Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “I don’t remember his saying anything like that,” I replied, deciding to take the recording to Hank Dexter for some judicious modification before anyone else heard it.

  “Fine,” said Taylor, her tone saying otherwise.

  “The killer mentioned something about ‘Edmund’s paltry principle.’ Who the hell is Edmund?” asked Deluca. “And more to the point, who uses words like paltry?”

  “I’m not sure what’s up with the killer’s stilted vocabulary, but he was referring to Dr. Edmund Locard,” I replied.

  “Edmund Locard? Who’s that?” asked Taylor.

  “Locard was a pioneer in forensic science, best known for his famous ‘exchange principle,’” I explained. “It may seem obvious now, but early in the 20th century it was an entirely new way of thinking about trace evidence and crime investigation,” I continued, bringing a textbook description to mind. “Simply put, Locard’s exchange principle states that when two objects come in contact with one another, especially during a violent action constituting a crime, each will take something from the other, as well as leaving something behind. Or put more simply, ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’”

  Taylor regarded me curiously. “How do you happen to know that?”

  “Forensic Science 101,” said Deluca, accustomed to my occasional displays of memory. “Kane never forgets anything.”

  “Not exactly true,” I said. “I’m forgetting something here. I’m not exactly certain what, but . . .”

  “Whatever it is, you’ll think of it if it’s important,” advised Taylor. “In any case, this confirms something about the killer. He’s versed in forensics.”

  “Unfortunately,” I agreed, still unable to shake the feeling I was missing something.

  “We learned another thing about our unsub today,” Taylor went on.

  “What?” asked Deluca.

  “He’s probably driving a van, or maybe a pickup truck.”

  “Huh? Oh, because of the ladder,” said Deluca. “Good one, Taylor.”

  “Thanks. So where do we go from here?”

  “For one, we can check the killer’s other dumpsites and see whether he left surveillance equipment at any of those,” I suggested. “As we’re talking about multiple locations across several state lines, the Bureau should probably handle that.”

  “Done,” said Taylor.

  “We can also investigate recent purchases of surveillance gear, once we establish the type and make of the equipment he left here,” I went on. “The webcam is probably motion-activated, with an online archival site recording the live feed,” I reasoned, having used that type of surveillance setup myself. “We could investigate that aspect as well, maybe develop a webcam and archival-site database to compare with our other lists—canine training-collar purchases, or anyone who’s recently bought a Taser, for instance.”

  “How about checking to see if this hump has made other calls?” Deluca jumped in. “To the families of previous victims, or to other investigators? Maybe he said something we can use.”

  “I don’t recall any mention of other calls in our files,” said Taylor. “But I’ll check.”

  “It may not be possible, but now that we have a sample of the killer’s modified voice, maybe we can reverse the altering process and determine what he actually sounds like,” I suggested, deciding not to mention my visit to Hank. “We could also try to trace his voice-changing software to a particular program.

  “Develop a list of software purchasers?” mused Taylor. “Could work.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I’ll deliver a copy of our guy’s voicemail to the Bureau ASAP,” I promised. “I’ll get a copy to our SID guys as well—see who comes up with something useful first.”

  Deluca finished the last of his meal, wiped his sauce-covered fingers on his rumpled napkin, and turned to Taylor. “On another subject, I heard you defended Kane at Chief Ingram’s meeting last night,” he said, regarding Taylor with a look of admiration. “Took guts.”

  “Stupidity is more like it,” said Taylor. “What’s up with Assistant Chief Strickland, anyway? He acts like he has a corncob stuck up his . . . stuck up somewhere.”

  “Long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Damn, a guy could get used to this place,” Deluca interjected, leaning back in his chair and watching as a pair of long-legged coeds strolled past.

  “Jeez, they’re half your age, Deluca,” said Taylor.

  “So?”

  “So you’re a married man.”

  “A guy shouldn’t have to give up on his dreams just ’cause he’s married,” Deluca countered.

  Taylor stared in disbelief.

  “He’s jerking your chain, Taylor,” I chuckled. “Deluca has been happily married for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “Actually, I haven’t said a word to my wife in almost a month,” Deluca revealed with a sad shrug. Then, checking his watch, “Damn, I have to go. Court appearance.”

  “I thought you and Molly were getting along,” I said.

  “We are,” Deluca replied, rising from the table. “I just didn’t want to interrupt her.”

  “Paul, you are such a pig,” Taylor laughed.

  “Thanks. Love you, too,” Deluca said, grinning. “Later.”

  As Taylor and I watched Deluca depart, I felt the atmosphere between us shift, as it had the previous evening in the elevator. It wasn’t a bad change, but it wasn’t something I could put my finger on, either. I could tell that Taylor sensed it, too. She had visited the beach house a few times, but on each of those occasions there always had been others present. I wondered whether the unease between us was because the last time we were actually alone together, she had killed a man to save my life.

  Taylor broke the silence. “Hear anything from Nate?” she asked, tipping back the last of her iced tea.

  “I talked with him this morning. He’s excited about his kayak clinic. Thanks again for setting that up.”

  Taylor lowered her gaze. “Nate’s had a hard time, losing his mom and all. I’m happy to do anything I can to help.”

  Again, we both fell silent.

  This time, I spoke first. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Depends. What?”

  “It’s none of my business, but what’s with the bruises?”

  Taylor looked away. “I told you, I clipped a rock during the competition—”

  “I know what you told me,” I broke in. “Now I’m going to tell you something about me. I don’t know how, but I can always tell when someone isn’t telling the truth. Always. And right now, you’re not.”

  “Well, you’re right about one thing,” Taylor shot back. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Sorry,” I apologized, surprised by her vehemence.

  Again, Taylor looked away—this time seeming embarrassed. “Sorry if I overreacted.”

  “No problem. It’s just, well, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “I’m a big girl, Kane. I can take care of myself.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “Message received.”

  17

  Ella

  Let’s talk a bit before we get started,” said the man, settling himself in his armchair. “Do you still maintain you weren’t sexually abused as a child, as you claimed earlier?”

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, Ella felt a chill, recognizing the hunger in the man’s eyes. She nodded, fingering the collar circling her neck. “I wasn’t abused.”

  “Fine. Then let’s discuss some of your early sexual experiences instead.”

  “You tell me something first,” said Ella, attempting to sound submissive.

  “This isn’t an exchange,” the man warned, lifting his remote control. “I ask the questions. I thought you understood.”

  “No, wait! I understand. I . . . do. I just thought you could tell me what kind of pills you’ve been giving me. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “That’s not the po
int,” the man replied, still fingering his control. “Nevertheless, as you said, where’s the harm? You like the drugs you’ve been taking, don’t you?”

  For the past several days, upon recovering from the man’s pills, Ella had suffered bouts of nausea, followed by headaches, dizziness, and blurred vision. On the upside, she seemed to be developing a tolerance as well. “Yes,” she lied, forcing herself to meet the man’s gaze.

  “I thought so,” said the man, his handsome face creasing in a grin.

  Ella felt another chill. Despite his smile, the man’s eyes had remained as impenetrable as marbles.

  “To answer your question, you’ve been enjoying a combination of party drugs,” the man informed her. “I find their street names enlightening. ‘Cat Valium,’ or ‘Special K,’ or just plain ‘K’ describes one; the other goes by ‘G,’ or ‘G-riffic,’ or sometimes ‘Grievous Bodily Harm,’ which is probably closer to the truth.”

  Ella remained silent, clinging to her small victory. Having grown up in a police household, she was familiar with the substances the man had named. Their pharmaceutical descriptions were Ketamine and GHB. In addition to being popular at all-night “rave” parties, both were both considered date-rape drugs that, in addition to producing a state of euphoria, could cause disorientation and amnesia. Of the two, GHB was the most physically addictive, but dependence on either could develop following prolonged use.

  And tolerance could develop as well.

  On the second day of her captivity, while exploring the drawer of castoff clothing, Ella had found a belt. Afterward she had squirmed beneath her bed, hoping the man wasn’t watching on his webcam. Using the belt-buckle prong, she had added her name below that of Alexa Kiel—presumably one of the man’s previous victims—scratching it into the underside of the plywood. As had Alexa, she then began tallying her days, at least as nearly as she could figure. Counting the mark she had placed there that morning, seven gouges followed her name. How many more would there be before the man’s pills lost their paralyzing effect?

  More to the point, she thought, by then will I still have the strength to escape?

  The man glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, we’ll have to save the exploration of your early sexual encounters for another time,” he announced, rising from his chair. After crossing to the alcove cabinet, he returned to her cell door and thrust a cup of pills through the bars.

  Early in her captivity, Ella had been puzzled by several things. For one, why was the man taking pictures of her? Upon reviving after her first “photo session” and finding herself clothed in a revealing nightgown, she had assumed the man was using his pictures for masturbatory purposes—maybe keeping them in some sort of sick souvenir scrapbook. Sensing a question about that would anger him, especially after his reaction when she had offered him sex, she had refrained from asking.

  Nevertheless, that didn’t explain why the man was so interested in discussing her sex life. What possible difference could humiliating her in that way make to him?

  As Ella moved to the bars to accept the man’s proffered cup of pills, she risked another look into his eyes. Unguarded, his mimicked human mask had slipped. And in that instant, Ella realized the reason for his interrogation.

  He was toying with her, as a cat torments a mouse . . . just before killing it.

  18

  Exchange Principle

  The following Monday evening, as I sat on our swing gazing at the setting sun, I chewed over the Magpie case in my mind.

  Although we were only a week into it, things were already showing signs of stagnation, with investigators progressively being forced to revisit ground already covered. In addition to my own work on the case, I had spent considerable time researching the FBI’s earlier efforts, hoping to find something in a previous murder that might prove helpful.

  I had found nothing.

  I had also scoured the Bureau’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program report, as well as studying a psychological profile compiled by their Behavioral Analysis Unit-2—which, like their VICAP unit, had recently become part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. In true Bureau fashion, NCAVC was itself now part of the FBI’s Critical Incident Respond Group, or CIRG. Bewildered by the Fed’s alphabetic complexity, I decided that the more things changed with the Bureau’s acronyms, the more they remained the same.

  For again, I found nothing.

  And as much as I tried to tell myself otherwise, I realized that unless something changed soon, we were going to have to wait for the killer to do it again . . . and hope he made a mistake.

  On Wednesday, following our discovery of the webcam, I had paid another visit to Hank Dexter. Concerned with “fruit of the poisonous tree” issues, I had requested Hank’s assistance. Without asking questions, my friend had removed the initial portion of the killer’s message, leaving only his final, voice-masked declaration: “Congratulations, Detective Kane. We have made contact, you and I. Nevertheless, if you think Edmund’s paltry principle will assist in your niggling investigation, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  At my direction, Hank had also checked for the presence of any revealing background sounds, finding none.

  Afterward I had forwarded the killer’s supposed voicemail to Taylor at the Bureau, as well as sending it to Snead’s investigative team via my daily report to Chief Ingram. I also left a copy of the modified recording with Hank. My hope was that with Hank and two topnotch agencies working the problem, someone would be able to identify the killer’s voice-altering software. To date a number of programs had been ruled out, but we still hadn’t discovered which digital masking tool he was using.

  On a positive note, a search of earlier dumpsites had turned up two additional webcams—one near Seattle, another at a San Francisco site. Both surveillance devices had been cleverly concealed some distance from the bodies, and both proved identical to the webcam we found at the Botanical Garden.

  As hoped, SID had quickly identified the surveillance systems’ component parts. Mounted inside compact, weatherproof enclosures, the killer’s cameras turned out to be battery-powered IP webcams with night vision capability. The killer had added an untraceable data sim card, a burner phone, a wireless Wi-Fi router, and a backup battery to complete each setup—everything available online for under $250 per network. It was decided that the batteries, burner phones, and sim cards were too common to trace, but a database of webcam and router purchasers might prove useful. Investigating those areas had fallen to the Bureau, whose online resources extended further than LAPD’s. Currently, a comparison of our growing webcam/router database to our other lists had proved unproductive.

  Along similar lines, IP addresses had been extracted from each of the killer’s routers, but ascertaining a physical location for his archiving server had hit a brick wall, as had attempting to pierce his hidden-service protocol TOR network.

  Bureau and LAPD investigators were still generating a catalogue of anyone who had recently purchased a dog-training collar or a Taser device. Snead’s contacts in the gang unit were inquiring about Ketamine and GHB sales, particularly to the same client. Unfortunately, recreational drugs are widely available and easy to buy, and that line of investigation had petered out, too. FBI researchers were combing through victims’ social media sites searching for correlating contacts, friend requests, and online interests. Along with our own cyber searches, I had heard from Taylor that the Bureau was even reaching out to an unnamed government agency, hoping for assistance in determining how the killer had acquired my cellphone number, as well as Snead’s. It was possible that Messenger or some other phone app had been breached, but the hacker had yet to be found.

  I was also in regular contact with Lieutenant Greenly, who was keeping me apprised of any pertinent UCLA surveillance footage that turned up. Like our other lines of investigation, efforts on the campus security-cam front had proved negative.

  Last, working on the theory that the killer was stalking his victims, Deluca an
d I had worked through the weekend interviewing Ella Snead’s friends, teachers, classmates, residents in her off-campus apartment building, and anyone else who might have been able to shed light on her disappearance. Although there were still a number of individuals left to contact, to date no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  Bottom line, shoe leather was hitting the ground, reports were being generated, databases were ballooning—and everyone was coming up empty.

  Making matters worse, on Friday the killer had posted an online photo of Ella. The shot had been taken through what appeared to be the bars of a prison cell. The photo showed Ella asleep on a small, rumpled bed beside a concrete wall. Little else of the cell was included in the picture, but enough of Ella’s face had been visible for the media to quickly identify her as the daughter of LAPD Captain William Snead.

  As expected, that particular revelation inspired a renewed wave of media interest. Additional press conferences followed, each making the investigation more problematic. Along those same lines, I had been ducking calls from Allison all week, and I wasn’t looking forward to her questions later that evening at dinner.

  One positive development had come in at week’s end. Working on the theory that the killer was driving a van, examination of Caltrans traffic-cam footage had turned up a white, 2004 Chevrolet Astro cargo van merging onto the 405 Freeway on Saturday morning, entering via a Sunset Boulevard on-ramp at 1:23 a.m. The van’s license plates belonged on a 2015 Toyota Highlander, not the van. A Portland traffic cam showed a similar van leaving the vicinity of a second dumpsite—on that occasion displaying different stolen plates.

  Chevy Astro vans were a common vehicle, with thousands on the streets of Southern California at any given time. Nevertheless, a “Be-On-The-Lookout” BOLO notice had been issued to all LAPD patrols, with an additional statewide advisory that anyone stopping a white Astro van use extreme caution.