Michael was a curious creature. The son of a woman continually in and out of jail for drugs and petty theft and ignoring warrants (his father was long gone), Michael had worked various jobs—mostly menial or administrative—all his life but didn’t last very long at any of them. When not on payroll he was a pickpocket and shoplifter and burglar.
Criminal ran in his blood.
And he was the most obnoxious human being Neville had ever met, cruelly flinging about insults for sport.
“Why in person?” the detective repeated and closed the file.
“That was the question. Eons ago.” Michael smirked.
“No record.” Phone calls to and from the lockup were monitored and Neville definitely didn’t want any leaks about his secret plan to get RDK. “Maybe we can help each other. I have a problem and you have a problem.”
“I’m stuck in this shithole for another fifteen months. What’s yours?”
“The Russian Doll Killer.”
“Heard about that. We get the news here. I want NPR. Everybody else wants country. Sometimes I win, sometimes I don’t.”
“He’s killed three women and we don’t have many leads.”
“You are sort of Andy of Mayberry, not that Silence of the Lambs girl, the quick one.”
“He left a doll at my house. My daughter found it. Freaked her out.”
The con seemed bored at this news.
“I want him,” Neville said firmly. “Bad. And I have an idea of how to do it.”
Michael cocked a slightly less bored eyebrow.
“Here’s the deal. In exchange for release and a full pardon—your record expunged—you play the part of a copycat, mimicking RDK.
“The Sheriff’s Office is renting a couple of houses—we’ve got one on Juniper Lane and one on Martin Drive. An undercover detective of ours, Sonja Parker, will play the role of the victim. She’ll pretend to be new to town so the neighbors won’t think anything of a stranger in the rental. We’ll run Juniper Lane first. She’ll come back from work, pick up a package one of the neighbors is holding for her. While the door’s open you hike past so he’ll see you.
“You, quote, ‘break in’ and you and Sonja hang out for a half hour, and then you take her car and leave it somewhere. The next day our CSU people’ll pretend to run the scene. I’ll make a press announcement in front of the house.”
“What if the neighbor calls 911 when he sees me?”
“We delay sending a car until you have a chance to get away. Now, our profilers’ve painted RDK as someone with a huge ego. So I think when we announce in the press the killer’s struck again he’ll show up at Juniper Lane. He’ll want to find out about this copycat. So I want you to stand out in the crowd. You should seem—”
“Hinky.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Michael offered a condescending glance. “Weirdly suspicious.”
“Hinky.”
Michael was nodding. “And I leave and go about my business and you’re hoping he’ll follow me, and if he does, you’ll follow him.”
“If he doesn’t go for the bait at Juniper, we’ll try again with Martin.”
“Ankle monitor?”
“Of course, Michael.”
“I get it. Trust only goes so far. But that also means you’ll put this bullshit in writing and send it to my lawyer.”
“It’s already written up. A magistrate signed it.”
“Which tells me you’re moving in an expeditious manner.”
Expeditious . . .
Neville had learned that Michael Stendhal would likely have graduated with high marks from the prestigious University of Chicago had he not been caught “borrowing” (his term) items from students’ rooms in residence halls. His second and final expulsion, from a good state school, occurred when he stood up in class and told the professor, the head of the English department, that he was dull as mud; did he not know he was fucking putting everyone to sleep?
“‘Bait’ is a telling word, Detective. What if RDK gets tired of girls and decides to chop me up?”
“I’ve got you a bulletproof vest and the tracker. And I’ll have somebody keeping an eye on you.”
“Anybody good?”
“My assistant. Benji Camp.”
“Now, that’s a silly name.”
“He’s the best shot in the department. No, in the county.”
Michael looked him over with shrewd eyes. “This’s a secret, isn’t it?”
“Only my close team and you know about it.”
“I suppose you’re bright enough, Detective, to realize this could blow up in your face. Be the end of your career. You might even get yourself a room here.” A wave, indicating the detention center. “Not that I care.”
“Understood.”
Michael rose and walked to the window. The thick glass, behind bars, was scuffed. Still, you could see a bit of green outside. “Ask you a question?”
Neville nodded.
He turned back. “Why’d you pick me, Detective?”
“I just spent an hour going through the arrest records of, let’s say, potential candidates.” He didn’t add the against-protocol part. “And you won. I wanted somebody who was getting near short time—you have fifteen months to go. Long enough to give you an incentive to agree, not so long a magistrate’d balk. And I needed a nonviolent offender.”
From his police, parole and counselor files, Neville had learned that Michael had never once physically hurt a living soul.
“But most important, for this to work, I needed somebody who could get into the part. Play the role of a heartless serial killer. Of all the cons I considered, you were the worst one.”
“Really?” His eyes brightened.
“I can’t tell you it’s risk-free, Michael. You can say no.”
“‘The worst one,’” he mused. Then smiled. “I’m in.”
14
Present
10:00 p.m., Thursday, November 13
Michael Stendhal muttered, “I said gun three times. Four maybe. I was shouting.”
Neville frowned and looked at Benji Camp. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Me either. The TV. The volume.”
“You didn’t even know he was armed.” Michael was snide and whining now.
“True. That wasn’t in the profile,” Benji said.
Neville nodded toward Michael’s chest. “You had the body armor.”
“Oh, I suppose nobody’s ever shot anyone in the head before.”
“That does happen, give you that.”
Benji added, “The crotch too.”
“Sonja wouldn’t’ve let anything happen to you.”
“Jesus, I feel soooo safe,” Michael said, adding sarcasm to snide.
Neville was reflecting that it had all gone largely as planned. At the press conference on Juniper Lane, Benji—dressed undercover in his camo—had kept an eye on their bait, Michael, who’d been acting suitably suspicious.
Hinky . . .
Benji had trailed Michael through the preserve and begun following him around Handleman County. Eventually he spotted somebody who might be tailing him in a car.
Might be a lead, but just can’t tell at this point . . .
Benji hadn’t come up with a tag number or other ID, so they didn’t have a suspect to roll up. Besides, Neville wanted to record RDK and Michael: to find out if there were other victims unknown to the authorities and learn if he was working alone. It was rare for serial killers to have partners but occasionally wives or girlfriends were co-conspirators.
They’d set up another “murder” in this rental tonight and Benji reported that the real RDK was on the move again, following Michael here. With Neville, Benji and the tactical cops staked out inside, Michael followed the undercover detective, Sonja Parker, into the living room, where she played dead. They’d then awaited RDK’s arrival. After he made his dramatic entry, they learned there were no other victims, that he worked alone and, a bonus, that he’d mu
rdered his wife. All of this was largely thanks to Michael’s award-winning playacting.
Neville now turned to the serial killer, sitting cuffed in an armchair.
Simms apparently knew they had him cold and he had waived his right to remain silent.
Neville said, “We heard about your wife.”
“Is it a cliché to say that she deserved to die?”
“Give me the details.”
Simms seemed happy—even proud—to cooperate.
Neville asked dozens of questions about the murder of the wife and the Russian doll victims. After a half hour he was nearly done. He had one last question and he was thinking of the TV pundit’s assessment and the pricey psychiatrist’s report.
In recent years, his anger at his parents has pushed him past the tipping point and he is now murdering, in an attempt to reclaim his role as the outermost Russian doll.
“So, Jared, I’m curious. Did you have a tough time when you were young? Your family life?”
The killer was surprised. “What? No. My folks were great.”
“Then tell me: Why leave Russian dolls as a calling card?”
“Oh, they were on sale at Walmart.”
15
There we go.”
The technician from the Comms Division removed the ankle monitor.
Michael examined the rash. His scratching over the past few days hadn’t helped.
“You didn’t think to put it over my sock?” Michael grumbled.
The round, balding Black man replied laconically, “I would have but I thought it might be helpful to encourage a trip to the laundry.”
“Meaning my feet stink?”
No answer. But yeah, that was what he meant.
Michael could only laugh. He respected anyone quick with an insult.
He headed into the hallway, then upstairs to the Detective Pen. He spotted the sheriff and Detective Neville conferring, heads down. Closer to him was Sonja Parker’s cubicle. She sat perfectly upright at her desk, typing on a keyboard.
He’d thought about her a hundred times in the past few days—ever since they’d met, preparing for the operation. He’d picture her while walking down the street, while shopping, while jogging. Also while lying in bed at night. He wondered if there was any way he could tell her how she’d unknowingly participated at those particular times.
Sadly, no credible option presented itself. Not at this moment.
The detective was still in her black sweatshirt. He’d hoped she’d taken it off, revealing that snug baby-blue blouse.
He walked to a table on which sat a Keurig coffee machine and brewed himself a cup, to which he added four sugars.
After a brief massage of his raw ankle Michael ambled across the pen to her cubicle.
“Hey.”
Sonja looked up. Her expression was clear. She was waiting for an apology for his piling onto her during the Simms arrest. Well, lock up your ego, honey. I was just trying not to get my ass shot up in Dodge City back there and you happened to be in the way.
So, no, a mea culpa wasn’t going to happen. Michael Stendhal had apologized sincerely once or twice in his entire life. He couldn’t remember those transgressions but could easily recall the sting he’d felt from actually saying the reviled word sorry.
“Listen.” His voice dipped into sincerity as her brows rose. “There’s this place near me, Thai. When I was inside, the joint, you know, all I could think about was Thai. How about it tonight? When you’re off?”
This date would be a real date and his goal would not be verbal vivisection, but getting her into his squeaky bed.
Her brows went up, an ascent that he wouldn’t have thought possible. “You’re asking me out?”
“Dinner, back to my place after, nightcap.”
Sonja didn’t seem like someone who would fall prey to speechlessness. She did now.
“My treat,” he added generously.
She exhaled an odd noise. Exasperation and wonderment figured.
“Okay.” He held up a hand. “You seem hesitant. We can save the nightcap for next time.”
“No next time, no this time.” Her face was both stony and amused.
He was growing irritated. Jesus. Was she really pissed he’d reached for her thigh to stand up, when they were behind the couch? It was chaos. There were guns everywhere. “Why not?”
“The last man on earth phenom,” she said coolly. “You ever heard of it?”
“Excuse me, Sonja. You take that attitude with me? You are not exactly a spring chicken.” She laughed. He was insulted and doubled down. “And I’m guessing male models aren’t exactly knocking down your door.”
It was then that her eyes turned toward a small framed photo on her desk. Sonja and a man around her age. Arms around shoulders.
“Boyfriend?”
“Husband.”
“Hm. Is he a male model?”
Sonja didn’t answer but he could well have been.
“Congratulations,” he said snidely. “Hope you know how lucky you are to’ve snagged him.”
She studied him briefly. “I think you really don’t have any idea what you’re saying half the time.”
A voice: “Michael.”
He tipped his head to Sonja and with a parting glance assward, joined Neville, who said, “Paperwork’s been signed by the court. You’re free to go.”
Benji Camp, hovering nearby, offered, “We couldn’t’ve done it without you.”
Michael screwed up his face in a way that he hoped telegraphed his contempt for obvious statements.
Neville asked, “What’re you going to do now?”
“I’m thinking of a legit job. Health care. I loved anatomy in college. Maybe I’ll get a nursing degree or something.”
The cop blinked and stared for a moment, like he was trying to imagine Michael treating patients. “Well, whatever you do, stay the hell out of trouble.”
“Appreciate your concern for me, Detective.”
“That’s for my sake, not yours. You screw up and I may have to come and arrest you and I surely don’t ever want to see you again.”
“That’s a good one, Detective.” Michael winked.
As he walked into the corridor and then to the front door and outside he was thinking of something that Sonja Parker had just said.
I think you really don’t have any idea what you’re saying half the time . . .
He answered her now. No, babe, I always know exactly what I’m saying, every minute of every day.
The insults, the barbs, the snide rejoinders, the icy sarcasm.
But, he reflected, was this not a valid question: While, yes, Michael Stendhal was the “bad one,” irredeemably bad, didn’t his venomous art on occasion produce some good?
Might not the cabbie rethink his dead-end job? Might not the army veteran wrangle some self-esteem and get help? Might not Gucci Girl begin to think she really didn’t want to end up like her narcissistic mother? Might not Randi decide to roll up her mom sleeves, get those parental controls in place and maybe appreciate her daughter just a bit more?
Was not Michael Stendhal, in a small way, a turning point in people’s lives, smacking some sense into them?
He considered this for a moment.
Yes, no, maybe.
Then concluded: Who cares?
Stepping to the curb, he flagged down a cab.
16
11:40 a.m., Friday, November 14
All the forensics good?” Jimbo Rawlins asked.
The sheriff was on his third coffee of the day. Neville was drinking a Dr Pepper. Man, he loved Dr Pepper.
“Crime Scene’s got everything buttoned up. DNA matches across the board. Simms’s confessing to avoid the needle.”
Much of the RDK task force was hovering in and around Neville’s cubicle.
Benji asked, “Think it’s a trick, Simms cooperating? Maybe his lawyer’s going to claim insanity.”
Sonja Parker, who’d been in the business some years lo
nger than the young deputy, said, “Courts don’t buy it. You’ve got to prove you really believe you’re from the planet Zantar or that you talk to plantains and broccoli and that said vegetables reply.”
“She’s right, Benji. It’s a tough defense.” Neville didn’t mention that his wife, an ace gardener, talked soothingly to her hibiscuses and ferns and roses. The flower beds were spectacular.
Rawlins: “The pushback’s started. I got a call from the mayor.”
Neville held up his hands, palms forward, surrendering. “Because I ran a private operation, staged a fake crime scene and cut a deal with a particularly unpleasant prisoner? Oh, and didn’t tell anybody—you included.”
“Yeah, all of the above.”
“Well, I had to keep everyone in the dark,” Neville said. “Couldn’t risk word getting out. I’ll talk to the mayor.”
Sonja said, “Well, what’s she going to do? Cut out our fruitcake at Christmas?”
The matronly city executive sent loaves, heavy as bricks, to all government departments. Neville had never seen anyone actually eat any. Three sat in the department freezer, everyone afraid to discard them, lest a maintenance man or garbage collector dime them out.
“We can hope,” the sheriff said. “When’ll your report be ready?”
“A few hours.”
Rawlins was nearly out the door when he paused and turned. “Was sharp, what you all did. Appreciate it.” He nodded at the Russian Doll Killer wall charts. “We took on a serial killer as good as the big boys in Quantico and, more important”—he gave a wink to them all—“as good as those cops on cable TV.” A nod to the room, and the sheriff was gone.
Neville took a call. He recognized the number as that of the detention center director. “Lou?”
“Hey, Ernie. Got a weird thing that happened. Need to run it by you.” He sounded troubled.
“Sure.”
“When we processed Simms he said he wanted a receipt for his five thousand.”
“What? Dollars, he meant?”
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