Death Watch

by Elizabeth Forrest

  “I‘ll help if I can.”

  “We found ID on her that appears to be false. As far as you know, what name or names does she go under?”

  “Oh, Smith. McKenzie Smith. We call her Mac. Jack was always very irritated she didn’t take his name, but she didn’t want to. She was a star softball player up here the first two years of college before she dropped out, but some of us remembered the name. She was proud of it.”

  “What about Fordham?”

  That brought a little laugh. “Oh, God. She kept that? She bought that fake license when she first went to school. All the kids had ’em. For beer and stuff, y’know. She showed it to me once. It was so bad.”

  “Then,” and he spoke as he made a notation in his book, “she didn’t use it as an alias.”

  “No. Well, she might have used it when she left. At hotels and stuff. I know she was scared to death Jack might follow her.”

  “Did you know she was heading to the Los Angeles area? Had you told anyone?”

  “No. She didn’t want me to know. I never would have guessed. She hasn’t talked to her father but once or twice since she left home. Listen, if Jack finds her, she’s in serious danger. He broke into my home—he left—oh, God—he left their dog’s head as a warning.”

  “He what?”

  “She had a dog. Golden retriever. Cody made her so happy. That’s what pushed her over the edge. Jack had beaten her a couple of times, and he was always verbally abusive, and sneaky mean, but he just flipped out. Killed the dog. She ran. She loved that dog like a child.”

  Moreno listened, marking that Trebolt had told him the opposite, that she had killed the dog. “Is there a police report that he broke into your house? Someone I could call?”

  “They just took it tonight. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Maybe they could fax it down. They told me, there’s no proof who did it, but I know. He tracked mud all over. Little things. Then the ... the other.”

  “Mrs. Whiteside, why weren’t you at home?”

  “We left. Just for a couple of days, you understand, but Mac had frightened me. So we moved out for a while. I couldn’t get any messages off the machine, and I was worried about Mac, so I came back.”

  “And my message was the only one.”

  “Yes.” Sarah Whiteside cleared her throat and sniffled slightly. “How did you know?”

  “Did you leave the machine on?”

  “It’s always on.” She sounded as if the question had been ridiculous.

  “It wasn’t when I called.”

  “But you left a message—”

  “The newer machines will kick on if there are more than a dozen rings or so. If you didn’t turn the machine off, there’s a possibility the intruder did, and then my call activated it. Call your police in the morning and ask them to fingerprint the answering machine, all right?”

  “All right.” Another low conference. Then Sarah said, “It had to have been Jack. He loves the telephone. He carries a portable cell phone wherever he goes. He used it to haunt Mac. She’d never know if he was in town or out on the road like he’d told her. He wouldn’t let her drive or have her own car. When she finally bought one, we kept it for her. Arranged for permanent parking at school.”

  “You’re a teacher, ma’am?”

  “Community college. A professor.”

  “I see.” He made a note as to her probable credibility. Then he brought the pen point up a line or two and circled “cell phone” heavily. Jack Trebolt could have been anywhere when Moreno had called him. Cellular calls could be forwarded easily enough. Anywhere.

  Even L.A.

  “Officer Moreno, please tell me what’s happened to Mac?”

  “We’re still investigating, but she was involved in a domestic battery. She’s been hospitalized for a couple of days, but she’ll be all right.”

  “Oh, God. God,” Whiteside repeated. “How bad?”

  “Contusions and a mild concussion. Her father had a stroke and was pretty badly beaten. We haven’t been able to corroborate that there was a third party involved. The neighbors called us in for a domestic disturbance. You’ve helped a lot.”

  There was a heavy silence, broken by, “You mean ... you think Mac did it? She’s a suspect?”

  “Yes, ma’am, at the moment. But I have to tell you, you’ve changed the picture a lot. Can I reach you at this number again if I need to?”

  “Yes, this is my parents’ home. The Beckmanns. What hospital is she in? Can I call her?”

  “She’s at Mount Mercy. That’s in the 818 area code. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the number handy.”

  “That’s all right. And thank you.”

  “No,” said Moreno. “Thank you.” He made an exclamation point at the bottom of his notebook as he hung up. There was a lot of crime happening in the Basin, but he made an extra note to call the lab in the morning and hustle their butts over latent prints on that baseball bat. He found himself wanting to prove Jack Trebolt had indeed been in the area.

  Mac searched the game lounge a second time, heard the chimes ring softly, announcing that visiting hours were over, and she still had not found Brand. She worried that he might have been sulking, and she had not felt well enough to get up and about until after dinner. She hoped he was not still upset about her working with Dr. Craig.

  A teenager, face challenged with acne and the beginning brushes of a beard, sat in a beanbag chair in front of the television, intent on a science fiction program. He looked up, frowning, as she peeked in again.

  “What do you want anyway?” he said. His voice had matured far beyond the rest of him. It boomed deeply out of a thin, wiry body, the effect startling.

  “I’m sorry,” Mac said. “I’m looking for Brand.”

  The boy took part of his cheek in hand, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger almost absently, popping a pimple. He wiped his hand off on his pajamas and told her, “Won’t find him here. He overdosed. Went into a coma. He’s in isolation at the other end of the ward. No visitors. Not a pretty sight.”

  “B–Brand? You’re sure?”

  “I found him. We were supposed to play Nintendo. We’d talked about it early. He said his other partner was busy kissing up to Dr. Craig, and he bugs me, but not a lot, so I said okay. So when the time came and I went to find him, there he was frothing at the mouth with his eyes rolled back in his head.” The boy gave a sharp laugh. “Shoulda seen the staff come running.”

  “I bet.” Mac felt sick to her stomach. She took a step backward out of the lounge. “Is he—”

  “They pumped his stomach. Word is, he had a reaction to the meds. He’s alive, but his mind is in la-la land.”

  “But will he be ... will he be all right? Did you hear anything?”

  The boy shrugged. He brought his thumb and finger up to his face again, found a site off his temple, and squeezed again. “They said so. But you never know around here.” He wiped his hand again and beckoned. “Want to come in and watch? Pretty cool movie.”

  She looked at the screen in time to see an alien slurp the skull off someone’s head and inhale the brains. Her stomach roiled queasily. “I don’t think so.”

  He shrugged. “Cool.” He scrunched around in the chair, gaze fixed avidly on the set.

  McKenzie made it back to her room. She closed the door against the noises of the nurses’ station and the shuffling footsteps of the ambulatory patients. She sat on the bed and drew her knees up to her chin. Brand had made such a point out of not taking his meds. Could he have been storing them up for a suicide?”

  Or had he instinctively known, after the first or second time taking them, that his body had been reacting to them? Was that why he avoided them?

  And if he was avoiding them, how did he get enough medication to OD?

  Or had someone forcibly given the dosage to him? And if someone had, who?

  And why had he disliked Susan Craig so much?

  Mac stared across her room. The boy was manic-depressive.
He wasn’t doing his maintenance. He could have swung low enough to have attempted suicide.

  But had he?

  She put both her hands to her head as the dull throbbing began again. There were no answers, only questions. She felt as if she walked a tightrope in a high wind and everyone was watching, waiting, watching for that deadly slip. A death watch for McKenzie Smith to finally strike out.

  Susan Craig stared at her computer screen and licked her lips, tongue flicking hungrily over them. McKenzie Smith had fainted while they were trying to compile an animated VR tape, but they had a great deal done. That, compiled with the spatial and personality disk retaken had given Susan enough data to work with. She looked at the grids in satisfaction.

  All these years of work. She had never thought of trying to match his imprints with those of a victim. All these years, she had done her work from the other side, from the predator’s side. The compatibility had never fully been achieved.

  Until now.

  She bumped the heel of her hand on the desk. The victim! She should have thought of it, should have run across it sooner, she’d spent so many years among victims. The analysis had simply not occurred to her. She had been building an onion, imprint over imprint, subliminal suggestion layer by layer through the appropriate virtual reality program. Only then could she hope to deconstruct Georg Bauer. Only then could she hope to understand, control, cure.

  Maybe she would have come to it eventually, instead of accidentally. She put a hand to the back of her neck, rubbing it. Maybe. Start with the victim to learn as much as you can about the perpetrator. That was basic at Quantico. Basic, basic, basic.

  But she didn’t think she would have believed it until she’d seen it in front of her. The indices and matrices which were McKenzie Smith promised even more. Smith had a talent for incorporating minute suggestions into the reality programming. Given the proper stimulus, she would be able to bridge a communication gap which had been frustrating Susan for the last seven years. The girl was gold.

  Satisfied, the doctor snapped off the monitor and shut down the computer. A few days to imprint dependency on her, and then it did not matter if McKenzie stayed in the psych ward or not. She would seek Susan out wherever she was, to get the help she needed.

  Just a few days more.

  She shrugged off her lab coat and changed into her linen jacket. She looked around. Pity about Brandon. He would recover completely, of course, but he would be of no further use to her. He was too wary now. It was a good thing Susan had been able to separate him from McKenzie before he’d spread his paranoia.

  As she left the ward, she paused by the reception desk as was her habit, to check the sign-in book maintained at the desk. She ran her finger swiftly down the signatures, then paused. Carter Wyndall. She had thought he looked familiar.

  She clicked her tongue against her teeth. He would not remember her, but she remembered him. He had not bothered her all the years they’d been together in L.A., but that was only because he’d never made the connection between her and Georg Bauer.

  She did not intend that he should. She wondered what interest the reporter had in McKenzie Smith.

  “Anything wrong, Dr. Craig?”

  She smiled at the receptionist. “No. Absolutely nothing that I can’t handle.” She pushed her way on through the doors. Carter Wyndall was about to find out what a double-edged sword a woman in distress could be.

  Yes. That would be appropriate. When the worm turned, as McKenzie Smith could be made to do, it could strike almost anywhere. Susan could dispose of Carter, and bind the Smith girl to her irrevocably, with a single, desperate act. It was the burning bed syndrome, the battered woman defense.

  Susan began to hum as she walked through the hospital corridor. Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me ....

  Chapter 27

  The phone rang sharply into the darkness. Carter stuck a hand out and pounded the nightstand blindly until he found the receiver and dragged it to his ear. He propped an eyelid open to check the time.

  2:22 a.m.

  He stifled a groan and managed to get his name out. “Wyndall.”

  “Good morning, Carter. Rise and shine.”

  It was not the city desk. It was not the night city editor. Nor was it Joyce Tompkins, from whom he half-expected it. He wiggled a little more upright in bed and, now that he knew he could afford to lose his temper, said, “Son of a bitch. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Don’t we know it. This is Franklin, Carter. You wanted in, you’ve got it, but you need to get down here before the locals get this one all cleaned up.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Blue has struck again.”

  A fresh kill. Carter sat up abruptly and swung his feet out of bed. He reached for the lamp and started searching for paper and pencil. “When?”

  “Early this evening.”

  “They won’t let me cross the tape,” he told Franklin.

  “They will this time. But there are some curious differences. We think you might be able to give us some insight.” He gave Carter the address and directions. He added, “Oh, and bring some hot coffee and doughnuts. We’ll be here until mid-morning, at least, on this one.”

  “I’ll be there, but don’t wait for me.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t.”

  The line went dead.

  Carter hung up. He was half-dressed when he stopped, one leg in his trousers and one leg out. What in hell was he going to do about McKenzie?

  He hopped to the phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, stabbed a finger down and dialed.

  A sleepy voice answered after the fifth ring. “Tompkins residence.”

  “You don’t use an answering machine?”

  “Good Lord. Carter, do you know what time of the night this is? Do you have any idea how normal folk sleep?”

  He cradled the phone under his chin, still hopping, and put the other leg in his trousers. “Believe me, I know. I’ve got a story that won’t keep. I’m out of here, and I may not be back until after noon. I would have paged you and left a message on voice mail, but you told me not to do that anymore. Something about broken fingers.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry your pointed little head about that. Now it’s your neck! I’ll take care of McKenzie. I tol’ you that.”

  He felt relieved despite Joyce’s irritation. “Good. I’ll hang up now.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s so all fired important.”

  “Can’t.” He puffed a little as he tucked in his shirt.

  “Carter!”

  “Really, I can’t. Not even you. Sorry, Joyce.”

  “So I suppose I’ll read all about it in the evening edition.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean that the police have been keeping this one under wraps. My hands are tied. But I’ve got an invitation for a front row seat, and I can’t turn that down.”

  She made a sound which he could not possibly duplicate, a sound which verified her ethnicity. “I’m goin’ back to bed, and don’t you even dare, white bread, bother me again tonight.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Honest to God—” She hung up on him. Carter grinned to himself and started looking for his shoes. He eventually found them under the computer desk, and he was out the door.

  It hadn’t taken him long in L.A. after moving there to find a decent doughnut shop, open all hours, which would also lend out thermal pots to hold hot coffee. Carter made a beeline there, took in two empties he’d tossed into the back seat of his car, got two dozen doughnuts and two fresh pots. Then he studied his Thomas Brothers Guide until he found the address.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled into the cul-de-sac, notable for its fleet of late model, fully operational police cars, all bulbs blinking on their light bars. Two fire trucks looked like they were wrapping it up, weary men taking off their slickers and folding hoses. There were also several unmarked cars, including a rental car which probably belonge
d to the Feds. The coroner’s van had evidently arrived just before he did. He watched them unload a gurney, body bags neatly folded on the top and wheel it toward the yellow police tape which surrounded an entire nine-apartment complex. It reeked of smoke and ashes and water. From the looks of it, Mr. Blue had gotten carried away with his little fires. He did a quick step to catch up with the gurney and set the coffee and doughnuts on it. The two hauling it never noticed. The corner of Carter’s mouth quirked. You didn’t get far in this business being unobservant.

  Also immediately apparent was the fact that the building was not blue. It was a kind of sickly-looking ocher, thanks to the amber streetlights and the flashing lights from the official vehicles. Empty lots surrounded it and he thought he was looking at a building which had undergone restructuring after the Northridge quake, more than two years ago. Buildings on either side of it had been torn down, beyond repair. This was a common sight the farther north and east of downtown L.A. you got, and the closer to the epicenter.