The Naked Eye

by Iris Johansen

  “In any case, Colby is dead.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Believe it.” Griffin circled around, and instead of sitting behind his desk, he took the seat next to Kendra as he did every time he was trying to show empathy or gently break bad news to one of his underlings.

  She just found it annoying.

  “Two different law-enforcement agencies investigated your claims,” Griffin said. “They couldn’t find any proof. And neither could you.”

  “Colby had help on the outside. If you remember, I was there when Myatt, Colby’s psycho partner, took his last breath on Earth. I talked to him. I found his shopping list that included purchase of that zombie drug that would make Colby appear dead if administered. And we found actual traces of the substances that would make the plan possible.”

  “Products of a delusional, diseased mind.”

  “That diseased mind concocted plans that allowed him to kill half a dozen people while he was working to free Colby from that prison. He worshipped Colby and was the perfect copycat. He would have done anything to free him.”

  “Which is why we took it seriously enough to investigate. Listen, if I thought Colby was really out there, I’d have every agent, every specialist, every secretary on the clock to hunt him down. Hell, even I would be out there pounding the pavement.”

  “If you’d done all of that four months ago, we might have him now,” she said baldly.

  “Tactful, as usual. You’ve been on the alert all this time, and it hasn’t brought you any closer.”

  “He’s planning something.”

  “So you keep telling us. But again, no actual proof.”

  “I know how his mind works.”

  “Worked. Past tense.”

  “No one will be happier than I if you’re right. But I think he’s spent years laying the groundwork for this.”

  “Laying the groundwork … from death row?”

  “Other people have underestimated Eric Colby. Almost all of them are now dead.”

  “Two of his victims were my own men. Believe me, I don’t need you to remind me.”

  “Look, I don’t want it to be true. But that’s no reason to just look the other way.”

  Griffin impatiently pushed back the chair with the backs of his legs. Empathy time was obviously over. “That’s not what’s happening.”

  “The hell it isn’t.”

  He turned away from her. “We’re done here.”

  “You won’t help me with this? That’s it then?”

  He picked up the two note pages she’d given him. “Yes. Unless you want me to send these out on the wire.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful.” He smiled, obviously pleased to have gotten such a rise from her. “Okay, I’ll reach out to Redondo Beach PD and see what’s going on with the crime photos. Happy?”

  “For now.”

  “It’s all I can do for you. You really haven’t given me anything else to work on.”

  No one knew that better than Kendra. She supposed she was lucky with this much response. “I know that, Griffin.” She got to her feet. “I’m trying, dammit.”

  El Cajon Boulevard

  City Heights

  IT WAS LIKE THEY WERE ALL moving in slow motion.

  Or perhaps underwater, taking their evening strolls in the deep side of the pool.

  Moving slower, talking slower, their tiny brains unable to function at the same level as his.

  Imbeciles.

  Colby glanced around the busy street in the East San Diego neighborhood of City Heights, surrounded by people, yet struck by the sensation that he was occupying a different physical space than the rest of these dim-witted souls. He’d felt this way years before his incarceration, but the feeling had lately become more pronounced. No wonder he was always several steps ahead of the rest of the world. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before everyone would appear to be standing perfectly still. Amazing. Had Einstein and Newton felt like this?

  Colby turned the corner. The neighborhood had changed. Many of the empty storefronts were now populated by ethnic restaurants, and he could see that there had been some effort to revitalize this gang-infested hellhole. Nice try, he thought, but no way this place was coming back.

  But it would suit his needs for the next couple of weeks.

  He approached a shuttered storefront and pressed the doorbell. Did this damned thing even work anymore? He glanced up and saw curtains rustling in the second-story apartment.

  A wrinkled old woman’s face appeared, frozen in its perpetual scowl. Some things never changed. She pointed behind her, then disappeared. He walked down a narrow alleyway between the buildings, sidestepping two syringes and a condom as he made his way around to the well-hidden rear entrance. The door creaked open before he even reached it.

  “Get in here. Get in here!”

  Colby smiled as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Don’t worry, Pamela. I didn’t let the germs inside.”

  Pamela Gatlin lowered the surgical mask she held over her nose and mouth. She was in her late eighties, but she always looked the same—wrinkled, freckled, and no eyebrows. “Been awhile,” she said. “Wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

  Poor ignorant Pamela, he thought, amused. Of course she had missed the news of his arrest, conviction, and execution. She had no phone, no TV, and read only her Bible day after day. The perfect caretaker.

  “I told you I’d be back,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure you’d still be alive. I thought you might be decaying in that floral chair with flies buzzing around you.”

  She cackled. “That’ll happen one day, but not anytime soon. I still got a lot of kick left in me.”

  “I believe it.”

  “When the time comes, you’ll take care of me. You promised.”

  “Yes, I did. At the Ruiz Cemetery, next to your son.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  Never mind the plastic tub and jugs of hydrochloric acid that were waiting in the cellar for her, Colby thought. Where, he remembered with amusement, her arrogant son had actually endured his final, terrifying moments on Earth.

  “You take care of me, Pamela, and I take care of you. That’s always been the deal.” He looked up the dark staircase that led to the upstairs apartment. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yep. Guess you’ve been paying the utilities on time, ’cause they haven’t tried to shut anything off.”

  “I’ve made arrangements. Everything will continue to be paid by the Euripides Trust until after you’re gone. Probably until after I’m gone. Has anyone been asking for me?”

  “Not personally. I’ve had some people who’ve been asking for the owner, ’cause they want to buy the place. You never gave me a way to get hold of you, so I couldn’t even let you know.” She frowned. “You really ought to tell me your last name.”

  Colby smiled. He’d covered his tracks well. There was no way anyone could trace this place to him. “The less you know, the better. Safer for you. Safer for me. Go on upstairs. I have work to do in the cellar. I’ll look in on you before I leave.”

  She climbed the stairs, mumbling something to herself all the way. He’d have to check out the apartment later, to make sure no one else had been there. Highly unlikely, he thought. Colby turned to the boarded-up cellar and pried loose the large sheet of plywood. It was painted black, rendering it almost invisible against the dark walls of the empty stockroom.

  Colby entered what appeared to be a small closet. In the back of the compartment, he gripped the built-in shelves and pulled them toward him, revealing a steep stairway that led down to the windowless cellar. Stale, musty air wafted upward. God he loved that smell. He felt for the switch, pressed, and light flooded the room below.

  Each step creaked as he made his way down. He hadn’t been sure if he would ever see this place again, but it now seemed inevitable that he should return. He finally reached the bottom. He turne
d.

  Ah, at last.

  A plastic-lined embalming table centered the room, equipped with nylon wrist and ankle restraints. Acoustic panels covered every inch of the walls and ceiling, rendering the room virtually soundproof.

  A row of heavy plastic bags lined the back wall. They contained his tools and instruments, sealed and waiting to be pressed into service. He smiled. He knew he had several hours of work ahead of him, but he didn’t mind. He was back in his element. He had to prepare his chamber for a very special guest.

  Ah, there was no place like home …

  CHAPTER 4

  KENDRA SPENT THE NEXT MORNING conducting three back-to-back music-therapy sessions in her office studio, and the last appointment ended with a difficult conversation with the wife of an eighty-eight-year-old Alzheimer’s patient. It had become apparent that the man would never respond to this type of therapy, and Kendra couldn’t waste his time when he could pursue other courses of action that might actually help him. His wife was still clinging to hope, trying to convince herself that he was showing improvement.

  It just wasn’t happening.

  The woman fought back tears as she led her husband out of the studio.

  Kendra slowly sat down on the piano bench. Shit. Some days, her successes weren’t enough to erase the disappointment of her failures.

  “You handled that very well,” Adam Lynch said as he stepped out from the small observation room. Kendra had been aware of his entering from the hallway outside, but she was too involved in her conversation to pay him much mind.

  “My sessions are private, Lynch. You can’t just barge in here like this. I know for a fact that the hallway door to the observation room was locked.”

  “Really? So how did I get in?”

  “You picked it, of course. Well done. It’s supposed to be a tamper-proof lock.”

  “No such thing.” He crossed the studio, which was outfitted with a piano, a drum set, a xylophone, and a pair of guitars on stands. “I would have rung the bell, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “How very considerate.”

  “I heard you went to the FBI field office last night. You talked to Griffin.”

  “Word travels fast. So you probably know as much about the conversation as I do.”

  “I figure he pissed you off, you pissed him off, then you went your opposite directions. Does that about sum it up?”

  “Yeah, that’s about the shape of it.”

  “I also know about the case in Redondo Beach.”

  “Is that supposed to be significant? As far as I know, Griffin was supposed to reach out to the local PD.”

  “He already did. That’s why I’m here.”

  Kendra stood up. “So why isn’t Griffin talking to me about this himself?”

  “To be honest, he doesn’t consider it worth his time.”

  Her half smile was bittersweet. “So what else is new?”

  Lynch pulled out a flash memory stick and motioned toward a tablet computer sitting on one of the music stands. “May I?

  “Knock yourself out.”

  He picked up the tablet, inserted the stick, and pulled up a series of photos. He showed them to Kendra. “Look familiar to you?”

  “These are the official police crime photos for the Redondo Beach murder scene. I’ve already seen those.”

  “Probably not all of them. Redondo Beach PD sent over everything the photographer had. This is exactly the way the bodies looked when the building manager found them. No military hand signals, nothing like that.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “I talked to the building manager myself less than an hour ago. I e-mailed a couple of these to him. And there was a whole crowd of people there. You know what it’s like at those scenes. I seriously doubt they were repositioned.”

  Kendra took the tablet and swiped the photos. “I’m telling you, yesterday I saw half a dozen photos that—” Kendra stiffened, her eyes glued to the screen. “No way.”

  “What is it?”

  She swiped through a few more of the crime-scene pictures. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “The pictures I looked at yesterday … They weren’t of this room.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Neither do I.” She showed him one of the photos with a long shot of the apartment interior. “The room’s layout and furnishings are identical in these and the pictures I saw yesterday, so it may be the same building. But the pattern of the crown molding is different here. And I believe the lamp shade is a slightly different shape. This is a cone, and the one I saw yesterday was more tubular.”

  He studied the photo. “Are you certain? You didn’t notice the difference when you looked at those photos yesterday?”

  “The differences may not have been visible in the official police crime photos I saw. There are a lot more shots here. And even if they were visible, it’s been a few weeks. They’re not details that would have necessarily stuck with me at the time.”

  He nodded. “Okay, so we’re back to the original question. What does it mean?”

  Kendra paced across the room. “There are only a couple possibilities. Either someone went through the trouble of staging those pictures to bring to the reporter…”

  “… Or the reporter staged them to present to you,” Lynch finished.

  “But why? In either of those scenarios, why would someone go to the time and trouble? Unless…” Her gaze flew to meet Lynch’s. “You don’t think…”

  He took the tablet from her hands and quickly navigated to The Kinsley Chronicle.

  “Shit,” he said. He turned the tablet around to show her the news site’s page one headline: “Deluded FBI Consultant Believes Executed Inmate Still Alive.”

  Kendra felt her face flush with rage. “She screwed me. Unbelievable.”

  “It’s extremely easy for me to believe,” Lynch said. “But I’ve always been a hell of a lot more cynical than you.” He turned the tablet back around and skimmed the article.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Really bad.” He read in silence for a few more moments. “She’s painting you as a nutjob. There’s a healthy sprinkling of nasty quotes from police sources, both named and unnamed. Probably every cop you’ve made look bad over the years. The ‘deluded’ quote comes from one of them. And you’re quoted all the way through, but in such a way to make you appear as hysterical as possible. Why in hell did you give her an interview?”

  “I didn’t.” Kendra snatched the tablet from him and quickly read the story. It was packed with snarky, half-truths and outright lies. “That reporter, Sheila Hunter, played me. Under any other circumstances, I never would have talked to her. She found just the way in.”

  Lynch nodded. “She presented herself as an ally in a situation where allies have been scarce for you. And what’s more, she came to you seeming to have evidence that you’ve been sorely lacking.” He shrugged. “As much as I join you in despising her right now, I have to admire her strategic abilities.”

  “Spoken like the master of manipulation you are. They don’t call you ‘the Puppetmaster’ for nothing.”

  “Have I ever told you how uncomfortable I am with that nickname?”

  “Only because it reveals an ability you’d prefer to keep hidden. And at this moment, your comfort really isn’t all that important to me, Puppetmaster.” Kendra grabbed a stack of notebooks and shoved them into her leather satchel.

  “What now?”

  “I’m going to talk to Sheila Hunter.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “Just try to stop me.”

  “I will.” He grabbed her wrist as she tried to push past him. “I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. You can’t win.”

  “You think I should just shrink away without a word of protest?”

  “I’m not saying that at all. But you don’t want to give her fodder for a follow-up story. Trust me, you’ve given her too much already.”
>
  “Well, what I’m about to give her, no news organization could ever print.”

  “Wanna bet? If you go at her like a lunatic, not only will she pick out some choice quotes, she’ll record the whole thing. Just as I’m sure she did yesterday. And if you sound sufficiently deranged, that audio file will be all over the Web by the end of the afternoon.”

  “I can’t let it go, Lynch.”

  “At least let me go with you.”

  “No, this is between me and her.”

  “And possibly hundreds of thousands of readers. You’re not used to dealing with the media.”

  “I usually just ignore them.”

  “Excellent strategy. That’s exactly what you should be doing right now.”

  She thought for a moment. He was probably right. She knew all wisdom dictated he was right. But what about justice, dammit? Didn’t that count for anything?

  She turned toward the door. “Sorry, I just can’t do that. I’m talking to her alone. Lock up behind you, won’t you. You obviously won’t need a key.”

  She left the studio.

  * * *

  “SHEILA … SHEILA HUNTER!”

  Kendra ran across the plaza that fronted the Imperial Avenue headquarters of Hobart News, the media conglomerate that owned The Kinsley Chronicle. Two phone calls from her car was all she needed to know where to find Sheila, and the reporter was now practically sprinting from the building.

  Sheila pretended not to hear her, but Kendra cut her off. “It was all a big lie,” Kendra said fiercely. “That picture that you showed me yesterday.”

  “Dr. Michaels, I have a meeting I need to—”

  “Tough. You have a meeting with me right here, right now.”

  Sheila pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped it. “Look, I’m running late, so whatever you want to say to me—”

  Kendra grabbed her hand and turned it around to look at the phone’s front screen. A recording app was working away, with two graphic spools slowly spinning. Kendra pushed the apps red STOP button. “You do not have permission to record this conversation. Just as you didn’t yesterday.”

  “I stand by my story,” Sheila said.

  “Stand by it, don’t stand by it, I really don’t give a damn. The core of your story is correct. I believe Eric Colby is still alive. But until your piece appeared, he didn’t know I knew. That was a major advantage I had over him. He didn’t know I was looking for him, and now there’s a strong possibility he does.”