by Jacob Stone
Morris looked at the hardened expressions worn by his investigators. These were seasoned ex-cops who’d seen it all and knew they were in a bad situation. Gloria Finston looked more preoccupied than worried. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“All ATF, Homeland Security, and FBI agents who were added to the investigation yesterday are now being deployed in one of two ways—investigating maintenance techs employed by oil companies with wells in the Los Angeles area, or securing the local airfields since this maniac may be planning to use a small plane to trigger the bombs. Hadley’s also not going to be providing us any more personnel. This is leaving us thinner than I had hoped, but we’re not going to just sit here and wait until four o’clock.”
“What’s the plan? For us to hightail it out of LA?” Polk asked with a straight face.
“That’s one way to go. But I was thinking instead we try to catch this bastard.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been trying to do?” Lemmon asked.
“Yeah, and he’s been doing a good job running us around in circles. But we’re now going to take the game to him. This guy has an obsession with Rube Goldberg machines, and I asked Adam yesterday to put together a list of Rube Goldberg aficionados in the area.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” Lemmon said.
“It appears there is.” Morris picked up a copy of the list Felger had put together and gave it a quick look. “According to Adam’s research there are seven people in the greater LA area who’ve posted Rube Goldberg machine videos on YouTube or elsewhere on the Internet, four of whom professionally build these machines. He also added thirteen names of area people who are members of different Rube Goldberg interest groups.”
“There are people who make money building these crazy things?” Polk asked.
“Supposedly.”
“Funny world. Where is computer boy?”
“Adam’s busy on another task.” Morris handed copies of the list to Bogle, Polk, and Lemmon. “We’re going out together in pairs. This maniac is too dangerous for us to tackle alone. Charlie and I will take the names east of Interstate 110. That divides things up evenly. You’ll see that some names on the list have an ‘N’ next to them. That means Adam was able to determine either by photos or age they’re not the killer, but we still need to show them the police sketches since they might know him.”
“Since they might be traveling in the same circles,” Bogle remarked.
“Exactly. So if you get any other names, call Adam and he’ll do whatever preliminary research he can and assign the person to the appropriate team.”
Polk let out a low groan. “It’s after one now. We each have ten of these Rube Goldberg aficionados to visit in less than three hours, assuming this psycho plays fair, and we got a good chance of more names being added to our list. Fred and me have to go as far as Ojai, which by itself is an hour-and-a-half drive. The feds or LAPD can’t give us any help?”
“I asked and was given a flat no. They all claim they’re being stretched too much by today’s developments.” Morris smiled thinly. “Hadley also called it a fool’s errand before hanging up on me.”
“What do you think?” Lemmon asked the FBI profiler.
“I think we can safely say the killer has invested a great deal of his ego in constructing these types of contraptions,” Finston said. “It’s reasonable to assume that he has met others in the area who share his interest.”
“How come you look so conflicted then?” Lemmon asked, digging in.
She showed one of her tiny v smiles, although the effort seemed strained. “It’s not over this, but his purpose for leaving the latest victim’s body and the flash drive for us to find.”
“He’s just taunting us,” Polk said, his thick forearms folded across his chest. “He wants to let us know what’s coming.”
“That’s part of it,” Finston conceded. “But he has other purposes. He left what he did to act as the final domino in his machine. They’re supposed to be clues that lead us to the triggering event for his Armageddon.”
Morris said, “I called Annie fifteen minutes ago. She’s at Blankenford’s home now and is tearing it apart looking for any sort of clue the maniac might’ve left. If there’s something there, she’ll find it and let me know.”
“I don’t think this poor unfortunate film director is meant to lead us to the triggering event. Instead it’s something about the movie.”
Morris grunted noncommittally over that possibility. “I’ll ask Adam to look more into that idea. Gloria, will you provide Adam with whatever assistance he needs with his current task?”
“Of course.”
The meeting broke up with Polk and Lemmon making a beeline out of the MBI office suite.
On the way out, Morris stopped off to talk with Felger.
Chapter 63
Morris caught up to Bogle in the parking lot. He offered to drive and Bogle didn’t argue. They’d barely gotten underway when Bogle commented that he had called his ex earlier.
“I told her to round up the kids and drive out of LA,” he said.
“Is she going to do that?”
“Yeah. She’s heading out to the desert until this blows over.” He chuckled. “She’s either going to be eternally grateful, or she’s going to want my head on a stick.”
“I hate to say this, but I’m hoping for the latter.”
“Me too.” Bogle gave Morris a sideways glance. “How about Natalie and Rachel? Did you send them packing?”
“I tried, but no dice.” Morris made a face. “Nat flatly refused to go. I didn’t even bother with Rachel. I would’ve gotten nowhere with her. Out of the three of them, Parker’s the least bullheaded.”
“You’re thinking then that this could actually happen?”
Before Morris could answer, his cellphone rang. It was Felger. He put the call on speaker.
“I was able to get ahold of a sister of one of the guys on the list,” Felger said. “Her name’s Lila Farnsworth, and she lives in New Jersey. Her brother is Jason Dorsage. He was one of them that I wasn’t able to find any photos from the Internet. You’re going to want to hear what she has to say.”
A woman’s voice came on then. “Hello? Is there someone I’m supposed to be talking to about Jason?”
“Yes, Ms. Farnsworth, my name is Morris Brick. Did my associate Adam Felger tell you what this is about?”
“You think Jason might be killing those actresses in Los Angeles.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen my brother in years, and I was never close to him. I don’t know what he’s capable of doing.”
“Were you shown the police sketches?”
“Your associate texted them over. It could be him but I can’t tell you for sure. I’ve never seen him with his head shaved, and he’s not blond. His hair is dark brown, and he always kept it long and shaggy when he was home.”
“Home being New Jersey?”
“Yes, we grew up in Short Hills. I still live there. My brother moved to California after college. He wouldn’t have gone to college except Dad made it one of the conditions for him to get his trust fund.”
“How much was it?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I’m guessing it was the same as mine and Barb’s. Fifteen million dollars.”
“Barb? A sister? Would she have kept in touch with Jason?”
“No. She had less to do with him than I did. And I had as little to do with him as possible.”
“How about your parents?”
“My dad died five years ago, and by the way, Jason didn’t go to the funeral, not that I expected him to. If my mom has anything to do with him, I couldn’t tell you. My parents divorced when we were kids, and she sold her house in Short Hills and moved permanently to Europe when I was in college
. I couldn’t even tell you if she’s still alive.”
“Did you know whether Jason was ever interested in something called a Rube Goldberg machine?”
She let out a short, disgusted laugh. “He was doing that stuff back in high school, and took over our basement with it. Vivian was not happy.”
“Vivian?”
“My dad’s second wife. And don’t ask whether she could be in touch with Jason. They barely tolerated each other. But about those stupid thingamajigs, Jason wanted to skip college and make his life’s work building them. I remember him getting into a fight with my dad over it, and the idiot bet his trust fund that he could make a hundred thousand dollars a year doing it. Either through dumb luck or some sort of scam I haven’t figured out, he managed to do that. I think the day my dad signed over the trust fund was the last day he ever saw or heard from my brother. Not a big loss, if you ask me.”
“Do you have any pictures of Jason? We’ve been having trouble finding one.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. I don’t know where you could get one. Maybe from his high school or college yearbooks?”
“Where’d he go to school?”
“All of us went to Avery Academy here in Short Hills for high school. I couldn’t tell you where he went to college. That was how much interest I had in him.”
“Anything else you can think of that might help?”
“There is something. As far as I could tell he only had two friends throughout high school, both of them geeky losers. One of them was arrested for stabbing to death another kid who was supposedly bullying him. The other got run over by a train a few weeks later, and the story that came out later was he got drunk and passed out on the tracks. This happened when I was a junior, so Jason would’ve been a freshman. It always seemed a little peculiar to me, but if anyone ever suspected Jason of being involved, nobody ever did anything about it. Does that help you at all?”
“A good deal, actually. If you think of anything else, please call.”
Bogle was studying Felger’s list. He told Morris that Jason Dorsage had a Long Beach address.
Morris had been driving back roads to get to a Compton address. He reversed course so he could get onto the 405 South heading to Long Beach.
“She might’ve checked off a few of the boxes in the profile, but she didn’t give us anything concrete to prove he’s our guy,” Bogle said.
“No, she didn’t.”
“There’s certainly no love lost between them, that’s for sure. It could also be some wishful thinking on her part. Who knows? She might get a piece of his trust fund if he goes to prison for committing a felony.”
“It’s possible,” Morris admitted.
“But you like him for this.”
“I’ll reserve judgment until I see what he looks like.”
“Let’s see if I can speed that up.”
Bogle called Vernon Howard. The Long Beach detective answered after the fourth ring, his voice more gravelly than the deep base Bogle had heard recently.
“Charlie? Good to hear from you, man. I’m barbecuing up some sausage and steaks later this afternoon. Always room for one more.”
“I’d like to, but no rest for the weary.”
“You’re working, huh? Is this about Karl Crawford?”
“Yes and no. It’s related, I think, but it’s much bigger. You’d be doing me a huge favor if you could have one of your Long Beach officers take a photo of a local resident and text it to me at this number. The guy might be dangerous, so probably a good idea to send two officers to see him. And if he looks enough like the police sketches we’ve put out for the psycho killing those actresses, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hold him.”
“You think he could be that guy?”
“A chance. Maybe only a small one. So for God’s sake don’t have them go in with guns blazing.”
Howard’s voice took on a more formal tone as he asked how SPMK was mixed in with Crawford’s disappearance.
“It’s complicated. Let me tell you next week. I should have it pieced together by then. I’ll text you the guy’s name and address.”
Howard sounded peeved about not being given more information, but he didn’t push it, and promised he’d get Long Beach officers on it right away. After Bogle got off the phone, he texted Howard the information he promised.
For several minutes they drove in silence, broken only by the sporadic thumping of Morris’s fingers against the steering wheel.
“We might as well wait until we see the photo before getting anyone else involved,” Bogle suggested. “If he looks enough like the killer, Long Beach PD will take him into custody.”
“Or they’ll be walking into a trap.”
“We don’t know he’s our guy,” Bogle argued.
Morris’s drumming stopped, and a resolve hardened his flinty gray eyes. He called Doug Gilman. The mayor’s deputy assistant sounded harried.
“Tell me you have good news,” Gilman said.
“We’ve got a lead. I should know soon if it’s SPMK.”
“Jesus, I hope so. Morris, this is a nightmare. We’ve found four more bombs. Right now we’re trying to get the governor to deploy the National Guard so we can search these oil wells faster, while at the same time working on an evacuation plan in case they start blowing up. And on top of that, we’re trying to secure the air fields.”
“I don’t think he’s planning to trigger the bombs with a small plane.”
“No? Then how?”
“The same way he was going to trigger those machine guns.”
“With a toy car?”
“No, but the same idea. With one or more drones that have been preprogrammed with GPS coordinates. If you get the National Guard involved, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have sharpshooters posted to shoot down any drone. The question then would be the reach of the transmitter he’s using to activate the bombs.”
“Ah hell,” Gilman said.
“Yeah, I know,” Morris agreed.
Chapter 64
Morris and Bogle were fifteen minutes outside of Long Beach when Bogle got a call back from Vernon Howard. Bogle put it on speaker.
“Sorry to disappoint you. I sent a squad car over to the address you gave me but the guy’s not home,” Howard said.
“Are they sure?”
“As much as they could be. No one answered, no car in the driveway, and neighbors haven’t seen him in days. They showed the sketches around and none of the neighbors were willing to say he’s SPMK. But none of them were willing to say he’s definitely not. Something strange. I asked to have his license photo from the DMV database, and it’s not there. He’s got a license, but his photo’s missing.”
“He must’ve paid someone to remove it.”
“Could be. Should we be putting out an APB on this guy?”
“All we have right now is a hunch and a missing DMV photo. It would’ve helped if a neighbor could’ve identified him as SPMK.”
“Yeah, it would’ve. Keep me posted.”
Bogle put his phone away and asked Morris what he wanted to do.
“I brought a lock pick along,” Morris said. “We’ll see what we can find inside of Dorsage’s residence. For all we know he might be passed out and in an OxyContin stupor.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Bogle said.
Less than a minute later Morris got a call from Adam Felger. “I found the connection,” Felger said.
Confused, Morris asked what he was talking about.
“The reason SPMK left Todd Blankenford’s body at MBI. The clue he wanted to leave you. It turns out The Satan Plan was filmed right outside of Long Beach at a movie studio that was shuttered twelve years ago. Five years ago the property was bought by Kinetic Productions. It took some digging, and I had to unravel three different shell companies, but any
guesses who owns it?”
Morris gave him the obvious answer. “Jason Dorsage.”
“Yep. I’ll text over the address.”
“Text it to Charlie’s phone.”
“Will do.”
Bogle received the text and after some fiddling with his cell phone he told Morris they were two minutes away if he took the next left. Morris floored the gas and took the illegal left turn going eighty and ignoring the horn blasts from the angry drivers he cut off. While this was going on, Bogle tried calling Police Commissioner Martin Hadley, got no answer, and next called Vernon Howard.
“We got something solid,” he told Howard. As he explained what they had, Morris pulled over so he could collect a chunk of concrete from the side of the road. Bogle didn’t need to ask what the concrete was for, but did suggest they wait for Long Beach PD.
“It’s going to take them time to mobilize and get here,” Morris said. “We both know this maniac has no plans on waiting until four. As soon as he’s ready he’s going to be unleashing his drones, or whatever he’s planning to use to trigger those bombs. Besides, as private citizens we can do things the police can’t.”
“We’re still being deputized by the mayor’s office.”
Morris dug his cell phone out of his pocket as he fought the wheel to keep the car from fishtailing. He handed it to Bogle.
“Text a note of resignation to Doug Gilman effective immediately.”
Bogle did this, then pulled his pistol from a shoulder harness so he could check that the magazine was loaded and there was a bullet in the chamber. They both saw the sign for Kinetic Productions. The building was on a private drive and sat parallel to the road. While there was no gate, there was a surveillance camera.
“He’s going to know we’re coming,” Bogle pointed out.
“Only if he’s watching the monitor. I’m betting he’s too busy right now getting things ready.”
Morris drove down the private drive and pulled into a parking lot. He angled the car so it was facing the building’s entrance and came to a stop when he was a hundred yards from it. “Front or back?” he asked Bogle.