The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery

by Mike McIntyre

  At nine o’clock, I rushed to City Hall for a hastily arranged press conference.

  Councilman Bryan Shumway, acting mayor since the death of Mayor Stanton, stood at the podium. Chief of Police Malcolm Reese and other members of the city council flanked him. Detective Darrell Walton stood in the background.

  The officials faced a throng of reporters. The scene was chaotic.

  I watched discreetly from the back of the room. I didn’t want to become the story.

  “Any idea who the torture slayer is?” a reporter shouted.

  “Has the serial killer communicated with authorities yet?” yelled another.

  Councilman Shumway raised his hands. But the questions kept flying:

  “What’s the killer’s motive?”

  “Why wasn’t the public warned?”

  “Please, please,” Shumway hollered above the din. “If you’ll all please be quiet for one moment, I have a brief statement I’d like to make. When I’m finished, Chief Reese will answer any questions you may have.”

  Most of the pack took their seats and settled down, but a few reporters kept hurling questions. Shumway continued to motion his hands for calm.

  “I want to assure San Diego that there’s nothing to fear,” he said. “There is no serial killer.”

  The pack jumped to its feet and shouted questions.

  “I repeat,” Shumway said, straining to be heard, “a serial killer is not at large in this city. San Diegans should feel safe, and carry on with their lives as usual. There is no cause for panic.”

  The bedlam persisted.

  “People, please behave like the professionals I know you to be!” Shumway yelled.

  The noise dropped to a roar.

  “That’s better,” Shumway said. “Now, one at a time, in an orderly manner, you may direct any questions you have to Chief Reese.”

  “What about the story in the Wire?” somebody called.

  Chief Reese leaned toward the microphone. “This is sensational, irresponsible journalism of the worst kind,” he said in a calm baritone.

  “Are you saying the Wire has it wrong?”

  “Worse than that,” the chief said. “The Wire has made no secret of its goal to topple the city’s two established newspapers. I think the Wire would write just about anything at this point to gain more readers.”

  Another reporter started to ask a question, but Reese cut him off.

  “The fact of the matter is that Mayor Stanton and Dr. Lindblatt died in tragic, unrelated accidents. Our investigation into the murder of Ms. Tate is ongoing, as is our search for Ms. Samples. But let me stress that there is not a shred of evidence that links any of these cases.”

  “How can you so easily dismiss the experts quoted in the Wire article?” asked another reporter.

  “Consider the source of this so-called news,” Reese said. “The story appeared beneath the byline of an individual with compromised journalistic ethics. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “Chief Reese,” said a woman who stood in the front row. It was Lupe Martinez, a reporter with Channel 13. “When Tyler West won a Pulitzer Prize for his series on citywide corruption—which led to twenty-three indictments in your department alone—were his journalistic ethics compromised then, too?”

  There were chortles from my media cohorts.

  The chief of police sneered. He gripped the sides of the podium, and I thought it might snap apart in his hands.

  Councilman Shumway finally saved him. He leaned into the microphone and said, “That’s all for now. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Friar Tom sat in his van.

  He was parked on Via Del Alba, in Rancho Santa Fe. The exclusive community east of Del Mar was where San Diego’s wealthy set lived and played.

  It was also home to Adore, the multi-platinum-selling singing sensation.

  The pop star had sparked controversy when she delivered a baby through artificial insemination. She flaunted her lesbianism, and proclaimed that she and her child would do very well, thank you, without a man in their lives.

  Feminists, gays and civil libertarians applauded her. Conservatives and family-values proponents said she was a poor example for her impressionable fans.

  To Friar Tom’s way of thinking, Adore was a heretic. Her act wouldn’t have lasted five minutes during the Spanish Inquisition, let alone lead to encores.

  Torquemada and his brethren would have proclaimed her a witch and burned her at the stake. After they had tortured her with red-hot pincers and a breast ripper.

  Friar Tom had something else in mind for the international celebrity. A cruel device he had yet to use. He had been saving it for the right victim. He would make sure that Adore’s bastard-bearing womb would never work again.

  When she wasn’t on tour, Adore’s daily routine was to power walk along the hilly, winding roads near her estate. She made a loop formed by Via Del Alba, Calzada Del Bosque and Los Arboles. The loop was about a mile long, and she did five laps, with five-pound weights in each hand.

  Friar Tom slid down in his seat when he saw her approaching in his side-view mirror. His heart pounded and he tapped his foot on the floorboard. He reached for the door handle.

  But when Adore drew even with the van, he let her pass. There was still time. He wanted to savor the rush of anticipation.

  When Adore started her fifth and final lap, he let her get about fifty yards ahead before he stepped out of the van.

  He wore the Nike walking shoes and a Ralph Lauren warm-up suit he’d bought for the occasion. He carried weights like Adore’s. He looked like any other millionaire out for a stroll in Rancho Santa Fe.

  They walked by gated Mediterranean villas, dappled in sun and drenched in bougainvillea.

  As they continued back onto Via Del Alba, he closed the gap between them. He wasn’t worried about making noise. Adore was wearing earbuds.

  She was listening to the latest Lady Gaga studio sessions. Adore’s manager had bribed a recording engineer $10,000 for a copy. It was important to keep up with the competition.

  When Adore drew closer to the white van she had already passed four times, she noticed that the back door was now open.

  She walked closer and saw the wrist and leg irons welded to the insides of the van.

  Friar Tom charged her from behind.

  CHAPTER 45

  I was sketching plans for an addition to my house when I heard on the radio that the pop singer Adore had died.

  Her personal assistant had discovered the body outside the gate of the superstar’s Rancho Santa Fe mansion. Her walking shorts were soaked with blood.

  I figured Adore was the latest victim of San Diego’s torture slayer. Authorities insisted otherwise.

  Chief of Police Reese had already issued a statement ruling out foul play, even though detectives had arrived on the scene less than thirty minutes earlier. Acting Mayor Shumway also claimed that a serial killer was not to blame for this or any other of the recent spate of celebrity deaths.

  In an unprecedented move, the medical examiner’s office said it would perform a rush autopsy and release the results before noon. A spokesman said the department wanted to set the public’s mind at ease as soon as possible.

  The body was yet to be examined—and officials were already claiming natural causes.

  Rudy called. “You know which way you’re going on this?”

  “Let me get back to you after the ME releases the autopsy,” I said.

  I opened the medical examiner’s Web site on my laptop. I fidgeted, clicking the REFRESH tab every ten seconds.

  Around eleven-thirty, the autopsy results were posted. I skipped straight to the opinion at the end:

  Mary Ann Kupchack, also known as Adore, a 26-year-old female, died as a result of massive internal hemorrhage. The cause of death was a spontaneously ruptured uterus. The mechanism of death was loss of blood and secondary shock. The manner of death was natural causes.

  There it was, neat and clean.
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  Ron had performed the autopsy and signed the report.

  I called him at work. He was out. I rang him on his cell phone and at his house, but he didn’t answer. My text messages went unreturned.

  Here was a man who didn’t want to be found.

  I dropped by the driving range at the Mission Bay Golf Course. It’s one of the few practice facilities with grass instead of mats. I knew Ron sometimes hit balls there during lunch, not that it did him any good.

  I found him swinging his new Cobra driver in the last stall. He was slicing all of his shots, as usual.

  “You want to take a mulligan on the Adore autopsy?” I said.

  Ron turned around at the sound of my voice.

  “Dude, you’re unrelenting.”

  “Just like your slice,” I said. “I’m never going away.”

  He teed up another ball and sliced it into the fence.

  “You’ll win the U.S. Open before you convince me she died of natural causes,” I said.

  He ignored me, continuing to send one banana ball after another into the fence.

  “Try dropping your right foot back a little and closing your stance,” I offered.

  Ron jammed his driver into his golf bag. He struggled to pull his sweaty glove from his left hand. He cursed when it wouldn’t easily come off. He was more pissed than when he missed the putt that cost us the Torrey Pines Men’s Club championship.

  He looked around nervously. The next hacker was six stalls away.

  “Off the record?” he said.

  I nodded okay.

  “I was under enormous pressure to make that finding.”

  “From who?”

  He hesitated, took a deep breath. “Chief Reese, Shumway, the heads of the Chamber of Commerce and the Visitors Bureau.”

  “But why?” I said.

  “Serial killers are bad for tourism.”

  “What did the autopsy reveal?”

  He looked down at his golf shoes.

  “You know I’ll find out,” I said.

  “Eleven years in this job, and I’ve never done anything like this,” he said.

  “What did you see, Ron?”

  “Her uterus had three perforations. Something was inserted in her vagina that punctured the uterine wall.”

  “Natural causes, huh?” I said. “So, let’s go on the record now.”

  Ron sighed. “You can attribute what I told you to an unnamed member of the ME’s office,” he said, hanging his head.

  I glared at Ron and turned away.

  “Ty?”

  I turned back. Ron looked at me pleadingly. “You know, it’s possible she inserted a foreign object into her vagina herself.”

  “Sure, Ron,” I said. “Just like it’s possible you’ll fix that slice today.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Professor Lange wasn’t in his office at UCSD. The schedule posted on his door noted that he taught “Medieval European Civilization” from noon until 1:15 p.m.

  I sprinted across campus to Warren Lecture Hall. By the time I barged into Lange’s classroom, my lungs were burning.

  Students jerked their heads toward me. Lange, writing on the chalkboard, turned and glared.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he said.

  “I need to talk to you,” I gasped.

  “Please wait outside. I’ll be through in about twenty minutes.”

  “No, now!”

  Lange shook his head, but followed me into the hallway.

  “Were there any medieval torture instruments built specifically for the female genitalia?” I asked urgently.

  “Surely, this can wait.”

  “It can’t, Professor. The torture slayer struck again today.”

  He hesitated. “Well, I suppose the chastity belt could be considered a torture device,” he said, “although it was originally devised as a barrier against rape.”

  “Anything designed to destroy a woman’s insides—something that’s inserted into the vagina and leaves holes in the uterus?”

  “Holes? How many?”

  “Three.”

  “That sounds like the Pear,” he said. “But it was fashioned for the mouth and rectum, as well as the vagina. Torturers in the Dark Ages used it on heretical preachers, homosexuals and women found guilty of carnal knowledge with Satan.”

  “The Pear?” I said.

  Lange started to describe the contraption.

  “Wait,” I said. “Does this thing have a turn key at the top, sort of looks like a corkscrew?”

  He nodded.

  “I saw one at the museum,” I said.

  “Yes, the museum has a fine specimen on exhibit, obtained from a private collection in Italy,” Lange said.

  “What occurs when it’s used to kill a woman?”

  “The Pear has three iron segments that expand outward inside the vagina as the screw is turned,” he said. “Each of the segments is tipped by a prong. As the segments reach their maximum width, these three sharp points puncture the uterus, and the victim bleeds to death.”

  I rushed toward the parking lot, dialing my phone as I ran.

  Graywalls picked up on the third ring. I heard a TV in the background.

  “Robert, it’s Tyler West.”

  “It’s the Pear,” he said.

  I pulled up in my tracks. “But how did you—?”

  “It’s on the news,” he said. “The hemorrhaging, all that blood, someone’s hiding something.”

  “My source at the medical examiner’s admitted they found perforations in the uterus.”

  “Three holes, right?”

  “Unreal,” I said, amazed.

  “It’s definitely the Pear,” he said. “Mr. Hardware has a new tool.”

  “Thanks, Robert.”

  “I’m holding you to our original agreement,” he said. “Don’t use my name.”

  “You got it.”

  I called Rudy at the Wire and gave him a heads-up. I told him to get someone over to the museum to photograph the Pear. We’d run a picture of the copy of the murder weapon next to my story about the latest torture death.

  If I were still at the Sun, I could rely on Mel to get the photo. But I couldn’t trust that the Wire photographer would know what to look for.

  I decided to call Merrill Addison at the museum to smooth the way.

  “No, Mr. West, your photographer can’t take a picture of the Pear,” Addison said. “It’s missing.”

  CHAPTER 47

  When I got home to my laptop, I quickly wrote my lead:

  The international superstar known as Adore is the latest victim of the San Diego torture slayer. The 26-year-old pop singer died outside her Rancho Santa Fe estate today after suffering a fatal injury to her uterus that resulted in massive internal bleeding.

  The serial killer inserted a device called the Pear into Adore’s vagina, concluded two experts on medieval instruments of torture. When the slayer expanded the weapon, three sharp metal tips punctured the singer’s womb. The Pear that killed the four-time Grammy winner is believed to be the same one that was stolen from an exhibit case at the Museum of Medieval History.

  Earlier today, the medical examiner’s office announced that Adore had died of natural causes. But an unnamed staff member said that city officials, including the acting mayor and the chief of police, pressured the medical examiner’s office to rule out foul play…

  My fingers were flying across the keyboard. Not only had an elusive serial killer claimed four lives, but the story now also involved a cover-up at the highest levels of local government.

  I was racing to finish the story when my phone rang.

  “West,” I said curtly, annoyed by the interruption.

  “The whales are migrating.”

  I recognized the voice, but it had been months since I’d heard it.

  The caller was an old source, a detective. He’d been my Deep Throat during my series on citywide corruption.

  He was an honest cop who loved his job, bu
t hated the misconduct that had plagued the department. He was one of those guys who believed he could change the system from within. I had never revealed his identity.

  The whale remark was code. He wanted to meet.

  “Long time,” I said, “and I’d love to catch up, but I’m on a tight deadline now.”

  “This can’t wait.”

  “It’ll have to.”

  His voice dropped to a stern whisper. “Look, if you want another Pulitzer, you’ll meet me at the usual place, three o’clock.”

  I couldn’t tell him the story I was writing without risking my exclusive.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s just that the story I’m working on is—”

  “Huge, right?” he said, cutting me off. “You’ve tied that singer’s death to the serial killer, right?”

  “Right,” I said, stunned.

  “That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I know who the killer is.”

  CHAPTER 48

  I drove to Mission Bay, the watery playground between Mission Beach and the I-5. At 4,000 acres, it’s the largest aquatic park on the West Coast, a magnet for jet skiers, water-skiers and windsurfers.

  The southern end of Mission Bay is anchored by one of the city’s signature attractions, SeaWorld. I parked my car in the sprawling lot and joined the line of tourists entering the marine mammal park.

  I found my source inside the Shamu Adventure stadium. He sat in the top row, away from the crowd. He shelled peanuts while watching the killer whale show.

  We didn’t acknowledge each other.

  I took a seat in front of him, one row down and a little to the side. I looked straight ahead at the seven-million-gallon pool, where Shamu and Baby Shamu did laps. A trainer in khaki shorts and a red polo shirt stood on a platform, directing the whales’ movements like a conductor.

  “We’ve known it was a serial killer since the Tate woman turned up on the baggage carousel,” the detective said in a low voice.

  I swiveled my head and said, “Why didn’t—”

  “Keep your eyes on the show.”