Hanover shone his flashlight on a red button flush-mounted into the back wall of the dead woman’s closet.
“Panic room button?” Jordan asked.
Hanover nodded. “Probably. Homes like these usually have an escape room for use in the event of an emergency or home invasion. Considering the size of this place I’d bet there are more than one.”
Chris pressed the button. With a whirring sound, the back wall of the closet clicked open, revealing a vault-like entrance door. Hanover spun the small wheel in the center of the door, heard the deadbolts release, then pushed it open and stepped inside. To his left, an orange keypad glowed. The room lights came on. Adjacent to the keypad a red plunger button with the words EMERGENCY: PRESS TO SEAL blinked rapidly.
“Hitting that button will close the door and put the room into lockdown,” he said. “Nobody gets in after that.”
“Too bad they never got the chance to use it,” Jordan said. She stepped over the threshold and followed her partner into the room. Lucy’s tail thumped softly against her leather jacket. The dog sniffed the air.
In keeping with the Rosenfeld’s penchant for all things luxurious the panic room too was well appointed. A glass panel integrated into the wall provided an unobstructed view of the master bedroom.
“Two-way mirror,” Jordan said. “Probably bullet- and fireproof. They’d be able to see everything that was going on in the bedroom from in here.”
“And know when it was safe to leave,” Hanover said. He pointed to an impressive bank of wall-mounted computer monitors. “They’ve got cameras covering every square inch of this place, inside and out. There’s probably a hard drive we can access. We need to get a tech team in here asap. Our guy’s probably on camera.”
The safe room featured a king size bed, en suite bath with tub and shower, kitchenette, a well-stocked pantry and liquor cabinet, dozens of hardcover books, computer station and laptop, floor safe, four fully-charged cellular phones and a satellite phone. A home defense arsenal consisting of two Desert Eagle 50 AE’s, four Glock 19 semi-automatic handguns and four Mossberg 590 short barrel shotguns was mounted on the wall to the right of the mirror. Boxes of ammunition sat on shelves below the guns. Two bulletproof Kevlar vests and shoulder holsters hung on the wall beside the weapons.
“They could have spent weeks in here if they needed to,” Jordan said.
Hanover removed one of the Desert Eagles from the display rack and examined it. “The Rosenfeld’s knew their weapons,” he said. “This baby could punch a hole through a bad guy and take part of the wall with it.”
Jordan inspected the shotguns. “Fully-loaded,” she said. “Personally, I’d pass on the handguns and go straight for the Moss.”
“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “Folks have a tendency to get outright pissed off at you when you open up on them with a Mossberg.”
Jordan returned the weapon to the rack. “Why the hell would anyone see the need to have this kind of firepower on hand?”
“Beats me,” Chris replied. “We should have a look in the pantry. Maybe we’ll find a couple of surface-to-air missiles between the Skippy and the Folgers.”
Lucy looked up and whined.
Hanover massaged the dog behind her ears. The anxious pup settled down, closed her eyes, and began to fall asleep in Jordan’s arms.
“Looks like someone’s found a new friend,” he said.
Lucy began to snore softly. “Poor thing must be exhausted,” Jordan said. She smoothed the matted fur out of the pup’s eyes. The dog cradled deeper into Jordan’s embrace, hid her head under her arm, let out a muffled sigh.
“We should make arrangements for the SPCA to pick her up after Forensics has processed her for trace evidence.”
Jordan shook her head. “Lucy’s been through enough for one day,” she said. “The last thing she needs is to be left alone again. She can stay with me and the kids until we determine if a family member can take her.”
“Fine by me,” Hanover agreed.
“Let’s get Lucy squared away, then try to figure out just what the hell happened here.”
“Agreed.”
After handing the puppy over to Forensics, Jordan and Chris returned to the master bedroom. The flames from the votives that lined the staircase and hallway had burned out. The scent of melted candle wax hung heavy in the air. The Forensics team were busy photographing the room from every angle: the hand-painted murals, grand entrance and vestibule, and the glittering shards of crystal from the broken door pane which lay on the floor. One member of the team dusted the flower petals for prints. Another bagged and processed the items.
Jordan walked back along the glass hallway and looked over the balcony at the floral arrangement in the grand entrance below.
She suddenly called out to the agents below. “Stop!”
The forensics team stood up and stepped away from the scene they were in the midst of processing.
Hanover met Jordan at the handrail. “What the hell, Jordan?”
“Chris, look down,” Jordan said. “Tell me what you see.”
Hanover stared at the flowers spread out over the massive foyer. “I see roses. Lots and lots of friggin’ roses.” He raised his hands as if to say and your point is?
Jordan called down. “How many roses have you guys bagged and tagged?”
Forensics Specialist Steve Reynolds replied. “Ten so far. Why?”
“Do you remember exactly where you found them, Steve?”
“Sure.”
“Put them back.”
“Say what?”
“Every last one of them. Exactly where you found them.”
“Seriously?”
"Sorry. It might be nothing, or it could be important."
“You’re in charge, Jordan,” Agent Reynolds replied. “Whatever you say.”
Reynolds and his team returned the flowers to their previous locations on the marble floor. When he was finished he gave Jordan the thumbs up.
“There,” Jordan said to Chris. She pointed out the pattern on the floor. “Now do you see it?”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“They form a pattern, a number: 24.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” Chris said.
“Not a chance,” Jordan replied. She called down to Agent Reynolds. “Steve, have one of your guys come up here and photograph this.”
“On it,” Reynolds replied.
The full light of morning now illuminated the master bedroom and the anteroom in which the Rosenfeld’s displayed their collection of priceless antiquities and works of art. Lucy’s bloody paw prints mapped the panicked course she had charted as she ran from room to room following the murder of her guardians. A blood trail smeared the floor from the coagulated puddle under which Itzhak’s book lay to the walk-in closet where Lucy had been found.
Jordan stooped beside Itzhak’s body and examined the blood pool with her flashlight. “Lucy lay down here,” she said. “That’s how she ended up covered in blood. At some point she got up and went into the closet.”
“She must have caught our scent or heard us coming up the stairs, got spooked, then hid in the closet.”
“You know what I don’t get?” Jordan questioned. “If you’re going to kill Mom and Dad, why not shoot the dog, too?”
“Maybe our killer’s a pet lover,” Chris replied. “People, no problem. Take ‘em out like targets in a shooting gallery. But dogs, cats, dwarf bunnies… not happening.”
“One thing’s for certain,” Jordan said. “This guy was a pro.” She examined the headboard and the position of the dead woman’s body. “The wife received a single shot a split second after she turned her head. The approximate angle of entry and exit places the shooter a good twenty feet away; not an easy shot to make from that distance, especially in the dark. Maybe he used a laser sight or goggles.”
“Or he consumes Vitamin A, bilberry, zinc and grape seed extract by the bucket,” Chris said. “Great for improving night vision.”
“And you know this how?”
“Dr. Oz. I never miss a show. The man totally rocks.”
Jordan smiled.
“What about the handrail?” Chris asked. “Did you get a solid reading when you touched it?”
Jordan nodded. “Mr. Rosenfeld was the intended target. This was personal. The UNSUB wanted it messy. Look at the kill: three body shots to incapacitate, a fourth to the head, then a knife to the throat.”
“Mob hit maybe?” Hanover speculated.
“Could be. Whatever business the Rosenfeld’s were into it’s pretty evident they made a lot of money doing it.”
“Maybe they owed more than they made… to the wrong kind of people.”
“That’s always a possibility.”
Jordan took a pair of medical examination gloves out of her jacket pocket, snapped them on, removed her flashlight, then leaned over the corpse. She lifted the dead man’s head. Rosenfeld’s jaw fell slack.
She remembered her earlier vision: something about the dead man’s mouth.
A plastic object had been inserted into his mouth. Jordan removed a pen from her lapel pocket and fished out the object. It fell into his lap. She glanced at Chris.
“Flash drive,” he said.
CHAPTER 4
DR. JASON MERRICK pulled off Pacific Coast Highway 1 at Aliso Creek behind a late model Winnebago which judging by the plume of smoke pouring from its exhaust pipe could clearly benefit from a forensic examination by a local mechanic. The vehicle, so laden with mountain bikes that its rear sports rack sagged perilously close to the ground, chugged its way into the designated area of the rest stop reserved for recreational vehicles. The multitude of stickers wallpapering its rear bumper eluded that some if not all of its occupants had ‘Toured the Hoover Dam’ in Nevada, ‘Conquered Pikes Peak’ in Colorado, and discovered that in Nebraska ‘The best girls are from Omaha.’ Here in California, the bumper sticker advised that ‘98% of Californians say, ‘Oh shit!’ before driving off the cliff into the Pacific, while the other 2% say ‘hold my beer and watch this!’
The door to the Winnebago opened. A group of twenty something's exited the fifth wheel; three guys, three girls, college students he assumed, and walked across the parking lot in the direction of the restroom facilities. Merrick debated whether or not he should follow them and bring to their attention the abysmal state of the pollution-generating monstrosity. They would benefit from hearing his invaluable advice about the negative impact the machines acrid expulsion was having on the environment, and that their blatant disregard for global warming would probably catch up to and kill them one day in the form of a too-late diagnosis of stage-four squamous cell carcinoma which, perhaps, would be a fitting end for those demonstrating such total disregard for regularly scheduled engine maintenance and oft-neglected oil changes.
Merrick stepped out of the Chevy Suburban and inhaled the refreshing ocean air. The perfect blueness of the sky and the warmth of the sun on his face promised a perfect day.
West of the rest area, rising swells of the crystal blue Pacific were locked in fierce competition. The rolling waves gained momentum, crested, then raced up the bank of the shoreline, only to fall back and be absorbed by the sandy beach.
Merrick found himself overwhelmed with gratitude for the sun-kissed day and this his second chance at life. He even entertained a brief feeling of indebtedness to the venerable scientific minds who had come before him, although they had failed in their experiments where he had more than succeeded in his.
It felt good to be free of the lab. He felt relaxed, much more than he thought he would, and far better than he had for as long as he could remember. He attributed this emotional liberation to having finally reached the summit of his profession and now being unquestionably without peer. Training this mind to suppress his desire for revenge had proven to be a worthwhile discipline after all.
After leaving Dynamic Life Sciences his first order of business had been to ditch his Porsche 911 in the parking lot of a local shopping mall. It was at the back of the mall where he had acquired the Suburban from a young home renovator. Despite the massive decal plastered on the side of the steel bin that read NO COMMERCIAL WASTE, Dan of Dan’s Home Improvements had parked behind the Dumpster and was engaged in the illegal disposal of broken plasterboard, used paint cans, old light fixtures, a cracked yellow sink and matching Formica countertop, and the threadbare remains of a truly hideous orange and brown carpet.
Merrick had merely wished to voice his displeasure at the poor judgment the young contractor was exhibiting by improperly combining recyclables with corrosives and toxins (a threat to both the environment and human health in general) when the contractor, having taken offense to Merrick's intrusion, threatened to punch his lights out for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, then encouraged him to be on his way by using the most impolite language. Merrick apologized profusely, agreed that he preferred his nose exactly where it was, then touched the metal band on his wrist and extended his hand. Taken aback, expecting further confrontation from the stranger and not receiving it, the contractor quickly cooled off and accepted Merrick’s offer of contrition. He took Merrick’s hand, and in doing so felt every nerve in his body come to life. First came the heat, as though his central nervous system was a furnace that had been cranked up as high as it could possibly go. He felt as if he was being fried alive, from the inside out. Just as quickly, his body temperature plummeted, as though he had been scooped out of a cauldron of boiling water and plunged deep into icy water.
Merrick stared into the contractor’s eyes and noted the sudden physiological changes taking place within his body, in particular the rapid dilation and contraction of his pupils, coupled with his desire to speak but inability to utter a single word. Merrick let up on the strange energy force flooding throughout the man’s body.
“Please… no more,” Dan the Contractor said. His teeth chattered with such intensity Merrick thought he might actually grind them to dust as he spoke. “I… have… a family.”
“So did I,” Merrick replied. “Unfortunately, I really need your truck.”
Merrick intensified the energy stream. The man’s skin turned color, from pink to pale blue, then to ashen gray, and finally snow white. If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, Dan the Contractor’s stare suggested that his life force had abandoned him. Merrick gripped his hand tighter and increased the cold energy, testing the limits of Project Channeler, then watched his body shatter into a thousand tiny fragments as easily as might a boulder that had been dipped in a vat of liquid nitrogen then struck with a sledgehammer.
Before closing the lift gate, Merrick removed from the truck a second roll of the grotesque carpet the contractor had not yet disposed of, unrolled it, kicked the man’s frozen remains into it, then re-rolled the rug and tossed it into the Dumpster, along with the man’s work boots and clothes. He pulled the magnetic business signs off the doors of the Suburban. After switching the license plates with those of his Porsche he left the mall and drove off in the direction of Laguna Beach.
Merrick checked his wristwatch. 10:50 A.M. His colleagues would soon be arriving at the lab. They had worked all day yesterday and into the early hours of the morning at his request. He recommended they take advantage of a few extra hours of well-earned sleep in order to recharge their batteries and suggested they roll in around eleven instead of their usual eight o’clock start.
He, however, had arrived early. He opened the lab as usual, then coated the focus adjustment dials of the microscopes with a mother tincture of poison hemlock. Soon after his co-workers touched the equipment the poison would be absorbed through their skin and begin to circulate through their bloodstream. One by one they would start to exhibit symptoms of an unknown etiology; vomiting, convulsions, wheezing, delirium, lack of motor control, paralysis. Eventually they would collapse. Working in a top-secret military lab and unsure of what was happening to them Merrick knew their first instinct would be to su
spect the lab had been compromised and that they had become the target of a chemical attack; terrorism perhaps. Panic would quickly ensue. One of them would hit a workstation alarm, immediately initiating Red Door protocol, after which no one would be permitted to enter or leave Dynamic Life Sciences or any of its labs until all emergency procedures had been followed. No action would be taken to help the men trapped in the lab – not even if they appeared to be dying - until the full extent of the threat had been determined. Only then would the lockdown be lifted and the scientists permitted to receive medical attention… if they were still alive.
Whatever.
Merrick was confident he wouldn't be missed for the next couple of hours. Even if he had arrived for work he wouldn't have been permitted access to the facility due to the lockdown.
He walked past the Winnebago and noted his reflection in the side window of the RV. Too much time spent working in labs over the years combined with too little time committed to exercise had left him overweight. He checked his profile in the tinted window, turning to his left, then his right. Twenty pounds would have to go. Okay, maybe thirty. He promised himself that when his mission was complete he would make a concerted effort to get back into shape. Such promises hadn’t worked for him in the past. Perhaps this time would be different. The RV windows parabolic design and bronze tint did little to enhance the pallor of his skin. Rather than providing the illusion of a tanned and healthy glow his reflection still looked pale. Acne scars pock-marked his face like tiny craters, and his pudgy cheeks seemed even pudgier. His oversized head (about which he had been teased all his life) appeared chinless, and dissolved into a short, wide neck. In an effort to better observe his appearance Merrick pushed his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose and smoothed his thinning hair into place. A lifetime of being short and rotund guaranteed he would forever remain the farthest thing from a chick magnet any woman could imagine. Before his late wife, Alma, the women who had been drawn to him were mostly Ph.D. candidates, attracted to him for his superior intellect. Merrick had established a name for himself in the field of synthetic biology. He was considered a scientific rock star and trailblazer due to his unparalleled advancements in the field of artificial neural networking and brain-computer interface communications known as neurocybernetics: merging the mind of man with biologically-hosted computer technology. He had spent the last ten years working at Dynamic Life Sciences as a civilian military contractor. He had been provided with unlimited funding from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency in order to continue his breakthrough research into neuro-command telepathy, telekinesis, transmutation, and mind control. Human trials were now underway. Early results had shown Project Channeler to be an unprecedented success. Once weaponized, the technology would be of incalculable value to DARPA, and he would be contractually obligated to surrender it to them. But that was something he had never intended to do.
The Sin Keeper Page 2