Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Wednesday afternoon, frustrated by our lack of progress, I took some time off to drive Nate to his counseling appointment in Orange County. Nate was being treated by a psychiatrist friend of mine, Dr. Sidney Berns, who was employed in the Department of Psychiatry and Human Behavior at the University of California, Irvine, School of Medicine. Along with his private practice, Dr. Berns regularly served as an expert witness for the Orange County District Attorney’s office. Like many police officers, I held deep-rooted misgivings regarding the psychiatric profession, but I had worked with Berns on several criminal cases and had come to respect his opinion. I trusted him as well.

  More important, Nate trusted him, too.

  Following an exasperating ninety minutes navigating freeway traffic to Orange County, we arrived at Bern’s office at the UCI Neuropsychiatric Center. Leaving my Suburban in a lot across from the white, three-story building, I waited in an outpatient reception room during Nate’s session with Dr. Berns.

  Fifty minutes later Nate returned to the waiting room, accompanied by Dr. Berns. Berns, a tall, slim man with arresting, pale-blue eyes and a gray-streaked ponytail, smiled when he saw me.

  “How’s it going, Sid?” I said, rising to shake his hand. “Everything still good with Nate?”

  “Nate is doing fine,” said Berns. “Actually, we plan to start tapering his meds before long, which will be a big step forward.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. I had been deeply shaken by my son’s depression and the danger it entailed. Even though Nate seemed back to his old self, Dr. Berns’s reassurance came as a relief. “Thank you again for all your help,” I added. “I’m grateful beyond words. You know that.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Berns. Then, “Take care of yourself, Nate. You, too, Dan. I’ll see you both next week.”

  “We’ll be here,” said Nate.

  “Sid, I know you’re busy, but do you have a moment?” I asked.

  “For you, of course,” said Berns, glancing at his watch. “I have to be in court by three, but I’m free till then. Let’s talk in my office.”

  Leaving Nate watching TV in the reception room, I followed Berns through a residents’ lounge to a spartan, eight-by-twelve workspace with a single window looking out on a cement patio. Waving me to a chair, Berns slid behind a desk littered with files, paperwork, and a framed photo of his wife. Conspicuous by its absence was his normally overflowing ashtray.

  “Finally kicked the habit?” I observed. “Good for you, Sid.”

  “Took a while,” Berns said sheepishly. He pulled up a sleeve, exposing a nicotine patch on his upper arm. “I’m still on the patch, but I’m over the worst of it.”

  “I’m sure your wife is delighted.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Berns agreed, rolling down his sleeve. “What did you want to talk about? I meant it when I said Nate is doing great.”

  “I know you did, Sid, and again, I’m truly grateful for your help.”

  “What, then?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide where to start. “I need to ask about an investigation,” I began.

  “Anything I can do to help, you know that.”

  “You’ve heard about The Magpie murders?”

  Berns nodded. “And his most recent abduction? I feel terrible for Captain Snead and his family. I haven’t seen your name in the papers, but I take it you’re working the case.”

  “I’m one of many. There’s a massive effort underway to bring this guy down.”

  “And you’re not having any luck.”

  “No, we’re not,” I admitted.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A number of reasons. For one, you are clearly dealing with a dangerous psychopath.”

  “Aren’t they all? Dangerous, I mean.”

  “Not always,” Berns replied. “At least not from a criminal aspect. It’s estimated that around one percent of our population exhibits a broad constellation of psychopathic traits, but most individuals in that category never resort to violence.”

  “One percent, huh? Well, this guy is certainly in the violent section of that one percent.”

  “Granted. As such, you are dealing with someone who feels no guilt, empathy, or remorse, making his motivations difficult to anticipate, let alone comprehend. One thing is certain: Hard as it is to imagine, he likes what he’s doing. By the way, in my opinion your killer was born that way, although some in my profession think environmental factors might also play a part in the development of his antisocial personality disorder.”

  “Really? Antisocial personality disorder? Seems a bit of an understatement.”

  “That’s the most recent DSM-5 definition,” Berns explained, referring to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. “And I agree. Monster would be a better description.”

  “No argument there.”

  “Anyway, your killer is intelligent, organized, and murdering strangers for no other reason than exerting control over them and achieving sexual gratification, which compounds the difficulty of finding him. When it comes to his ultimate motivation, however, make no mistake. This isn’t really about sex for him. It’s about control. Your monster sees everyone around him, particularly young women, as pawns to be used in any way he wants.”

  Berns paused for a moment, then continued. “From what I’ve seen to date in the news, your man has a highly developed ritual and is well into his killing cycle. I would expect he is carefully planning his activities to ensure he won’t be caught. As I said, finding him will be difficult, maybe even impossible. I hate to be negative, but if you do catch him, luck will probably play a part.”

  I scowled, unwilling to accept Berns’s pessimistic assessment. “Luck, huh? Well, I hope you’re wrong. Look, I’ve read the Bureau’s profile on the killer. According to the FBI analysis, he’s a white male, mid-twenties to early forties, high intelligence, incidents of animal torture, playing with fire, childhood abuse, and so on. As you pointed out, he’s motivated by control and sexual gratification. I understand all that, but I’m just not getting a feel for the guy. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Hmm. I can’t be too certain without seeing the case reports, but a couple of things do come to mind. For one, he’s undoubtedly an accomplished liar. He mimics human emotions he doesn’t feel, as if he’s wearing a mask—displaying a human face that hides the monster within. Outwardly he can seem charismatic and charming, but inside he feels none of the emotions he’s imitating.” Berns rubbed his chin. “For another, this isn’t the first time he’s done this.”

  “Yeah, he started in January—”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. From the complexity of his current murders, I think his first human killings started long ago. He probably hid his earlier crimes, but now the situation has changed. Now he wants recognition. These latest murders are a new game for him—a killing cycle in which he’s challenging authorities to stop him and reveling in publicity at the same time.”

  “You think he wants to be stopped?”

  “Just the opposite. He wants to prove his superiority over everyone, especially the police.” Berns regarded me closely. “In addition to demonstrating a desire for notoriety, his taking Captain Snead’s daughter suggests that he wants to challenge authorities directly. He’s making it personal.”

  I nodded, again thinking of the danger to Allison and the rest of my family. “After the news coverage on the Infidel case, it’s no secret that Snead and I are enemies. By abducting Snead’s daughter in Westwood, the killer made certain I would catch the case.”

  “He’s amusing himself by forcing you and Captain Snead to work together.”

  “Which could also be putting my family in the crosshairs again.”

  “I’m afraid you may be right.”

  We both fell silent.

  Finally I continued. “Anything else?”

  Berns nodded. “The strangulation aspect.”

&n
bsp; “What about it?”

  “From what I’ve also read in the papers, your killer is strangling his victims. Strangulation, especially manual strangulation, is a signature behavior with which your man exerts power and control over young women.”

  I was familiar with the subject, over the course of my career having investigated a number of strangulation murders. Manual strangulation was the most common method employed during intimate-partner violence, although occasionally ligatures like scarves and belts were used as well.

  “A signature behavior like that usually persists,” Berns continued. “It’s part of his ritual.”

  “He gets off on it.”

  “Right. Strangulation is a form of torture that has been likened to drowning, so your man is obviously a sadist, possibly a necrosadist. As such, he may need to see his victims die—or at least know they are going to die—to achieve sexual gratification.”

  “And this signature behavior of his, the strangulation of his victims, is something he may have been doing all along? Even during his earlier murders?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  Another avenue had just opened up. “Thanks, Sid. I appreciate your help,” I said, rising to leave.

  “A couple of other observations before you go,” said Berns. “Even though your killer is posting monthly pictures of his victims, I don’t think he’s on a true lunar cycle.”

  “He’s simply creating some kind of perverted calendar.”

  “Correct. He’s not delusional, as might be suggested by a lunar cycle. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He may also be saving souvenirs—clothes, rings, photos—items to help him savor his kills and recapture the pleasure of his acts. That may prove useful, if you ever find him. And watch for anyone who seems just a little too helpful on the tip lines.”

  “We’re doing that,” I said. “Thanks again, Sid.”

  “Anytime.”

  As I turned to leave, another thought occurred. “On a different subject, are you familiar with UCI’s Department of Criminology, Law and Society?”

  “It’s not part of the School of Medicine, but we sometimes interface with them, particularly concerning forensic matters. Why do you ask?”

  “I need to talk with someone who used to work there, a Dr. Erich Krüger. Ever hear of him?”

  “Of course. His textbook on forensics and criminal investigation is standard reading for anyone in the field.”

  “Ever meet him?”

  “No, but from what I’ve heard, he was a departmental star for years. Brilliant mind, youngest full professor, prolific writer, and so on. It was a shock to everyone in his department when he left.”

  “Any dirt on the guy?”

  Berns regarded me quizzically. “Not really. I heard he came from a wealthy family. I also heard that like many intellectual giants, he has a huge, narcissistic ego, and he wasn’t well liked by his students. Otherwise, I don’t have any personal knowledge of the man.”

  “Okay, Sid. I appreciate your input. See you next week.”

  “Right. And Dan? I hope you catch this guy. As I said, he likes what he’s doing, and he’s going to keep doing it until he’s stopped.”

  On the return drive to West L.A., Nate, able to nap in the most trying of circumstances, quickly fell asleep. Unlike our drive to Berns’s office during which we had talked almost nonstop, I found myself on my own. Navigating on autopilot, I let my mind drift, mulling over my conversation with Berns. One thing he’d said had caught my attention: The killer had done this before.

  And he had probably strangled his earlier victims as well.

  I wasn’t certain where that would lead, but I intended to find out.

  And I knew right where to start.

  Jeroen Aken, a detective friend of mine, worked in LAPD’s Cold Case Homicide Special Section—one of the five sections included in Robbery-Homicide Division. Like Snead’s HSS unit, CCSS detectives worked under Robbery-Homicide command, being tasked with investigating open, “cold-case” murders that had remained unsolved for over five years, and that were no longer being actively investigated by other detectives.

  Aken and I had come up through the Academy together. Despite being a capable investigator, Aken was also one of the few detectives on the force who, over the course of his career, had managed to get into more trouble with the LAPD brass than I had. Well, maybe not more, but at least as much. In any case, Aken was a good friend, and I knew I could depend on him for a favor. I had just made a mental note to call him when my cellphone rang.

  It was Taylor.

  “We found him,” she said as soon as I picked up.

  “Who?”

  “The Magpie. We found him, Kane,” she repeated. “An emergency meeting has been called. You need to be here at the Bureau field office by five.”

  “I’m stuck on a freeway in Orange County.”

  “I don’t care if you’re stuck on the moon. Get back here now.”

  21

  Emergency Meeting

  After phoning Dorothy to arrange a ride home for Nate, I dropped my son at the West L.A. station and headed directly to the Bureau’s Los Angeles field office on Wilshire.

  At a few minutes before five, I arrived at the Wilshire Federal Building—an aging, seventeen-story monolith whose top five floors house the FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters. Taylor met me at the main entrance and whisked me through security. A visitor’s ID clipped to my jacket, we then rode a high-speed elevator to the Command and Tactical Operations Center on the sixteenth floor.

  I had spent time in CTOC as a police liaison on a previous case, and as I trailed Taylor into the brightly lit suite of interconnected rooms, I noticed that not much had changed in the interim, with banks of computer workstations in CTOC’s two command centers, marked OPS1 and OPS2, still fully manned. After making our way past a control room farther in, we entered a conference area crowded with Bureau agents and LAPD officers, many of whom I recognized.

  With the exception of Chief Ingram, all the major players from our initial PAB meeting were present—Assistant Director Shepherd, SAC Gibbs, Assistant Chief Strickland, Captain Snead, and my immediate superiors Lieutenant Long, Captain Lincoln, and West Bureau Deputy Chief Chow—along with Deluca and Taylor and at least a dozen special agents. And me.

  As Taylor and I stepped inside, I could feel a sense of excitement coursing through the room, as palpable as an electric current. I glanced at Taylor, who despite my prodding on our elevator ride had remained silent. She shook her head again, as if to say I would find out soon enough.

  Noting our arrival, Special Agent in Charge Gibbs glanced at his watch. Then, stepping to the front of the assembly, he took a position near a wall covered with TV screens, clocks displaying the time in international cities, and a world map. “We’re all here now, so everyone grab a seat and we’ll get the briefing underway,” he said, raising his voice to be heard. Once everyone had found a place, Gibbs paused to let the room settle, his ramrod-straight spine and no-nonsense manner again reminding me of a gunnery sergeant, or possibly a master chief petty officer. “In the spirit of cooperation between FBI agents and LAPD investigators,” he continued, “we are here to discuss recent developments in The Magpie investigation.”

  “What recent developments?” interrupted Strickland. “This is the first I’ve heard of any recent developments. Why wasn’t LAPD kept in the loop on this?”

  “You were,” said Gibbs. “In an attempt to identify the unsub’s voice-masking software, both of our agencies have been analyzing the voicemail he left for Detective Kane. Our techs simply came up with an ID first.”

  “And?” said Strickland.

  “The software he’s using is a high-end digital tool made by a French company,” Gibbs explained, ignoring Strickland’s ill humor. “Flux Ircam Trax V3, to be exact. Using proprietary technology, Flux software can modify almost any sound characteristic—age, breath elements, even the gender of a speaker.”

  As Strickland had already brok
en protocol and turned the meeting into a free-for-all, I decided to speak up. “And you cross-referenced Flux purchasers to one of our other databases?”

  Gibbs nodded. “We got a hit when comparing the Flux database to our list of webcam purchases. Payments for both were made on a Visa debit card linked to a Wells Fargo checking account in Newport Beach.”

  “And the name on that account is fictitious,” I guessed. Although most banks require a social security number and other forms of identification when opening an account, in an era of identity theft, a few hours of internet research made those items surprisingly easy to acquire.

  “Correct,” said Gibbs. “Using bogus ID, our unsub set up the account six years ago. He made two initial cash deposits of nine thousand dollars each, then had his bank statements sent to a private mailbox in Laguna. The name and social security number on the account belong to a California resident living in Bakersfield—a Mr. James Goodall—who was unaware that someone was using his identity.”

  “Any prints on the registration materials?” asked an agent near the front.

  Gibbs shook his head. “With the exception of the cash deposits, our unsub did everything online. Same for the postal service.”

  “Bank security cameras?” asked Deluca.

  “Unfortunately, no. He never used an ATM, so no photos there, either.”

  “Did you subpoena the bank records?” asked Taylor.

  “We did,” Gibbs answered. “Most recently, the debit card in question was used for the online purchase of six Belkin wireless netcams—identical to those found at the dumpsites. But here’s the interesting thing. Three years ago the card was also used to pay for a land lease on an agricultural parcel in Trabuco Canyon.”