“I don’t know, I’d give him a B-minus for the sob stories,” O’Neil judged. “Didn’t buy any sympathy from me.”
“Let’s see.” Dance found the disposition reports that Nagle had included with the copies of the tapes. “Sorry, Professor. They gave him A’s. Reduced the first charge from Burglary One to a Receiving Stolen, suspended. The second? He was released.”
“I stand corrected.”
They looked through the material for another half-hour. Nothing else was useful.
O’Neil looked at his watch. “Got to go.” Wearily he rose and she walked him outside. He scratched the dogs’ heads.
“Hope you can make it to Dad’s party tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope it’ll be over with by then.” He climbed into his Volvo and headed down the misty street.
Her phone croaked.
“ ’Lo?”
“Hey, boss.”
She could hardly hear; loud music crashed in the background. “Could you turn that down?”
“I’d have to ask the band. Anything new about Juan?”
“No change.”
“I’ll go see him tomorrow. . . . Listen—”
“I’m trying.”
“Ha. First, Pell’s aunt? Her name’s Barbara Pell. But she’s brain-fried. Bakersfield PD say she’s got Alzheimer’s or something. Doesn’t know the time of day but there’s a work shed or garage behind the house with some tools in it and some other things of Pell’s. Anybody could’ve just strolled in and walked out with the hammer. Neighbors didn’t see anything. Surprise, surprise, surprise.”
“Was that Andy Griffith?”
“Same show. Gomer Pyle.”
“Bakersfield’s going to keep an eye on the woman’s house?”
“That’s affirmative. . . . Now, boss, I got the skinny for you. On Winston.”
“Who?”
“Winston Kellogg, the FBI guy. The one Overby’s bringing in to babysit you.”
Babysit . . .
“Could you pick a different word?”
“To oversee you. To ride herd. Subjugate.”
“TJ.”
“Okay, here’s the scoop. He’s forty-four. Lives in Washington now but comes from the West Coast. Former military, army.”
Just like her late husband, she thought. The military part, as well as the age.
“Detective with Seattle PD, then joined the bureau. He’s with a division that investigates cults and related crimes. They track down the leaders, handle hostage negotiations and hook up cult members with deprogrammers. It was formed after Waco.”
The standoff in Texas between law officers and the cult run by David Koresh. The assault to rescue the members ended up tragically. The compound burned and most of the people inside died, including a number of children.
“He’s got a good rep in the bureau. He’s a bit of a straight arrow but he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. That’s a direct quote from my buddy and I have no clue what it means. Oh, one other thing, boss. The Nimue search. No VICAP or other law enforcement reports. And I’ve only checked out a few hundred screen names online. Half of them’re expired; the ones that are still active seem to belong to sixteen-year-old geeks. The real surnames are mostly European and I can’t find anyone who’s got a connection out here. But I did find a variation that’s interesting.”
“Really? What?”
“It’s an online role-playing game. You know those?”
“For a computer, right? One of those big boxes with wires in it?”
“Touché, boss. It’s set in the Middle Ages and what you do is kill trolls and dragons and nasty things and rescue damsels. Kind of what we do for a living, when you think about it. Anyway, the reason it didn’t show up at first is that it’s spelled differently—N-i-X-m-u-e. The logo is the word Nimue with a big red X in the middle, it. It’s one of the hottest games online nowadays. Hundreds of millions in sales. . . . Ah, whatever happened to Ms. Pac-Man, my personal favorite?”
“I don’t think Pell’s the sort who’s into computer games.”
“But he is the sort who killed a man who wrote software.”
“Good point. Look into that. But I’m still leaning toward it being a name or screen name.”
“Don’t worry, boss. I can check ’em both out, thanks to all the leisure time you give me.”
“Enjoying the band?”
“Double touché.”
Dance let Dylan and Patsy out for their bedtime business, then made a fast search of the property. No unrecognized cars were parked nearby. She got the animals back inside. Normally they’d sleep in the kitchen but tonight she let them have the run of the house; they made a huge racket when strangers came around. She also armed the window and door alarms.
Dance went into Maggie’s room and listened to her play a brief Mozart piece on the keyboard. Then kissed her good-night and shut out the light.
She sat for a few minutes with Wes while he told her about a new kid at the camp who’d moved to town with his parents a few months ago. They’d enjoyed playing some practice matches today.
“You want to ask him and his folks over tomorrow? To Grandpa’s birthday?”
“Naw. I don’t think so.”
After his father’s death Wes had also grown more shy and reclusive.
“You sure?”
“Maybe later. I don’t know. . . . Mom?”
“Yes, dearest son.”
An exasperated sigh.
“Yes?”
“How come you’ve still got your gun?”
Children . . . nothing whatsoever gets by them.
“Forgot all about it. It’s going in the safe right now.”
“Can I read for a while?”
“Sure. Ten minutes. What’s the book?”
“Lord of the Rings.” He opened, then closed it. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
But nothing more was forthcoming. Dance thought she knew what was on his mind. She’d talk if he wanted to. But she hoped he didn’t; it’d been a really long day.
Then he said, “Nothing,” in a tone she understood to mean: There is something but I don’t want to talk about it yet. He returned to Middle Earth.
She asked, “Where are the hobbits?” A nod at the book.
“In the Shire. The horsemen are looking for them.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“ ’Night, Mom.”
Dance slipped the Glock into the safe. She reset the lock to a simple three-digit code, which she could open in the dark. She tried it now, with her eyes closed. It took no more than two seconds.
She showered, donned sweats and slipped under the thick comforter, the sorrows of the day wafting around her like the scent of lavender from the potpourri dish nearby.
Where are you? she thought to Daniel Pell. Who’s your partner?
What are you doing at this moment? Sleeping? Driving through neighborhoods, looking for someone or something? Are you planning to kill again?
How can I figure out what you have in mind, staying close?
Drifting off to sleep, she heard in her mind lines from the tape she and Michael O’Neil had just listened to.
“And I don’t have any children myself, either. That’s a regret, I must say. . . . But I’m a young man. I’ve got time, right?”
“Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there’s no reason in the world you couldn’t have a family of your own.”
Dance’s eyes opened. She lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at a configuration of shadows on the ceiling. Then, pulling on slippers, she made her way into the living room. “Go back to sleep,” she said to the two dogs, who nonetheless continued to watch her attentively for the next hour or so as she prowled once again through the box that Morton Nagle had prepared for her.
TUESDAY
Chapter 21
Kathryn Dance, TJ beside her, was in Charles Overby’s corner office, early-morning rain pelting the windows. Tourists thought the climate in Monterey Bay tended tow
ard frequent overcasts threatening showers. In fact, the area was usually desperate for rain; the gray overhead was nothing more than standard-issue West Coast fog. Today, however, the precipitation was the real thing.
“I need something, Charles.”
“What’s that?”
“An okay for some expenses.”
“For what?”
“We’re not making any headway. There’re no leads from Capitola, the forensics aren’t giving us any answers, no sightings of him . . . and most important I don’t know why he’s staying in the area.”
“What do you mean, expenses?” Charles Overby was a man of focus.
“I want the three women who were in the Family.”
“Arrest them? I thought they were in the clear.”
“No, I want to interview them. They lived with him; they’ve got to know him pretty well.”
Oh, if you get your act together, Daniel, there’s no reason in the world you couldn’t have a family of your own. . . .
It was this line from the police interview tape that had inspired the idea.
A to B to X . . .
“We want to hold a Family reunion,” said cheerful TJ. She knew he’d been partying late but his round face, under the curly red hair, was as fresh as if he’d walked out of a spa.
Overby ignored him. “But why would they want to help us? They’d be sympathetic to him, wouldn’t they?”
“No. I’ve talked to two of them, and they have no sympathy for Pell. The third changed her identity, to put that whole life behind her.”
“Why bring them here? Why not interview them where they live?”
“I want them together. It’s a gestalt interviewing approach. Their memories would trigger each other’s. I was up till two reading about them. Rebecca wasn’t with the Family very long—just a few months—but Linda lived with Pell for over a year, and Samantha for two.”
“Have you already talked to them?” The question was coy, as if he suspected her of pulling an end run.
“No,” Dance said. “I wanted to ask you first.”
He seemed satisfied that he wasn’t being outmaneuvered. Still, he shook his head. “Airfare, guards, transportation . . . red tape. I really doubt I could get it through Sacramento. It’s too out of the box.” He noticed a frayed thread on his cuff and plucked it out. “I’m afraid I have to say no. Utah. I’m sure that’s where he’s headed now. After the scare at Moss Landing. It’d be crazy for him to stay around. Is the USP surveillance team up and running?”
“Yep,” TJ told him.
“Utah’d be good. Real good.”
Meaning, Dance understood: They nail him and CBI gets the credit, with no more loss of life in California. USP misses him, it’s their flub.
“Charles, I’m sure Utah’s a false lead. He’s not going to point us there and—”
“Unless,” her boss said triumphantly, “it’s a double twist. Think about it.”
“I did, and it’s not Pell’s profile. I really want to go forward with my idea.”
“I’m not sure. . . .”
A voice from behind her. “Can I ask what that idea is?”
Dance turned to see a man in a dark suit, powder blue shirt and striped blue-and-black tie. Not classically handsome—he had a bit of a belly, prominent ears and, if he were to look down, a double chin would blossom. But he had unwavering, amused brown eyes and a flop of hair, identical brown, that hung over his forehead. His posture and appearance suggested an easygoing nature. He had a faint smile on narrow lips.
Overby asked, “Can I help you?”
Stepping closer, the man offered an FBI identification card. Special Agent Winston Kellogg.
“The babysitter is in the building,” TJ said, sotto voce, his hand over his mouth. She ignored him.
“Charles Overby. Thanks for coming, Agent Kellogg.”
“Please, call me Win. I’m with the bureau’s MVCC.”
“That’s—”
“Multiple Victims Coercive Crimes Division.”
“That’s the new term for cults?” Dance asked.
“We used to call it Cult Unit actually. But that wasn’t PCP.”
TJ frowned. “Drugs?”
“Not a politically correct phrase.”
She laughed. “I’m Kathryn Dance.”
“TJ Scanlon.”
“Thomas Jefferson?”
TJ gave a cryptic smile. Even Dance didn’t know his full name. It might even have been just TJ.
Addressing all of the CBI agents, Kellogg offered, “I want to say something up front. Yeah, I’m the Fed. But I don’t want to ruffle feathers. I’m here as a consultant—to give you whatever insights I can about how Pell thinks and acts. I’m happy to take the backseat.”
Even if he didn’t mean it 100 percent, Dance gave him credit for the reassurance. It was unusual in the world of law enforcement egos to hear one of the Washington folk say something like this.
“Appreciate that,” Overby said.
Kellogg turned to the CBI chief. “Have to say that was a good call of yours yesterday, checking out the restaurants. I never would’ve thought of that one.”
Overby hesitated, then said, “Actually, I think I told Amy Grabe that Kathryn here came up with that idea.”
TJ softly cleared his throat and Dance didn’t dare look his way.
“Well, whoever, it was a good idea.” He turned to Dance. “And what were you suggesting just now?”
Dance reiterated it.
The FBI agent nodded. “Getting the Family back together. Good. Very good. They’ve gone through a process of deprogramming by now. Even if they haven’t seen therapists, the passage of time alone would take care of any remnants of Stockholm syndrome. I really doubt they’d have any loyalty to him. I think we should pursue it.”
There was silence for a moment. Dance wasn’t going to bail out Overby, who finally said, “It is a good idea. Absolutely. The only problem is our budget. See, recently we—”
“We’ll pay,” Kellogg said. Then he shut up and simply stared at Overby.
Dance wanted to laugh.
“You?”
“I’ll get a bureau jet to fly them here, if we need one. Sound okay to you?”
The CBI chief, robbed of the only argument he could think of on such short notice, said, “How can we refuse a Christmas present from Uncle Sam? Thanks, amigo.”
• • •
Dance, Kellogg and TJ were in her office, when Michael O’Neil stepped inside. He shook the FBI agent’s hand, and they introduced themselves.
“No more hits on the forensics from Moss Landing,” he said, “but we’re hopeful about the Pastures of Heaven and vineyards. We’ve got health department people sampling products too. In case he’s adulterated them with acid.” He explained to Kellogg about the trace found in the Thunderbird during Pell’s escape.
“Any reason why he’d do that?”
“Diversion. Or maybe he just wants to hurt people.”
“Physical evidence isn’t my expertise, but sounds like a good lead.” Dance noted that the FBI agent had been looking aside as O’Neil gave him the details, concentrating hard as he memorized them.
Then Kellogg said, “It might be helpful to give you some insights into the cult mentality. At MVCC we’ve put together a general profile, and I’m sure some or all of it applies to Pell. I hope it’ll help you formulate a strategy.”
“Good,” O’Neil said. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen anybody quite like this guy.”
Dance’s initial skepticism about a cult expert’s usefulness had faded now that it was clear Pell had an agenda they couldn’t identify. She wasn’t sure that the killer was, in fact, like any other perp she’d come across.
Kellogg leaned against her desk. “First, like the name of my unit suggests, we consider the members of a cult victims, which they certainly are. But we have to remember that they can be just as dangerous as the leader. Charles Manson wasn’t even present at the Tate-La Bianca k
illings. It was the members who committed the murders.
“Now, in speaking of the leader, I’ll tend to say ‘he,’ but women can be just as effective and as ruthless as men. And often they’re more devious.
“So here’s the basic profile. A cult leader isn’t accountable to any authority except his own. He’s always in charge one hundred percent. He dictates how the subjects spend every minute of their time. He’ll assign work and keep them occupied, even if it’s just busywork. They should never have any free time to think independently.
“A cult leader creates his own morality—which is defined solely as what’s good for him and what will perpetuate the cult. External laws are irrelevant. He’ll make the subjects believe it’s morally right to do what he tells them—or what he suggests. Cult leaders are masters at getting their message across in very subtle ways, so that even if they’re caught on a wiretap their comments won’t incriminate them specifically. But the subjects understand the shorthand.
“He’ll polarize issues and create conflicts based on them versus us, black and white. The cult is right and anyone who’s not in the cult is wrong and wants to destroy them.
“He won’t allow any dissent. He’ll take extreme views, outrageous views, and wait for a subject to question him—to test loyalty. Subjects are expected to give everything to him—their time, their money.”
Dance recalled the prison conversation, the $9,200. She said, “Sounds like the woman is financing Pell’s whole escape.”
Kellogg nodded. “They’re also expected to make their bodies available. And hand over their children sometimes.
“He’ll exercise absolute control over the subjects. They have to give up their pasts. He’ll give them new names, something he chooses. He’ll tend to pick vulnerable people and play on their insecurities. He looks for loners and makes them abandon their friends and family. They come to see him as a source of support and nurture. He’ll threaten to withhold himself from them—and that’s his most powerful weapon.
“Okay, I could go on for hours but that gives you a rough idea of Daniel Pell’s thought processes.” Kellogg lifted his hands. He seemed like a professor. “What does all this mean for us? For one thing, it says something about his vulnerabilities. It’s tiring to be a cult leader. You have to monitor your members constantly, look for dissension, eradicate it as soon as you find it. So when external influences exist—like out on the street—they’re particularly wary. In their own environments, though, they’re more relaxed. And therefore more careless and vulnerable.
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