Sight Unseen (32 page)

Reade was already pounding her keyboard. “I have the resident list up. Cross-referencing now.”

Kendra stepped closer and looked over Reade’s shoulder at the dozens of names displayed on the laptop screen.

She went rigid with shock. “No,” she whispered.

Lynch quickly moved closer to her. “What is it?”

She shook her head dazedly. “It’s crazy.” She moistened her lips. “It has to be a coincidence. The third name on the list. Dean Halley. A history professor. He works with my mother. He was with me on the bridge that night. But I can’t believe that he’s the…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to comprehend and connect the dots. “But he does have a prison record, and it might not be for the reason he told me. But he was so damn … plausible.”

Lynch snapped at Griffin. “It’s 26613 Breaker. That’s the target.” He turned toward Reade. “Pull up a photo of Dean Halley and make sure all teams have it. If you can’t immediately pull up a driver’s license or passport photo for him, check the UC San Diego Web site.”

Kendra barely heard him, her eyes were still locked on that screen.

Dean Halley.

San Quentin Penitentiary

“COZY.” COLBY SMILED AS HE STEPPED
through an oval door and was escorted by his three guards into the octagonal execution chamber. It was approximately seven-and-a-half feet in diameter and centered around a single table. Five large windows separated the chamber from the witness area, which was populated by forty-five journalists, politicians, and so-called reputable citizens, some of whom included victims’ family members.

Colby didn’t attempt to make eye contact with any of the witnesses as he was led to the table and strapped down with nylon restraints.

He looked up at the execution leader, Ron Hoyle, a stocky man with a thick moustache. “I have a final statement to make.”

“You waived that right, Mr. Colby.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Hoyle glanced at the warden, who was standing next to the state attorney general in the back of the witness room. Salazar slowly nodded.

“Okay,” Hoyle said. “Go ahead. Make your statement from there. The witnesses can hear you.”

“I really don’t care whether they can hear me or not. It’s on my chest.”

“What?”

“My final statement is on my chest. Please unbutton my shirt.”

Hoyle hesitated.

“Or tear it open. Makes no difference to me. I won’t be using this shirt much longer.”

Clearly thrown by this break with protocol, Hoyle froze for a few seconds. He then leaned over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Colby’s denim shirt. He pulled apart the fabric, glanced at Colby’s chest, then quickly let go of him in disgust.

Colby laughed.

Hoyle angrily turned toward the physician, who was standing with the cardiac sensors. “Proceed.”

Breaker Drive

San Diego

THE FBI AND THE SAN DIEGO
PD had already barricaded off the 26600 block of Breaker Drive by the time Kendra and Lynch arrived. Agents had quietly surrounded Dean’s house, while uniformed officers escorted perplexed neighbors from their homes to barricades at the end of the block.

Kendra and Lynch got out of his car and ran for the other side of an FBI armored van parked in the cul-de-sac four houses away from Dean’s.

Griffin’s gaze was trained on the one-story, Spanish-style house through his binoculars. “That’s Dean Halley’s car in the driveway, but there are no other signs that he’s home.”

“He also has a motorcycle,” Kendra said. “He keeps it in the garage. You can see the skid marks he leaves at the top of the driveway.”

Griffin nodded. “We’ll wait for SDPD to finish securing the street behind his house before we make any kind of move. Anything else you can tell us about him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Except that I can’t freaking believe this.”

“Believe it. According to his record, Halley was in the Special Forces in Afghanistan during his military stint and damn good at removing the Taliban from his path.”

A tech officer handed Griffin a tablet computer in a reinforced plastic case. It offered a greenish night-vision live view of Dean’s house.

Griffin turned to Kendra. “If you’re up for it, I want you to try to call his home number.”

She stared at him. “You want me to call and talk to him?”

“Only when I give the word. He knows you, and he hasn’t already seen us. Your caller ID won’t raise any red flags. If he answers, keep him talking until our team can break in and rush him.” He gave her a cool glance. “You appear reluctant. After all, it’s for his safety as well as that of the personnel on the scene.”

Lynch nodded. “Good idea.”

She didn’t know if it was a good idea or not. She was bewildered and uncertain of everything that was going on. But the plan appeared to offer the best chance for nonviolence. “Okay.” Kendra pulled out her phone. “Just give the word.”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Execution Chamber

THE SUPERVISING PHYSICIAN,
Dr. Edward Pralgo, stepped back from Colby and checked the IV lines he’d placed into two veins of the condemned man’s left arm. Each line was running a slow drip of saline, primed for the three medications that would soon course through his system.

The doctor realized that his own hands were shaking. Hopefully not enough for anyone else to see. Any sign of psychological weakness would put him in front of a review board in spite of all his experience. Executioners were supposed to be above emotion. But executioners were also human beings, and he’d defy anyone not to have an emotional reaction toward Colby.

He exited the chamber and checked the printer outside, which was unspooling a long roll of graph paper. Sharp, jagged lines indicated Colby’s heartbeat.

In the tiny adjacent anteroom, Dr. Pralgo picked up the tray with the three labeled syringes. He checked his watch—11:01
P.M.

The phone rang, and the execution supervisor picked it up. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and addressed the physician, as always, in the clearest and most direct language possible. “The order has been given by the warden. Please proceed.”

Dr. Pralgo took a deep breath and stepped back into the execution chamber, where Colby was staring at the ceiling with his cold, dark eyes.

Dead eyes, the doctor thought, even though the man was still very much alive.

He administered the medications one syringe at a time: the first syringe, labeled sodium pentothal, was administered first to anaesthetize the condemned. Indeed, Colby quickly lost consciousness as it flowed from the IV though his eyes closed only slightly.

After a quick saline flush, the syringe labeled Pancuronioum bromide was injected to paralyze his system. After another saline flush, the syringe labeled potassium chloride was injected to place Colby in full cardiac arrest.

After a minute, Dr. Pralgo stepped over to the still-printing cardiac monitor.

Flatline.

He moved back to Colby’s body and administered the simple tests that would indicate death had occurred. The pupil check, brushing the cornea for a blink reflex, and listening for any sign of breathing.

Pralgo had done this check hundreds of times in his career, but this was different. This was no ordinary human being, capable of love and being loved.

This was pure evil.

He turned toward the execution supervisor.

“Time of death—12:09
A.M.
”

Breaker Drive

San Diego

KENDRA LOWERED HER PHONE.
“Nothing. Dean’s not answering.”

Griffin nodded and tapped his earpiece. “A couple of the officers just caught some kind of flashing in the living-room windows. They think it could have been his mobile phone lighting up when you called it.” He ducked low and looked around the back corner of the armored van. “Move in when you’re ready,” he said into his headset.

Lynch pulled Kendra closer to the protective plates of the van, and they huddled closer to Griffin’s tablet and its night-vision view of the house.

The night suddenly exploded with action!

Within seconds, the front yard was swarming with tactical teams, and she heard the front door splinter open even before she saw it happen.

Silence.

She saw the flashlights playing against the interior windows as the teams checked out the entire house.

No shots fired.

No shouts.

What the hell was happening?

After another two minutes, some of the officers emerged from the front door. The swagger and bold athleticism was now gone from their strides; their faces were drawn, and something was definitely different now.”

“Clear!”

She heard the word several more times down the street. She turned to Griffin. “What’s happened?”

He yanked off his headset. “There’s a body inside.”

“What? Whose?”

“We haven’t made a positive ID yet. Give our guys a couple minutes, and we’ll—”

“Screw that.” She took off running for the house.

“Kendra!” Griffin shouted. He started after her, but Lynch grabbed his arm.

“It’s too late. You’d have to knock her out to keep her out of that house,” Lynch said. “What did they tell you on that headset?”

“Nothing good.”

Kendra ran across the front yard toward the front door.

The cops and response-team members looked somewhat dazed and made no serious effort to stop her.

But as she reached the door a young officer stepped toward her. “Ma’am, you really shouldn’t—”

Kendra pushed past him and ran through the splintered doorway. She stood in the foyer for a long moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark living room. One of the officers helpfully, or perhaps cruelly, swung his flashlight to the middle of the room to show her what they had already seen:

Dean Halley’s decapitated head.

It was impaled on a tall pole in the center of the room. The pole was held upright by a small light stand.

She couldn’t breathe. Memories of that factory so long ago were there before her.

Heads on poles. Eyes glued open. Heads on poles.

“Oh, God…” She staggered backward, nauseous and dizzy. “No … No…”

“Kendra.” Lynch was behind her. His strong hands gripped her arms, propping her up.

“It’s Dean.”

“I know.”

“God in heaven. I can’t believe it…”

Lynch wiped away the tears she hadn’t realized were on her cheeks.

Only then did she look down at the oversized chair on the other side of the room, where Dean’s headless corpse was seated. It was positioned comfortably, with hands on the end of each armrest.

As police flashlights played across the corpse, Kendra could see that Dean’s shirt was unbuttoned.

Letters had been carved into his chest. A Latin phrase, she realized.

One of the cops crouched next to the corpse and tried to read it. “Meteor?”

“No,” Kendra said numbly. “It says ‘
Mereor.
”

“
Mereor?
”

“It means … ‘I win.’”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Execution Chamber

WARDEN SALAZAR LOOKED DOWN AT COLBY’S FACE.
Just as icy and cruel in death as in life, he thought.

The last of the witnesses had just left, and the execution team was prepping the body for transport to a waiting hearse.

“I want to see it,” he told Hoyle.

Hoyle shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.” He stepped closer to Colby’s body and moved aside his open shirt to reveal Colby’s final message to the world.

There, scabbed and bloody, was scratched a single Latin phrase:

Mereor.

San Diego

1:33
A.M.

“COME ON.” LYNCH OPENED KENDRA’S
passenger door. “I need to get you inside and give you a strong cup of coffee. I don’t like the way you’re looking right now.”

“I’m okay.” It was a lie. She felt frozen. The last hour she had spent at Dean Halley’s house had been a nightmare. She had not been able to concentrate enough to find any way to help with the investigation. All she could do was to keep trying to connect that grotesque headless corpse to the sweet, humorous man she had begun to care about. Memories kept flooding back to her of Dean at that Starbucks telling her about his family and offering her some of his pastry. Dean whisking her mother out of that classroom and taking over himself. “But I can use the coffee. I’m … cold.” She followed him to the door and watched him unlock it. “Though God knows I don’t want the caffeine to keep me awake tonight.”

“No, you want to block it all out.” He headed for the kitchen. “And that’s what I want for you, too. Just one night of rest and freedom before you dive into this horror again.” He gestured to the chair at the granite bar in the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll have your coffee in just a minute.” He set the K-cup in the automatic coffeemaker. He didn’t look at her as he got down a cup from the cabinet. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”

“He was a good guy. Kind of funny and sweet…” She swallowed. “Mom thought he was the perfect match for me. Nice, solid, and steady. She was hoping he’d be able to persuade me to—” She stopped and drew a shaky breath. “How am I going to tell Mom about this? She thought the world of him, and now he’s—”

Head on a pole.

Headless corpse in a chair.

Mereor.

“You don’t have to tell her yet.” Lynch set the coffee in front of her. “Griffin is trying to keep the details of what happened from the media. You’ll have a few hours at least.”