by David Wood
Maddock nodded sympathetically. It seemed clear what the young woman’s fate had been.
“Did your daughter know Bryce Shipman?” Spenser asked.
Nancy flinched. Hank sat up straighter.
“She knew who he was, had probably spoken to him on occasion, same as any local. But the police investigated thoroughly and could find nothing that connected him to Megan.”
“Except that her car was found close to his house.”
“Close is a relative term,” Hank said. “It was still a long hike through some rough terrain.”
Nancy let out an angry breath. “Shipman murdered our daughter.”
“You don’t know that,” Hank said gently.
“I know him.” She threw a challenging look at her husband. “That’s enough.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Spenser asked gently.
“Nancy,” Hank warned.
“What are they going to do? Take my license? I’m retired.” She turned back to Spenser. “Shipman booked a counseling session with me. Oh, he didn’t call it counseling, said he was conducting research for a novel, but it was clearly a therapy session wrapped in a flimsy cover story.”
“What kinds of things did he talk about?” Maddock asked.
“He wanted to talk about murder. Specifically, its impact on the children of murderers. I’m a child and family therapist, and he thought I might be able to offer some insight on whether or not those sorts of criminal tendencies tended to be passed along to future generations.”
“Nature versus nurture?” Maddock asked.
“Exactly, but he was mostly interested in whether or not there was a genetic component. Did serial killers tend to beget serial killers? Could tendencies toward violence be inherited? What forms of mental illness were hereditary?”
“In fairness, all of that does sound like the sort of research a murder mystery writer might conduct,” Spenser said.
“I was there. I saw it in his eyes. The intensity. The need to know. This subject was very personal to him. And he never married, even though he had plenty of prospects, especially after he hit the bestseller lists.”
“So, you think Shipman is a murderer and was worried about passing his traits along to any children he might have?” Spenser asked.
“Or maybe he’s the offspring of a murderer and was dealing with murderous impulses,” Nancy said. “He fought it for as long as he could but eventually...”
“I want to emphasize this is all conjecture,” Hank said.
“Please, he was always quizzing you about police procedure.”
“He’s an author. He wanted his books to be as accurate as possible.”
“Or maybe he wanted to know how to get away with murder,” Nancy replied.
Maddock looked at Spenser, who nodded back. It was time. He paused, wondering if he was about to turn the grieving parents’ lives upside down.
“There’s a reason we are researching Megan’s story as part of the television show.” He went on to describe the series of caverns they’d discovered, and the necklace they’d found.
Spenser took out her phone and called up one of the photographs she’d taken.
She held it up for them to see.
“Is there any chance this belonged to your daughter?”
Nancy let out a wail and buried her face in her hands. Hank looked poleaxed.
He reached out a trembling hand and took the phone from Spenser. He and his wife gazed at it for a full minute before he nodded.
“Yes. That’s Megan’s necklace. How can I find these caverns?”
“You don’t want to go there right now,” Maddock said. “We’ve turned the necklace over to the police and I’m sure they’re going to investigate.”
“Not likely,” Hank said, “but I’ll pay them a visit.”
“It’s so strange,” Nancy said. Tears streamed down her face as she gazed at the image. “It’s like the years never passed, and I’m grieving her loss all over again.”
“We’re truly sorry for the pain we’ve caused you,” Maddock said. “I’ve lost a lot of people I loved, but never had to wonder about what happened to them. I figured if I were in your position, I’d want all the information I could get.”
“You did the right thing,” Hank said, handing back the phone. “We appreciate you coming to see us.”
After assuring the Keanes that they would keep them apprised of any new discoveries, he and Spenser bade them goodbye.
“Well,” Spenser said as they squeezed into her Smart car, “Shipman is not looking very good, is he?”
“I don’t know,” Maddock said.
“Are you kidding me?” She tossed back her golden locks and turned a puzzled frown his way. “He literally tried to kill us by locking us in the dungeon room, or have you forgotten that?”
“Assuming it was him, which we don’t know for certain, that doesn’t mean he killed Megan Keane a decade ago. He might just be an overzealous treasure hunter. Gold fever makes a person do strange things. For all we know, he did it on an impulse, came back to let us out, and we were already gone.”
“Bones is right,” she said as they turned onto the main road that ran along the seashore. “You can be a real Pollyanna sometimes.”
“I’m just saying I wouldn’t want to be convicted on so little evidence and I don’t think youwould either.”
They lapsed into silence. Spenser turned on the radio just as Chris Cornell belted out the first lines of Burden in My Hand.
Follow me into the desert, as thirsty as you are.
Spenser grinned. “That’s a fitting soundtrack for the day we had.”
“How’s that?” Maddock asked.
“Seriously? It’s about a man who murders a woman and leaves her body in the desert.”
Maddock hadn’t ever paid much attention to the lyrics. “So, it’s sort of a Cocaine Blues for a younger generation.”
Spenser rolled her eyes.
“Now what did I say?”
“The song is almost as old as I am. It’s not like you’re fifty.”
Maddock smiled, a small, sad thing. “I’ve seen a lot, been through a lot. I’m old on the inside.”
“I’m going to make it my business to bring out the young man that’s trapped inside you.”
Maddock wasn’t sure.
Chapter 15
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The UFO ranch was a ghost town when Orry Rockwell pulled into the parking area. There were no vehicles to be seen, no one milling about. The silence was eerie after the bustle of the race just a few days before. He parked his Subaru in the only available shady spot, on the far side of a storage building, and headed to the ranch house. He knocked but no one answered. Damn. The one time he actually wanted to talk to Grizzly and the man was nowhere to be found. He was probably out on the racecourse somewhere, fine-tuning one of the obstacles.
Sighing, he took out a folded map of the ranch—a leftover from the race. He scanned it, took a few seconds to get his bearings, then set out across the dirt parking lot. A sudden gust of wind, hot and dusty, swept in, sending tumbleweeds rolling across his path. The sight brought back childhood memories. He smiled and shook his head. Of all the things to get nostalgic about.
He followed a steep path that wound into the hills that surrounded the ranch.
The footing was iffy and the going slow. Good thing he’d come dressed for a hike, including proper footwear. When he crested the first hill he paused, took out a pair of mini-binoculars, and scanned the horizon. Still no sign of them. Of course, he could only see a couple of obstacles from here. He’d have to keep moving. Twenty minutes and a few tall hills later and he still hadn’t spotted anyone. He checked his map again, then gave the binoculars another try. This time he spotted something. A hunched figure moving along a rocky trail.
“Who are you and why are you sneaking?” Rockwell whispered aloud. He tucked away his binoculars and set off at a quick jog. He was a tri-athlete, an adve
nture racer, and experienced outdoorsman. He was confident he could catch up with this fellow in no time without giving himself away.
The way grew steeper and the path narrower until it vanished completely. But by this time, he had caught up with his quarry.
It was Bryce Shipman!
The man was decked out in khakis and a brown cap, and wore an olive-green backpack, perfect for blending in against the backdrop of the parched landscape. He no longer skulked but moved with a confident stride. Rockwell wasn’t remotely frightened of Shipman, but something told him to remain out of sight. The man was up to something, and Rockwell wanted to know what it was. Like a cougar stalking its prey, he trailed Shipman, slipping easily behind boulders, juniper, and even the occasional cactus. The man never noticed. It was too easy.
Finally, Shipman came to a halt at a steep rock face. He stopped to take a drink of water and don a pair of gloves before beginning the climb. He moved with a grace and agility Rockwell had not expected. A minute later, he was out of sight.
Rockwell waited two minutes before following. It was a gamble. He didn’t know what waited at the top of the wall. Shipman might be right there waiting for him. But he couldn’t risk losing his quarry. He scrambled up the cliff quickly and quietly, paused at the top, just out of sight, to listen.
All was quiet.
Heart in his throat, he put a hand over the top of the ledge and pulled himself up. His subconscious conjured images of Shipman standing above him, some sort of weapon raised. But would Shipman really do something like that? Rockwell wasn’t sure. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to put himself in such a vulnerable position.
All of this flashed through his mind in the time it took for him to pull himself up and peer over the ledge. Shipman wasn’t there. He let out a relieved breath and climbed up onto the ledge.
Before him stood a huge rock pile, the boulders loosely stacked, forming narrow passageways throughout.
“He must have gone in there.”
Rockwell crept over to the closest passageway, knelt, and peered inside. He could only see a few feet in before the passageway took a sharp right. It would be like a maze in there, and no telling what or who he’d run into. Perhaps it was juvenile of him, but the idea excited him. He fished out his pocketknife and opened the largest blade. It wasn’t much, but at close quarters it might make a difference should he run into something nasty. Heart racing, he got down and crawled into the darkness.
As he worked his way deeper into the warren of passageways, he began to feel foolish. There were plenty of reasons Shipman might be poking around here that didn’t involve anything sinister. Sure, he’d been sneaking around, but maybe he simply didn’t want to be spotted trespassing on Grizzly’s property—property that had, until recently, belonged to Shipman.
Orry, you’re going to feel like an idiot if you come out on the other side to find Shipman worshiping at a magnetic vortex.
The thought had scarcely passed his mind when he heard a squeak and a metallic clang, followed closely by a muttered curse.
“What could that possibly be?”
Rockwell followed the sound, squeezing himself through narrow crevasses, banging his head on low rocks, and several times being forced to double back.
When he finally came out on the other side, Shipman was nowhere to be seen, but there was little doubt as to where he had gone. Set in the stone was a bizarre-looking iron door. Rockwell couldn’t help but make a closer inspection. Its hard surface was pitted, its edges roughly hewn. He assumed it would be locked, but when he tried it, it swung back an inch. He froze, remembering the squeak it had made. No sense sounding the alarm. Bit by bit he nudged it open until he could peer inside. A sliver of sunlight shone a narrow beam across a small, dungeon-like room. On the opposite side was a small tunnel. Where it led, who could say.
Rockwell slowly closed the door, took a few steps back, and mopped his brow.
He stared at the door, shook his head.
“This,” he said to himself, “can only be a bad thing.”
He only wished he knew what to do about it.
Chapter 16
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The Joshua Tree Saloon was a short drive from Giant Rock. Billed as the Gateway to Joshua Tree National Park, the iconic restaurant was a tourist-friendly joint with an Old West aesthetic. The exterior looked like a set out of an old television western. Before they stepped inside, they were greeted by upbeat music and the savory aroma of grilled meat.
“Nice choice,” Bones said. It was a typical bar environment, with lots of worn wood, from the floors to the furnishings to the beams supporting the ceiling. “If I’m going to listen to a long story, it’s always better to do it over a beer.
They took seats at the bar and Grizzly sprang for a round of Hangar 24 Betty, a California-brewed IPA. The label featured an old-school prop plane. Its nose art depicted a classic Hollywood-era blonde bombshell in a blue dress and red heels.
“She’s a real Betty,” Grizzly said, admiring his bottle.
Bones ordered a Mineshaft Burger, medium rare, but only after registering his complaint that the All-American Beef Dip was served on a French roll. The bartender, a purple-haired Latina, was not amused.
“She’s going to spit on your burger,” Grizzly whispered as she put in their order.
“Nah, she laughed,” Bones said.
“I think that was a wince.” Grizzly took a drink, frowned. “Remind me again what you have against the French?”
“Screw the French.”
Gambles raised his bottle. “I concur,” the Englishman said.
“You guys are hopeless,” Grizzly said. “Jean-Claude Van Damme is French, and he’s awesome.”
“He’s not French,” Gambles said. “He’s from Belgium.”
“That’s right,” Bones said. “The muscles from Brussels.”
Grizzly stared at Bones for a full three seconds. “You’re serious? I thought that was... never mind.”
“No, you have to tell us,” Bones said.
Grizzly hung his head. “I thought it was because Brussel sprouts were a big part of his training diet. It’s how he got pumped up.” He tapped his bicep.
Bones and Gambles exchanged a pitying smile.
“Don’t worry,” Bones said. “Your secret is safe with us.”
Their meals arrived, and as they dug into the juicy burgers, the conversation returned to Kirk Striker and the bombshell Gambles had dropped.
“The Black Dahlia killer?” Bones asked. “That’s difficult to believe.”
The Black Dahlia was the name given posthumously to Elizabeth Short, an aspiring actress who was found murdered in Los Angeles in 1947. Due to the graphic nature of the crime, the case had quickly gained notoriety. The ensuing police investigation was exhaustive. Over one hundred fifty suspects were identified, but no one was arrested. Short, whose face had been mutilated and her torso cut in half, quickly became the subject of all sorts of lurid gossip. It was from one such story that the Black Dahlia moniker had sprung. Over time, the unsolved mystery grew to legend status, and the Black Dahlia became a part of the cultural lexicon.
“Why hard to believe?” Gambles asked. “Someone has to be the killer. Why not Striker?”
“I think the better question would be, why Striker?”
“Please understand I don’t make this accusation recklessly. I’ve done a great deal of research on this.”
“We’re all ears,” Grizzly said.
“The police didn’t believe the so-called Black Dahlia was the victim of a serial killer because no other victims turned up in the same condition as that poor girl. I asked myself, what if there were other victims killed with a similar MO, but the bodies were never found? So, I started digging through missing persons reports and I came up with several young women who were either new to Hollywood, or on their way to Hollywood but never arrived.”
“What makes you think there’s any connection to Striker?” Bones asked.
>
“First of all, the time frame fits. Second, all the missing girls were aspiring actresses, and of those who never reached Hollywood, all were last seen east of here. Striker was well known for romancing naive young girls with Hollywood dreams. He was a successful author and always hanging around with Hollywood types. They all assumed he was a mover and shaker in the industry.”
Bones chewed his burger, nodded to show he was listening.
“I can’t link all of them to Striker, but I’ve made a few connections.” He took out his phone and called up a set of notes. “The first was a young woman named Marian Gray. Early twenties, wavy dark hair, even looked a little bit like Elizabeth Short. She disappeared in July 1942. A week after the death of Striker’s father. She was last seen in the Salton area.”
“I like it so far,” Grizzly said.
Bones was unmoved, but he knew Grizzly was approaching it from a television standpoint. In the sorts of mystery and conspiracy shows he produced, what Bones saw as a flimsy set of coincidences might seem like interesting connections in the minds of viewers.
“Six months later, five years before the Black Dahlia murder, a young actress named Jane Strine disappeared without a trace. Her family back east was concerned, but when the police investigated, her friends agreed that she ran away with a rich guy she met in a club. One of the friends who repeated that story to the police was Kirk Striker.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Bones said. “It’s a connection, gut it’s tenuous.”
“May I beg you for a modicum of faith and a measure of patience?” Gambles asked.
“Sorry. I’ll shut up and listen.”
“The victims follow a pattern of every six months. Not to the day, but close.
Victim number three is another missing actress. I found a photograph of her at a party, laughing with Kirk Striker. His arm is around her in a possessive way.”
“Score another one,” Grizzly said.
“I could find no connections between Striker and the next two missing girls, save that the timing is right, and they fit the profile.”
“I don’t get it,” Grizzly said. “Why didn’t the police recognize this pattern?”