“I thought you already said he took pictures of houses for her?”
“I did. He does—did. But there’s more.”
“More?” Parks got up out of his chair and sat on the end of the table, picking up his nearby Rubik’s Cube and playing with it as he listened to Fairmont and Tippin.
“Well, it was my idea, but Tippin here helped me figure out how to find the information,” Fairmont said, beaming.
“I got it, I got it,” Parks said, rolling his hands, signaling for Fairmont to continue. “You’re brilliant. How would we ever survive without you. What do you have?”
“We followed the flower trail.”
“What flower trail?”
“Remember the flowers that Allison was receiving? How we thought they were from whoever she was having an affair with. We found out who was sending them.”
“Ian Harris.”
“Ian Harris,” Fairmont confirmed.
“So what does that give us?” Hayward, who had been listening quietly, asked as he set down the file he had been scanning from the far corner of the room.
No one had had much incentive to do any intensive investigation work ever since the fire. They all needed something to pep them up and get them going again, and this might have been what they needed. Parks had been left with only Fairmont and Tippin of his original team, since Rachel Moore was at home recovering. Wilkes’s entire team had been dismantled, as Ramirez had been killed in action and Wilkes had been ordered to deskwork as part of his probation for his attack on Parks. That left the only working member of Wilkes’s team, Detective Hayward, loaned out to Parks’s team for the remainder of the case in light of Rachel’s absence.
Jackie had been out at Newport Beach all day, investigating a body found near the beach that had, according to the officer who had called it in, a “bizarre” skin rash. She had checked in earlier that evening and informed Parks that the rash, though still unconfirmed, was unrelated to the Palisades Poisoner. She promised to stop by and help with the case when she could afford it, but the coroner’s office had requested that she return to her regular duties and work on her own active case load. In other words, she wasn’t sure when she would be back.
Parks turned to the murder board and thought.
“Parks?” Hayward said, standing up.
Fairmont turned to Hayward then back to Parks. “Dave?”
“We’re not looking for a typical serial killer. We’re looking for a pattern,” Parks said to no one in particular as he sipped his coffee, which seemed to reinvigorate him some.
“What do you mean?” Fairmont asked. “This guy has killed at least eleven people that we know of. I think that counts as a serial killer in my books.”
“A serial killer is generally defined as a person who kills three or more people,” Parks explained. “They have cooling-off periods between each murder, though that time can shrink as the killer’s need for satisfaction escalates. Their motives for the murders are sexual, anger, seeking a thrill . . . and typically their victims all have something in common, such as race, gender, appearance, age group . . . like black women or prostitutes or college girls. Ted Bundy, Green River Killer and so on . . . there’s a reason behind what they’re doing, even if it only makes sense to them. Then there are serials who attempt to rid the world of a certain type of people. Prostitutes. Women in general. Homosexuals. Someone of an opposing religion. They see themselves as ridding the world of something . . . wrong. Something that needs fixing.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“This guy’s sort of a mixture. He’s all over the place. I mean, why? Why is he doing this? Is he ridding the world of people who have sinned? Broken one of the Ten Commandments? That only rids the world of ten people. Then what? Once that’s done, does he start over again? Back at square one looking for another set of ten people who have broken the commandments? Or is he finished? Or is he hoping we’ll stop him before he gets to the end? Does he need to keep killing, or will he be satisfied with this group of ten? And if so, then why this group of ten? What makes them so special?”
“What do you think?” Fairmont asked, looking to Tippin, who simply shrugged.
“I think it’s easier in the movies because the cops always stop the killer before he gets to the end and they never have to ask these questions,” Parks said with a sigh. “But really? What is his ultimate goal? It’s obvious he’s enjoying this so I don’t see him stopping. But then what? If you look at these murders, they’ve gotten more and more elaborate. At first this was a mission. The murders had a purpose. But he’s come to like them. He’s thriving off the thrill of the murder and the game of cat and mouse with us. I don’t know if he’ll finish after these ten like he might have originally planned. This has become so much more to him. It’s become . . . it’s become an addiction for him. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that these ten are different. There’s a connection between them all. There’s a reason he originally picked these ten.”
“We know that most of them are connected one to the next,” Fairmont said. “Like a chain letter.”
“No,” Parks said, still staring at the board. “There’s more to it. There’s one central connection between all of these people and the killer. He knows them all.”
“Of course, he’s killing them all.” Fairmont wasn’t sure what more to say.
“What set him off?” Parks wondered. “Why did he start this series of killings? Something set him off. A catalyst. What was it?” Parks turned around and faced the rest of the room. “The beginning. What was the beginning? What started this all?”
“That’s what we don’t know.” Fairmont shrugged.
“Allison Tisdale,” Hayward answered as he leaned back in his chair and repeatedly clicked a pen in his left hand. “She was the first murder, right?”
“And her connection?” Parks asked. “We already tried her.”
“And if her murder is what started all of this. How?” Hayward continued. “Her sin, according to the kid’s chart, is what? An affair? I don’t know about you but when it comes to murders, good, old-fashioned jealousy is more often than not a very simple motive. One of the oldest in the Bible.”
“An affair?” Fairmont rebuked. “That’s what we’re saying now? That’s what started all of this?”
“What if we’re looking at this all wrong?” Hayward asked. “What if this was a simple homicide? To begin with. A simple motive. Jealousy. Then a fit of rage. What if this was all a more personal murder? Tisdale discovers his wife’s infidelity and kills her. Then, in an attempt to cover his tracks and throw us off, he elaborated. Took what tools he had available to him and used them to take the heat off him and direct it onto other possibly unrelated victims. And on the journey, he went overboard in trying to cover his tracks.”
“You’re saying Douglas Tisdale?” Parks asked, looking back at the murder board. “But we’ve already checked him, and he was cleared. We had a squad car parked outside his house, and they said he never left during the second and third murders.”
“And he had an alibi,” Fairmont said. “For his wife’s murder.”
“No, he didn’t,” Hayward rebutted. “Not according to the murder book. He was at home. Unaccounted for. When the other murders began, you simply wrote him off. Did you check his alibis for any of the other murders? They say they never saw him leave his house, but did they actually see him in it the whole time? Windows open, putting on a show to make sure the world knew he had an alibi? Or was he simply last seen walking through his front door and they don’t know for sure?”
Parks looked to Fairmont, who shook his head, and turned to Hayward, who shrugged. They turned to Tippin, who was off in his own world, not focused on anyone else in the room while he took in what Hayward had just said.
“Milo?” Parks called out.
“No,” Tippin said, coming back to focus. “We never went back to him. We just wrote him off, like you said. Plus . . .”
“Plus what?”
“Don’t forget the reason he was our original prime suspect. What he teaches.” Tippin let everyone think for a second. “Biochemistry and molecular biology. He has the know how to pull this all off.”
“Dammit. All right. It’s enough to at least find him and pick him up. Just to question him. We don’t know anything for certain, yet. If it is him, then chances are he’s not around anymore.”
Fairmont and Hayward started out of the office, but Parks held Tippin back a second while the room cleared out.
“I was wondering if you could stay here and do something for me,” Parks said.
“Uh, sure,” Tippin said, looking around and realizing they were alone.
“You’re good with the computers. And you spent all summer working on uploading our past case files. So what I need is a search.”
“Okay. What?”
“Poisonings in LA County going back the last two years. Maybe even as far back as five.”
“Sure thing,” Tippin said. “I can do that, no problem. Homicides from poisonings. I’ll have something for you when you get back from Tisdale’s.”
“No,” Parks said, stopping Tippin. “Not homicides.”
“Not homicides? But our guy is killing people by poisoning them, right?”
“True. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I need you to search for all poison-related deaths ruled accidental, suicide or undetermined.”
“Uh, okay . . .”
“That’s what I need,” Parks said firmly.
“Then consider it done,” Tippin said with a nod and left the room.
33
“What do we have?” Parks asked, sneaking up behind Fairmont and Hayward, who were watching Doug Tisdale’s place from across the street. Four black-and-whites awaited command a block away so as to not be seen. Parks intended to only question the man, but when Hardwick had been informed of their latest theory, she decided to take no chances. If Douglas Tisdale was the Palisades Poisoner and he felt the police were finally onto him, chances were he wouldn’t go down without a fight. She could spare the men at the moment and would rather they weren’t needed as opposed to allowing him to escape once again. Three cars were waiting north of the residence and another four were parked south, each waiting for a command of what to do.
“You do realize that there is a chance this guy isn’t our killer?” Fairmont asked, not taking his eyes off the target.
“Yes, I’m aware,” Parks replied. “Which is why we need to do this right. Hopefully we can just bring him in and question him. But something tells me we might not be so lucky. Is he there or not?”
“From what we can determine, he’s there. There’s movement from behind the curtains. But nothing specific.”
“He’s there,” Hayward replied. “I say we take this son of a bitch and do it now.”
Parks nodded. “All right. Fairmont you come with me. Hayward, you take two men and go around the back to make sure he doesn’t run. Everyone stay on your radios with open communication. Maybe this guy won’t put up a fight. Okay?”
They all nodded as they checked their guns then started across the street.
Parks knocked on the door to Doug and Allison Tisdale’s house on North Crescent Drive and waited for any sign of acknowledgement from within. He glanced around at the yard and noticed that it didn’t appear as if the gardeners had been by in a few weeks. Most likely not since Allison’s death. He wondered about this and knocked on the door again.
“Hayward? You guys in position?” Parks asked into the mic attached to his vest. “Hayward?”
“I saw movement,” Fairmont said, stepping over from Parks’s side and making his way toward the front window.
“Hayward, come in,” Parks said into the mic. “See anything? Hayward, you there?” Parks turned to Fairmont as he switched over to one of the officers in the back of the house. “Why isn’t he answering? Hayward—”
The lights in the house went out, and everyone froze.
Fairmont tried looking through the front window to see if he could determine anything when two bullets shattered the glass, just missing his face by inches.
“Are you all right?” Parks asked.
“Parks, what was that?” Hayward asked through his walkie-talkie.
“Jake?” Parks shouted.
“I’m all right. Get him. Get him,” Fairmont shouted back.
“Shots fired. Shots fired,” Parks said into his mic. “I repeat, shots fired. We’ve got a four-seventeen with shots fired. Officers in need of backup.” Fairmont worked his way back over to Parks, gun drawn, as blood trickled down the side of his face from the wound on the top of his forehead. “Ready?”
Fairmont nodded and Parks kicked at the door. It didn’t budge, and he kicked again until it finally opened. Parks entered the house, gun drawn, with Fairmont ready at his side. They worked their way into the interior, which was completely dark.
“Be alert,” Parks said.
There was a noise from above them and both men immediately turned toward the stairs before they noticed the two patrol men working their way from the back of the house.
“Where’s Hayward?” Parks asked.
“He ran in ahead of us,” one of the officers answered.
“Dammit. Spread—” Parks stopped as he saw Tisdale standing on the ledge, holding Hayward hostage with a syringe inserted into his neck. Whatever the contents of the needle were, they had yet to be injected into the detective. “Just take it easy.” Parks took his gun off of Tisdale and aimed it toward the ceiling.
“I . . . uh . . . uh, back the fuck off,” Tisdale spat at the police as he looked wildly from one officer to the next, searching for a way out with his highly dilated pupils. He was sweating profusely and breathing rapidly, as if he was on something, and continued to lick his lips, his mouth dried out. “Back the . . . back . . . back off. Now!”
“All right.” Parks nodded. “All right. We can work our way through this. Nobody has to get hurt here.”
“I didn’t do it,” Tisdale continued while he eyed the front door. “You’re not—You hear me? Now back off! I’m getting out of here and nobody’s stopping me.” Tisdale hugged Hayward tighter, his pulse picking up speed, as he looked around like a trapped animal. He worked his way down the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat rolled down Hayward’s face, and Parks could only imagine the fear pumping through the man’s body.
“Whatever you want,” Parks said as the officers began to back up.
“Into the kitchen,” Tisdale ordered, continuing down the stairs, nodding toward the back of the house. “Go on. All of you. Get into the kitchen. And none of you come out until I’m good and gone. You hear me? Or this one gets whatever’s in here. Go on. Back the fuck off! Now!” Tisdale’s words were slurred and barely made it out of his mouth, as if he couldn’t find the words to go with the thoughts in his brain. He kept smacking his mouth, in need a drink of water.
“Okay. Okay. Okay,” Parks said, making sure everyone behind him continued on into the kitchen. He was almost out of sight of Tisdale and wasn’t sure he wanted that. The man was a killer. He had taken so many lives—what would stop him from taking one more on his way out?
“Back!” Tisdale shouted once more, forcing Parks to take another step into the kitchen. He bumped into Fairmont, as none of the men had moved deeper into the already darkened room. Parks kept inching backward until he was far enough around the corner to be out of sight of Tisdale and Hayward.
They stood for what seemed like an eternity when Parks heard a car engine rev up. He ran out of the kitchen and saw Hayward lying on the ground, rubbing his head, having been hit over the head to stop him from chasing after Tisdale.
“Go,” Hayward yelled, waving Parks on.
A car flew out of the Tisdale’s garage, not bothering to wait for the door to open, as Doug Tisdale drove out in his wife’s BMW. He missed hitting the patrol car across the street by inches as he spun his car around in the middle of the street and gu
nned it north for Sunset.
“Suspect on the run,” Parks announced into his mic as he and Fairmont ran for their car.
Parks jumped in the car and started it up just as Fairmont made it into the passenger seat. He turned on his cherry light and sirens as he sped up the street, barely catching sight of Hayward getting into his own vehicle in the rearview mirror.
Tisdale sped through the intersection at Sunset, not stopping for the red light, causing several cars to swerve and collide with neighboring cars. Parks sailed through the intersection, skirting the wreckage and both cars sped north on North Beverly Drive.
“Call it in,” Parks ordered Fairmont.
Fairmont picked up the mic and said, “Officers in pursuit of suspect heading north on North Beverly Drive toward Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland. Send backup,” Fairmont gripped the dashboard as Parks swerved around a car and sped up once again. “Careful. These streets are about to get dangerous. It’s windy up here.”
“I know,” Parks shot back, swerving again.
“Where the hell’s this guy going?”
Parks remained quiet, focusing on his objective, honking the car’s horn as he swerved in between two vehicles, finally catching up with Doug Tisdale’s BMW as it turned onto Mulholland Drive. Lights flashed and sirens wailed as Parks tried his best to keep up with Tisdale’s car, which began to swerve in the lane.
“What’s he doing?” Fairmont asked.
“I’m not sure,” Parks said.
Doug Tisdale’s car pulled to the right and ran up against the guardrail, sending a spray of sparks out over the edge of Mulholland. As the two cars sped along the road, all of Los Angeles could be seen far below the mountaintop, the lights of the city stretching away into darkness. Doug Tisdale pulled his car off of the guardrail but overcompensated and drove into the opposing lane. A car came right at the BMW, and Tisdale pulled the vehicle back into the right lane at the last second, swerving several more times.
“Coming up on a sharp bend,” Fairmont announced, keeping an eye on the road.
The Poisonous Ten Page 27