Roulette

by Don; Linda Pendleton

  “What kind of problem?”

  The response from North Carolina came haltingly, as though this was almost too embarrassing to speak of. “It was…related to, uh…mental illness.”

  Rebecca hated to upset this sweet woman but she felt at the very edge of an important discovery. “I apologize for intruding on your personal family life, Mrs. Caruthers, but this could be vitally important. What exactly was the nature of your sister’s ailment?”

  “The poor dear was in and out of asylums for practically all her adult life. She was diagnosed as…schizophrenic…and apparently it was a progressive illness.”

  “Progressing to…?”

  This was very distressing to Mrs. Caruthers but she was too “proper” to not respond. “Uh…the medical term, I think, is catatonia. She would experience relatively long periods of total lucidity during the early years but later the poor dear became increasingly catatonic with only brief periods of frenzied excitement. It was very painful for all of us. And this was extremely disturbing for poor Robert, but of course…that all seems so long ago now.”

  “When did your sister die?”

  “That was…nearly a year ago.”

  “That recently?”

  “Yes. But like I said, for all practical purposes she’s been dead for years. Except of course in Robert’s mind. The poor boy could never accept the fact that she was totally out of touch with reality.”

  “When did you last hear from Robert?”

  “Just a few months ago. He called here in a panic when he could not get any information about her from the hospital. Poor Robert was in such a state, but I had to tell him that she had died. He took it very hard—actually sobbing and, I hate to say this, cursing her. He refused to tell me how I could contact him and I have been very concerned about him ever since. Has Robert been apprehended in California?”

  Rebecca replied with a feeling of total desolation, “Not yet but I have to tell you, Mrs. Caruthers, that he is in terrible trouble right now. If you know anything at all or if you hear from him again, please contact me immediately.”

  “It saddens me to hear that. I have always hoped that Robert would…well, be assured that I will contact you if I hear from him again, Officer. Dear me, how do I reach you?”

  Rebecca gave her the full name and telephone number, but in her heart she doubted very much that she would ever be talking to this dear lady again. At least, she hoped not.

  Now maybe she could understand Martin’s apparent obsession with the “Mommy” syndrome. Whatever demons had gripped Dottie Martin had obviously been visited on the son. But it seemed that the tortured mind of the mother had been lightly touched compared to the tortures of the son. Rebecca had been closer to the truth about this killer than she had fully realized. She felt her anger at him melting under this new understanding.

  For God’s sake…Robert James Martin was as much a victim as any.

  Not that she was ready to forgive and forget, not even nearly, but at least now she knew that her “justice” would be tempered by the most profound regret.

  The briefing got underway at precisely four thirty. To call this operation a “stake-out” would be to severely understate the tactics and strategies that had been meticulously planned and were now being set into motion. This was to be a full scale “frontal assault” on the San Remo killer. About a hundred men representing a half dozen police jurisdictions were present and coordinating their undercover assignments.

  Chief Walsh strode forward in his sharp full dress uniform, an impressive figure, which produced a stir in the crowd, as if to say “this guy means business.”

  One observer was heard to note, “Shades of General Patton—he’s going to give us hell.” It was more “passion” than “hell,” however, more Knute Rockne than George Patton. Whichever, he knew how to fire up his troops.

  He launched into an immediate rapid-fire recitation of the killer’s activities in San Remo. “In this city, in the space of eight scant days, eight people have been brutally slain—including two little girls and, a few yards from this very spot, a correctional officer from Oklahoma who had recently arrived to assist this investigation. Several others have been severely traumatized including another peace officer from Oklahoma who was ambushed outside his hotel room only moments ago, a short distance from here.

  “This is outrageous, and frankly I am mad as hell. A deadly shark is cruising our waters and ferociously seeking every opportunity for new victims. I am not just angry, I am appalled, I am outraged, and I am sick to my heart of all the shit we have taken from this guy. Any man here not under my direct command who is not equally appalled and outraged, I am releasing—and you may return to your units without prejudice, but if you are as angry and disgusted as I am, you’ll want to nail this killer as badly as I do.

  “I am asking you to hit those streets with a vengeance, to get out there in those vans, those campers, those bicycles, those jogging shoes, those police units and every other resource we have brought to bear on this problem. We want to hit that pervert before he can an impale another victim on his sick need for innocent blood.

  “You all have your assignments. Don’t let the raging storm outside dampen your enthusiasm for the task ahead because, let me assure you, it will not dampen our killer—it will inflame him because he knows even better than we that this is his game and his advantage. He loves shitty weather like this and he must know that this may be his last golden opportunity to rape and pillage our wives and our children before he moves on to less hostile climates.

  “We do not want to merely scare him out of our town, we want to nail him, here and now, before he can spread his sickness to another area. So let us do everything in our power to put a stop to this sadistic killer and draw a final curtain over his heinous crimes. And do not forget…it could be your city that he invades next.

  “I thank you each and every one for your splendid participation. Good luck and good hunting.”

  It was a passionate plea which hit its mark in every officer present. There was no applause, of course, and no muttering or other verbal response but only a silence which was far more dramatic than any other possible reaction among these solemn officers.

  Lieutenant Morgan shot Rebecca an irritated glance as she stepped quietly into the squad room and moved unobtrusively to a chair near the doorway. The activities were proceeding quite well without her; there were a lot of details to be worked out and she had known that very little of it would affect her directly.

  The emphasis would be on Woody Heights but it was also necessary to cover other areas which might become the focus of an attack—such as the more recent murders of two young woman in the central district and—perhaps more worrisome, due to the widening of the “strike zone”—daring unprovoked attacks on two police officers during the past twelve hours.

  This was total vindication of Rebecca’s early “sensing of the case” and much of the strategy now in place was a direct result of her input, though perhaps many of these officers were not aware of that. Her own active role here, however, amounted to no more than any other role being fashioned at this meeting. In fact, it was no doubt felt that Rebecca was being included in the activities more as a “reward” than any strong expectation that she would share directly in the final outcome of the case. It is still, after all, a primarily male world in this kind of work and Rebecca was strongly aware of that fact.

  She fully expected to be dropped somewhere at the periphery while her husband and other male members of the task force would occupy major responsibilities. Even so, she knew that she would be expected and even demanded to pull her full weight in whatever role she may be assigned. All of which was fine with Rebecca, so long as they did not try to exclude her completely. Hell, she would serve coffee and snacks without complaint if that would further the conduct of the case. She would be the first to acknowledge that this was a deadly serious and even crucial “game” with every life so exposed and subject to extreme danger.

&nb
sp; This “male world” was now busily arming itself for an attack, checking and positioning their weapons and preparing to move out.

  Lieutenant Morgan, obviously irritated with her, stalked over and raised a foot onto the chair beside her. “So how is Peter?” he asked sarcastically.

  “He’s fine, I guess, holding his own as usual. You’re upset with me, huh?”

  “Course not, you only missed the Chief’s finest hour and probably most of the details of the operation. I often don’t understand you, Rebecca.”

  She said, small-voiced, “I am properly chastised, sir. Aren’t you making too much of this? I have my assignment and I’m ready to roll. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it’s not. This is very uncharacteristic of you, and I’m disappointed.”

  She raised her eyes to stare directly into his as she replied, “Maybe you’re disappointed for another reason. If so, I am very disappointed in you, too.”

  His gaze dropped. “Okay. Maybe I deserve that. Maybe I don’t. Whatever, do you have your assignment, then?”

  “Yes. There’s something else….”

  “Yeah?”

  “I talked to Lance Powers a couple of hours before he was shot. He dropped a phone number on me, lady in North Carolina—formerly from Arkansas, just across the border from Oklahoma. She is Robert Martin’s aunt. We had an interesting talk just a few minutes ago. Martin’s mother was a very sick and troubled woman most of her life, died in a mental hospital last year. According to the aunt, Martin had a very strong relationship with his mother and learned of her death just a few months ago. Does that timing suggest anything to you?”

  He replied, “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “No? Haven’t you studied the M.O? He refers to all his victims as ‘Mommy’ and he began this reign of terror in San Remo not too long after he learned of his mother’s death. Connection?”

  “Did he call Myers, ‘Mommy?’ Powers? Did he refer to those little girls that way?”

  She had to stifle a sharp retort and soften it before replying, “Okay, forget it.” She got to her feet. “I have to go find my van.”

  Charlie Andrews walked over at that awkward moment and flashed her a cheery smile, “Ready to go, partner?”

  Morgan was already walking away. Rebecca showed Andrews a confused frown and said quickly, “Just a minute, Charlie,” and hastened to overtake the Lieutenant. “What’d he mean by that?” she hissed.

  “Oh, didn’t you get your assignment straightened out? Maybe you should have been here for roll call. Maybe then you wouldn’t have won the booby prize.”

  She cried despairingly, “Don’t do this to me, Jack.”

  He did not even smile as he told her, “Just for the first rotation, I’m sure you can handle it for a couple of hours.”

  He walked away and left her feeling like a total loser. Well, okay. She squared her shoulders and went to pick up her “partner.” She really did not feel so bad about the “assignment” as about the way it was presented. Hell, sure, she could handle anything for a couple hours, even Charlie Andrews. And it would serve her Lieutenant right when the Bulletin hit the street tomorrow and made jerks of them all.

  She could see the headline now….when “Mr. Liberty” unsheathed his ax again. She would almost as soon spend a shift with Vivian Escalante…or, well, maybe not.

  Chapter Thirty

  The task force was deployed in small groups and even these assigned circuitous routes so as to not unnecessarily attract attention to this large movement, though it seemed probable that the storm itself in concert with the darkness would provide sufficient masking of the deployment. Of course, “masking” could work both ways; it could also be extremely difficult to spot the killer as well as other members of the task force.

  The rain had intensified, if anything, and the runoff along the hillsides was sending occasional cascades of torrential water streaming along the neighborhood streets of Woody Heights. This also played havoc with Rebecca’s efforts to direct the rented van along the proper routes since often she was relying heavily on her memory of the terrain and street layouts. It was “a bitch,” and she said so emotionally to her “partner” who was attentively watching their progress into the Heights.

  “Does my driving make you nervous?” she asked tensely without diverting her gaze.

  He said easily, “Not especially. But frankly I can’t see a damn thing, so you should know that I’m entirely in your hands. Does that sound like I don’t trust you?”

  She laughed lightly, eyes still glued to her task. “Well, I’ve been up here often enough lately.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied off-handedly. “Me, too, but that buys me nothing this morning. Personally I think the guy would be nuts to be out cruising around in this weather.”

  She said, “No, he just hopes that the rest of us are bothered by it. Martin knows that the weather is his greatest ally. I’m sure that he knows the entire area like the back of his hand.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure, it’s his stock in trade. He has the entire neighborhood completely bedded down in his mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hell, Charlie, Martin has not just been staggering around blind hoping to chance upon a victim. He’s smart, he’s wily, and I can guarantee you that he has been leaving nothing to chance. He knows these victims, I mean that he has studied them and knows their habits, what time their husbands leave for work every morning, probably even where they do their marketing He plans this thing like a military campaign.”

  “Hm…that’s interesting. So you think he’s pretty smart. To listen to the Chief awhile ago, he’s just a demented kook.”

  She risked a quick glance at her companion. “Trying to lure me into some criticism of my chief? If so, get off it already.”

  He chuckled. “You are the most untrusting woman. I was just commenting on your perceptions of Martin.”

  She replied, “No. It’s called caution, Charlie.”

  “Okay, I guess I deserve that. So I can be as big a jerk as anybody. Like your husband.”

  She angled him a warning look. “That’s off base.”

  “So is he, Rebecca. I saw him at the Holiday Inn last night.”

  “When was that?”

  “Well, I saw you there.”

  “And?”

  “And that floozy from the police department.”

  “Vivian, the dispatcher? You were there?”

  “Hey, I’m everywhere. It’s my job to be there. How did he explain that one to you?”

  She said defensively, “Another officer was there, too.”

  “He said.”

  “Yes, and I believe it. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Andrews snorted. “Okay, sure, it’s not my place to….”

  She pulled the van over to peer intently into Andrews eyes. “Cut it out. Unless you’ve got something to say other than snide innuendo.”

  “No, forget it.”

  But she could not let it drop, not all of it. “You’re saying that you were there shortly before Lance Powers was shot?”

  “Couple of hours, maybe, yeah.”

  “That puts you at the scene, you know.”

  “So book me. Dammit, Rebecca, how can such a perceptive woman be so damn blind at the same time? That’s all I’m going to say about it. Next thing, you’ll be accusing me of trying to torpedo your marriage. Hey, it shouldn’t need any help from me.”

  She started the van moving forward again and replied from a corner of an eye, “Go to hell, Charlie.”

  “Oh sure, that will fix everything, won’t it. Just blame it on Charlie. If you want to be a sucker….”

  That was about as much of that as she could tolerate. She did not look at him, did not speak to him again, until she had wheeled the van onto the stake-out position. But she was troubled, yes, extremely troubled—and not just because of Vivian Escalante. Cops, she was reminded, do sometimes shot other cops. Damn that Charlie!

  Detec
tive Mike Rodriguez was shuffling impatiently on the side line while Sergeant Storme took an “urgent” telephone call at Rebecca’s desk. Rodriguez was chafing at the bit and eager to get out into the field to join the rest of the task force, shooting anxious glances at his leader and wondering what the hell could be so urgent at such a time.

  Storme seemed to be idly flipping through a file on Rebecca’s desk and totally unconcerned about the time as he spoke at some length through the telephone. It was starting to heat up, though, that was obvious enough as well as Storme’s growing agitation. He overheard Storme ask excitedly, “Are you sure about that?”

  A moment later, Storme called to Rodriguez, “Get ready to mount up,” then returned tensely to his telephone conversation.

  So what the hell, Rodriguez had been ready and anxious to roll. There was nothing left to do except roll. He walked on over to the desk and announced, “I’m ready, let’s go.”

  Storme hung up the phone with a bang and turned toward Rodriguez with a hushed, “Holy shit!”

  Storme looked like a man who had just stepped on a rattlesnake.

  “What is it?” Rodriguez asked.

  “I need to make a couple of calls, might take a little while. You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you at the drop.”

  So Rodriguez went on without his leader. You don’t ask “why” when the Sergeant tells you to jump. But Mike Rodriguez sure as hell wanted to ask.

  It was a brutally dark and stormy night with still another half-hour or so before dawn. Rebecca’s “station” was in the driveway of a corner residence with a cul-de-sac street to either side. Even so, her zone of practical visibility extended to less than a hundred feet in any direction. The entire zone was pitched to a steep incline along the north axis and the intersection was inundated with a rapid flow of water curb to curb and extending onto the east-west streets. Virtually the entire area was flooded. Added to that misery, gusty winds were howling down through the canyons and whipping the entire neighborhood with fallen tree limbs and debris.