Vigilante

by Stephen J. Cannell

  I checked over the rest of the room. A stained sofa was pushed against the wall opposite a new small one-burner butane stove, which looked to me like a recent addition. There was a paint-chipped, cigarette burn–scarred dresser. No mirror, no shower. In the back of the trailer, a toilet sat behind a dirty brown curtain.

  I knew I was in the right spot because on the dresser I saw a half-empty box of 129-grain Hydra-Shok Federals.

  CHAPTER

  42

  A quick survey of the Airstream trailer revealed a potential treasure trove of evidence. A pair of rubber boots were in the back of the small but cluttered closet along with some wadded-up camouflage clothing. As soon as I had done a quick no-touch search, I backed out of the trailer with the two uniformed sheriffs, secured the site, then got on the phone to the crime scene techs and got them rolling.

  While I waited for CSI to arrive, I talked with the sheriffs about trying to track Batiste up into the hills by utilizing their mountain rescue team and a fire department chopper. They said they’d get on it. As soon as the techies arrived I turned the crime scene over to them and took off for Huntington Hospital.

  As I drove, I began to fit a few more pieces of the puzzle together. The original stove from the burned-out Airstream had been removed and replaced with a small camp stove, a less elaborate cooking device. I wondered if that was Lee Bob’s purchase. It was the kind of unit you could pick up in any outdoor supply store. The stove had only one butane burner and no oven and would barely heat a pot of coffee or can of beans. It would never accommodate a complicated gumbo recipe. Maybe Lee Bob had grown tired of eating warmed-over supermarket pork and beans. Maybe that was why he brought the groceries to Lita’s the night he planned to kill her. Admittedly strange behavior, but my gut told me that might have been what had happened.

  Alexa and Jeb were in the waiting room when I arrived at Huntington Hospital. Hitch was already in surgery, so we went down to the cafeteria to get some coffee. On the way they explained to me that the admitting docs in ER had told them the wound was through the meaty part of Hitch’s thigh and, barring infection, wouldn’t cause any lasting damage.

  “This whole deal is pretty much blown,” Alexa said as we returned to the surgery wing and settled on the waiting room couch with cups of cafeteria coffee. “We still don’t have any direct evidence against Nash, and if Batiste gets away, all we’ve got is just an interesting theory.”

  “There’s gonna be plenty of direct evidence in that Airstream,” I told her. “There’s a pair of rubber boots in the closet that look like Baffins, and I’m betting there will be a triangular scar on the left sole which will match our crime scene print. He also left a box of nine-millimeter Federals on the dresser. If we can match up the lead content in that box to the slugs in Lita’s floor, that could put Lee Bob in her kitchen with the murder weapon. It’s more than enough to bust him. Like you said, it doesn’t directly tie Nash to her murder, but it’s a start. All we have to do is get our hands on Batiste and flip him.”

  She heaved a deep sigh. “If we don’t catch Batiste, it’s just a semi-weak circumstantial case.”

  “The good news is this probably takes Stephanie Madrid off the hook,” Jeb said.

  An hour later my partner was out of surgery. At Hitch’s insistence they’d only used a local anesthetic to clean and close the wound, and when they wheeled him back he was still awake. I went in to see him, along with Jeb and Alexa. They left after twenty minutes when it was obvious Hitch was going to be okay.

  Once they’d gone, Hitch grinned up at me.

  “What was all that Audie Murphy BS?” he asked. “Throwing yourself on top of me. Next time you pull shit like that, I’m gonna need a kiss first.”

  We reached out and bumped fists.

  The docs wanted to keep him overnight as a precaution against infection, so after another hour I headed home. It was around four when I left the hospital. I called Alexa as I drove. She was still at the PAB in a meeting with Clarence Moneymaker and the DA, bringing them up-to-date. They were discontinuing the investigation against Stephanie Madrid. Alexa told me she wouldn’t make it home for a few more hours because she had to work on the press release.

  I didn’t have much hope that Batiste would be apprehended, because a swamp rat like Lee Bob could go to ground indefinitely in the vast 650,000-acre Angeles National Forest.

  I was pretty sure an egomaniac like Nash wouldn’t leave this hanging and would feel compelled to prove his superiority. I was also pretty sure he’d make the next move. When he did, I resolved to be ready.

  The problem was, I never expected what he did next.

  CHAPTER

  43

  Once home, my body began to crash. I’d been pumping too much adrenaline for too long and was coming down fast. I needed an emotional boost and some sugar, so I went to the fridge and got one of the expensive blond lagers Hitch drinks and grabbed a few Oreos. I walked outside with this feast and came to a stop next to my low white picket fence a foot from the edge of Venice’s Grand Canal. I hadn’t seen our cat, Franco, in a few days, but it was cat season and he was out hunting up a love connection. I stared down into the murky depths, all two feet of it, and started munching down cookies. The canal is fed by the ocean, and a school of saltwater minnows was swimming in the shallows near where I stood. I watched as a few of them nibbled the mossy rocks at the edge of the bank. The beer was light gold and ice cold. As I chugged half of it down, it made my throat ache.

  You can sense when a case is coming to an end. It seems to have a heartbeat. As pieces begin to fall into place the vibe always changes like a big momentum shift in a football game. I could feel the road we were on narrowing and getting slick. I wanted to make sure I didn’t finish this one upside down in a ditch.

  It was hard for me to wrap my head around the insanity of Nash creating these murders solely for the purpose of driving up his TV ratings. Could there be something else going on with him that I still didn’t understand? As I stood watching the little inch-long silver fish nibbling at the moss by my feet, I tried to find a rationale that would explain it. I tried to get inside Nash’s head, predict his game.

  Going back over what I already knew, he was from a family of cops. When he was on the Florida Marine Patrol, he had humiliated the family name by screwing up a high-profile, media-intense serial killer bust in the Everglades. Lee Bob Batiste had slipped off the law enforcement hook and disappeared like a deadly water moccasin back into that teeming swamp. As a result, Nix had been forced to resign from the Marine Patrol. His father and brothers were all Dade County cops and they had defended him, argued to keep him on the FMP until the heat died down so his departure wouldn’t feel like cause and effect. Then half a year later Nix had quietly resigned. But for a law enforcement family that must have been humiliating. I wondered what Christmas dinner was like at the Nash house that year. Had Nix felt ostracized? Had that chapter in his life changed him, or was Nix a damaged personality from birth?

  I walked back inside to my den and pulled down a revised fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. I’ve found in the past reading the DSM-IV could be helpful in understanding warped criminal psyches.

  I had little doubt by now that Nix was some kind of deviant psychopathic personality. Psychopaths are the most dangerous criminals you can encounter because they share several alarming traits. They’re without conscience and are extremely manipulative and, without exception, very smart. This combination makes them extremely dangerous and difficult to catch. Unlike sociopaths, who are rough impulsives who will break social norms with impunity, the psychopath plots, schemes, and executes his plans with cold-blooded precision.

  I found the designation in a large section on severe psychotic disorders. I skipped down past delusional paranoid psychosis and sexual sadism and began to read. The further I went, the more certain I was that Nixon Nash fit the category of a pure psychopath almost perfectly. He was cunning and manipulative,
narcissistic and a user.

  The DSM-IV said that pure psychopaths are completely lacking in remorse or empathy. This was certainly the quality that would have allowed Nix to so easily order Lee Bob Batiste to kill Lita Mendez, a person Nix claimed to have an abiding friendship with.

  The DSM-IV went on to say that the symptoms of psychopathic personality disorder can set in as early as age three or four but are rarely diagnosed until fourteen or fifteen. I made another note to call Miami and check into the reason Nix had not been allowed to join the Metro-Dade Police Department, where the rest of his family served. I began to wonder if the medical issues that had barred him from the department were mental instead of physical. Had the more in-depth psychological testing required by the Dade County police turned up his deviant personality? Was that why he had joined the FMP instead?

  The chapter continued listing elements of psychotic personality disorder. Psychopaths tended to have white-collar jobs and generally didn’t resort to committing crimes in order to survive, choosing that course only when a huge reward justified the risk. They were frequently articulate, charming, and charismatic. All classifications that pretty much fit Nix Nash. According to the DSM, the thing that most motivates a psychopath appears to be a love of control and power. They are masters at reading and exploiting other people’s vulnerabilities. Psychopaths’ primary weakness tends to be egotism.

  Nix had scrupulously planned the killing along with his alibi and, being an extreme egoist, believed he could get away with almost anything. This prevailing weakness was leading him closer and closer to the edge.

  As I sat back to think it over, I realized it was almost six o’clock. I’d been at this for over an hour.

  Then the phone rang. I reached over and picked it up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Shane, I need your help,” a woman’s tense voice whispered. She sounded terrified.

  “Marcia?”

  “Yes. Listen. He—Nix—he, he’s out here,” she sputtered breathlessly. “I can’t go home. I—”

  “Calm down, Marcia. Where are you?”

  “He’s gonna kill me.”

  “Where are you?” I demanded again, sharply.

  “I’m parked up the block from my apartment. I’m afraid to go in there. He knows I found out what he’s doing. I think he could be—” She stopped, then said, “I don’t know where he is, but when he gets like this he—”

  “Marcia, I need an address.”

  “Two-Three-Five-Eight Ocean Way in the hills above Malibu. It’s just off the Coast Highway. I’m in my car parked up the street. He’s crazy, Shane.”

  “What kind of car are you driving?”

  “It’s a white Cadillac convertible with the top up. I’ll tell you exactly how he keeps doing this, how he solves these cases, but you’ve got to come now. Only you, nobody else! I can’t trust anybody. You’ve got to promise you’ll protect me!”

  “I’m on my way. It’s gonna take me twenty minutes. Can you stay safe until then?”

  “I think so. I’ll try.”

  I hung up, and as I ran through the pantry grabbed a hammer out of a drawer before I continued out back to my car. I got inside and used the tool to knock the rearview mirror off the Acura. I threw the mirror out of the window and into a box next to the driveway. I started the car and pulled out.

  I’d be lucky if I could make it in twenty minutes. It would all depend on traffic. I tromped on the accelerator and peeled out, speeding down the alley. As soon as I hung a left on Abbot Kinney Boulevard I could see that the street was hopelessly clogged with 6:00 P.M. traffic.

  You aren’t supposed to go Code Three without getting permission from the Communications Division first.

  Fuck it, I thought, and flipped on my red lights and siren.

  CHAPTER

  44

  As soon as I got on the Pacific Coast Highway, I shut down my emergency package but hauled ass, using my horn to get around slower traffic. I wrestled with a tactical dilemma as I drove. Despite Marcia’s demand that I come alone, it definitely presented a risk. I didn’t know if I could trust her or whether she was setting up a trap. Correct police procedure demanded that I call in and get backup and I was about to do that, but my instincts told me it might not be the right move.

  Jurisdictionally, the address in Malibu was in the county, which meant calling in the sheriff.

  Marcia Breen sounded panicked. Supposing for the moment she was on the level and Nix was lurking around out by her apartment trying to get his hands on her, then bringing in a bunch of Malibu uniforms in black and whites could spook Nash before I got a chance to scope it out. If Marcia really had solid information that could prove Nash’s guilt and could make a statement tying him to Lita’s murder, then my case was made. But that still didn’t put him in custody. The last thing I wanted was to bust the piñata and not get any candy. In addition, if I showed up with a bunch of cops how would that affect Marcia, who had insisted I come alone?

  Part of this thinking, I will admit, is produced by my natural tendency toward lone-wolfing. I’ve been in situations before where I’ve specifically asked a sister agency for covert backup only to get surprised by ten fully lit black and whites boiling in looking like a presidential motorcade. I decided the better option was to wait till I got to Ocean Way and then check out the neighborhood, looking for Marcia’s white Cad. I’d get her into protective custody, debrief her, and then decide what the next step should be.

  It took me over half an hour to get to Ocean Way, which turned out to be a tree-lined canyon street up in the Malibu hills above the PCH. I found her apartment building at 2358 and slow-rolled the address. The development was a beautiful tile-roofed, Spanish-style structure built into the canyon hills. The units looked large and each had a balcony that faced down the canyon toward the ocean.

  I drove the narrow street, looking for Marcia’s car. I finally saw her white Cadillac Eldorado with the top up parked a block up from her apartment complex on the right. I drove slowly past but could see nobody in the car. Maybe she had ducked down when she saw my headlights.

  I hung a U and came up behind the Cad, parking in a slot two down from her. I pulled out my Springfield XD(M), took the safety off, and chambered up a round. Then I held it surreptitiously down by my right leg as I got out of the Acura, stood beside my car, and made a careful visual sweep of the street. Nobody seemed to be around. It was still early, only a quarter to seven. There was occasional drive-by traffic, residents heading home after work. I walked up to the Cadillac and looked inside.

  Empty.

  I tried the door and found it unlocked, leaned in, and popped the trunk. Then I walked back to check inside.

  Spare tire and jack.

  I took another careful look up and down the street, checking behind me. I didn’t want to get surprised, but the whole area seemed quiet. Nobody on any of the balconies or between the houses across the street.

  I was just getting set to close the trunk when I heard a strange sound. It started as a faint whir but scant seconds later intensified like the buzzing of a large flying beetle. Then it hit the right side of my chest. Sudden intense pain followed.

  I looked down and, to my horror, saw that a large red dart was sticking out of my shirt, just above the right nipple.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, and snatched at it. But in the one or two seconds since it hit me I was already losing coordination. Sudden numbness spread through my upper body. I missed pulling the dart out on my first try. Whatever drug was in there, it was extremely fast acting, because in the next few seconds I was not even able to lift my right arm for a second attempt. I stood behind the open trunk of Marcia’s car, teetering like a drunk, as all the muscles in my body began to spasm and shut down.

  I sensed someone walking toward me from my right. Paralysis had already hit and I couldn’t even turn my head to see who was approaching. The footsteps came closer.

  A tall strange-looking man in camouflage clothes stepped into my fie
ld of vision. He was narrow shouldered and almost six and a half feet tall. He had a grotesque face that was a sharp collection of bony planes. Above it rode an unruly shock of red-orange hair. His long, stringy goatee was set off by snow-white skin and freckles. He had a lean body, ropy, as if fashioned out of twisted twine. But his worst feature was his eyes. Gray, predatory, and lifeless. I’d only seen eyes like those on the tiger sharks that sometimes cruise the reefs north of Rincón.

  “Ils demandent dat chu shoot homme,” he said in a thick Cajun accent. Then he pulled the dart out of my chest and pushed me roughly into Marcia’s open trunk.

  I landed next to the spare tire. Then the lid slammed closed and I lay paralyzed in the dark, unable to move a muscle.

  CHAPTER

  45

  When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was. It appeared to be some kind of windowless concrete room. I heard a radio playing bluegrass. A rendition of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” with guitar and banjo. I was in a straight-back wooden chair. I had regained some mobility and tried to move my arms and legs but couldn’t budge. I could only move my head a little. I didn’t seem to be tied to the chair but for some reason couldn’t move. I turned my head slightly to the right. The room was a large, garage-sized bunker made entirely of gray unpainted concrete. A lone light hung from an electrical cord overhead, but it only lit the center of the room. The periphery fell away into darkness. I could hear the distant hum of a generator outside supplying power. I turned my head farther right. The fin of Marcia’s white Cadillac was at the edge of my peripheral vision.

  I saw the tall, stringy-orange-haired man sitting at a workbench to my left, his back to me, hunched over working on a project of some kind. The bluegrass music was coming from a CD player at his elbow.