by Roy Johansen
Footsteps. Roth was making his break.
Joe raised his gun and bolted around the corner.
Roth hurtled though the lounge, dodging the flaming rivers of alcohol. His jacket caught fire. He tore it off as he hurtled toward the doorway.
Joe took aim.”Roth!”
Roth spun around, gun in hand. His lips curled into a twisted smile. He raised his gun.
Joe's finger tightened on the trigger, and …
The burning floor opened up and swallowed Roth.
Joe stared in shock at the spot where Roth had disappeared. Half the lounge was gone.
Screams from the burning deck below. Roth. Horrible, frantic screams from a man who knew he was already dead.
Joe ran to the edge of the floor and stared down. Nothing but fire and Roth's screams.
After a few seconds, only fire.
The boat shuddered and listed even harder. Joe pulled himself toward the glass door and pushed.
It wouldn't open.
He grabbed a chair and hurled it toward the door. The glass cracked.
He struck it again. And again. Finally the door shattered and he threw himself onto the deck outside. He turned. Something rumbled deep within the Carlottaas flames shot high into the night sky.
He jumped into the water.
Boom.
Another explosion, more intense than the last. The shock waves rammed through the water, pummeling him.
He broke the surface, dodging chunks of burning, floating debris. His lungs hurt. He couldn't breathe.
Relax, he told himself. The blast had only knocked the wind out of him. He threw back his head until the pressure on his chest eased. He inhaled deeply.
He turned toward the boat. He swore he could still hear Roth's tortured screams inside, echoing in the burning hull. Impossible, he thought. It had to be the twisting, groaning bulkheads.
At least that's what he hoped it was.
The burning hulk of the Carlottadipped lower into the water, crackling and rumbling as it slid beneath the waves.
Joe stood in the city hall media relations room, where he'd seen the mayor and other city officials conduct numerous press conferences over the years. He never thought he'dhold one there.
It had been three days since Roth's death and the fiery destruction of the Carlotta,and Joe had worked feverishly to tie up the case's loose ends and come up with some answers for the department's higher-ups and the media. Wrap it up, Henderson urged. Put an end to it.
Joe checked his notes one last time. Howe was giving a brief recap of Roth's deadly homage to the Rakkan legend. Howe had been discharged from the hospital the day before and would soon be his old self. He was concerned, however, about the likelihood of his eyebrows growing back.
Howe finished his presentation and left the podium. He whispered to Joe on the way back to his
seat,”I warmed 'em up for you, Bailey. You can thank me later.”
Joe smiled and stepped forward. “Good morning. There have been a lot of questions about things that have happened recently, and I have some answers.” Joe hit the button on his remote, displaying slides taken from the victims. “A lot has been made of the bizarre markings on the victims'skin, a mark that later appeared on my chest. This corresponds to the brand that Rakkan burned into his final set of victims. The appearance of the brand isn't specified in many versions of the story, and we assume that Roth designed his own pattern. He was very meticulous in laying the groundwork for each set of killings. This was his grand finale, and he laid clues that would enable us to finally make the Rakkan connection. This symbol was one of the clues.”
“How did he do it?” a reporter called out.
“Well, we figured out that the marks were an irritant contact dermatitis, but we didn't know how it was done.” Joe pointed to a rack of shirts left of the podium. “Those are mine. We ran some tests and discovered that almost all of my dress shirts were treated with a lye solution, colorless and almost odorless. It won't even appear on standard toxicology tests, and it was in such a diluted form that it took several days of contact before it would cause a reaction. Roth entered my apartment and drew the pattern on my shirts, which then triggered the reaction on my skin. Of course, the symbol would fall slightly differently depending on how the various shirts fit. That explains why the mark was never sharply defined on the skin. We're testing the clothes of the murder victims, and so far the results have been positive.”
Tess Wayland, standing in front with her camera crew, called out,”That doesn't explain the voices, Detective.”
Joe walked into the crowd and handed her a cordless microphone. “Care to say that again?”
She gave him a puzzled look, then spoke into the microphone.”What about the voices?”
The sound seemed to emanate throughout the room, booming and distorted. The reporters glanced around, looking for the source.
Tess smiled and spoke again. “Is this really me?” Again, her voice boomed through the room.
Joe took back the microphone. “If you're looking for speakers, they're all around you.”
“Where?”Tess asked.
Joe pointed to the tall windows lining the walls. “There.”
“I still don't see them.”
“The windows.”
She stared at him. “The windowsare the speakers?”
“Yes. I was looking at photos of places where these voices were heard, and I noticed that the one common element was the presence of large glass surfaces. Olympia Technologies recently patented a speaker technology based on a material called Terfenol-D. It was originally developed by the U.S. military for sonar applications. Metal strips of this material can conduct vibrations through any flat, glossy surface, creating specific sound waves. Roth used the same technology, applying small metal conductors along the edge of glass surfaces such as window-panes and mirrors.”
Diana Schroeder, a reporter from The Atlanta Journal-Constitution,appeared skeptical. “There's no way you could get the same sound from a room window as you could from a precision-engineered glass speaker.”
“You're right. There are too many variables—the size and thickness of the window, the build quality of the frame, and how tightly it's mounted. But remember, Roth wasn't trying to re-create the sound of a symphony orchestra. He only needed to produce the sound of one creepy-sounding voice, which is probably the best you'll get no matter how much you fine-tuned this setup.”
The reporter nodded. “Creepy like your wife's voice?”
“No,” Howe said coldly. “Creepy like you suddenly finding yourself outside, facedown on the sidewalk.”
Joe glanced reassuringly at Howe. “It's okay.” He turned back to the journalists. “Like many in his profession, Roth made a career out of deceiving the public. He was a talented illusionist even if he didn't call himself one. He may have been trying to throw me off my game by conjuring up the visits from my deceased wife and branding me with his mark, but I think there was more to it than that.”Joe stared at the slide taken of his own chest. “I've made it my career to expose paranormal scams like his, and I think he saw me as a special challenge. What better way to finish his masterpiece than to bring me down at the same time?”
Joe changed the slide to a police photo of his altered apartment.”He used this technology to reproduce my wife's voice, but he still needed to get the background information. After my apartment was rearranged, I tried to figure out how anyone could have known how things looked when my wife was alive. My first thought was photographs, but I've never had many of those. Then, later, I remembered that I used to shoot video, especially around the time that my daughter was born. I pulled the tapes out and saw that he could have gotten everything he needed from those. It would have been simple to borrow them when he was tampering with my shirts, copy the tapes, then replace them. I've been rewatching the videos and confirmed that Angela said every single thing that I heard in my apartment. She told me to be careful when I was filming her from the edge of a ba
lcony, and there are several other phrases that Roth sampled and transmitted. Our wedding video was there, so he even knew our song. We found a hacked transmitter in his rental car that he used to transmit that song and Angela's voice to me on my radio station's frequency.”
Joe hesitated. God, it felt strange to discuss Angela so coolly, so analytically, as if she were just another piece of evidence. “Anyway, these metal strips, attached to a tiny radio receiver and power source no larger than a hearing aid mechanism, could be easily placed along the edges of a mirror or windowpane, then quickly removed. They could even be placed on the outside of a window as I suspect they were at my apartment. If there were two or more windows rigged, it would be possible to create imaging effects to make it seem like the voice was coming from somewhere in the middle. That's what I've done in here.”
Joe displayed another slide.”These are fingerprints lifted from the scene. They appeared to be Angela's, but when the crime lab analyzed the skin oils for possible DNA extraction, they discovered it wasn't skin oil at all. It was cocoa butter.” Joe nodded to forensics specialist Graham Martin, who stood near Henderson at the front of the room.
“With a trace of pineapple “Martin added.
“We determined that Roth probably used an engraving press to create the prints. I wondered where he could have gotten copies of her fingerprints, but I knew there are certain professions that require a complete set to be taken. One of those professions, I discovered, happens to be the real estate industry. Angela was a leasing agent in Florida before I met her, and in that state, fingerprints of all agents are kept on file with the licensing authority. Roth most likely bribed a temp or someone else there for a copy. There's a light scratch on her right thumbprint that matches a scratch on her print in Florida. Roth scanned her prints into the press and engraved them on thin pieces of vinyl. He lightly oiled the vinyl and left her prints on my dining room table.”
A CNN reporter stood up.”Did he own an engraving press? I assume that most people don't have these things lying around.”
“No, but his employer did. The internal publications department at his music video network had one, and he would have had easy access after hours. Plus, our friends at the New York City Police Department found vinyl sample sheets in his apartment. He may have been contemplating an especially bad redecorating project, but this is more likely.”
A barrage of questions erupted from the journalists, but Joe shook his head.”I'm sorry, but I can't take any more questions right now. I hope this has been helpful.” The questions continued as he gathered his notes and quickly headed for the door. He knew he'd be fielding calls from these reporters for the next several days, but that didn't matter. There was somewhere he had to be.
Joe drove to the Charlie Brown airport and parked his car. He hoped he wasn't too late.
He walked past several small charter planes until he spotted an ambulance parked next to a Gulf-stream jet. It had to be her. He strode to the ambulance's rear doors, where two attendants pulled out a gurney and extended the wheels.
Monica Gaines looked up at Joe from the gurney.”I thought the mayor might come to see me off. Oh, well. I suppose you'll do.”
Joe smiled. “Hello, Monica. You look much better than you did the last time I saw you.”
“Considering that I was at death's door, it's not much of a compliment.”
“I just got back from the press conference. You could have appeared there too, you know.”
She smiled. “Too many unpleasant questions. I'll have one of my own when I feel better and can put the correct perspective on things.”
“I'm sure you will.” Joe spoke to the attendants. “Will you excuse us for a minute, guys?”
The attendants hesitated but stepped away after Monica waved them off.
Joe leaned close to her. “The feds cracked that Russian agent's laptop. It was very enlightening.”
She looked away with apparent disinterest.”Is that right?”
“Yes. The agent had all of you test subjects under close observation. He knew Roth was a killer, but he didn't care. With Haddenfield's program, he thought he had the Holy Grail of psychic powers. You and Haddenfield led him to believe that, didn't you?”
Monica sighed.”Do I need my lawyers present, Detective? Because if I do, we should—”
“Not necessary.” Joe leaned closer. “Haddenfield had a psychic 'dream team'there at the Crate. He conspired with you and a few others to convince Haddenfield that the program was a success. He even got the agent to grease the wheels—by bribing Councilman Talman—for you to come here and impress him with your patented serial killer investigation routine. The 'paranormal killer'angle was guaranteed to get you big headlines, wasn't it? It worked for Arthur Lan-ska in Poland in the sixties, andTricia Dere in Holland in the seventies. Plus, it fit in with the fact that the victims heard eerie voices in the days before their deaths. You make headlines with your 'spirit killer'readings, and then, if the killer is found, you just say that the spirit was working through a human instrument. That's what the other psychics did. Is that how it was supposed to go?”
Monica smiled.”Utter nonsense.”
“Roth may not have not thought so. Did you ever see him at the Crate?”
“A few times last year. Our test sessions hadn't coincided recently.”
“Well, it's possible he thought you were hitting too close to his Rakkan killings, patterned after a supernatural being wandering the countryside. He may have thought you werereal, and it scared him. So he made you his next victim.”
“Maybe he had good reason to be afraid of me.”
Joe shrugged.”In any case, tell your producer to be more careful who she spends time with. This Russian agent knew Roth was the killer, and he used your producer to find out where he was staying locally. He blackmailed Roth into admitting that Haddenfield was cooking his results.”
Monica nodded. “The FBI told us that. But how did he know that Roth was the killer?”
“During the course of the study, his agency had you all under close observation. It was a big deal to them. That's how they happened to find out that Roth was our serial murderer.”
“This is all very interesting, but I've already given the FBI my full cooperation.”
“Without telling them much of anything. Don't worry, Monica. They want to keep the Defense Department study classified, so they're not going to make a big fuss about this. They didn't even want me to discuss it at the press conference.”
“That must have been torture for you.”
“Not really. We stopped a killer, and that's what matters.” He smiled. “I'm glad you're going to be okay.”
“Much to my nurse's chagrin. She'll have to find another ghoulish subject for her camera.”
“You read her lips, didn't you?”
“Pardon?”
“I have to admire you. You were in so much pain, but it must have been second nature for you. We used the same trick on Talman. We read his lips when he talked on the pay phone outside your room. You read your nurse's lips, didn't you?”
Her eyes twinkled.”Is that what you think?”
He nodded. “You're in good company. Some of the greatest supposed psychics in history were skilled lip-readers. It comes in handy before performances when you scan the crowd from behind the curtain. You can pick up all kinds of things, can't you?”
Monica nodded.”I imagine you would.”
“That's how you found out about my argument with my daughter, and maybe even about Carla's secret romance. I've determined that each of us had telephone conversations within sight of you—conversations that would have tipped you off to these things. Add a few good research contacts—including a source at one of the credit reporting bureaus—and you could come up with all kinds of information about people. Like the fact that Howe had recently spent six thousand dollars at a jewelry store. When an unmarried cop spends that much at a place like that, there aren't many other possibilities. You also could have f
ound out that I'd recently dropped seven hundred at an auto repair shop. You filled in the blanks with some educated guesses.”
“Well, will you at least give me credit for the name of the song that Glen Murphy was working on?”
“'Nothing but the Stars'? I was impressed until my daughter showed me Glen Murphy's fan website.
There were daily updates on the making of his new album. If you had read that, you could have seen that Murphy was working on 'Nothing but the Stars'during the last week of his life.”
IfI'd visited the website.”
“That's the funny thing. Murphy's people were very accommodating, and they gave us the website visitor logs. A few of the IP addresses were from Canada, and a guy at the station checked them out. One of them belongs to you. You visited the website just before coming to Murphy's murder scene that morning.”
Monica shook her head. “It must have been someone at my production company.”
“If you say so.”
She patted his hand.”I'm sorry, Joe.”
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
“I'm used to it, Monica. It's my job.”
“I'm not confirming anything you said, but it's obvious I haven't made a believer of you. Maybe you'll give me another chance someday.”
“You never know.”
“It was nice meeting you, Joe Bailey.”
“The pleasure was mine.”
She looked at him quizzically.
He smiled.”At least it's been interesting.”
“You're right about that. By the way, my offer stands. Anytime you'd like to be a guest on my show, we'll be happy to have you.”
“I'll keep that in mind. Have a good flight.”
“Good-bye, Joe.”
Joe motioned toward the attendants, and they came and lifted Monica onto the plane. He wasn't close enough to hear, but he thought she was giving them an impromptu reading as they helped her aboard. He chuckled to himself. The lady definitely had spirit.
He stayed and watched as her jet taxied to the end of the runway and took off into the cloudless sky.