Metz said that evidence collected from Felder’s car indicated that he was involved in online groups that have idolized the Shrike in the months since his killing spree was revealed. Metz said the evidence, most of which was found on a laptop computer and Felder’s online history, excluded him from possibly being the Shrike himself.
FBI agents stopped Felder on the dead-end street and ordered him out of his car. Metz said Felder initially complied but then pulled a gun from his waistband once he had stepped out of his car. Metz said Felder pointed the weapon at agents, provoking fire from several of them. Felder was fatally wounded and died at the scene.
In addition to the weapon recovered at the scene, agents found what they called an abduction-and-torture kit in Felder’s car, Metz said. He described the kit as a duffel bag containing zip ties and duct tape as well as rope, a knife, pliers, and a small acetylene torch.
“We believe his intentions were to abduct and kill Ms. Walling,” Metz said.
The federal agent said the motive for the killing plan was Walling’s part in the Shrike case. Walling, a former FBI profiler, consulted with FairWarning on its investigation into the deaths of several women across the country who died at the hands of a killer who broke their necks in a brutal manner. The FairWarning investigation revealed that the women were targeted because of a specific DNA pattern they shared. All had submitted their DNA to GT23, a popular genetic-analytics provider. Their anonymized DNA was then sold in the secondary market to a genetic-research lab, which in turn provided it to the operators of a dark-web site that catered to men wishing to hurt and take sexual advantage of women.
The website has since been shuttered. The Shrike has not been identified or captured. In the weeks since the killing spree was revealed by FairWarning, he has become celebrated in online forums catering to the “incel” subculture. The male-dominated movement—named for a contraction of “involuntary celibate”—is characterized online by postings involving misogyny, feelings of entitlement to sex, and the endorsement of violence against women. Several physical attacks on women across the country have been ascribed by authorities to incels.
Metz said that a study of Felder’s social-media history revealed that in recent weeks he had made several posts on various incel forums praising and revering the Shrike and the violence he committed against women. He ended most of these posts with #theydeservedit, according to Metz.
“We have no doubt that this guy came out here to abduct Ms. Walling as some kind of homage to the Shrike,” Metz said. “We are lucky that she wasn’t hurt.”
Walling declined to comment. It was, in fact, Walling who saved her own life. In a Sherman Oaks restaurant, Walling
noticed Felder watching her and acting suspiciously. She contacted the FBI and a plan was quickly formulated to determine if Felder was stalking her. Under FBI surveillance Walling left the restaurant and drove to a predetermined spot on Tyrone Avenue.
Metz said that Felder followed them in his car and drove into an FBI vehicle trap. When he was told to step out of the car with his hands visible, he complied. But then for unknown reasons, he reached to his beltline and pulled free a .45 caliber pistol. He was fired upon when he raised the weapon into firing position.
“He gave us no choice,” said Metz, who was on the scene during the shooting but did not fire himself.
There were seven other agents on the scene and four of them fired at Felder. Metz said the shooting will be investigated by the bureau’s Office of Professional Responsibility and the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
Metz, the assistant special agent in charge of the Los Angeles Field Office, said he was concerned Felder’s activities could inspire others in the incel community to act out in the same way. He said efforts are being made to safeguard Walling and others involved in the Shrike case.
Meantime, Metz acknowledged that efforts to identify the Shrike and bring about his arrest continue, but frustrations mount with each passing day.
“We are not going to be able to breathe easy until this guy is in custody,” he said. “We need to find him.”
JACK
43
We gathered at Sun Ray Studios on Cahuenga Boulevard to record the last episode of the podcast on the Shrike. The last, that is, until there was some sort of break in the case worthy of a new episode. I had gone through seventeen episodes. I had discussed the story from every conceivable angle and had interviewed every person associated with the case who was willing to go on the record and be taped. This even included an interview with Gwyneth Rice in her hospital room, her voice now an eerie electronic creation manifested from her laptop.
This last episode was a heavily promoted live discussion with as many of the players in the case as I could bring together. The studio had a round table in the recording room. It was Rachel Walling, Metz from the FBI, Detective Ruiz from the Anaheim Police Department, Myron Levin from FairWarning, and Hervé Gaspar, the lawyer who had represented Jessica Kelley, the victim in the William Orton case. I had never been able to figure out whether Ruiz or Gaspar had been my Deep Throat source. Both had denied it. But Gaspar had eagerly accepted the invitation to be part of the podcast, while Ruiz had to be cajoled. That tipped my guess toward Gaspar. He relished the secret part he had played in the case.
Lastly, we had Emily Atwater on the phone, calling in from her unknown spot in England and ready to answer questions as well.
We had calls on hold before the scheduled hour even began. This did not surprise me. The podcast had steadily grown an audience. More than half a million people had already listened to the prior week’s episode, when the live event was announced.
We gathered around the table, and Ray Stallings, the engineer and owner of the studio, handed out headsets and checked and adjusted the microphones.
The moment was awkward for me. It had been almost three months since Robinson Felder’s attempted abduction. In that time, I had only seen Rachel once and that was when she had come to my apartment to collect some clothes she had left there.
We were no longer seeing each other, despite my apologizing and taking back the accusation I had made against her on that last night. As she had warned, my accusation ruined everything. We were now finished. Getting her to appear on the final podcast took an email lobbying campaign that was a digital version of begging and groveling. I could have easily proceeded without her on the episode, but I hoped that getting her into the same room with me might spark something or at least give me the chance to once more confess my sins and seek forgiveness and understanding.
It wasn’t a complete shutdown of communications because we were still inextricably bound together by the Shrike. She was my source. She had access to Metz and the FBI investigation; I had access to her. Though we communicated by email only, it was still communication, and more than once I had tried to engage her in a discussion outside the bounds of the source/reporter relationship. But she had thwarted and deflected such efforts, with the request that we keep things on a professional level from now on.
I watched her as Ray positioned the microphone in front of her lips and had her say her name a few times while he checked the sound levels. She avoided eye contact with me the whole time. Looking back, I was as mystified by this turn of events as by anything else that had occurred in the case. I could not figure out what I had or didn’t have inside me that would lead me to doubt a sure thing and look for the cracks in its foundation.
Once we went live, I began with the scripted intro I used at the start of every episode of the podcast:
“Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professional reputation on it … I’m Jack McEvoy and this is Murder Beat, the true-crime podcast that takes you beyond the headlines and on the trail of a killer with the investigators on the case.
“This episode wraps up our first season with a live discussion featuring the investigators, attorneys, and journalists who all played a part in exposing and hunting a serial killer known as the Shrike …”
&
nbsp; And so it went. I introduced the panel members and started taking listener questions. Most of them were routine softballs. I acted as moderator and chose which participant to throw each question to. Everybody had been prepped beforehand to keep their answers short and precise. The shorter the answer, the more questions we could get to. I directed more than an equal share to Rachel, thinking that somehow it was like engaging her in conversation. But it felt hollow and embarrassing after a while.
The most unusual call came from a woman identifying herself as Charisse. She did not ask a question about the Shrike case. Instead, she said that eleven years earlier her sister Kylie had been abducted and murdered, her body left in the sand under the Venice pier. She said the police never arrested anyone for the crime and there was no active investigation she knew of.
“My question is whether you would investigate her case,” Charisse said.
The question was so out-of-left-field that I struggled to answer.
“Well,” I said. “I could probably look into it and check on what the police did with it, but I’m not a detective.”
“What about the Shrike?” Charisse said. “You investigated him.”
“The circumstances were a bit different. I was working on a story and it became a serial-murder case. I—”
I was interrupted by a dial tone. Charisse had hung up.
I got the discussion back on track after that but the episode still went long. The advertised hour stretched to ninety minutes and the only time we veered away from questions from listeners was when I had to read advertisements from our sponsors, which were mostly other true-crime podcasts.
The listeners who called in were enthusiastic about Murder Beat and many eagerly asked what the next season would be about and when it would start. These were questions I didn’t yet have an official response to. But it was good to know that there appeared to be an audience out there waiting. It buoyed my sinking morale.
I have to admit that I secretly hoped that I would hear from him. The Shrike. I had hoped that he was one of the podcast’s listeners and that he would feel compelled to call in to taunt or threaten the journalists or the investigators. That was why I let the session go long. I wanted to get to every caller just in case he was there waiting to speak.
But it never happened, and when we answered the last question and killed the live feed, I looked across the table at Metz. We had talked previously about the possibility of the unsub—FBI-speak for the unknown subject—calling in. He shook his head at me and I shrugged. I glanced at Rachel, who was sitting next to Metz. She was already taking her headphones off. I then saw her touch his arm and lean toward him to whisper something. The gesture looked intimate to me. My morale sagged further.
I wrapped things up with my usual thanks to those involved in the podcast: the participants, the sponsors, the studio, and the sound engineer. I promised listeners that we would be back with a new chapter in the Shrike case as soon as anything occurred. We went out with a tune from saxophonist Grace Kelly called “By the Grave.”
And that was it. I took my headphones off and draped them over the microphone stand. The others did the same.
“Thanks, everybody,” I said. “That was good. I was hoping the Shrike would call in but he was probably busy doing laundry today.”
It was a lame and insensitive attempt at a joke. No one even smiled.
“I have to go to the restroom,” Rachel said. “So I’m going to leave. Good to see everybody.”
She gave me a smile as she stood up, but I couldn’t hang any hope on it. I watched her leave the recording room.
Gaspar and Ruiz were the next to leave as they each had to drive all the way back to Orange County. I asked Ray if Emily was still on the line but he said she had disconnected. Myron bailed next and then Metz. I was left with Ray, who had questions about whether I wanted him to edit the session down to an hour or post it in its entirety as the season finale. I told him to put the whole thing out. Those who hadn’t listened to the live version could download the whole thing and listen to as much or as little as they liked.
I took the elevator down to the building’s basement. The garage was always crowded, requiring an attendant named Rodrigo to be constantly moving double-parked cars around so people could get in and get out. When the elevator opened, I saw through the alcove that Rachel was in the garage waiting with Metz for their cars. I hung back for a moment. I wasn’t sure why. I thought if Metz got his car first, I would have a chance to talk to Rachel and maybe ask for a meeting to clear the air about what was happening with us. In the last month I had used the ad revenues from the podcast both to lease a new car and rent a bigger apartment. After ten years with the ragtag Jeep I had gotten a new car: a Range Rover SUV that was the very picture of maturity and security. I thought maybe we could leave Rachel’s car in the garage and go up the street to Miceli’s for an afternoon glass of wine.
But I was wrong. Rodrigo brought up a car that I recognized as a fed vehicle, and both of them walked toward it, Rachel to the passenger door. That told me more than I wanted to know. Embarrassed, I waited until they were pulling away before passing through the alcove into the garage.
But I timed it wrong. Just as I stepped out, Rachel turned in her seat to reach back over her shoulder for the seat belt. Our eyes caught and she smiled as the fed car pulled away. I took it as an apology smile. And a goodbye look.
Rodrigo came up behind me.
“Mr. Jack,” he said. “You’re all set. First row, keys on the front tire for you.”
“Thank you, Rodrigo,” I said, still watching Metz’s car as it turned out of the garage onto Cahuenga.
Once it was gone from sight I walked alone to my car.
44
I decided I had nowhere to go but home. I pulled out onto Cahuenga and headed north. I followed the road as it made the big bend west until it became Ventura Boulevard and I was in Studio City. My new place was a two-bedroom apartment on Vineland. I was thinking about what I had just seen in the parking garage and how I should interpret it. I wasn’t paying attention to the road and didn’t register the brake lights in front of me.
My new SUV’s anti-collision system engaged and a sharp alarm issued from the dashboard. I came out of my reverie and slammed the brake pedal with both feet. The SUV came skidding to a halt two feet from the Prius stopped in front of me. I felt the dull thud of an impact behind me.
“Shit!”
I settled down and checked the rearview mirror, then got out to inspect the damage. I walked to the back of the car and saw that the car behind me was a good six feet away. The back of my car had no sign of damage. I looked at the other driver. His window was down.
“Did you hit me?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t hit you,” he said indignantly.
I checked the back of my car again. I still had a temporary tag on the car.
“Hey, buddy, how about you get in your pretty new car and keep moving?” the other driver said. “You’re holding up traffic with this bullshit.”
I waved him and his rudeness off and climbed back into the driver’s seat, confused by the whole situation. I continued driving, thinking about what had happened. I had definitely felt some kind of heavy thud of impact when I hit the brakes. I wondered if something was wrong or loose in the new car, then thought about Ikea. My new apartment was nearly twice the size of my old one. It had dictated the need for more furniture and I had made several runs to the Ikea in Burbank since getting the new SUV, making good use of the rear storage compartment. But I was sure I had not left anything back there. The compartment was empty. Or it should have been.
Then it hit me. I checked the rearview mirror but this time was more interested in what was on my side of the back window than behind my car. The pullover cover for the rear compartment was in place. Nothing seemed amiss.
I pulled my phone and speed-dialed Rachel. The ringing came blaring out of the car stereo’s surround sound. I had forgotten about the Bluetooth connec
tion the car salesman had set up for me when I took delivery of the car.
I quickly hit the button on the dash that killed the sound system. The buzzing returned to only my phone and my ear.
But Rachel didn’t answer. She was probably still with Metz and thought I was calling for some kind of maudlin let’s-get-back-together conversation. It went to her voice mail and I disconnected.
I called again and while I waited I reached over to my laptop on the seat next to me and opened it. I knew I had Metz’s cell number in a file on the desktop.
But this time Rachel answered.
“Jack, this is not a good time.”
I slapped the laptop closed and spoke in a low voice.
“Are you with Metz?”
“Jack, I’m not going to talk about who I—”
“I don’t mean that way. Are you still driving with Metz?”
I checked the rearview again and realized I had to stop talking out loud.
“Yes,” Rachel said. “He’s just taking me back to my office.”
“Check your messages,” I said.
I disconnected.
Traffic slowed again as I came to the intersection with Vineland. I used the moment to type out a text to Rachel.
I’m in my car. Strike is hiding in the back.
I realized after I sent it that autocorrect had changed Shrike to Strike. I figured, though, that she would understand.
She did and I got an almost immediate response.
Are you sure? Where are you?
I was coming up to my apartment building but drove by it. And typed in a reply.
Vineland
My phone buzzed and Rachel’s name was on the screen. I connected but didn’t say hello.
“Jack?”
I coughed and hoped she understood I did not want to reveal I was on the phone to the person hiding in the back.
“Okay, I get it,” Rachel said. “You can’t talk. So, listen, you have two choices. You get to a populated area, pull into a parking lot where there are people, and just get out and get away from the car. Give me the location and we will try to get the police there and hopefully catch him.”
Fair Warning - Jack McEvoy Series 03 (2020) Page 28