If the killings weren’t for public attention, then they must be for some private reason. What? The joy of killing? There have been those who loved the hunt and the act of extinguishing a life, but why bother with Hood at all? Why not pick a target at a bar, or in the park, or a store perhaps? That didn’t seem right.
I sat up. Something was stirring in my mind. Maybe the killer didn’t want public attention. He wanted Hood’s attention. But what could Hood have done to make someone so angry as to kill on four consecutive nights? Had it been a business deal gone bad? Perhaps Hood ridiculed the man on air, and he was seeking revenge. How sensitive an ego would a man need to be pushed off the edge of rationality—to start breaking necks? And who would know the identity of the one being ridiculed? Hood didn’t allow last names on the air. I had heard that myself. Only on-air guests used their full names.
At first, I thought Hood was paranoid, hiding as he did in that big house, behind the tall wall, but I wasn’t much different. My phone number was unlisted; my address a secret. I began to wonder if Hood had been threatened at one time. That could make a person paranoid. I know my own paranoia had climbed a few notches since last night.
The doorbell rang and I rose to get it. By the time I rounded the sofa, Jerry and my father had shot through the dining area and into the living room.
“I’ve got it,” Jerry snapped. His tone removed any possibility of debate. Apparently paranoia was contagious. My mother stopped at the threshold of the deck. She was holding a coffee cup like it was a shield. Behind her was Nat. It was just a doorbell, but the sound of it conjured up all manners of evil.
Jerry bent over and peered through the peephole. He stood straight again and frowned. Unlocking the door, he opened it. “Good evening, Detective West.”
A chilly, “Dr. Thomas,” wafted through the opening.
“Ask him in, Jerry,” I prompted.
He did and West entered. He wore a tan coat and black slacks. The ever-present tie was still missing. In his hand were a dozen long-stem roses. They were beautiful. I was certain he didn’t get them at the supermarket.
“You’re looking better,” he said and brought the flowers to me. Jerry closed the door.
I laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. Only a paper bag would make me look better today. Have a seat.” I motioned to the love seat and took my place on the end of the sofa closest to where West sat. Conversation was easier that way. I could face him, and he could face me. If we both sat on the sofa, I would have to turn to speak to him and I was too stiff to want to do that for very long.
“Mom?” I held out the flowers. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said. “How sweet. I’ll put them in a vase.”
I thanked him for the roses. He waved it off. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m alive and kicking, not very high, but I’m kicking. I don’t suppose you ever—”
“No. Nothing has changed since this morning. We’ve scoured the area, but he’s long gone. I imagine he’s ditched his black outfit.”
“What about the murders? Any progress on that front?” I noticed Jerry hovering. “Sit down, Jerry. This concerns you, too.” That invitation was interpreted as open to everyone in the house. Moments later, my living room furniture had people perched in every available spot. Nat was the last to arrive.
West seemed uncomfortable. Detectives seldom talked about ongoing cases openly. They played their cards close to their chest, but this was a different situation. “I’ve just returned from the medical examiner’s. He’s getting pretty tired of doing these. No unexpected news on that front. The guard was killed in the same fashion as the others, and the marks on the jaw match. I showed him the pictures I had taken of you and Dr. Thomas. He agreed that they matched also, at least as far as he could tell from the photos.” West had taken photos of our injuries while we were in the ER. It was one of the most embarrassing things I’ve endured. There was no need for embarrassment, but it reared its head anyway.
“I’ve also done some background research on Robin Hoddle, aka Robby Hood, and Katie Lysgaard. There are a few interesting things, but nothing earth shattering. Hood’s program has been on the air for several years. Last year he moved his side of the operation to his home. Before that, he worked out of an LA station. He started doing late-night news soon after college. Someplace along the line he gained an interest in the wacky stuff. I spoke to one of his former station managers who had nothing but nice things to say. It seems Hood is a natural. About seven years ago the station let him have his own show. It was only late-night weekends at first, and no one thought it would go anyplace. Two years later his show was on seven days a week.”
“The guy works seven days a week?” Jerry asked. “He doesn’t take any time off?”
“I questioned several of the station managers for affiliate stations that carry the show. They tell me Hood is live Sunday through Friday. Saturday night is usually a repeat of an earlier show, or the stations run some other programming. I got the same word from Terminal Radio Network. Those guys are real close-lipped, but since that info was public knowledge, they let me have it. They clammed up when I asked anything personal about Hood. He has them under some kind of contract.”
“What about Lysgaard?” I wondered. “Is she really Hood’s wife?”
“Yes, as of two weeks ago.” West paused and waited for our reaction. He got one.
“Two weeks?” I said. “They’re newlyweds? You’d think he would have mentioned that when we were there.”
“He wasn’t very forthcoming. The man wants his privacy. If you ask me, he’s beyond paranoid.”
“You’d expect that from someone like him,” Jerry said. “It’s certainly part of his on-air persona. Sometimes the actor evolves into the character he plays. The few times I’ve listened to him, I assumed he was playing his audience’s desire for such things.”
“I think it’s real for him,” I said. “What else about his wife?”
“Ah, well, you’ll be happy to know that my cop instincts are as sharp as ever. There’s more to her than meets the eye.” West looked at me and smiled, enjoying the little dig about Katie’s almost bathing suit. “Her full name is Katherine Lysgaard. The name is Scandinavian. She’s Hood’s junior by nearly ten years. She went to school in San Francisco and served in the military.” He smiled.
“I assume the smug smile is rooted in your comment that you thought she might be his bodyguard?”
“Precisely,” West said. “She served four years in the army. Military police. She left with an honorable discharge in hand and started a security company with a partner. They did some detective work, but their bread-and-butter was personal security to business execs and pop stars. Apparently she was good at it. That’s how she met Hood.”
“He hired her?” Nat asked. She had that look I’ve come to know, a look that said her mind was absorbing information like a sponge sucks up water.
“Indirectly. Hood’s network hired the H & K Agency when a fan turned stalker. A woman who tracked Hood down at the station one night came ready for love if he returned the feelings. She also came with a knife in case he was less than interested. Some people at the station were able to run her off before she could do any damage, but it had a profound effect on Hood.” I could understand that. “It wasn’t long after that he moved out of the studio and into his home. A few months later, he moved out of LA to Santa Rita and set up shop. He bought the house we saw and had extra security added.”
“And overseeing the security was Katie Lysgaard,” I said.
“And love blossomed. I said she looked more like a bodyguard than wife. Turns out she’s both. Two weeks ago, she left her company. Apparently she didn’t need the money anymore.
“And there’s something else I’ve discovered,” West continued. He looked straight at me. “Do you remember when Hood told us that his calls are screened? Well, that wasn’t always the case. He used to brag on air about his show
being free of screeners. That changed quickly. I got interested in Hood’s sudden change, so I tracked down the man who does the screening. He’s an employee of the network and works out of the same LA radio station Hood did. I asked him why Hood switched to having his calls screened. At first he said that most shows are screened now because several big-name hosts let people on who say or do something obscene. The FCC cracked down on the radio hosts and the networks that air them. Lots of money in fines was paid out. So now all calls are screened, and a delay is used so if someone gets out of hand, the host can kill the line. Hood started getting calls—threats. It changed his mind.”
“So the motivation for murder is what?” I asked.
“We don’t know,” West admitted. “Someone wants attention. Hood doesn’t appear to be the target. Each death occurred miles away from his home. I still think Katie Lysgaard is somehow involved. She has the training, she’s invested in Hood’s success, she’s the one who posts the upcoming schedule. No one knows more about what Hood is going to do than she does.”
“We’ve already told you, Detective,” Jerry said. “The attacker we faced was a man, and there’s no doubt about it.”
“And you said the finger marks on the jaw are too big for a woman of Katie’s size,” I added.
West raised his hands. “Easy, guys. I said I thought she was involved. I didn’t say she was the killer. It’s not unusual for serial killers to have a partner. Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck killed women for money in the 1940s. They became known as the Lonely Hearts Murderers. Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka, you don’t want to know what they did. David and Catherine Birnie in Australia buried nine bodies in the backyard of their home. Myra Hindley and Ian Brady in Great Britain lured children to their death, Alton Coleman and Debra Brown, and Gerald and Charlene Gallego were thrill killers. There are couples who plan and implement murders and team murderers. It’s a long list, folks. Murderers often travel in pairs.”
“So you’re saying that Katie may be feeding information to someone who actually commits the murder?” I said.
“How long was it from the time we were at the Hoods’ home to the attack on you?”
“Not long,” I admitted.
“Exactly. And remember the guest who was to be in the third hour was moved to the second hour of the show. All the killings have been related to that one hour. Katie was in a position to make that change.”
“So was Hood.”
“True.”
It didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t say why.
West stood. “I have to go but I wanted to bring you up-to-date—and to bring the flowers. I wish I could have brought you better news.”
I stood to walk him to the door. My muscles protested, but I ignored them. “The roses are lovely. Thank you.” I led him to the door. “I appreciate the update. I wish I could be of more assistance.”
“Mayor stuff is your job, catching criminals is mine.” He reached for the doorknob. “Jim Lynch is sending a few more guards over. They should be here soon. They’ll be in uniform.”
“I don’t think the attacker will be back.”
“Chief Webb insisted. He said if you were killed on his watch, he’d never live it down.”
“It’s good to hear of his concern. I suppose you’re calling it an evening.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m off to visit the Hoods again. They don’t like it since it’s getting too close to showtime, but I didn’t give them much choice.”
“Be careful.” I was worried for him.
He said he would and left. I locked the door behind him, then I checked it twice.
chapter 39
The conversation in the living room continued for another half hour, then three uniformed guards showed up at my door. They identified themselves and showed identification. I invited them in but they declined. Each was broad in the shoulders, tall, and wore a serious expression. They were standing near the place where one of their own had died on duty.
They were older than most of the guards I had seen from Atlas Security. Most of those who strolled the grounds and halls of city hall were young. These were in their early thirties. I didn’t ask, but I guessed that they were the best Jim Lynch had. I expressed my sorrow at the loss of their friend. They thanked me, then took up positions around the house. If the attacker came back he was going to receive a greeting he would never forget—if he lived.
Before I could close the door, Nat excused herself. It was time, she said, to take herself home. Jerry and I walked her to the van. One of the guards escorted us and another watched from the front lawn. I longed for anonymity. We watched as Nat drove off, and I was once again amazed at what the lady in the wheelchair could do.
Back in the house, I told the others that my spring had run down and I was going upstairs to lie down. It was still early, not even eight, but I had expended enough physical and emotional energy in the last twenty-four hours to deserve an early bedtime. Jerry gave me a small kiss on the forehead, then gave me the look.
“Maddy, I think it would be good—”
“If you can find a place to sleep, you’re welcome to stay.” Finding a place to sleep would be no problem. Mom and Dad needed only one bedroom. There were two other rooms to choose from. Jerry needed to go home, needed to sleep in his own bed, surrounded by his own things, but I knew there was no way I could convince him of that. There might be three beefy guards out front but Jerry wouldn’t feel I was safe unless he was here to witness it.
First, I would take a shower. For some, showering is a process to be endured in the name of cleanliness. For me it was the best place to let my mind run free and the place I could best shut out the world.
Standing in my master bath, I turned on the shower and disrobed. I let my clothing fall to the floor and left it there. A long mirror spreads across the wall over my sinks. The woman who looked back at me was pitiful. My face was swollen in spots, and bruises hung on the surface of my skin. My eyes traced my naked body, and I was reminded why I was so sore. There was a large, angry bruise on my left shoulder, and an equally angry bruise under my right arm, both from being knocked to the stairs. My right hip was red. Several bruises and scrapes decorated my legs. The only clothing I wore was a fiberglass cast. I shook my head at the image, and it returned the gesture. I was the poster girl for home invasions.
Enough, I told myself. I was battered and bruised, but praise God I was alive. There were four people in four days who couldn’t make that claim. I climbed in the shower. The hot water stung my skin, and the force of the jet made my injuries complain. Being careful not to get my cast wet, I adjusted the shower, lessening both heat and force. I backed into the water and let it caress my neck and back. A few moments later, the drone of the showerhead and the warmth of the water put me into a meditative state.
At first I thought of nothing. Then I thought of the gratitude I felt to God for another day of life, for Jerry, and for family and friends. I had changed a lot from the time I embraced faith, but I had a long way to go. The way I handled Tess, the conclusions I jumped to with Titus, my quick temper, all of it reminded me that I was a long way from being what I should be, but that was to be expected.
I thought of poor Fritzy and of my parents who had been injured in the attack. Not directly, but no parent could see their daughter look the way I did and know what I experienced without being forever changed.
Pie with West came to mind and I puzzled over what had gone wrong there, what hadn’t happened and why. To those thoughts came Jerry, his bravery, sacrifice, and kindness. And his poetic soul. “Because,” he said in response to my question about his persevering attention to me, “you don’t give up on your heart.” It wasn’t finely crafted iambic pentameter, but the beauty of it was undeniable. “You don’t give up on your heart,” I said aloud.
I turned and dipped my head beneath the flow. Hot water ran through my hair and fell in a torrent to the drain below. My thoughts returned to the information West had brought and the
thoughts about Hood’s connection to the murders. The mulling began anew.
Why? It kept coming back to why. West had rattled off some information about couples and partners who had worked in deadly tandem. I had no doubt that such things happened but something wasn’t right. I don’t believe in women’s intuition. It’s a myth. It’s silly and it’s not something a woman of the twenty-first century relies upon. That being said, I trusted it anyway and my intuition was saying that I was overlooking the obvious.
Katie Lysgaard. Military trained, personal security expert, bodyguard; walks away from her business to marry the man she . . . she . . . what? Loves? Maybe. Respects? Perhaps. Desires? Why not? Would she kill to increase ratings? Would she conspire to create deadly interest in Hood’s show? No, I decided. Four murders in five days was too much, and the media had yet to make the connection, something necessary for such a plan to work.
So, if the killings weren’t for personal benefit, then what were they for? Thrill? No, not just thrill, otherwise the killings could be done without a connection to Hood. The connection was the key. If not for the audience, then for the . . . players?
Mental bells began to chime. I raised my head and let my drenched hair cling to my face. The water pounded my chest. If there was a message in the murders, I couldn’t see it, but what if someone else could? What if the message was for Hood? I pushed my hair back.
Steam filled the bathroom and covered the shower doors in condensation. I pushed the showerhead down and stepped from the cascade. I’m one of those people who thinks best with a pencil in my hand. I didn’t have a pencil in the shower, nor did I have paper, but I did have a finger and a steam-covered shower door. With the pounding sound of water in my ears, I raised my hand and wrote:
4 in 5
Four murders in five days. Then I added—
4 in 5—1 wk
They had all died in one week. Okay, it was redundant, I told myself, but the emphasis was different. This all began on Monday.
Before Another Dies Page 25