Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (54 page)

‘That’s because officially he isn’t. Harry was in hospital. Back in LA. Some minor complications following surgery. Infections, I think. He died Tuesday night.’

Four days ago. Seemed like yesterday.

‘And you think The Undertaker killed him?’

‘Sonny, I know he killed him. He left Harry’s driver’s license at the Hoagland crime scene.’

She could hear the contained rage bubbling away behind my words. So could I.

‘But why?’

‘As bait to get me here. Bill said the killer had picked me out on purpose. That it was only a matter of time before he made contact. He left Jennifer McNamara at the 7th Street Bridge because that’s the exact dump site where The Maestro left his last child victim.’

‘He knows your history.’

‘My history is public domain. Ever since the Star Strangled Murders. My life’s an open book. I believe he also contacted Stacey Kellerman and fed her information that only the killer would know. Maybe coached her in what to say on camera.’

‘He’s playing with you.’

‘I’d say more than just playing, Sonny. But even so, screwing with my head is an aside to his real game plan.’

‘Are you sure about that? It sounds like he’s on a personal vendetta.’

Truth was, I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

‘Making my life a misery is secondary to his real mission.’ I said.

Again, I listened to the words. Not wholly convinced I understood them. Or believed them.

‘Which is to kill a few innocents on the premise of saving many more.’

‘It’s all we have, Sonny.’

‘So how do we catch him, Gabe?’

I stared through the windshield at huge bronze mountains bathed in early morning sunlight.

‘We find the link that connects all the victims together.’ I said. ‘Once we’ve done that, we’ll know who he’s going after.’

‘And catch him in the act.’

Or die trying,
I thought.

153

^{___________________________}

The fat man in the long white coat was with his Mother and Father, over by the big desk with the big globe on top. They were talking about him. Trying to keep their voices down. He had his face pressed against the cool glass of the window. Picking out patterns in the parking lot. Listening to every word they said.

It was a memory the killer also known as Ethan Davey Copes had from the day before his fifth birthday. The visit to the clinic had been the first of many. The beginning of a long journey of psychological reprogramming that would travel through his entire childhood and accomplish absolutely nothing.

At that age he hadn’t fully understood terms such as
Einstein Syndrome
,
high-spectrum learner
or
top percentile achiever
. To him, the fact that he chose not to speak very much meant he could dedicate more brain power into absorbing the world around him. Boys weren’t like girls, in more ways than one. Boys soaked up facts. Gobbled up general knowledge. But unlike his peers, he saw things that no one else seemed to see. Not dead people like they did in the movies. Patterns in the facts. Patterns in the maps. Patterns in history. Patterns in the chaos. God’s wonderful blueprint, as he later liked to think of it. Foretelling of things not yet come to pass.

He replayed the memory as he gazed through the airplane window at the baggage handlers nonchalantly tossing luggage into the cargo hold.

‘It’s a problem.’ His Mother kept saying. Over and over. She sounded upset. Teary. ‘People think our son is retarded. They won’t give him a chance. It’s a problem.’

The fat man in the long white coat released a long sigh. It was almost lunchtime and his mind had already begun to think of food. ‘Let me assure you, your son is quite the opposite. His introversion is just a symptom of his condition.’

His Father sounded more annoyed than upset. His father had been angry for some time. ‘My boy has a
condition
?’

‘Yes, he does. But it isn’t a life-threatening condition, if that’s what worries you. All it means is your son’s mental functions have developed differently than ours. That’s all. Better, in some ways. Here, take a look at these test results. They’re off the charts. Look at this curve. He’s a smart kid. But the wires in his brain are plugged into the wrong sockets.’

‘So what’s his prognosis?’

‘With the proper behavioral program there’s no reason he shouldn’t become a fully functioning member of society.’

There was a note of hope rising in his Mother’s voice: ‘You mean he’ll be normal? He’ll fit in? He’ll be
okay
?’

‘Yes, he will. Better than okay. Your boy’s one in a million. If we get this right now, today, no one will ever know your son’s different. With the right medication he’ll blend right in. Excel, in fact. He’ll be able to hold down a good job. Form relationships. In a word, he’ll be perfect.’

The killer also known as Ethan Davey Copes closed his eyes as the plane’s engines throbbed into life. He could feel the patterns of their vibrations course through him. For a moment he reveled in it. Lost himself in the shudders.

There was a clunk as the sky-bridge disengaged.

He’d breezed through the extra security checks without a hitch. Smiled on cue to the granite-faced officials. Acted bored. Disinterested. Better things to do. Said all the right things. No concealed weapons. No sharp implements. No he wasn’t an international terrorist. No he wasn’t hiding C4 in his shoe. No one to guess his true identity. No one smart enough to see right through his disguise.

They were all too busy looking for a blonde-haired guy in a baseball cap. Had paid no interest whatsoever in a dark-haired NYC cop returning from a Vegas vacation.

154

^{___________________________}

We didn’t go back to my place. Instead, Sonny took me back to hers. We both needed freshening up. Breakfast. Her insistence. Turned out Sonny lived west of the city, in a pleasant gated community south of Spring Valley. The sub-division was full of pretty Spanish-style villas with terracotta tiles and palm trees. Quiet. Saturday broadsheets soaking on sprinkler-fed lawns. A perfect picture of suburban tranquility. I was envious.

‘You won’t be intruding,’ she assured me as she pulled her family SUV onto the driveway and killed the engine. ‘Be prepared to be mobbed. You have no idea how much your being here will be a treat for the kids.’

I had every intention of making a quick turnaround. A pit stop. Clean up, get out, hit the streets, and hunt down
The Undertaker
. But Sonny’s kids had other ideas.

They were polite and charming – which is a rare combination these days. Full of early morning energy. Clearly working long shifts and making ends meet hadn’t affected Sonny’s ability to raise good children. I was impressed. They were a real credit to her. I mean it.
 

‘What’s it like being on TV?’

‘How many movie stars do you know?’

‘Do you live in Hollywood?’

What’s it like catching bad guys?’

‘Have you ever shot someone?’

‘Can I hold your gun?’

Five minutes into introductions and interrogations, Sonny clapped her hands and shooed her kids away.

 
‘Y’all got Saturday chores to get to. So get to.’

I was happy to watch from the side lines as Sonny handed out instructions to her three shiny-eyed offspring. Tidy bedrooms. Feed pets. Put laundry in utility room. Get washed and dressed. Eat. It reminded me of my own family life back in Tennessee when my own kids were this age. It was endearing. The normality smacked you on the nose. But things never stay the same.

A little while later I was scanning more photographs on the walls when Sonny came downstairs with a bundle of folded clothes.

‘These were Roger’s.’ She said as she handed them over. ‘Never been worn and straight out the packet. You’re about the same build.’

‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

I took them from her.

‘The bathroom’s at the top of the landing.’ She said. ‘There’s a razor and cream in the cabinet. Take your time. Let me know when you’re out the shower and I’ll redress that head wound. In the meantime your sneakers are going in the dryer.’

‘Thanks, Sonny.’

‘You’re welcome. Now go get to.’

155

^{___________________________}

Later that morning, Detective Michael Shakes joined up with Sonny Maxwell and me, together with our FBI counterparts, in the boardroom attached to the Situation Room, to discuss where we were at and where we were going with
The Undertaker
case. Bill was unavailable; out in the field. He was liaising with the Henderson PD, just in case the killer strayed into their neighborhood.

Roger’s clothes were a good fit. I decided I liked his tailoring, but not his style.

So far, the killer we knew as
The Undertaker
– aka Ethan Davey Copes – had taken eight lives in Vegas. All within a twenty-four-hour period. Some undertaking in anyone’s book. All told, that made sixteen homicides – including FBI and incidentals – over the course of one week. It read like a
Rambo
movie script.

 
‘We reverse-traced the call you took at Treasure Island,’ SSA Glenda Hoyt was telling me. She looked a little brighter-eyed than yesterday. But not much. ‘He’s definitely using a pre-paid disposable cell.’

‘Which means he could have a technical background.’ SSA Miles Tomlin added. He looked uncomfortable. Like he’d slept in his clothes. I knew that feeling. ‘He knows exactly how long it takes us to trace a call.’

‘Anyone who’s seen a procedural cop show knows how long it takes to trace a call.’ Sonny said, dismissing the Fed’s comment as if it was an annoying fly. Sonny had little patience with the FBI and it showed.

We were seated around the conference table; Feds on one side, cops on the other. Like opposing counsels.

 
‘What else do we know about Ethan Davey Copes?’ I asked, refocusing the group.