And for that, he would need all his faculties.
Dr. Krüger had planned to wait several more days before disposing of Ella and acquiring a new calendar girl, but accelerating his schedule a bit wouldn’t matter. Plus, unless he did something stupid, what better way to throw off authorities than by having another Magpie abduction occur while he was under police surveillance, safely ensconced at home?
Dr. Krüger checked the time. Less than an hour remained before sunset, and there was much to do before then. Later, when darkness fell, he would descend unseen into the canyon behind his house. From there, a short hike through brush and live oak would bring him to his killing van, concealed in a shed off Highland Valley Road.
Then a final visit with Ella; a trip to Del Mar; and back before dawn.
It concerned Dr. Krüger to be conducting his latest activities so close to home. Everything in the past had been done far from San Diego. Nevertheless, might not that very absence draw attention to his home turf—simply by a conspicuous lack of activity? In any case, the constraints of time left him no choice. Everything had to be completed by dawn.
Considering carefully, Dr. Krüger reviewed his plan one more time, deciding that if he acted decisively, it would work. And later, he might even find the means to settle the score with Detective Kane.
In the meantime, it was going to be a busy evening.
32
Final Thoughts
As soon as the man entered the chamber outside her cell, Ella sensed something had changed.
He hadn’t visited in days, but even then his appearances had become almost perfunctory, as if he had lost interest. No longer did he want to delve into her past, which was a relief. All she had to do was cooperate and take his pills. But now, peering at the man’s face, Ella suddenly realized what was different. She saw it in his eyes, as clearly as if he had spoken aloud.
He was going to kill her.
It had been twenty-three days since Ella had last seen the sun. For much of her captivity she had been in near total darkness, and sometimes, in her despair, she had almost convinced herself that dying would be a blessing. Now that the time had come, she discovered she wanted to live.
The man strode to his cabinet and shook several tablets into a paper cup. Then, without speaking, he walked to her cell door and thrust the cup through the bars.
Heart pounding, Ella lowered her gaze. “No questions today?”
“Shut up,” the man ordered. “Take your pills.”
Over the past weeks, Ella had grown addicted to her captor’s drugs, experiencing the nauseating symptoms of withdrawal each time he hadn’t arrived. Her physical hunger for his pills seemed to amuse the man, who smiled knowingly each time she had snatched the cup from his hand. But along with Ella’s addiction, she had also developed a measure of tolerance, enabling her to remain at least partially conscious during his photo sessions. During that time she had learned the man’s routine, as well as what he did while she was drugged. And afterward, during her long hours spent in darkness, she had decided when it would be best to strike.
Now, gazing at the paper cup, Ella felt a craving she had to ignore. If she swallowed those pills, she would never awaken.
“I . . . I need to use the bathroom,” she stammered.
“Hurry up.”
Trembling, Ella shuffled to the toilet. Hands shaking, she drew the curtain.
Oh, God, she thought, I can’t do this.
Yes, you can, came a voice from another part of her mind.
And you will.
As she lifted the toilet lid, Ella reached down and slid open the drawer at the bottom of the unit. With trembling fingers, she retrieved her weapon from the compost. She had completed the dagger days earlier, honing the toothbrush handle to a point and thickening the other end with strips of cloth. Against the man it seemed pitifully inadequate, but it was all she had.
Ella tucked the weapon into the front of her jeans and pulled her loose-fitting shirt over it.
She had practiced for this moment, running over the sequence in her mind. But before she pulled back the curtain, she reviewed her moves one last time.
Wait till he leans down to remove my collar.
Right hand to my waist.
Pull the dagger from my jeans.
Stab him in the throat.
And keep stabbing.
“Get out here,” the man commanded.
“I . . . I’m coming.”
Taking one final breath, Ella slid back the curtain and stepped out to her cell.
Does he know? she wondered, avoiding his gaze as she took his cup of pills.
Without waiting for water, Ella tipped back her head and shook the pills into her mouth. Turning, she hurried to the sink and filled the cup with water, at the same time tonguing the pills high in her cheek.
Turning again to face the man, she drained the cup. She refilled the cup and drained it a second time, opening her mouth to show she had followed orders.
Seeming satisfied, the man retired to his armchair, watching through the bars.
As she had in the past, Ella returned to her bed. Trying to quiet her breathing, she lay on her side and pulled the sheet up to her waist. After a while she closed her eyes, watching the man through slitted lids. When he stood and walked to his cabinet, she spit out his pills and covered them with her pillow.
The man rummaged through a drawer, withdrawing several items. Then, humming, he pulled the key from beneath his shirt and moved to her prison door.
Ella’s heart fell when she saw the plastic restraints in his hand.
He’s going to tie me up!
In the past, after assembling his camera gear, the man had removed Ella’s collar. The plastic handcuffs were new.
Will he still bend down to take off my collar?
Ella’s plan depended on it. If he saw her weapon before she struck, her life was over. Fighting panic, Ella gripped her weapon beneath the sheet, forcing herself to remain still.
Still humming, the man dropped several handcuff ties onto her bed. Next he began transporting his camera equipment into the cell. Occasionally he glanced in her direction, but for the most part he ignored her.
Feigning a drugged stupor, Ella waited, her heart hammering in her chest like a cold medallion. Rivulets of sweat gathered under her arms, trickling down her side. And still he hummed, adjusting his equipment.
At last he moved to her bed.
He stood over her.
“It’s time, tough little Ella,” she heard him say. Leaning down, he picked up one of the restraints. Then, placing a knee on the edge of the mattress, he grabbed her left wrist and jerked it over her head.
Ella opened her eyes. The man was fumbling with the plastic tie, binding her wrist to the corner of the bed.
She gathered her strength.
Now or never.
Pulling her weapon from beneath the sheet, Ella struck.
Her shank penetrated the thick muscle at the side of the man’s neck.
The dagger went in deep, but not deep enough.
Again!
Ella struck once more, aiming for the corner of the man’s jaw where the big vessels ran.
Her weapon glanced off bone.
“You filthy bitch!” the man screamed, knocking the dagger from her hand.
His face filled with rage, the man doubled his fist.
His first blow struck Ella above her left eye, driving her head into the bed. The second broke her nose, sending a gush of blood streaming down her face.
At first Ella felt only a monstrous, inexplicable numbness, followed by a kaleidoscopic burst of light as the man struck her again. Choking on her own blood, she shook her head, trying to clear her vision.
“Please,” she begged, tears mixing with blood on her cheeks.
The man struck her again.
Dazed and disoriented, Ella lay stunned. Floating in a netherworld of shock, she felt her clothes being ripped away, her wrists and ankles being tied to the bed
.
She tried to struggle.
The man hit her again.
Mercifully, she lost consciousness.
When she awoke, she saw the man staring down, his face filled with bottomless cruelty. With a small sense of satisfaction, she noticed that a bloody gauze dressing was now taped to his neck, another covering his jaw.
At least she had hurt him.
Ella once more struggled to free herself, straining at her bonds.
The ties held fast.
Through tears of helplessness, she watched as the man stepped away to remove his clothes. Next he walked to his tripod and adjusted the camera, moving it to a slightly new position. A red light came on over the lens.
When he returned to the bed, the man paused briefly to examine her bonds. Then, grunting, he lay on top of her, his breath hot and fetid, his monstrous weight crushing her to the mattress.
Once more Ella struggled to free herself. And again she failed. Sobbing with exhaustion, she finally lay still.
And then it began.
Hands on her throat, the man started slowly, gradually tightening his grip. Blood pounding in her temples, her vision dimming, Ella repeatedly lost consciousness, only to be brought back again, and again . . . and again. And always when she returned, she saw his merciless eyes hovering above, malignant in her vision.
For what seemed forever, Ella suffered a nightmare of horror and pain, an eternity of torture during which time lost all meaning. Often she thought she could endure no more, only to discover that she could. Occasionally he would stop for a few minutes—time during which Ella prayed her torment was at an end.
But always, he returned.
And again, it began.
Hours later, when death came at last to Ella Snead, forever ending her tears and anguish and agony and despair, her final thoughts were of her family.
33
FaithDome
I had previously visited the Crenshaw Christian Center FaithDome only once. On that occasion, it had also been to attend a memorial for a SWAT member killed in the line of duty.
Back then the gigantic dome had been filled to capacity, but attendance for our fallen officers that day promised to be even larger. Law enforcement personnel and citizens alike had flown in from all over the country to pay their respects, with a huge screen being set up outside the FaithDome sanctuary to accommodate the overflow.
Officers from the West L.A. division had met earlier that morning, gathering outside the station in Class A dress blues. Those not on duty had carpooled across town, with Long, Deluca, and Taylor riding with me in my Suburban. On the drive, Taylor informed me that she’d heard from the FBI lab, and that the profile of Dr. Krüger’s DNA recovered from her credentials would be available later that morning. When the results were in, she had arranged for them to be sent directly to LAPD’s serology/DNA unit for comparison with the unidentified male DNA on Darlene Mayfield’s necktie garrote.
Before leaving the station, I had made a few calls myself. One was to Aken, suggesting that he have his cold-case search-warrant affidavit drawn up and ready to submit—assuming our DNA comparison came back positive. He assured me it was already done, and that a San Diego County magistrate was standing by to issue the warrant, avoiding any venue concerns.
After talking with Aken, I made a second call—this one to Chief Ingram. Regardless of the outcome of Krüger’s DNA comparison, we had made significant progress on the case, and it was time to bring in LAPD. On the drive, with Lieutenant Long’s approval, I suggested that Taylor notify the Bureau as well. However things turned out, the investigation was coming to a head, and no one wanted last-minute surprises.
Although it was a beautiful Southern California morning, the mood on our crosstown trek was glum. Aside from exchanging a few pleasantries, none of us felt like talking. Forty minutes later, upon arriving at the Christian Center’s thirty-two acre campus on South Vermont Avenue, we were flagged into one of several huge parking lots flanking the church. From there we walked to the FaithDome, a geodesic structure built to accommodate thousands. From the crowd already present, it looked like even that space would be insufficient.
As the memorial was being televised, our approach to the FaithDome was jammed with news vans, reporters, and journalists. For once, the atmosphere in the media ranks seemed respectful and subdued. For once it seemed the city had set aside its differences and come together to honor the slain men who had served it, joining hands across race and religion in a way I had never experienced.
Although hundreds of dignitaries and law enforcement personnel were in attendance, the blue-uniformed officers of the LAPD proved the predominant presence. Silent and somber, we stood at attention as four flag-shrouded caskets containing the bodies of our men were carried inside by fellow officers. At that moment, I don’t think I have ever been more proud of the men and women with whom I served.
In the wake of a heartbreaking presentation by the Christian Center pastor, Mayor Fitzpatrick spoke, followed by Chief Ingram, Assistant Chief Strickland, several fellow officers, and members of the stricken families—mothers and fathers, wives and daughters, brothers and sisters and sons. And as the lives of our slain men were remembered by witness after witness, as our leaders spoke for once with frank, heartfelt eloquence, as the city joined together to hold hands and smile and sing and laugh and cry, the true magnitude of our wound became apparent for all to see. And, if only for a day, Los Angeles presented itself to the world as a city with dignity, as a city that cared.
To my surprise, toward the end of the tribute Captain Snead stepped to the podium. I had texted him regarding Allison’s proposal, then promptly forgotten about it, certain he would refuse. As Snead hadn’t known any of the murdered officers, I wondered what he was going to say.
I was sitting in the sanctuary with Deluca, Taylor, and Long, situated about halfway back. For a better view, I turned to watch Snead’s image on one of the large screens circling the assembly.
Snead looked exhausted. Without it being voiced, everyone knew who he was, and that time was running out for his daughter.
After clearing his throat, Snead adjusted the microphone and began. “We have lost police members in the past,” he said, struggling to steady his voice. “And it is always a tragedy. Always. I didn’t personally know the SWAT officers who gave their lives in service to our city, and that is my great loss. I do know that these four individuals personified what is best in the LAPD—not the mistakes of MacArthur Park, or of Rodney King, or of police misconduct routinely fictionalized by Hollywood. Instead, those four officers embodied the spirit of the thousands of women and men of the LAPD who work together for a common purpose: ‘To Protect and Serve.’”
Snead lowered his head, then looked up and continued. “But these four men were not just cops. They were heroes, yes. They were proud to be among those who protect our city, but they were also husbands, and fathers, and brothers, and neighbors, and friends. I can only imagine the void that their deaths have left in the lives of those they loved, and in the lives of those who loved them.”
Snead paused again, seeming to shift gears. “For a brief moment I would like to address the person who killed our men,” he said quietly. “Those officers died trying to rescue my daughter. You have Ella now, and you alone have the power to save her. Please let her go. Only you can do that. Her name is Ella.”
Snead glanced at one of the screens on the walls. As he did, his image was replaced by a black-and-white clip showing a toddler playing on a swing. “This is Ella when she was a child,” he said. “Please release Ella and show the entire world that you can be merciful, that you can treat others better than they have treated you.”
The image shifted again to Snead. “You are in control,” he said. “Please release Ella. You alone have the power to do that.”
With that, Snead stepped from the microphone and turned, not looking back.
“Pretty smart,” I said. “I probably would have done the same.”
“He was trying to get the monster who’s holding her to see Ella as a human being, not as some depersonalized object,” I replied. “Snead undoubtedly talked with one of the department’s shrinks on that.”
“Think it will work?” asked Taylor, who was sitting between Lieutenant Long and me on the other side.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Too bad.”
“It was a good try, though. Maybe it will buy Ella some time.”
“Maybe,” said Taylor. “I hope so.”
Just then my cellphone vibrated. I checked the screen.
It was Aken.
“Hey,” I said, accepting his call. “Where are you?”
“Down in front. Where are you?”
“About halfway back, near the entrance,” I answered, unsuccessfully trying to spot my cold-case friend. “What’s up?”
“I just got a call from the Hertzberg lab. The comparison just came back on Krüger’s DNA.”
“And?”
“It’s a match.”
34
Search Warrant
After Aken’s call, I immediately left for San Diego, departing from the FaithDome with Taylor and Deluca in tow. Lieutenant Long said he would catch a ride back to the station with Banowski, advising us to keep him posted.
On the drive to Rancho Bernardo, I contacted the Sheriff’s unit currently watching Dr. Krüger’s residence—eventually getting transferred to the surveillance vehicle via the 4S Ranch Substation switchboard. After setting my cellphone to speaker mode and identifying myself, I asked, “Anything going on?”
“Nope,” came the bored reply from one of the stakeout deputies. “He hasn’t gone anywhere since Saturday morning. Up half the night, though—lights on, lights off, stepping out at dawn to bring in his newspaper—like that. ”
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