” she said.

  They were parked in the Ramada parking lot, next to her car. Fred T. reached across her and opened the door. “I’ll work it as hard as I can. If this guy goes hot, at least this time we’ll know who we’re looking for.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you from time to time, for an update … ?”

  “You’ll be calling from Washington?”

  “From Washington,” she lied.

  After he drove off, Karen got into her blue LeBaron and put the top down. It was noon, and the Florida sun was oppressively hot. She drove back to the Jackson Memorial Hospital. Ten minutes later, she was on the sixth floor checking on Malavida.

  A new nurse told her he was still resting. She nodded and peeked into his room. The Miami cop was gone. He’d been replaced by a Federal agent in a suit. He watched her without interest as she showed her Customs ID and entered. Malavida looked very small in the hospital bed. She couldn’t see the dressings because he had the covers up under his chin, but she knew he was wrapped in tape. As he lay in bed, his eyes closed, she could see what he must have been like as a little boy. There was an innocence about him. She moved close
r to the bed and looked down. The lone teardrop tattoo hung under his right eye, a dangerous exclamation mark. She wondered if Lockwood had been right about him. She had made love to this person. She had found warmth in his tenderness. She wanted to believe that she had given that gift in honesty, but the events of the last two weeks had moved with frightening speed. Maybe she had been swept along by the current. She looked again at the tattoo. The teardrop was a symbol of distress. She had been told once that Mexican gang kids got teardrop tattoos when a good friend died from a street action. It represented the cultural ocean that separated them. Although Malavida’s need for freedom had caused him to run away from them in Atlanta, his conscience had brought him back. He had tried to help them. She was supposed to be able to profile behavior, to predict what an UnSub would do … but she was badly confused by Malavida Chacone.

  Then Malavida opened his eyes and looked up at her. They locked gazes for a long time.

  “Hi,” she said to him softly.

  “Hi,” he said back, his voice just a whisper.

  She was about to say more when he closed his eyes. She thought he would open them again, but in seconds he was back asleep. She stood there for several more moments, trying to decide what to do.

  Karen was suddenly bone-weary. She had eaten nothing since yesterday but two bites of stone crab. She knew that with Lockwood gone it was up to her to protect Malavida. She also knew that would be next to impossible in the hospital. There were too many systems The Rat could penetrate. Too many people, too many ways he could slip through electronic defenses and attack. She had to get Malavida healthy enough to move him. She had to find a way to sneak him past the Federal agent who, she suspected, was not there to protect his life so much as to keep him from escaping. She had walked right in, flashing civilian ID, while he read the paper. She had been giving the problem some thought and had the beginnings of an idea, but her head was so thick from lack of sleep, she needed to get a few hours to clear the cobwebs. She moved away from Malavida and back out into the hall… .

  Karen slept for four hours on the hard vinyl sofa in the visitors’ area.

  She opened her eyes when she heard Lockwood’s voice. She looked around and finally saw him on the TV screen over the nurses’ station. It was the five o’clock news. They were running file footage taken three months ago after the shootout on Operation Girlfriend.

  The shot then switched to Trisha Rains in front of the Dade County Sheriff’s Office: “That footage, many of you will remember, was taken last January when U. S. Customs Agent Lockwood was involved in a shootout at Miami International Airport… . Agent Lockwood was arrested today by members of his own Internal Affairs Division. The arresting agent was Victor Kulack, also a participant in last January’s gunfight. Apparently, Lockwood had been suspended a few days ago and was in Miami working on a murder case after having illegally freed a Federal prner named Malavida Chacone. As reported earlier, Chacone is now in critical condition at Jackson Memorial Hospital.”

  Karen sat up, went to the ladies’ room, washed her face, and put on fresh makeup. She combed out her auburn hair and straightened her clothing.

  Malavida was still sleeping, so she went searching in the huge hospital for Lockwood’s old friend Ray Gonzales.

  She found Gonzales in the Renal Care facility. He looked terrible. His skin was papery and so thin that the bones in his shoulder seemed to protrude sharply. He was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a dialysis machine and reading a Cuban tract called La Revolution, when Karen walked in.

  “Senor Gonzales?” she asked.

  “Si.”

  “Soy una amiga de Juan Lockwood.”

  “Then you don’t have the sense God gave a goose,” he said without an accent as he smiled at her.

  “Probably not.” She smiled back.

  “How’s my Anglo brother?”

  “He’s under arrest and on his way back to Washington, so I guess you could say he’s pretty shitty.”

  “I know. He was by here yesterday. He looked tired and confused. Claire’s death hit him hard. But he didn’t say nothing about that killer, or busting Chacone outta Federal prn. I got that offa TV this evening.”

  “Vic Kulack from Internal Affairs came down with a warrant for pursuing an investigation against orders.”

  Gonzales laid down the magazine, and his face formed into a scowl. “Kulack is a low-life. He’s the reason I’m hooked up to this damn machine. Kulack’s been working overtime on Johnny. He doesn’t like the fact that Lockwood gets results, that he gets newspaper ink, that the agency brass loves him. All these years Lockwood gets invited to the ball and gets to eat off lace doilies. Kulack gets invited to the outhouse, eats off toilet seat covers. Now, I guess he figures he’s even.”

  A nurse came in to check the levels on the dialysis machine. After a minute, she left. Ray Gonzales studied Karen openly. “It was too bad about Claire,” he said. “John was still carrying a big torch for her. Don’t often see a man pining over his ex-wife with that much sincere energy.

  All through Operation Girlfriend he was talking about getting together with her again.”

  Karen nodded. Her eyes showed him nothing, but she felt a tinge of sadness at that remark.

  “You didn’t come down here ‘cause you wanted to watch my blood get cleaned,” Gonzales said, bringing her back, “or because you wanted to catch up on John Lockwood’s past. You got another reason?”

  “You’re pretty perceptive, Ray,” she said.

  “Cut the bullshit let’s hear what’s really on your mind.”

  So she sat in the chair facing the bed and told him her plan.

  Chapter 28

  THE WIND MINSTREL

  IS COMING

  AND HE IS

  COD

  His nipples were on fire. He faced the computer in his barge and endured his stinging flesh. The TV news said that Lockwood had been transported to Washington for a Friday morning nine-o’clock hearing at the Department of Justice. The Rat had cracked the DOJ computer and obtained a valid username/password by fone-phreaking a DOJ agent’s modem call into work. He brought the DOJ Administration Building’s menu of Building Services up on the screen.

  2300 Constitution Avenue

  Washington, D. C.

  Central Computer Menu

  H)VACPhysical Plant, Misc

  HeatingDWP

  VentilationGas

  Air ConditioningEnergy Mgmt. Systems

  Energy StarMaintenance Sched.

  S)ecurityB)uilding Services

  Access Control & AccountingPA/Music

  VicCam MonitoringElevator Sched/Control

  LockdownCommon Area Lighting

  AlarmsEnergy Star

  C)ommunicationsE)mergency Services

  PhonePublic Safety

  DataAutoAlert

  RadioHelipad

  PagingPower Backup

  He selected the “Security” sub-menu. The DOJ in Washington was housed in a “smart” building, and everybody in the Justice Department had a “smart card” which they inserted in a slot when they entered. He chose “Access Control & Accounting,” which showed the names and times of everyone entering and exiting the building, as well as certain high-security areas. Lockwood had entered the building at eight A. M. It was now quarter to nine. The Rat exited the security access log and chose “Emergency Services” from the main menu. A sub-menu appeared, and he chose “Public Safety.” Up onto the screen came a list of sub-headings:

  Police F)Ire

  Medical

  S)eismic

  He selected the “Fire” option, then scanned the map of the fire suppression systems of the DOJ Building on Constitution Avenue. Most of the old buildings had CO2 or water sprinkler fire systems, but The Rat had found something interesting when he’d gone hunting in the system yesterday. On the bottom floor of the building, he had discovered a room labeled “Paper Files.” It took up half the sub-basement, and it was where correspondence and memos that had not been transf
erred onto diskettes were stored. The room had become the center of his plan.

  The hearing was in a small conference room on the ninth floor of the Department of Justice Administration Building. It was beautifully decorated: deep-green carpet, silk wallpaper, hunting prints in lacquered frames. The nine o’clock hearing started ten minutes late.

  Laurence Heath had walked over from Customs two blocks away, and now sat at the oak conference table next to Bob Tilly and across from Vic Kulack. They were all waiting for the U. S. Prosecutor, a narrow-shouldered man named Carter Van Lendt.

  “This guy really dropped the basket,” Kulack said to fill the empty air as Heath’s gaze fell on him. “He thinks he can just do whatever he pleases. I’ve got a file on him two inches thick. Damn thing looks like the Georgetown phonebook.”

  “Why don’t we wait for Van Lendt?” Heath said without emotion.

  Then the door opened and DOJ Prosecutor Carter Van Lendt entered the room, carrying some brown manila files. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Had to clean up a mess on a case in pre-trial.” He sat down and dropped his armload of folders on the conference table. He hunted for the one that said “Lockwood” on the tab. Then he looked up and smiled thinly. “Lockwood and Alex Hixon are in the next room. Wanna bring ‘em in and get started?” Van Lendt said, as he put a tape recorder in the center of the conference table.

  “I’ve got something I wanna say first,” Kulack said, and they all turned to him.

  “Is this for the record, Vic?” Van Lendt asked, reaching to turn on the tape recorder.

  “No, hang on a minute, not yet. Before we start, I just want you to know where I’m coming from.” He looked at them for a theatrical moment. “It’s no secret I want this guy cashiered, and it’s no secret I want him to do some hard time. John Lockwood operates outside the purview of this agency. He treats the agency guidelines like they’re shit—”