Ella’s makeshift dagger was almost ready. She couldn’t afford to have him discover it now. If he did, she was certain her captor would consider her turning a toothbrush into a weapon somewhat less than good behavior. “Fine,” she mumbled, attempting to appear chastised. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hmmm,” the man mused, toying with his remote control. “So many options, so little time. I know. Let’s continue delving into your early sexual experiences.”
“Why?” Ella asked, although she already knew the answer. “Haven’t you humiliated me enough?”
“I ask the questions,” came the reply, accompanied by a paralyzing bolt of electricity.
Ella screamed, clutching at her throat. “No, please! I’ll . . . I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I know you will. And what I want right now is for you to do as I say.”
“I will,” Ella said softly.
“Speak up.”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” Ella replied, raising her voice.
“Good.” As the man rocked back in his armchair, Ella realized she had never loathed anyone as much in her entire life. Suddenly she heard a buzzing. The man withdrew a cellphone from his pocket and checked the screen.
Looking irritated, he man answered the call, listening intently. Moments later his face turned pale. Without explanation, he withdrew the key from beneath his shirt and started for the exit.
“I need to eat!” Ella called after him, realizing he was about to leave. “Please!”
Without a glance in her direction, the man kicked the McDonald’s carton closer to her cell door, spilling its contents on the floor.
Climbing the stairs outside Ella’s prison, Dr. Krüger wondered how a day that had started off so well could have quickly turned so bad.
Life wasn’t fair.
On Wednesday he had spent a satisfying afternoon in a Phoenix courthouse, defending a guilty client and making a fool of an inexperienced prosecuting attorney. Even better, later that evening at his motel he had received an alert from the webcam concealed in his underground storage container. Someone had entered the Trabuco Canyon trap.
Dr. Krüger had watched the SWAT intruders on his laptop, waiting for the perfect moment to touch off the blaze. And to his satisfaction, everything had gone as planned. After posting a video of the conflagration, he had spent additional satisfying hours the next morning watching LAPD authorities squirm through a press conference. Topping it all off, the remainder of the court case had gone well. Thanks to his testimony, the defendant was as good as free, although everyone in court knew he was guilty. And on Sunday, after collecting a hefty fee for his services, Dr. Krüger had flown home to a large Scotch and a warm bed.
Monday morning had promised to be another glorious day, starting with a visit to his latest acquisition, Ella Snead. Although Ella was beginning to grow tiresome, as they all did in the end, she still had a few pleasures to surrender before her demise.
Then, delivered to him on his answering service, a message: Detective Daniel Kane will be arriving at your office within the hour.
Krüger reexamined his actions, wondering where he had gone wrong.
The webcam purchases?
The checking account?
The firetrap?
The last time Dr. Krüger had felt this unsure of himself was on an evening long past, on a night when he had lost control with that troublesome graduate student. Her death had been her own fault, of course. She had asked for it. And although blame had been shifted and everything had eventually worked out, his nearly being caught had been something he vowed would never happen again.
Yet years later, here was an LAPD detective knocking at his door.
Dr. Krüger paused to analyze the situation.
The police couldn’t know for certain, he decided.
Otherwise, they would already have him in custody, rather than calling to make an appointment. Nevertheless, somehow Detective Kane’s investigation had led him to his threshold.
How had Kane managed to get so close?
And more important, what did he want?
26
Dr. Krüger
The following Monday morning, Taylor and I departed for San Diego at a little after 9:00 a.m., giving freeway traffic a chance to settle.
Although by then the bandages were off my hands, my palms were still scabbed, and I asked Taylor to drive us down in her Bureau vehicle, a Ford Crown Vic.
On the way there in her “Bucar,” Taylor wanted to talk about Trabuco Canyon. I didn’t. As a result, she talked; I listened. Like me, Taylor was deeply disturbed by what had happened and wasn’t sleeping because of it. Also like me, she felt that the loss of our men was somehow her fault. Though it didn’t make sense, I guess when horrible things happen, there’s always plenty of guilt to go around.
Upon arriving in Rancho Bernardo, we located Dr. Krüger’s office in a smartly landscaped corporate area hosting a number of upscale tenants, among them Hewlett-Packard, Nokia, and Sony. After checking the address, I pointed toward a sleek, one-story building on the perimeter of the complex. “That’s it over there,” I said.
Taylor nodded, parking her Crown Vic beside a Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan.
Deluca and I had hit a dead end compiling a database of university students who had used Krüger’s textbook. Without a warrant, the institutions in question simply wouldn’t divulge that information. I hoped Dr. Krüger would be more accommodating.
As we exited her car, Taylor asked, “Have you decided how you want to do this?”
Nearing San Diego, Taylor and I had talked about the best way to conduct the interview with Dr. Krüger, not coming to a decision. Clearly, Krüger could be a suspect. After all, he had written the textbook in question. On the other hand, lots of people had read it. In addition, like my initial search, Taylor’s subsequent Bureau report on Dr. Krüger hadn’t turned up anything of a criminal nature, and after the mistake we had made in Trabuco Canyon, I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.
“Depends on how cooperative this Dr. Krüger decides to be,” I answered after a moment’s thought. “Let’s play it by ear.”
As we approached Dr. Krüger’s building, I wondered whether the connection to his forensic textbook would turn out to be another dead end, in which case our trip to Rancho Bernardo would be one more futile effort. Attempting to remain positive, I turned my thoughts to the single bright spot in our investigation—one that couldn’t be a red herring, and therefore one that might actually pan out.
Following Thursday’s press conference, I had taken advantage of my visitor’s badge to head back up to PAB’s sixth floor. Passing the Detectives Bureau’s office and a DB conference room along the way, I eventually found my friend, Detective Jeroen Aken, slouched behind a desk in Robbery-Homicide’s Cold Case Special Section.
Aken, wiry and fit even though his hair had started to gray, grinned when he saw me. “Kane,” he said. “You’re looking even bigger and uglier than I remembered. Good to see you.”
“You, too, Jerry,” I replied with a smile. “Forgive my not offering to shake,” I said as he rose and extended a hand, giving him a fist-bump instead.
Aken regarded my singed face and burned hands. “I heard what happened last night,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dan. That was a terrible loss. And again, I was so sorry to hear about Catheryn. You doing okay?”
I lifted my shoulders. “One day at a time. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.”
“How about you? Still living in Hollywood Hills?”
“I am. My daughter is there with me now, too.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is . . . mostly,” Aken laughed. “You know kids.” Then, after pulling over a chair for me, he slumped back into his own seat. “What happened in Trabuco Canyon must have been . . . tough,” he went on. “I can’t imagine. You getting counseling?”
Over the years, LAPD had increasingly mandated compulsory counseling and “general trai
ning updates” for any officer discharging a weapon in the line of duty. Technically, the loss of our SWAT members didn’t apply. Nevertheless, the department had offered voluntary psychiatric sessions to everyone involved—either in-house or with a private therapist. As far as I knew, no one had taken them up on the offer, as seeking counseling for anyone on the job was a complicated matter. Officers were supposed to be able to withstand hardship, and failure to do so could show a lack of professionalism and emotional control—possibly indicating a mental disorder that could relate to one’s fitness for duty, as well as any expectation of privacy.
“I’m good,” I said.
“Right. You’re here about The Magpie case?” said Aken, changing the subject.
“How did you know?”
“Word’s out. Our lieutenant got a call from Ingram’s office. CCSS is to extend every courtesy to West L.A. on The Magpie investigation, and so on. Needless to say, I’ll be happy to help. What do you need?”
Wearily, I dropped into the chair Aken had provided, realizing that finding the killer had become a priority for the entire department. At the news briefing Ingram had announced a citywide tactical alert, meaning officers could be held over on their shifts for as long as necessary. Unfortunately, I also realized that throwing men and money at an investigation didn’t necessarily bring results.
“Here’s the situation,” I began. “Between you and me, we have zip on this dirtbag. He seems to be knowledgeable regarding forensics and police procedures, so he isn’t giving us much to work with. Worse, he’s left several false trails, and we’re beginning to doubt ourselves on just about everything. The one thing we’re fairly certain of is that he probably started his killings much earlier.
“And maybe he made a few mistakes back then,” Aken concluded. “So with that in mind, you want to review cold cases and maybe find something that could help with your current investigation?”
“I know it’s a long shot, but right now it’s the best we have.
Aken regarded me doubtfully. “From what I’ve heard, your guy has been active in the Portland/Seattle area. Los Angeles is new territory for him. Our RHD cold cases will only cover LA.”
“The feds will work with out-of-town PDs on everything else,” I explained. “Nevertheless, I have a hunch our guy is local. He knows the area here too well. If we turn up an old killing of his, I think it will be from somewhere around L.A.”
“Okay, what search parameters do you want to include?”
“Female victims, manual strangulation, possible abductions. We should also look for the use of a Taser or something similar, especially if a kidnapping was involved. Our guy has been feeding his victims Ketamine and GHB, so let’s put drugs on the list, too.”
“What about timeframe? Cold cases start five years back.”
“Let’s begin there and work our way back.”
Aken nodded. “I’ll need a few hours to tie up some loose ends, after which I’ll start doing research. Shall we meet here tomorrow?”
“Sounds good, Jerry. And thanks.”
But after spending all of Friday and the rest of the weekend with Aken and Deluca and Taylor sifting through CCSS files, I had begun to question that line of investigation as well. Granted, there were plenty of open strangulation murders. Not surprisingly, however, most of the cold cases we examined displayed the earmarks of unsolved domestic violence, not the work of a serial killer. Time was running out, and we had yet to find anything we could tie to our current investigation.
Now, as Taylor and I pushed through a pair of thick glass doors into Dr. Krüger’s reception area, I realized that unless something broke soon, finding Snead’s daughter in time was becoming more and more unlikely.
“May I help you?” asked a young receptionist, smiling at us from behind a polished mahogany counter.
“We’re here to see Dr. Krüger,” I said, flashing my shield.
Although the receptionist seemed momentarily flustered, she quickly recovered. “Yes, officer,” she said, checking her schedule. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Don’t need one. We’re here on official business. Please tell Dr. Krüger we’re waiting.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, lifting a multi-line phone and pressing a lighted button. As she began speaking softly into the handset, I glanced at Taylor. She shrugged, indicating she had no idea where this was headed, either.
Moments later a door opened across the room. A tall, dark-haired man with a tennis-court tan and a muscular, health-club physique stepped into the reception area, skirting a brace of potted palms on his way in. “Detective Kane?” he said, smiling pleasantly.
I nodded.
“I’m Dr. Krüger,” the strikingly handsome man informed me. “My answering service told me you would be arriving, but they didn’t mention a time. My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“Actually, we’ve been trying to contact you since last Tuesday.”
“Sorry. I was in Arizona testifying at a murder trial.” Then, smiling at Taylor, “And you are?”
“Special Agent Taylor,” she replied, smiling back.
“May I see some identification, please? Actually, I would like to see credentials from both of you,” said Dr. Krüger, his smile fading as he returned his gaze to me.
I held up my ID. Dr. Krüger gave it a cursory glance. “LAPD. Aren’t you a bit out of your area, Detective Kane? Off the reservation, I think it’s called?”
“He may be, but I’m not,” said Taylor, withdrawing her Bureau credentials. “And Detective Kane is with me.”
Dr. Krüger spent considerably more time inspecting Taylor’s identification, grasping the edge of her credential case and trailing his thumb across her photograph. I also noticed that when Taylor refused to relinquish her ID during his inspection, he made a point of touching her hand. “Detective Daniel Kane and Special Agent Sara Ann Taylor,” he said, his eyes lingering on Taylor. “Let’s retire to my office. I assume you want to discuss The Magpie investigation,” he added, turning to hold the door open for Taylor.
“Why would you assume that?” I asked, following Taylor in.
“I recognize you from Thursday’s televised briefing at police headquarters,” Dr. Krüger explained. “You were hard to miss, standing on the podium behind Chief Ingram, considerably taller than everyone else.”
We followed Dr. Krüger down a short hallway to his private office. Again he held the door for Taylor, then closed it firmly after I had stepped inside.
The interior of Dr. Krüger’s office continued the polished mahogany theme from the reception area—raised paneling, crown molding, chair-rail millwork, antique desk—reminding me of something one might see at an exclusive men’s club. Dr. Krüger settled himself in a regal leather armchair behind his desk, waving us to a pair of lesser seats in front. “How may I assist you?” he asked.
Taylor sat. I remained standing. “You’re right about one thing, Dr. Krüger,” I began. My initial impression of Dr. Krüger was that something seemed not quite right about him. In addition, he had written the book in question, but that didn’t make him a killer. As his name hadn’t shown up on any of our burgeoning databases, I decided not to jump to conclusions. Setting aside my suspicions for the moment, I continued. “We’re here to get your cooperation on The Magpie investigation. But first I’m going to reveal some details of the case that haven’t been disclosed to the media. I need your assurance that anything I say will remain confidential.”
“Of course,” said Dr. Krüger. “By the way, after what happened to your SWAT officers, doesn’t the media’s puerile nickname for the killer seem a bit . . . ridiculous? I mean, a bird?”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, pushing on. “We believe the killer has an understanding of forensics and police procedures, and he’s using that knowledge to avoid leaving evidence. We also have reason to believe that he has read your textbook on the subject.”
Krüger steepled his fingers. Ignoring me, he looked thoughtf
ully at Taylor. “Hmmm. And what reason leads authorities to believe he’s read my book, Special Agent Taylor—as you seem to be the only one present with proper credentials.”
Deciding to make use of Krüger’s interest in Taylor, I remained silent, letting her continue the interview. “Well, your textbook is the definitive work on the subject,” she answered. “Our thinking is that anyone with a knowledge of forensics must be familiar with your book.”
Krüger nodded, seeming satisfied with Taylor’s flattery.
“We’re compiling a list of anyone who has purchased or read your textbook,” Taylor continued smoothly. “Unfortunately, the institutions at which you taught—Cal State and UCI—have refused to turn over a roster of their forensic students. We’re hoping you might have kept a record.”
“Actually, Sara, I have a complete listing of all my students over the years,” said Dr. Krüger, for some reason seeming amused. “Without a warrant, however, I am bound by the same regulations that I’m certain both universities quoted in their refusals.”
“That’s going to be unfortunate for you,” I broke in, deciding the moment had come to apply some pressure.
Dr. Krüger turned to me, his dark eyes hardening. “Why is that?”
“Because if the media were to find out that the renowned Dr. Erich Krüger, celebrated criminalist and expert-witness consultant, had refused to assist authorities in The Magpie investigation, your lucrative consulting business might just dry up and blow away—along with your so-called reputation.”
“Are you threatening me?”
It was my turn to smile. “Not at all, Dr. Krüger. I’m just pointing out how things might look to the uninformed. As for the press getting wind of your refusal to assist in a life-and-death situation, well . . . I can just about guarantee it. You know how nosy those reporters are.”
Dr. Krüger stared at me. Oddly, I had the feeling I was missing something. I can usually get a “read” on someone. From Dr. Krüger, I was getting nothing. Along with that, my bullshit meter was suddenly pegged in the red.
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