by Steve Gannon
My cellular phone rang. I flipped it open. “What?”
“Just checking,” said Barrello.
“Where is he?”
“Still in the market. How’s it going?”
“Slow. Don’t call again unless you have to.”
I replaced the folder and checked the time. Thirteen minutes. After a final glance around the office, I retreated to the hall.
One last area.
I descended to the basement, again resolving to call Catheryn and warn her the minute I was out of there. At the bottom of the staircase a pair of doors lay to the left, another to the right. After a moment’s hesitation, I entered the room on the right. A massive gun cabinet squatted against a side wall. Across from it, flanked by a shooting bench and an ammunition stand, the maw of a four-foot-diameter concrete pipe gaped into the room. I moved to the cabinet and opened a number of drawers. The smaller ones each contained six to eight pistols; the larger ones held rifles and shotguns.
Next I walked to the waist-high tunnel and peered into its interior. In the distance I could make out a faint glimmer of light. Curious, I tripped a switch next to the tunnel opening. A string of bulbs running the length of the shaft came on, revealing a pulley system of range markers and a large mound of sand blocking the tunnel at the far end. Although I couldn’t make out the numbers on the final range marker, I gauged the distance to the sand to be at least several hundred feet. Briefly, I considered crawling down the shaft and recovering comparison slugs from the sand pile at the far end. Again, I checked the time.
Sixteen minutes.
I decided that entering the tunnel would take too long. Besides, considering all the guns in Carns’s collection, chances were slim that any projectiles recovered in a hurried search would match those found at the various crime scenes.
I retreated to the doorway, again making sure I’d left nothing disturbed. But instead of leaving, I stared back into the chamber, certain I was overlooking something.
The guns? The tunnel? What?
Unable to put my finger on it, I resolved to return if I had time. There were still two rooms left to search. Moving quickly, I entered the first. It proved to be a professionally equipped darkroom with stainless-steel sinks, plastic developing trays, and an enlarger.
The second room was locked.
I eyed the Medeco deadbolt above the knob, certain the room beyond was secured for a reason. Frustrated, I turned away. Then it dawned on me: People might bolt an interior door to keep out a nosy maid, but nobody carried around a key to a room in his own house. Not even Carns.
I ran my fingers along the trim above the doorframe. Nothing. Same with the molding above the door to the darkroom.
Where is it? It has to be here. The gun room?
Too far for convenience.
The darkroom.
I returned to the darkroom. There I searched the drawers, storage bins, and shelves for the key. Minutes later I found it hidden on the inside of a cabinet face beneath one of the sinks, hanging on a small hook. Key in hand, I returned to the hall and shoved the key into the Medico deadbolt. The door swung open.
Stepping inside, I tripped a light switch, surveying the windowless vault beyond. Soundproofing panels covered nearly every surface. A mirrored closet lay at the far end, with built-in bookcases bracketing a gigantic television screen spanning the near wall. Across from the screen sat a solitary leather armchair, a table, lamp, and a slide projector.
I crossed to the bookcases and inspected their contents. One held a surround-sound stereo, a VCR and DVD player, and various other electronic equipment. Video and audio discs and tapes jammed the shelves above and below, each labeled in a distinctively slanted cursive. Stacks of similarly marked slide carousels filled the second cabinet. I scanned some of the titles: Airport Double, Portland Marina, San Diego Hooking, Seattle Please Please. Hairs prickling on the back of my neck, I removed a slide and held it up to the light. My stomach lurched at the blasphemy it contained.
Keep it? No. Too risky.
I dropped the slide back into its slot. As I did, my phone rang again. I flipped it open. “What?”
“He’s left the market,” Barrello said urgently. “He’s heading out of the lot, turning left on Antonio Parkway. He’s comin’ back. You want Sal to stop him?”
“No. Can’t chance it.”
“Where are you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
A moment of silence. “Are you inside?”
I didn’t answer.
“Get out of there. Now.”
“Be ready to roll.” I hung up, my mind racing. Thirty seconds to exit the house, another thirty to rejoin Barrello, ninety to make it down the hill and clear the area.
I still had time.
I stepped to the closet and threw open its mirrored doors. Inside hung a collection of blouses, leotards, skirts, jackets, and underwear. I stared. Some of the clothes looked stylish and new, others tawdry and worn. Here and there spatters of rust-colored stain bore testament to the wearers’ final moments. Shelves on either side of the clothes pole held shoes, belts, hats, and a number of photo albums. Conscious of the seconds slipping past, I opened an album and flipped through several pages of snapshots. From each grotesque photo the face of a young woman stared back. Some were beautiful, some average, some plain. A few were alive. Most were not.
Time to go.
After replacing the album, I closed the closet and hurried to the door. As I’d done with each search area, I scanned the room to ensure everything was exactly as I had found it. After relocking the door, I returned the key to the darkroom.
Heart thudding, I bolted up the stairs, raced down the hallway to the kitchen, and sprinted through the garage. Did I forget anything? I wondered as I threw open the side door, reset the lock button, and exited behind the house.
Too late now if I did.
Minutes later, as Barrello and I drove north on Via Pajaro, Victor Carns’s Lamborghini passed us going the other way. I watched as the red exotic sports car roared by, thinking that Arnie had been right.
Carns did look like an accountant.
49
The following Monday I decided to take a few hours off from work to pay a second visit to Dr. Berns. Although I waited until ten AM to start the drive to the California College of Medicine, traffic was still stop-and-go on the way down. Sitting behind the wheel of my Suburban during a period of complete immobility, I reviewed events following my unauthorized search of Victor Carns’s house. It had been a busy weekend.
Later that Saturday afternoon, after dropping me off, Deluca had driven to the UCLA Medical Center and shown Carns’s picture to Lauren. As expected from her earlier interviews, she was unable to make a positive identification, reiterating that she’d never had a clear look at her assailant. Nonetheless, Maureen Baker in Sherman Oaks did recognize Carns as the man who had tailed her from the West LA health club. Following that, Barrello and Fuentes, armed with similar blowups of Carns’s DMV photo, revisited the murdered women’s health clubs. An aerobics instructor at Susan Larson’s club recognized Carns as Virgil Kent. At Julie Welsh’s, he’d been known as Jeff Millford. At Carol Pratt’s, Dennis Glen. At each, the handwriting on Carns’s registration materials proved the same. Although his DMV thumbprint didn’t match any of the crime scene unknowns, by nine o’clock that evening all three investigators decided that they had enough evidence to proceed. Barrello made the call.
An hour later, Barrello, Fuentes, and Deluca met with Lieutenants Huff and Snead. Barrello did most of the talking, revealing Carns’s assumed-name memberships at the murdered women’s health clubs, his DMV records showing ownership of a Ford van and a late model Toyota, and records of his purchase of a spectrum analyzer-an instrument that could be used to break into a residence via the garage. Knowing any mention of me would generate trouble, especially considering my warrantless search earlier that afternoon, all three detectives honored my request not to reveal my involvement-saying t
hat the spectrum analyzer breakthrough had simply been the result of a lucky hunch.
Although insufficient for an arrest, the material presented to Huff and Snead eventually convinced them Carns was the killer. A heated discussion ensued during which Barrello, privy to the results of my illegal reconnaissance, argued that the task force should immediately procure a search warrant. Still wary following the false arrest of Domingos, Snead disagreed, pointing out that they still had no hard evidence tying Carns to the murders. Everything was circumstantial. He also maintained that a search of Carns’s house, assuming they were able to get a warrant, might turn up nothing-at which point they’d have tipped their hand. With what they presently had on Carns, a good lawyer could have the case thrown out of court before the ink had dried on the complaint. The best course, in his opinion, was to establish an airtight, twenty-four-hour surveillance net around their suspect, catching him in the act the next time he made his move. And this time they would do it right.
In the end, Huff reluctantly concurred. Unable to reveal the results of my search, Barrello, Fuentes, and Deluca had no choice but to comply. And after all, they told themselves, they’d have Carns under bombproof surveillance, and a little more time wouldn’t make any difference. They had him. What could go wrong?
Later that night, with surveillance units securely in place around Carns, I phoned Catheryn in Santa Barbara. Our conversation, like an earlier call during which I had revealed Carns’s research on us, was brief and strained.
“He’s under surveillance?” Catheryn said incredulously after I’d updated her on the situation. “Why don’t you arrest him?”
“I’m not on the case anymore, or believe me, I would,” I answered. “Unfortunately, it’s not my call.”
“He can’t get away, can he? He can’t-”
“No. There’re a dozen guys on him, twenty-four hours a day.”
“Good,” said Catheryn.
“Nonetheless, I want you and the kids to stay in Santa Barbara till this thing’s over.”
“Why? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Just do it, Kate.”
“Don’t give me orders, Dan.”
“Please, Kate. Stay away till he’s in custody.”
“And when will that be?”
I hesitated.
“A few days?”
“I don’t know.”
“A week? A month?”
“I don’t know.”
“So we’re supposed to stay up here forever? I have rehearsals beginning soon, and Arthur’s New Year’s Eve party is coming up. And school for Ali and Nate resumes the first week in January.”
“Kate, I was in this guy’s house. I went through his desk. He’s been doing research on us. Both of us.”
A long silence. “The danger is over, right?”
“Yeah, but I still think it would be better if-”
“I don’t want to hear what you think. I just want to be absolutely certain the children are safe. Are they?”
“Kate…”
“Are they?”
“Yes,” I answered reluctantly. “As I said, Carns isn’t going anywhere. Not without a police escort.”
“Fine. That’s all I need to know.”
Another uncomfortable silence. Tentatively, I attempted to shift gears. “Kate, about Christmas-”
“Not now,” said Catheryn, cutting me off.
“Will there be a better time?”
“I don’t know. I only know that I have some thinking to do. In the meantime, don’t call me anymore. I’ll let you know when I’ve arrived at a decision.”
“A decision? A decision on what?”
But by then Catheryn had hung up.
Two hours after setting out from West LA, I finally pulled to a stop outside the UCI Neuropsychiatric Center in Orange County. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours since Friday. My back ached, my head throbbed, and my outlook on life had definitely hit a new low.
Leaving my car in a red zone, I entered the California College of Medicine building. This time I ignored the waiting room receptionist and proceeded directly to Dr. Berns’s office. After rapping on the door, I stuck my head inside. I found Dr. Berns sitting at his desk. “Detective Kane,” he said, closing a chart he’d been reading. “Twice in two weeks.”
I stepped in and shut the door.
Berns regarded me closely. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“No.”
“Take my advice. Don’t.”
I passed a hand over the rough stubble on my chin. “I’ve been busy.”
“I can imagine. I’ve been following your case on the news. I was sorry to hear about that reporter being attacked. It does add an intriguing aspect to the case, though.”
“Oh? What?”
“It appears from recent events that the killer is willing to strike at anyone he perceives as a threat to his self-image. Since our last conversation, that thought must have occurred to you.”
“A little too late,” I said. “Look, Doc, I apologize for bothering you again, but I called because I need to pick your brain one more time.”
Berns leaned forward. “Concerning the killer, I assume. Has the unit made any progress?”
“Some,” I answered, deciding not to disclose my dismissal from the task force. “It seems the longer the investigation goes on, the more I’m getting to know how this guy thinks. To him, this is a big contest. Thrust, parry; move, countermove. He’s playing a goddamned game.”
“Like you are?” asked Berns.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That outthinking a criminal is a kind of game for you, too.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss my views on police work.”
“So what did you come to discuss?”
I hesitated, wondering how to phrase my inquiry. Should my visit to Berns ever come to light, any mention of my illegal search of Carns’s house could prove disastrous. Though I had repeatedly pondered the problem on the drive to Orange County, I still hadn’t reached a solution. Now, as I began to question the wisdom of my visit, I noticed that something had changed about the psychiatrist. It took a moment to figure it out: no cigarettes. “You kick the nicotine habit?” I asked, buying some time.
Berns sighed. “Not yet. My wife wants me to give it up. It’s supposed to be one of my New Year’s resolutions. I’m doing a test run before making any promises I can’t keep.”
“How’s it going?”
“Rotten,” Berns responded irritably. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my smoking, either. What is it you want?”
I shifted from foot to foot. “This may seem like a real basic question,” I said finally, “but what does it take these days to pull off an insanity defense?”
“In California?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Absolutely,” answered Berns. “There are diverse legal criteria for insanity. For example, the Durham Rule asks whether a crime is the product of a mental disease or defect. The American Law Institute Model Penal Code adds volitional language to that definition, things like not being able to conform to the law or being subject to irresistible impulses. And of course there’s the M’Naghten Rule, named after a famous English case tried in the mideighteen hundreds. Different states, different rules. Some states like Idaho don’t even allow an insanity plea.”
“Let’s make it California.”
“Ah, California.” Berns said. “California law follows narrow M’Naghten guidelines for defining legal insanity. Which, by the way, differ from those generally accepted by the medical community.”
“What are these, uh, M’Naghten guidelines?”
“Basically, M’Naghten says that for something to be a crime, the criminal must realize the nature of the act, and he must know that it’s wrong.”
“Realize the nature of his act,” I repeated. “So if the guy thinks his gun’s a banana or he’s killing Satan or whatever, he get
s off?”
“Not quite. As I said, there’s also the issue of the criminal knowing his actions are wrong.”
“So if a criminal tries to conceal his crime, that would indicate he knows it’s wrong-making him sane, even if he is a fruitcake.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but yes. Bottom line, having a severe sociopathic personality disturbance doesn’t necessarily make someone legally insane.”
“Pulling off an insanity plea sounds tough.”
“It is. Especially in capital cases.”
“But it’s done. What are the courts buying these days? Multiple personality?”
Berns smiled for the first time since my arrival. “Contrary to what you see in popular fiction, juries are extremely skeptical of a multiple-personality-syndrome defense. Besides, the condition is extremely rare. In fact, many clinicians doubt its existence entirely, not to mention the dilemma it poses the legal system: What do you do with the personalities who weren’t involved in the crime?”
“Charge them with harboring a fugitive,” I suggested.
Berns smiled again, then continued. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. But to answer your question, there are exculpatory psychological diseases. Manic depressive psychosis, for one. Paranoid schizophrenia, for another.”
“Schizophrenia, huh?” I thought back, recalling several terms I’d seen while scanning Carns’s medical files. “Satanic delusions, florid psychotic episodes, periods of fugal amnesia covering days and weeks… that kinda stuff?”
Berns nodded. “How do you happen to know those terms?”
“I read them somewhere,” I answered evasively. “So if somebody wanted to fake a case of schizophrenia, he could?”
“Maybe. As yet, there are no conclusive physical tests to support a diagnosis of schizophrenia, but faking it would be difficult. For someone to do it, he’d have to be a consummate actor, as well as being extremely knowledgeable about the disease and a wide spectrum of associated psychological tests.”
I remembered the psychology books I had seen in Carns’s office. “But it’s possible?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Berns conceded. “We psychiatrists like to think we’re above being fooled, but it happens. But even if someone could pull it off, most courts view a criminal’s postarrest development of a mental illness just a little too convenient.”