Half an hour later, Daniel and Cam were back in Daniel’s Crown Vic headed for the Parker Center, each carrying a sugar cookie folded in a napkin.
Before turning off PCH into Santa Monica, Daniel shot a look toward Paco’s, just a block up from the Santa Monica Pier. “Too bad we don’t have time for some of Mrs. Luther’s tacos.”
“I’m glad Mrs. Luther’s still here. I was a glutton at Paco’s at least once a week growing up. Maybe we can do a late lunch.” Cam looked at her Waze app. “Or a very late lunch. I’d forgotten how bad the traffic can get.”
“Yeah, it gets worse every year. I know a couple of shortcuts, but this time of day they’ll be backed up worse than this, so it’s traffic all the way, 110 to 101. It’ll take about an hour.”
Daniel talked more about Constance Morrissey as he drove, how something about the murder scene had felt like a Serial to him, and he’d looked into other recent unsolved murders in Southern California—a sliced throat in bed in the middle of the night, a missing laptop and cell phone. He found both the Melodie Anders murder and the Davina Morgan murder and called Supervisor David Elman of the Homicide Special Section. Elman already knew about the Davina Morgan murder in Van Nuys, agreed it fit a pattern. He hadn’t known about the second victim, Melodie Anders, in San Dimas.
“I have to admit I was surprised when the LAPD didn’t kiss me off. Supervisor Elman even called me after the murder in North Hollywood, said he was going to contact all the sheriffs’ departments, but I’d already done that.
“After the LAPD agreed we had a Serial, I convinced them to tell the press and they agreed. I suppose we thought it would make a difference, get everyone on the same page, get his next possible victims warned. The media was all over it, one of the tabloids even came up with his moniker, the Starlet Slasher. Every young actress in L.A. had to know he was out there.” Daniel sighed. “But it didn’t help. The fourth victim, Heather Burnside, was killed in North Hollywood on June 2nd, after we spent weeks investigating and getting nowhere. I hated that, Cam, really hated it.”
She did, too. “That had to be tough. We’ll have more resources now, with all of us working together. We’ll get him, Daniel, no doubt in my mind.”
At 11:50, Daniel turned onto First Street, drove a short distance to the LAPD staff-only garage, and stopped at the guard window. Cam gave the guard their names and showed him their shields. The guard meticulously checked their names against his computer, studied their creds, and finally let them through with a stingy smile. He even went so far as to nod toward a visitor’s slot not far from the garage booth.
Cam had visited the old Parker Center a handful of times over the years, but never the new headquarters. She paused on the sidewalk to look up at the incredible architecture of the building. Its glass and white concrete blended over the front of the building like a large white curtain. There were so many angles to the facade, it was like a puzzle in geometry. Palm trees added a bit of Southern California dash, as did the warmth and sunshine, and the loud, constant background noise from the heavy traffic on the nearby 101.
They were met in the lobby by the supervisor of the Homicide Special Section himself, David Elman. He looked like a seasoned veteran, in his late forties, tall, broad-shouldered, balding rapidly. His smart dark eyes went immediately to Daniel, then, with something like regret, he turned to her.
Par for the course.
17
* * *
LAPD HEADQUARTERS
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Cam stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Supervisor Elman. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. I’m Special Agent Cam Wittier, FBI.”
He shook her hand, straightened, cleared his throat, and said in a butter-rich baritone actor’s voice, “A pleasure, Agent Wittier.” He turned his smart eyes to Daniel, shook his hand. “Detective Montoya, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Come with me, the whole group is waiting for us.”
Daniel nodded but didn’t smile. He focused on looking competent. He knew they would both have to prove themselves in that room full of LAPD detectives.
Elman pressed the elevator button, turned back to Cam. “As I told you over the phone, Agent, the fact that the Serial wasn’t identified until the third murder is regrettable, but understandable, given the second murder was in an outlying sheriff’s jurisdiction. Since Detective Montoya called me, we’ve all been focused on identifying this killer.”
The elevator pinged, the doors opened to three exiting cops. Cam gave them a hundred-watt smile, a smile Daniel had no doubt would have gotten her elected prom queen in high school. The cops didn’t know who she was, and they smiled back. He wasn’t surprised when one of them turned back to say something to her, saw Elman, and continued on his way.
Elman punched the fifth-floor button, turned to Cam. “We’ll be meeting in the conference room we use for our quarterly meetings of all our divisions to discuss cases, trends, coordination. Our group today will also include the detective from the San Dimas Sheriff’s Department, as well as reps from Chief Crowder’s office. And Detective Montoya, of course.”
“Thank you for making all the arrangements,” Cam said, and gave him her full-monty smile. It was Lisabeth’s smile, Daniel realized.
They walked down a long noisy hall, with people ducking in and out of offices, talking while they walked, bits of conversations floating out of rooms on either side. Cam heard a lot of male voices talking even before Elman waved them into room 315. The moment they stepped inside the big utilitarian conference room, voices began to drop off, and all eyes locked onto her and Daniel. Cam took in ten or so men, one woman, all seasoned cops by the looks of them. She easily recognized the police chief’s representatives, two young men, conservatively dressed, looking vaguely bored, sitting in a knot away from all the detectives. She also easily spotted the single detective from the San Dimas Sheriff’s Department, off by himself at the end of the table. Many eyes moved quickly from her to Daniel, assuming he was the Fed, weighing him, assessing him, planning how to deal with him.
Elman stepped to the head of the table, leaned his elbows on the podium and spoke in his deep rich voice into the microphone. “People, I’d like you to meet Special Agent Cam Wittier from FBI headquarters in Washington and Detective Daniel Montoya from the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Department, who first identified the killer as a Serial.
“As you all know, the Serial murdered another young actress, Molly Harbinger, in Las Vegas over the weekend, and that brought the FBI into this case. Agent Wittier will be leading the investigation.” He nodded toward Cam and she took her place behind the podium.
She said nothing until Daniel had sat down at the middle of the table, bridging the sheriff’s detective and the LAPD, and remained silent until every eye was focused on her. She knew local distrust ran deep because still, more often than not, when the FBI showed up, local cops were relegated to gofers.
She saw some sneers on a couple of male faces, a smile from the only female detective. But mainly, she saw wary, stone faces. Back in the beginning, when she’d faced whole rooms of cops who believed she would be getting them coffee and taking notes, she’d felt acid burning her gut. But not anymore, not in a long time.
She said, “I’ve read all of your murder books, seen the hard work you’ve done.” A hand shot up into the air. “Yes, Detective Jagger? You’re out of Van Nuys. You handled the first murder of Davina Morgan, on February 26th.”
A flash of surprise on the older cop’s pale eyes. “Yeah, that’s me. I googled you, Agent Wittier. Your folks are actors, live in Malibu, live in the la-di-da Colony. Is that why the FBI sent you here instead of using the L.A. Field Office? Because they think since you’re connected, you’ll find out the truth faster than we can?”
She honestly couldn’t tell if he was shooting off his mouth or he was asking a serious question.
Corinne Hill, Jagger’s partner, called
out, “Stick a sock in it, Morley, let’s hear what she’s got to say.”
Cam never changed expression. One shot was okay. She wondered which one of those two drove the bus. She’d bet on Corinne Hill, based on that exchange. She didn’t put up with any guff. Cam said, “The fact that both my folks and all the victims are in the business certainly went into the FBI’s decision to send me out here, which means, contrary to some local opinion, there are some live brains at work in Washington.”
That tried-and-true chestnut gained her a couple of laughs. Cam paused again, studied their faces, leaned forward. “After Detective Montoya connected the first two murders to the murder of actress Constance Morrissey in the Colony in Malibu on May 3rd, he realized we had a Serial at work and notified Supervisor Elman. I know you’ve been geared up ever since. With the fourth murder of Heather Burnside in North Hollywood on June second, you’ve brought even more resources to bear on catching this man—I say man because statistically most serial killers are male. We hope to verify this when the witness in Las Vegas is found and brought in.” She briefed them on the killing in Las Vegas and the burglar he surprised there. “I’ve been in touch with Agent Aaron Poker at the Field Office in Las Vegas, and will continue to be. The details of his investigation will be available on a daily basis to each of you. Am I correct in assuming each of you has studied all the other murder books and familiarized yourselves with the details of all the other murders?”
Cam heard sounds of assent, saw some shrugs. Glen Hoffman, the youngest of the detectives, something of a hotshot, she’d thought when she’d first read his bio, called out, “Hoffman, North Hollywood. People in this room have worked cases like this before. Sure, there’s an obvious group of victims, and an M.O., but he hasn’t left a single actionable clue. We’ve processed some suspects, but none of them turned out to be viable.
“Look, there are hundreds of Serials busy at work in the U.S. as we speak, and now we’ve spotted one of them here. He’s obviously had lots of practice, so catching him might not happen no matter how hard we bust our chops and read profiles issued by your FBI buddies. What are you going to do to help us?”
Daniel’s first inclination was to haul the jackass outside and bust his chops himself, but he knew Cam would deal with him. Odd, but after only a couple of hours with her he was sure of it.
Cam said, “We’re bringing all the resources of the FBI, Detective Hoffman, and we’re going to catch him by working together. Until we find that clue he’s going to leave sooner or later, we have to use the nature of his crimes themselves to find him. He’s been remarkably consistent, picking young actresses, using the same large single-edged knife, and taking their laptops and cell phones. Let’s start with that. Why does he take them? What does he do with them? Why do you think, Detective Hoffman, that the Serial takes only those two items?”
Hoffman stared at her a moment. “I don’t think they’re souvenirs. I don’t believe this guy is that crazy. I believe there’s something on the laptops or tablets and cell phones that could tie him to the victims, or maybe leads him to other victims.”
Hoffman’s partner, Detective Frank Alworth, world-weary, and not far from retirement, added, “That’s the problem, Glen, too many possibilities. They’re all young actresses, beautiful. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to think he uses the laptops and cell phones to look at their pictures and posts after he’s killed them. But he could see a lot of that on their Facebook fan pages, almost all these young actresses have them now, or look at their Twitter accounts, or their YouTube videos, for that matter. He has to be taking them for something that’s not available on social media.”
Cam said, “Agreed. And there’s not a lot he could cover up by taking those laptops and cells. There are few secrets today that can’t be traced through the Internet. I know you’ve been looking through the victims’ emails and text messages, their activity on social media. What else could it be?”
Detective Allard Hayes of the San Dimas Sheriff’s Department spoke up next. “Daniel and I got together, tried to think outside the box, explore what isn’t obvious. Maybe it’s part of his ritual, part of how he kills them, over and over again. The laptops and cell phones represent their ties to life itself and he takes those ties, as he takes their lives. That sounds new age dippy, but we have to consider the Serial’s brain isn’t necessarily running on the rails.”
Daniel said, “We know this guy is into control. He thinks, he plans, he acts carefully, always nearly the same. Is he playing out a fantasy? Again and again?”
Jagger, Van Nuys, said, “What do you think, Montoya, he’s killing the same person over and over again, maybe someone he once knew and now hates?”
Corinne sat forward, chin on her clasped hands. “Or maybe he’s terrorizing someone in his own life with these murders, using the murders to threaten someone, to control them. I thought of that after I read the FBI profile.”
One of Chief Crowder’s reps said, voice tentative, “Maybe the guy got turned down by one of the actresses, killed her, and turned it into a blood sport.”
Glen Hoffman, North Hollywood, said, “Or maybe the guy’s so crazy he doesn’t know why he’s doing any of it. Doesn’t know why he takes the laptops and cell phones. God tells him to take them and stash them in a locker at a train station.”
Cam waited, but the room remained quiet. “Let’s step back for a second. The Serial has those laptops and cell phones, for whatever reason. He’s been smart enough not to use the cell phones, so we can’t track by GPS. So what do we have left to work with?”
18
* * *
She paused, let the question sink in. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the podium. She didn’t need the microphone. She had her mom’s voice, it could carry from Malibu to the freeway. “There’s a good hundred years of experience sitting in this room, well versed in every violent thing one person can do to another, with every motive imaginable. So use it, people.”
Frank Alworth, North Hollywood, said, “One motive we can discount is robbery. Heather Burnside owned a very expensive Rolex watch. The Serial could have taken it, but he didn’t.”
His partner, Glen Hoffman, said, “We didn’t think he’d be that stupid, but we checked the local pawnshops, fences, wherever the Serial might have sold the laptops and cell phones. We got nothing. Same with the rest of you. We also tagged Heather Burnside’s bank accounts and credit cards, but there’s been nothing there, either.”
Allard Hayes from San Dimas said, “We all have our theories, but I think there’s something we’re missing, something that’s driving this guy that we haven’t nailed. The talk about his fantasies, it just doesn’t ring true for me, not any longer.”
“Me, either,” said Jagger from Van Nuys. “He might be crazy, but he’s still got a reason for picking out and killing these young actresses.”
Cam realized Detective Alworth out of North Hollywood was holding back. He was older, and he was smart, the alpha dog in this group. She said, “Detective Alworth, what do you think?”
Frank was aware all eyes were on him. He said slowly, “If you know the why, you will find the who. If you don’t know the why, you’ve got to look elsewhere. How is the Serial finding and picking out these women? It’s unlikely he knew them all. He breaks in, they don’t let him in. And if he’s contacted them all beforehand somehow, he’s done a good job disguising himself on their emails, their fan pages. We haven’t heard any of them felt threatened, as far as we know. So how, Morley? Tell us how.”
He looked over at Jagger, sitting slouched back in his chair, looking bored as a lizard on a sunny rook, making it obvious he didn’t hold out any hope that the blonde from Washington could move anything forward.
Cam waited. She saw him shoot Alworth a don’t-you-force-me-to-play-with-this-girl-from-Washington look, but Alworth didn’t let him off the hook. “Come on, Morley, can you help us out or not?”
At that, Cam saw a growing spark of interest in Jagger’
s eyes. He sat forward, clasped his big hands in front of him on the table. “I got to thinking about a murder case I was on fifteen years ago. A corporate lawyer was shot in the head at close range, and the only thing stolen was his computer, big old honker, like all of them were back in the day. We finally tracked down a land developer under a layer of fake corporations and proved he was the killer. The motive? The vic was no saint—he was blackmailing the killer, had him nailed for big-time land fraud. The proof was on the computer.”
Daniel said, “So you think all five victims had something on their computers? Some sort of file that existed only there? And he followed Molly Harbinger all the way to Las Vegas to get it?” He paused a moment, shook his head, looked around the room. “I think that sounds too cerebral, too easy. I think these killings are personal.”
Hoffman, Van Nuys, said, “The motive is personal, with five different actresses? There was nobody who dated all of them. But I don’t think it’s random, either. Maybe it’s personal to him in some other way, and that opens up a whole other can of possibilities.”
Cam nodded. “It’s still possible they all knew one specific person we haven’t found yet. Their families, friends, agents, showbiz contacts—someone might know if any of them kept things on their laptops or cell phones that isn’t easily found elsewhere.”
Frank Alworth clasped his hands, sat forward. “I think the chance of there being some sort of magical tie-in with a single guy’s name on all the laptops and tablets, not to mention the cell phones, is off-the-planet unlikely. Agent Wittier, I think we need to dial that idea back. I’m thinking we’ve got ourselves a sicko Serial, with no fancy motive except a hard-on for pretty actresses. Maybe he dated one of them once, got dumped, and is killing them off as payback to the lot of them. Maybe we’re talking a garden-variety fruitcake here.” He shrugged.
“Detective Montoya believes the Serial is obsessed, with control,” Cam said. “I agree with that. He certainly showed how important it is to him in Las Vegas this past Saturday night. After he killed Molly Harbinger, he chased a burglar from the house, but he still went back and took her laptop and cell phone with him anyway.”
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