CHAPTER 59
A Sheriff’s deputy led me to an interrogation room furnished with a metal table and folding metal chairs. He manacled my left wrist to a handcuff attached to the tabletop.
Walton whisked in, a file folder in hand. He sat across from me. He looked happy.
He nodded at the deputy to leave the room.
“I’m curious, West, how did you get the mayor inside that torture statue? Was he really that drunk?”
“This is about Miller, isn’t it?” I said, speaking his late partner’s name.
“You leave Danny out of this,” he snapped.
Someday, I’d convince Walton that Miller had been dirty, but this wasn’t the time.
“Detective, Graywalls stole that thing and hid it in my car. My prints are on it because I picked it up at the gala.”
“Save it for the prison newspaper,” he said.
Graywalls must have known the cops were onto him. When they closed in, he vanished. He’d seen me touch the Pear the night he killed the mayor. He had a fall guy if he ever needed one.
“Detective, listen, Graywalls is the guy with the medieval torture connection. He was your man all along. Now that you’ve let him go, he’s free to resume his Inquisition. I’m telling you, he framed me!”
Walton pounded the table. “Enough! We still had that asshole in custody when we were tipped to you. Explain that.”
Maybe Graywalls had planted the Pear in my car before he fled the country. That still didn’t explain how he’d steered the police to me while he sat in jail. The jail’s payphones only worked for collect calls. Did he use a smuggled cell phone? Maybe he had an accomplice on the outside. I really didn’t know.
Walton was right. I couldn’t explain it.
Then a thought hit me.
“Don’t you find it odd that the murders stopped after you arrested Graywalls?”
Walton smiled. “The murders stopped after you left town on vacation.”
I slumped in my chair.
“You were always around when people stopped breathing,” Walton said. “The mayor at the museum, Nina Tate at the airport. What, you had to get one more close-up at the pretzel you turned her into?”
I shook my head.
“All those scoops you were breaking. You were always one step ahead of us.” Walton leaned in and grinned. “It’s a neat trick, West. Disgraced reporter turns serial killer to break the story that revives his career.”
“That’s absurd.”
Walton opened his folder and slid a newspaper article across the table to me. “Is it?” he said.
I recognized the article. It was an opinion piece published in the Sun last year, headlined CITY’S LUMINARIES LAG AS LEADERS. It carried my byline.
My column was a broadside against the city’s elite. I’d accused several civic, business and cultural leaders of greed and irresponsibility. I’d specifically cited Mayor Stanton, Nina Tate, Adore and Reggie Wilkinson, calling them unworthy of our respect and admiration.
“So I bashed some of the future victims in print,” I said. “What’s that prove?”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” Walton said. “But if I were you, I’d cop to mandatory life. Avoid a date with the needle.”
“But what about Graywalls’ confession?”
Walton leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He smiled ever so slightly.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You beat it out of him?”
Walton grinned and said, “No comment.”
CHAPTER 60
I was arraigned the following Monday morning before Judge Charles Knutson in room 327 of Superior Court.
Bernard Fox, San Diego County District Attorney, sat at the prosecutor’s table. He was up for reelection. Winning the high profile case would make him a shoe-in.
Judge Knutson allowed TV cameras in his courtroom. The proceeding was carried live on every local station, as well as HLN and truTV.
The press gallery was packed. I spotted my former Sun protégé Darcy McLaren in the front row. I nodded to her as a bailiff led me to the defense table, but she looked away.
Phil Cantrell had agreed to represent me. He shook my hand without making eye contact.
After court was called to order, the judge read the charges against me and asked how I pleaded.
Cantrell and I stood.
“Not guilty,” I said, loud and clear.
“Motion for bail?” the judge said.
“We request own recognizance, Your Honor,” Cantrell said. “Mr. West has a clean record and strong ties to the community. He donates his time to a youth golf program, and he owns two houses with his wife, an officer of this court.”
Bernard Fox stood at the prosecutor’s table.
“Your Honor, defendant’s record is not as blemish free as counsel claims,” the DA said. “Mr. West was found guilty of abetting the notorious Billboard Bandit.”
Cantrell jumped in. “Your Honor, my client pleaded no contest to a misdemeanor resulting from his ride-along with a graffiti artist who defaces casino industry billboards. That hardly qualifies him as a hard core repeat offender.”
The judge glanced down at my file. “I’m inclined to agree.”
Fox grew indignant. “I’ll remind the court that Mr. West is charged with the most heinous crimes in this city’s history. If released on bail, he may kill again.”
“Objection!” Cantrell said.
Judge Knutson fidgeted. He stared into the bright camera lights. They had to feel hot. “Motion for bail is denied,” he said, and slammed his gavel.
Cantrell turned to me. “I’ll get working on your defense.” He sounded efficient, competent and utterly unconvinced of my innocence.
As the bailiff led me away in handcuffs, I glimpsed Jordan at the back of the courtroom. She smiled bravely and mouthed, “I love you.”
For now, it was the only bail I needed.
I was assigned to the maximum-security floor of the high-rise San Diego Central Jail. My single six-by-eight-foot cell had a metal bunk, sink and seatless toilet. There wasn’t room to pace.
Aside from meeting with counsel, I was allowed two half-hour visits per week. I limited my visitors’ list to Jordan. I didn’t want Heather or Jared to see me this way.
Over the next several days, I followed my case in the media. A TV hung from the ceiling in my cell block. It was usually tuned to some sleazy talk show, but each day at twelve, a jailer switched it to Channel 3 for “The Noon News.” My story always led the broadcast.
An inmate worker brought newspapers to me daily from the jail’s library. By the time they reached my floor, they were pretty well pawed over. Prisoners who hungered for visual stimulation tore out the lingerie ads.
The Sun and the Times ran negative profiles on me. Darcy’s story was particularly savage, containing numerous attacks on my character, all attributed to unnamed sources. I saw Mrs. Rampling’s fingerprints on the hit piece.
The Sun ran an old photo from my days as a pro golfer. It showed my angry reaction to the second shot I hit out of bounds on the first tee at the British Open. I looked like a deranged murderer.
San Diego was back to normal. Tourism picked up. Restaurants filled. Movers and shakers returned to the society circuit.
I wondered what Graywalls was doing.
CHAPTER 61
Friar Tom stood in his torture chamber at Sea Breeze Mini-Storage, cutting stories of his carnage from back issues of the Sun and the Times. He used the stretching rack for a table.
He worked by candlelight as medieval music blared on his boombox.
He clipped and saved all the articles about his exploits. He liked to flip through his scrapbook and relive the kills again and again. The memories stimulated him.
When he’d clipped the last article, he grew sad. The city feared him no more. His fifteen minutes of fame were up. He again felt like a small man in a big town.
The police believed Tyler West was the killer. Friar Tom had seen to
that. But his frame job was flawed: He’d yanked the plug on his own spotlight.
He missed that hot, white light.
He wanted to stand in Horton Plaza and shout, “Tremble before me, San Diego, I am the real killer!”
Perhaps he needed a publicist. Valerie Weinstock, head of the city’s largest PR agency, was probably available—now that her star client, Adore, was dead. He chuckled at the thought.
Fantasies sustained him. But they were no substitute for the real thing. It had been two weeks since he’d claimed his sixth victim. How long could he hold out before claiming lucky number seven?
Not much longer.
Once he resumed his Inquisition, he’d lose his fall guy. Tyler West would go free.
He’d take that risk. Besides, there was an upside. The tenacious Wire reporter had been duped, but he was miles ahead of the competition. Friar Tom deserved to be covered by the best.
The heat would be intense. The cops would hunt him relentlessly for making them look like buffoons.
Bring them on. It will make my torture sessions that much more thrilling.
Friar Tom looked down at his scrapbook. It was nearly full. He’d need a new one, perhaps two.
It was time to go public.
He pulled out a sheet of paper and painstakingly composed a letter to the editor of the Sun. When he finished, he carefully copied the letter and addressed it to the Times.
He placed the letters—along with identical CDs—into two manila envelopes.
He knew the police would examine the letters and CDs, so he handled them with gloves.
Sealing the envelopes was a bigger problem. If he licked the flaps, he’d leave his DNA.
He turned off the boombox. The music was replaced by sobs.
“Alrighty then,” Friar Tom said, turning to Dick Cameron. “Let’s get this show rolling.”
The producer of the reality TV series The Torture Chamber sat strapped in the interrogation chair, iron spikes tearing into his buttocks, legs and arms.
“Before I share my ideas with you for your so-called reality show, I need a favor,” Friar Tom said to the bellowing man. “Stick out your tongue.”
Friar Tom held the flap of the first envelope to Cameron’s mouth.
Cameron recoiled, and then grimaced as the spikes tore deeper into his flesh.
“No?” Friar Tom said. “I guess you’re one of those hands-on producers who needs to control everything. Okay, have it your way.”
He reached for a pair of ancient pliers. The tongs were ornately chiseled into a likeness of the head and jaws of a crocodile.
He plunged the pliers into Cameron’s mouth and clamped the TV producer’s tongue.
He gripped the pliers with one hand. With the other, he ran the envelope flap of across the tip of Cameron’s extended tongue.
Friar Tom checked the seal of the flap. It was still dry.
“You’re scared spitless,” he said. He returned the envelope to Cameron’s tongue. “Try again.”
Cameron gagged, and his tongue wiggled.
“Careful,” Friar Tom said. “You might get a paper cut.”
It took five minutes for Cameron to produce enough saliva to seal both envelopes.
Friar Tom set the envelopes on the nearby chopping block and said, “You’ll be happy to know I’ve got self-adhesive stamps.”
Cameron sighed, awaiting the release of the pliers. Instead, the killer pulled the tongue farther out and cut it off with a pair of rusty shears.
The reality TV producer wailed, bubbles of blood foaming from his mouth.
Friar Tom said, “I hope this is real enough for you!”
CHAPTER 62
The sound of my cell door unlocking woke me. It was still dark. Too early for breakfast.
I rolled over in my bunk. It was a deputy sheriff.
“You’re free to go,” he said. “No hard feelings.”
I hit the street, grateful but bewildered.
The reason for my release was soon clear. My eyes zoomed in on a sidewalk newsrack.
The headline leapt off the front page of the Sun: TORTURE SLAYER STILL AT LARGE. CONTACTS MEDIA.
I dropped four quarters in the slot and retrieved my get out of jail free card.
The Sun had reproduced a letter it had received from the killer:
“To the heretics of San Diego,” the letter began. “Welcome to my Inquisition…”
It was signed, “Friar Tom.”
The letter was written in a sloppy scrawl, a jumble of capital and lower-case letters, as if penned by a first grader.
To prove it wasn’t a hoax, “Friar Tom” had also mailed a CD that held a single digital image. The Sun ran it on the front page—next to the killer’s letter.
Tiffany Samples stared out hauntingly from the photo. It had been taken while the HomeMart heiress was still alive. She was locked in a pillory, apparently pleading for mercy. Her hands were clasped, as if in prayer.
I hadn’t seen a pillory at Robert Graywalls’ condo. He must have had one elsewhere.
The display copy of the Times in the adjacent newsrack had the same photo and letter.
I claimed my car from the SDPD impound yard and drove straight to Jordan’s. I wanted to surprise her before she left for work.
Jordan was opening her car door when I pulled up. She didn’t hear me as I got out.
“So, counselor,” I said. “Are we still newlyweds, or have you already filed for an annulment?”
Jordan turned around. I searched her face for apprehension and found none. She was radiant. I felt guilty for questioning her faith in me.
“My office just called with the news,” she said, rushing into my arms. “I was on my way to get you.”
The house door opened. I saw Lisa, the nanny. Heather squeezed by her and bounded down the porch steps.
She raced up and hugged Jordan and me around our legs.
“See, honey?” I said to Heather, “I told you it was all a big mistake.”
I whispered into Jordan’s ear, “Still newlyweds then?”
“Never a doubt,” she whispered back. “I was even prepared for conjugal visits.” Jordan leaned back and said, “Which reminds me, your house isn’t much bigger than a prison cell. If we’re going to live there, we’ll need to remodel.”
“Woohoo!” Heather cheered, “We get to live in the clay pot!”
We headed inside for breakfast, Heather leading the way.
“Walton didn’t have the guts to admit his mistake in person,” I said to Jordan. “I guess he’s busy hunting for Graywalls.”
“They picked him up late last night,” Jordan said.
“About time.”
“Then released him.”
I stopped walking and looked at Jordan.
“He passed a polygraph,” she said.
The revelation was like a kick to the stomach.
Graywalls really was just a thief. When the cops first suspected him of murder, he sensed them closing in and mistakenly thought it was about the stolen Scavenger’s Daughter. He panicked and ran. Walton had beaten his confession from him.
I was relieved that my expert anonymous source wasn’t the torture slayer.
But if Graywalls wasn’t Friar Tom, who was?
CHAPTER 63
I drove to my place to relieve the pet sitter. Torpedo ran circles between my legs while Maya tried to knock me over.
“How’s your tail, Maya?” I said. She about wagged it off.
I called Jared to let him know I was out of jail. He put on a tough front, but I could tell he was rattled. He’d faced the possibility of another trusted male role model in his life going to prison. We scheduled some putting practice. He didn’t grumble when I reminded him to bring his algebra book.
I changed clothes and played some Bob Marley. I cranked the outside speakers, and the surfers whooped their appreciation.
It felt good to get back to my routine, even if it included the hunt for a serial killer.
> I started with another look at the morning papers. I studied the photo that Friar Tom had sent of Tiffany Samples.
The HomeMart heiress’ hands did seem to be held together in prayer. That struck me as odd.
I recalled Samples once said in an interview that she wasn’t religious. Then again, there are no atheists in the torture chamber. In her most trying moment, she had pleaded with some higher power to save her.
I examined the photo more closely with a magnifying glass.
Six of her fingers were interlocked and folded down, sandwiched between her palms. Only her index fingers and thumbs remained free. The two pairs of unlinked digits met at the tips and pointed upwards.
It was an unorthodox gesture of supplication. Maybe she didn’t know how to pray. Maybe Friar Tom had already mangled her hands so badly that she couldn’t hold them any other way.
Or maybe she wasn’t praying.
If the former Penthouse Pet hadn’t experienced a last minute religious conversion, perhaps she was using her hands as a signal.
The pointed index fingers evoked a church steeple. Was Samples signaling her captor’s identity or her location? Was the San Diego torture slayer a member of the clergy? Was he someone with access to a church or church building, where he tortured and killed his victims? After all, Friar Tom’s letter had alluded to “heretics” and an “Inquisition.”
The longer I stared at Samples’ peaked fingers, the more they reminded me of a steeple. Other reporters and the police would conclude the same. They would search every church basement in town for Friar Tom’s dungeon. The clue was that obvious.
That was the problem. Friar Tom was too clever to allow his victim to signal such an obvious clue.
If I wanted to solve this mystery, I couldn’t run with the pack. I had to stay out in front of it.
Let the cops and the rest of the media chase the obvious. I’d chase Friar Tom.
CHAPTER 64
“Ty, sit down!” Mel said, tugging my sleeve. “Mrs. Rampling might see you.”
I took a seat next to Mel in the Sun’s photo department. The digital image of Tiffany Samples was on the screen of Mel’s computer.
The Scavenger's Daughter: A Tyler West Mystery Page 14