Not much had.
At two in the morning, Alistair Birch confirmed a new body at the location given by Fifteen-X, but that was all so far.
She’d spent most of the night staring at the evidence wall, nursing resentment over Jess Duffey finding the link between the victims before her team had. Eventually she’d put it down to Jess being a fresh pair of eyes. Sometimes it helps to think outside the box, and people like Jess don’t even know the box exists.
“Anything you want me to work on in particular?” Josh asked her.
“Yeah. Search the list of vans for one with a plate starting with one-five-S.”
“Easy enough.” Josh began typing. “Did we get a hit somewhere?”
“He turned up at my house last night.” Corrina told him about the sighting, the chase, and losing him.
“Wow! He’s got some nerve.”
“If it was him,” Corrina said. “Could just be a coincidence. I can’t think of any reason he’d want to go after my son. I’ve done nothing to get on his bad side, nor has my husband.”
“But the same van?”
“I know. I sent my kid to stay with his father for a few days. Just in case.”
“Smart move.” Josh typed some more, then hit the Enter key. “One result.” He expanded the entry.
The registered owner was Mary McEwan, with an address in South Gate.
“Can you see if it matches anyone from the cancer list?”
“I can,” Josh told her, “but the database isn’t complete. I’ve only processed ninety names so far, adding relatives of the deceased. I started with residents of LA first and I’ll expand it to California later.”
“Run it against what you have,” Corrina instructed him.
He did, and it came back with no matches.
Corrina was more frustrated than disappointed.
“I’m beginning to think the cancer reference was just to throw us off, use up our resources chasing our own tails,” Josh said.
“No, it’s part of it. People who don’t like capitalism break bank windows or spray-paint statues. They don’t hack people into little pieces.”
“I think it’s not so much that they make money, it’s how they do it that’s pissing him off. Sad to say, a lot of people will agree with him.”
“Not me,” Corrina said. She noted down the details for Mary McEwan and went in search of coffee. When she returned, she called McCrae.
“How was your night?” he asked her.
“Not good.” She’d managed two hours of sleep at her desk and felt all the worse for it.
“Same. I did some digging on Diane Markland’s husband, the misper from last week. He’s the CEO of IC Chemicals.”
“I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones who make that pesticide. What’s it called?”
“Efrinem,” McCrae said. “Big lawsuit a few years ago when it was proven it killed bees. Environmental groups took them to court, but the judge ruled in IC’s favor.”
“Looks like Diane’s going to be one of the fifteen,” Corrina said.
“That’s what I thought. I’m going to speak to the husband later this morning.”
“Before you do, I got a lead on the partial plate from last night. The van’s registered to a Mary McEwan from South Gate. I’d like to speak to her.”
“That’s great. We ran a search yesterday but there were so many hits on the partial that we couldn’t narrow it down. Give me half an hour, I’ll pick you up,”
It had been a rough night and Corrina felt like shit, but the prospect of spending some time with McCrae gave her a huge boost.
She headed to the washroom to freshen up.
* * *
McCrae looked as bad as Corrina felt, but her heart still fluttered as she sat next to him in the police-issue Ford. He’d gone a little overboard with the aftershave, but Corrina didn’t mind. The smell reminded her of happier times, when they spent most of their time together.
As colleagues.
Friends.
Nothing more.
But the barriers between them had crumbled, and she was free to tell him how she felt.
Corrina held back, though. She remembered how he’d reacted when she’d put her hand on his leg a couple of days earlier. He’d looked uncomfortable, nervous. Was it because he didn’t feel the same way about her, or did he fear a rebound relationship?
She decided not to press it, just enjoy their time together.
Her cell phone chirped. The message was from Josh. Before leaving, she’d asked him to find out what he could about Mary McEwan, and he’d delivered. She now had a photograph of a woman in her fifties, with shoulder-length black hair and a mole on her cheek. Her bio said she was widowed, her husband dead from a heart attack three years earlier. Two brothers, one elder, also deceased. The younger one was Brian Tanner, age 46.
“No way she’s Fifteen-X,” Corrina said. She read out the particulars for McCrae, who was driving.
“The brother sounds interesting, though.”
Corrina thought so, too. Right age, and has access to a GMC van.
Mary McEwan lived in a one-story home on Madison, with grey walls and black tiles on the roof. In the driveway was a GMC van, and Corrina couldn’t resist taking a look around it. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, inside or out. She checked the rear license plate.
It was clear. No mud, no sticker obscuring the alphanumerics.
A wonderful smell coming from the window suggested she was in the midst of making breakfast.
Corrina rang the bell and Mary appeared moments later. Her driver’s license photo must have been taken years earlier, because she’d aged considerably since. She also looked like she’d gone straight from bed to the kitchen, her hair sticking out at all angles.
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but we’d like to have a word with you about your van.” They both held out their IDs, and Mary squinted at them. “I’m Agent Stone, this is Detective Loney,” Corrina added.
“Well, come on in then.” Mary shuffled aside and let them enter her home. “About the van, you say?”
“Yes, Corrina replied. “Did you use it last night?”
“Me?” Mary shook her head. “No. I don’t drive no more. I got narcolepsy. Makes me fall asleep all hours of the day. Don’t matter what I’m doing. Cooking, cleaning, driving, woof!” She flashed her hand across her face. “Out like a light.”
“Then perhaps someone else uses it?” McCrae suggested.
“Brian, sometimes. He’s my brother.”
“Did he use it last night?” Corrina asked.
Mary shrugged. “Don’t know. He has a key. Sometimes he comes in and we chat, sometimes he just takes it. Might as well get some use out of it. No good to me now.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
“Works security at the mall ’cross the street. The El Super.”
Corrina thanked her and they returned to McCrae’s car. Corrina was walking behind him, watching his ass jiggle with every step.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” McCrae turned and asked.
Corrina seriously doubted it. She was imagining them writhing around in bed, a tangle of sweaty bodies and silk sheets.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That Brian is the man we’re looking for. Jeez, Stone, what’s with you today?”
“Lack of sleep,” she said, getting in the car.
Focus, she scolded herself. You’ve got a job to do.
She took out her phone and called Josh, asking for everything they had on Brian Tanner. His reply was almost instant.
Armed with a picture and the name of the company employing him, they drove across the street to the mall and parked outside the supermarket.
Brian Tanner was easy to spot. His dark blue uniform stood out as he leaned on the customer service desk while chatting to the woman who was sitting behind it. She didn’t seem enamored about having a bald guy fawning over her. Corrina was more intereste
d in Tanner’s build. He carried no excess fat, which fit the profile. She let McCrae take the lead.
“Brian Tanner?”
Tanner stood up straight and hooked his thumbs into his belt. He looked annoyed at having been interrupted. “Who wants to know?”
“Detective Loney, LAPD. This is Agent Corrina Stone, FBI.”
Tanner looked at Corrina as if noticing her for the first time. She detected something, a fleeting look on his face. Fear? Recognition?
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” McCrae said. “Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”
“Sure. My office.”
Tanner led the way to the back of the store. He pushed through a set of double doors at the back, but before they reached the warehouse, he stopped at a door marked Security. He unlocked it and ushered them inside.
“What’s this about?”
“We’d like to know your whereabouts last night, around seven.”
Corrina noticed that Tanner was focusing on McCrae, never looking at her.
“I was at home, alone.”
“Not driving your sister’s Savana around Santa Monica?” Corrina asked him.
Tanner glanced at her, then back to McCrae. “No.”
“You sure?” Corrina persisted.
“I said no.”
“Who else drives the van?” McCrae asked him.
“Dunno. Maybe you should ask her.”
“We did,” Corrina said. “She said you were the only one with a key to it.”
“Well, then I can’t help you,” Tanner said. “Maybe someone cloned the plates, I dunno.”
“What about Friday? What were you doing between nine and ten?”
“I was here, working.”
“Any proof?” Corrina asked.
“Sure.” Tanner sat down in front of the array of TV screens and typed something on his keyboard. A menu appeared and he selected Friday October 9th. He then scrolled down to an entry marked Main Entrance and clicked it. “Between nine and ten, you say?”
McCrae nodded.
Tanner hit the forward button and customers zoomed in and out of the picture. When the time in the top corner read 21:00, he let it play at normal speed. “You should see me soon. I’m usually hanging around the front door.”
There was nothing after two minutes, so he hit fast forward again. At 21:17 he stopped and pressed Play, then pointed at the screen. “There you go. I worked the late shift. Got off at midnight.”
Corrina knew that the video could have been doctored. Tanner could have adjusted the clock prior to kidnapping Diane Markham, just to create an alibi. “Is there a supervisor we can speak to, just to confirm it?”
“No problem. Come with me.”
Tanner took them back out into the hallway and into the room opposite. Three people sat behind desks piled high with paperwork.
“Jackie, can you tell me which shift I worked Friday?”
“You don’t know?” a young woman asked.
“Humor me.”
Jackie stood and huffed. She fetched a folder from a filing cabinet and leafed through it.
“Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“Four to midnight.” She slammed the folder closed and put it back in the cabinet.
“Anything else?” Tanner asked McCrae.
“Not at the moment. We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.”
They made their own way out.
“You believe him?” Corrina asked.
“Not really,” McCrae said, opening the car door. “Something about him.”
“You saw it too?”
“Yeah. It was like he knew you.”
“Let’s keep an eye on him. I’ll see if we can get authority to put a trace on his movements.”
“Good idea.”
Chapter 23
Seth Benning finished his poached salmon and took the plate to the sink. He washed it, along with the cutlery, then wiped them dry and put them away, ready for the next meal. He used a paper towel to wipe down a little sauce that had splashed onto the stove, then threw it in the trash. He checked the kitchen once more.
Spotless.
Just like everything in his home.
He sat down on the sofa, picturing the task ahead. It was time to take number thirteen, then there would be just two left.
Save the best for last.
He couldn’t deviate from his plan like he had with Diane Markland. This time he would stick to the time and place he’d chosen. If she didn’t show or changed her routine, he would wait for another opportunity. He couldn’t afford to be sloppy, not when he was so close. It was going to be hard from now on, with the police and FBI after him. He still had a couple of surprises up his sleeve, but he wasn’t dealing with stupid people. They’d soon see through the smokescreen and eventually latch onto his trail.
That was inevitable. He knew it, and he accepted it.
Whatever you do, have no regrets.
He’d lived by his mother’s final words all these years. When he first considered this venture, they’d been the first thoughts in his head. Would he come to regret his actions?
The answer then, as it was now, was a resounding no.
He didn’t look back on what he’d done and think it might have been a bad idea, that he should stop and disappear, never revealing the locations of the graves. None of that had ever occurred to him.
He’d started it. He would finish it.
It might end with him dying, but he was ready. If he got the death sentence, so be it. If he was killed trying to complete his quest, it was meant to be. He was going to die eventually. Everyone does. At least this way he’d be remembered, and perhaps spark a society-wide revolution.
His life had lost all meaning a long time ago. For years he just existed, until he decided to make a difference. That’s when his life gained a purpose. Before that, it had seemed worthless. You’re born, you work, you die. If you’re a good person, you get shafted by the rich, the greedy, the ruthless. People who will do anything to add to their pile, hurt anyone who gets in their way. They accumulate more than they could ever hope to spend in a hundred lifetimes, then go in search of more. The political parties always claim they’re going to change things, level the playing field, make the rich pay their fair share, but it never happens. Once elected, they revert to standard operating procedure and give the men in power everything they crave, while the little guy has to fight over crumbs.
And no one had ever done anything about it.
Until now.
Letters to the newspapers were not going to turn greedy men into altruists. Social media memes were not going to change the status quo. Petitions were never going to bring about real change.
But let a man know that his avaricious actions could lead to the mutilation of his loved ones, and he might think twice.
That’s why he had to go public. To let others know that something can be done, something more than being just a keyboard warrior. Otherwise it would never occur to them, just like it had never occurred to him.
Until his mother died.
The chemicals that were dumped into the water supply from the nearby factory had caused the cancer that ate away at her. He’d stayed by her bedside in her final days, watching her face as pain ripped through her like a jagged knife. The drugs they gave her did little to comfort her, and the grimace on her face when she finally passed would be etched into his mind for eternity.
For years afterwards, it hurt, and there was no relief. The worst part was, the people responsible for dumping the waste went unpunished. They agreed to compensate the injured parties without accepting fault or liability, which Seth knew to be a lie. No company pays out millions if they’ve done nothing wrong. They would have gone to trial, pleaded their case and won. But not this time. They settled before it went to court, then carried on as if nothing had happened.
Seth hadn’t wanted to take the money. His goal was to see the company held accountable, but his lawyer had ad
vised against a trial. Too many variables to guarantee a victory, and even if they won, the compensation could be less than the offer currently on the table. He’d said that almost ninety percent of cases were settled, and those that weren’t meant crippling litigation costs for both sides.
Seth knew the man was angling for an easy buck, not to punish the company. If the law wouldn’t do it, he’d do it himself. He agreed to a settlement, but on certain conditions. They had been accepted by the other party.
If only it had gone to trial and Benning had won, things would have turned out much differently.
But it wasn’t to be. The company’s decision not to admit liability had set events in motion, and the end was close.
Not too close, he hoped. They’d have his next chapter soon and see that he was questioned in relation to Sheila’s death. They’d asked how one of his hairs had come to be at the crime scene. He’d explained it away and nothing more ever came of it. The police had their man, and the interview was just a box-ticking exercise. But they would show an interest again. They would come around and speak to him, but he had nothing to hide. He’d just say what he’d said five years ago. They’d know that he didn’t own a GMC van, they’d see that his home didn’t have a basement. His bike was at the other home, the one he’d bought and registered in his sister’s name. There was nothing here to link him to the murders. Just in case, he’d added a little lie to chapter seven, something to cast doubt on the forensic evidence they had.
All he had to do was hold it together when he came face to face with Corrina Stone.
The wall clock chimed six. Seth stood, took a deep breath, then headed out to the garage. His silver Chevy Express was ready and waiting. He just needed to alter its appearance and he was ready to go.
He removed the drain cover from the center of the garage floor and pulled out the plastic bag containing the spare parts he’d purchased for cash some time ago. He pried the trim with the Chevy logo from the front of the van and replaced it with the GMC decal, then did the same for the logos at the rear. Each was held on with strong magnets, and he needed all his strength to remove them. After ten minutes, his Chevy had become a GMC. They were basically the same van anyway, both made by General Motors. All that remained was to remove the seats and get the interior ready for number thirteen.
Fifteen Times a Killer Page 18