Kane (38 page)

Soon … but not quite yet.

31

A
high-level decision was made not to inform the Bakers that their intruder might be involved in the candlelight killings.  Instead, they were simply told that a good chance existed he would return.  As hoped, John and Maureen Baker agreed to cooperate, and during the two weeks that followed, with the exception of sending their son to stay with his grandparents in Palos Verdes, they kept up a normal routine—John off to work by seven-thirty; Maureen to her part-time accounting job on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday; friends over occasionally for dinner on weekends.

Meanwhile a Metro surveillance team, with one member of the task force present during each shift, maintained a twenty-four-hour watch from the vacant residence I had noticed on my first visit.  Two other plainclothes surveillance teams were posted in unmarked vehicles on Valley Vista Boulevard, with a third vehicle stationed one street up to watch the back—able to monitor anyone approaching the house.  Efficient, total coverage.  By the book.  And fruitless.

Two Tuesdays later, on the morning that surveillance was scheduled to end, I made several telephone calls.  The first was to Lieutenant Long at the West LA Division.  At my request, Long subsequently contacted his friend Wally Coiner, Metro Division’s commanding officer, requesting that the Baker surveillance be extended another week—even though members of the task force would no longer be participating.  Although puzzled, Coiner agreed to do so as a favor to Long, on condition that the size of the surveillance unit be reduced and coverage continued on a nighttime basis only.

My second call was to Dr. Sidney Berns.

Later that afternoon, after fighting cross-town traffic, I pulled up in front of the UCI Neuropsychiatric Center in Orange County.  Leaving my car in a twenty-minute parking zone, I entered the white, three-story building.  After receiving directions from an elderly receptionist, I proceeded down a hallway to the right, arriving at an outpatient waiting room.  There I tapped on a glass partition window, flashing my badge at a nurse on the other side.  “Dan Kane to see Dr. Berns,” I said.

The woman slid the window open and checked her schedule.  After finding my name partway down, she told me to take a seat and that Dr. Berns would see me when his patient schedule permitted.

Obstinately, I remained standing.  Resisting the impulse to pace, I turned my attention to a TV bracketed high on one wall, idly watching a daytime talk show host schmooze her afternoon guests.  Fifteen minutes later Dr. Berns stuck his head into the waiting room.  “Detective Kane,” he said.  “Come in.”

I shook the psychiatrist’s hand, noting his grasp was surprisingly strong.  “I know you’re busy,” I said.  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”

“Glad to help,” replied Berns.  “We can talk in my office.”

I followed the psychiatrist through a residents’ lounge, arriving at an eight-by-twelve cubicle with a window opening onto a cement patio.  Berns settled behind a desk cluttered with files, a photograph of an attractive woman in her late thirties, and an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes.  With a wave of his hand, he directed me to a chair opposite the desk.  “Quite unexpected hearing from you,” he noted dryly.

“I suppose,” I said, taking a seat.  “Look, I was out of line at the first task force meeting.  When it comes to certain subjects, I have a tendency to shoot off my mouth before I have all the facts.”

“Apology accepted.”  Berns opened a drawer, withdrawing a half-empty pack of Marlboros.  He shook one out and lit it.  “I assume from your presence that you want my assistance on something.”

“I do have a couple things I want to run by you,” I admitted.  “Confidentially, of course.”

“Of course.  You understand I’m no longer being retained on your investigation?  My involvement was a one-shot deal requested by Ken Huff.  I did the FBI followup pro bono.”

“No.  I didn’t realize that.”

Berns shrugged.  “Money’s tight down here in Orange County.  As long as you realize I no longer hold an official position on the case, I’ll be glad to help in any way I can.  What do you want to know?”

“Two things,” I said, ratcheting up my assessment of Berns several notches.  “First, I think that in addition to stalking his victims, our man is reconnoitering their houses prior to his killings.  It’s a belief not shared by some of my colleagues.”

“Lieutenant Snead?”

“For one.  Nonetheless, Huff is backing me up, and working on the prior entry premise, we’ve been investigating selected cases of breaking-and-entering.  Recently we discovered an instance that looks to me like the work of the killer.  A maid surprised a man while he was in the house.  She wound up in the hospital.  We got a composite drawing from a family member of the guy who probably did it, a picture you probably saw later on the news.  The drawing generated a rash of calls, but unfortunately nothing ever panned out.  We also put surveillance teams on the family’s residence, hoping the intruder would return.  So far he hasn’t.  What I want to know is this:  If this guy’s our man, is he coming back?”

Berns thought a moment.  “Several factors are at work,” he said.  “On one hand, I believe your killer is fixating on a victim.  Once he’s selected her, he feels progressive pressure to complete his fantasy and make it real.  In the instance you’re describing, he might also view his interrupted reconnaissance as a failure, something to be rectified.”

“On the other hand,” I interjected, anticipating Berns’s train of thought, “the more time goes by, the more likely he’ll be to select a new target.  So what’s the bottom line?  Is he coming back?”

Berns crushed out his cigarette.  “Bottom line, I don’t know.  It could go either way.  I do know that the guy you’re looking for is smart, and as I said previously, I believe he’s done this before—maybe in different places and operating under different rules, but he’s done it before.  Given that, I suspect that as he feels more pressure from the police, he’ll eventually disappear and resurface someplace else, possibly with a new method of finding and killing victims.”

“Putting us back to square one.”

“Correct.  Let’s see, it’s been, what—three weeks since the Welsh murders?”

“Twenty-two days.”

“The interim between the first and second murders was twenty-five days; the period between the second and third lessened to fifteen.  Assuming the killer’s calendar is decreasing, he’s overdue.”

I nodded.  “Which brings me to my second question.  At the first task force meeting you mentioned there might be triggers that set him off.  Could you expand on that?”

“For one, other cases of violence can act as stressors to push these types of individuals over the edge.  A particularly brutal murder reported in the media often spawns a series of repeats across the country.”

“Like worms surfacing after a rain,” I noted.  “What else?  Anything specific that applies to our guy?”

“The murder of the Welsh family followed almost immediately after the arrest of that auto repairman,” Berns said thoughtfully.  “As I said, it’s possible someone else being credited with the killer’s crimes enraged him, causing him to accelerate his schedule.”

I leaned forward.  “What else would piss him off?”

“Anything that conflicts with the elaborate self-image he’s erected for himself,” answered Berns.  “Typically someone like him cannot tolerate ridicule, especially if it’s directed at his psychological weak points.”

“Which are?”

Berns regarded me curiously.  “Aside from feeling rage toward families in general and women in particular, your killer probably has an unconscious desire to prove his masculinity,” he answered.  “Based on his treatment of the husbands, I suspect he’s confused concerning his sexual identity and may have repressed homosexual tendencies.  In addition, he prides himself on commitment, views himself as infallible, and has an overwhelming compulsion to be in control.  He would find anything contradicting these things extremely threatening.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I said, rising from my chair.  “I appreciate your help.  I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“You’re going to attempt to goad him into action, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re going to try to force him to move up his timetable.  You hope he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake.”

I didn’t respond.

“Be careful, Kane.  Be very careful.”

I walked to the door, then turned.  “No matter what I do, he’ll kill again anyway, right?”

Berns nodded.  “You said it earlier.  He’ll keep killing until he’s caught.”

*       *       *

I did some last minute Christmas shopping that evening, including a visit to the Jewelry Mart downtown.  Afterward I stopped at the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin, one of my West Los Angeles drinking haunts from years past.  A throwback to earlier days of deep-red carpets, navigational charts laminated onto tabletops, and photos of sailing schooners with colorful jibs decorating the walls, the restaurant had prospered over the years by offering clientele reasonably priced steaks, chops, and seafood, as well as providing an honest drink and a friendly ambiance for any thirsty patron happening to wander in.

Taking a spot in the back, I peered around the dimly lit bar.  With the exception of restaurant staff, I failed to see anyone I knew.  Minutes later a young waitress wearing a short white apron and even shorter plaid skirt approached.  I ordered a Coke and nursed it for the next quarter hour, wondering whether there had been some miscommunication.  By the time I’d finished my drink, chewed the ice, and nearly decided to leave, I saw Lauren Van Owen standing by the hostess station.

I waited until her eyes swept my way, then raised a hand.  Lauren hurried over.  “Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, slipping into a chair across from mine.  “I’m surprised you called.  Are you sure you want to be seen with me in public?”

“This place is safe.  Nobody from the Force ever comes in anymore,” I replied, once again thinking that the newscaster looked even better in person than she did on television.  Evidently the same thought had occurred to several other male patrons, a number of whom were now openly eye-humping her from across the room.

“So why’d you call?”

“I’ve seen you on the tube lately,” I said evasively.  “National coverage.  Congratulations.”

“Thanks.  Getting an exclusive on that composite drawing helped.  On the downside, I had another meeting with Sid Gilmore, our CBS bureau chief.  He again requested that I hand over any future scoops to the network.”

“You said that would be cutting your own throat.  What’d you tell him?”

“That network could have my material as long as I got to give the report.  You know, Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News.”

“Smart.”

Lauren shrugged.  “He’s talking about bringing me onboard full-time, but I’m not where I want to be yet,” she said, glancing around the room.  “I’ve never been here before.  Seems nice.”

“The food’s great if you like steak and seafood.”

“I love meat.  I’m a regular carnivore.”

“They have a terrific jazz band on weekends, too,” I added.

“Sounds good.  Maybe I’ll check it out sometime.  Listen, I have a neighbor watching my daughter, and I know you didn’t ask me here to give restaurant tips.  What’s up?”

“Drink?” I asked, avoiding her question a second time.

“What’re you having?”

“Coke.”

“In that case, no.  C’mon, Kane.  Give.”

“Maybe I do have something for you.”

Lauren eyed me inquiringly.  “Is this official?”

“Hell, no.  I want total anonymity, like before.”

“Okay.  ‘Sources inside the LAPD’ it is,” Lauren agreed.  “Why are you doing this?”

I spread my hands.  “You delayed breaking the composite drawing story till we finished our canvass, as agreed.  I’m just trying to show my appreciation.”

“That’s a crock if I’ve ever heard one.  What’s the real reason?”

“Christmas is a week away.  Consider it a present.”

“Why do I feel the need for a shovel?”

“You want to hear this or not?”

Lauren reached into her purse and withdrew a pad and pen.  “I want to hear it.  Go ahead.”

I leaned forward and for the next five minutes spoke in a low monotone.  When I finished, I sat back, gauging Lauren’s reaction.

Lauren, who had been writing steadily since I began, set down her pen and gazed at me levelly.  “You have another suspect.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, trying to cover my surprise.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.  If I’m not mistaken, the material you just gave me is part of a psychological workup on the killer.  Not too complimentary, either.  I’d say if you wanted to make the guy angry, you couldn’t come up with anything better if you tried.  You’re attempting to force his hand.  And the only reason you would do that is if you were watching him.”

“I never said that.”

“How about getting me in on the surveillance?” Lauren suggested, her face lighting with excitement.  “I could—”