He told Sharbat that he belonged to a group of elite soldiers, the best in the world. Each was a deadly weapon, violence and death their profession, but sometimes conscience can prevail over military training, and over all the noble justifications for war—duty, honor, country. And when this happens, some men see the devastation caused wherever they go to fight. They see their comrades bleed to death from an enemy grenade; they see the bodies of the old, the women, and the children caught up in the conflict, and they begin to wonder why they are fighting, begin to question the reasons for this war, for this occupation of a foreign land, for the suffering of people just like them. They ask themselves how they would feel if enemy tanks invaded their neighborhood and razed their houses, if the bodies trampled underfoot were those of their children or their wives; they ask themselves if they really owe greater loyalty to their country than they do to God and to their own sense of good and evil; they ask themselves why they carry on with this murderous rampage, and how they will live with the monsters they have become.
The girl with the green eyes listened quietly and attentively, as though she understood the language Ryan spoke, as though she knew why he was weeping, and she stayed with him until, exhausted, he finally dozed off, one arm thrown over the dog that watched him as he slept.
When Ryan’s photo was circulated to the media in an appeal for information on his whereabouts, Pedro contacted Denise West, a friend whose discretion he trusted absolutely. He needed her help, he told her, in aiding a suspect in a case of first-degree murder—as he jokingly put it—though he did not downplay the risks involved. Denise West was enthusiastic about hiding this man, not only because she was Pedro’s friend and Ryan did not look like a killer, but also because she operated on the assumption that the government, the judicial system in general, and the police in particular were corrupt. She welcomed the Navy SEAL into her home, which Pedro had chosen because it was located in a farmland area and close to the estuary of the Napa River where it flowed into San Pablo Bay, the northern extension of San Francisco Bay.
Denise had a four-acre property that included a kitchen garden where she grew vegetables and flowers for herself, a horse sanctuary that took in animals whose owners would otherwise have sent them to the slaughterhouse, and a small agribusiness selling fruit, chickens, and eggs at farmers’ markets and to organic grocery stores. She had lived there for forty years, surrounded by neighbors who, like her, were not particularly sociable but devoted themselves to their land and their animals. Into this humble haven she had created, protected from the bustle and vulgarity of the world, she welcomed Ryan and Attila, who would have to adapt to rural life—the house had no television, no domestic appliances, though it did have a good Internet connection—among pampered pets and retired horses. Neither had ever shared a home with a woman, and both were surprised that it was not as bad as they had feared. From the start, Attila showed his military discipline by stoically refraining from devouring the chickens foraging in the yard or attacking the cats that goaded him with obvious contempt.
Besides giving him somewhere to hide out, Denise offered to play Ryan’s character on Ripper, since he could not show his face. Amanda needed him in the game and quickly created the character of Jezebel, a particularly talented private investigator. The only people who knew Jezebel’s true identity were the games master and her loyal henchman Kabel, but even they did not know where the Navy SEAL was hiding out, nor did they know the identity of the middle-aged woman with long gray hair who played the role for him. The other kids playing Ripper had not been consulted about Jezebel because, as the crimes had become more complicated, Amanda had become more autocratic; but those who objected in principle quickly realized the new player was worth her weight in gold.
“I’ve been going over the police files for the cases,” said the games master.
“How did you get those?” asked Esmeralda.
“My henchman has access to police records, and I’m friends with the deputy chief’s assistant Petra Horr, who keeps me up-to-date. We’ve given copies of the files to Jezebel.”
“Not fair! No one should have an advantage over the other players!” protested Colonel Paddington.
“I agree. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Let’s see what Jezebel has to say.”
“I’ve found a connection between all the victims except Alan Keller. All five of the early victims worked with children. Ed Staton worked at a juvenile detention center in Arizona, the Constantes ran a home looking after children sent to them by Child Protective Services, Richard Ashton was a pediatric psychiatrist, and Rachel Rosen was a juvenile court judge. Now, it could be a coincidence, but I don’t think so. Keller, on the other hand, never worked with children—in fact, he didn’t even want kids.”
“That’s an interesting clue,” said Sherlock. “If the motive has to do with children, then we can assume our killer didn’t murder Keller.”
“Or that he was killed for some other reason,” interrupted Abatha, who had already suggested this possibility.
“These won’t have been ordinary kids,” said Colonel Paddington. “We’re talking about orphans, children with behavioral problems, children at risk. That limits our options.”
“The next step is to work out whether the victims knew each other, and if so, how,” said Amanda. “I’m guessing there must be one or more children that link these cases.”
Monday, 26
The crimes that had Bob Martín on tenterhooks gained a certain amount of notoriety in the San Francisco media, but the population was not particularly alarmed, since the news that a serial killer was at large did not leave the Major Crimes Division. The press treated the murders as unrelated, and the rest of the country was oblivious to what was happening. While the American public could occasionally be moved by a white supremacist or a student armed for the Apocalypse going rogue and massacring innocents, they were utterly uninterested in six bodies in California. The only person to mention the crimes was a famous right-wing radio host who claimed they were divine retribution for San Francisco’s policies on homosexuality, feminism, and the environment.
Bob was hoping that national indifference would mean he could get on with his job without federal agencies getting involved, and so it proved until two weeks after suspicion had fallen on Ryan Miller, when two FBI agents showed up at his office, cloaked in so much mystery that he had to wonder whether they were impostors. Unfortunately their badges turned out to be genuine, and he received orders from the chief of police to give them all possible assistance, something he did only reluctantly.
The San Francisco Police Department, founded in 1849 at the time of the gold rush, was, according to a commentator at the time, “largely made up of ex-bandits, and naturally the members are interested above all in saving their old friends from punishment. Policemen here are quite as much to be feared as the robbers. . . . The city is in a hopeless chaos, and many years must pass before order can be established.” In the end, the police force sorted itself out much more quickly than that particular writer had anticipated, and Bob was proud to be part of the SFPD. His department had a reputation for being tough on crime but lenient when it came to minor offenses, and could certainly not have been accused of brutality, corruption, and incompetence, like other forces. Though it received an inordinate number of complaints alleging misconduct, very few of the allegations had any foundation. The problem, Bob believed, lay not with the police but with the tendency of the citizens of San Francisco to defy authority. He trusted his team completely, which was precisely why he was sorry to see the FBI turn up. They would only hinder the investigation.
The agents in the deputy chief’s office introduced themselves as Napoleon Fournier III, an African American from Louisiana who had worked for narcotics, immigration, and customs enforcement before being transferred to the Secret Service, and Lorraine Barcott, from Virginia, who was something of a celebrity in the agency, having shown outstanding bravery during an antiterrorist operation. Barcott, wit
h her black hair, dark eyes, and long lashes, turned out to be much more attractive in person than in her photos. As they shook hands, Bob thought he might charm her with the widest smile he could manage, but he stopped when Barcott almost crushed his fingers; here was a woman on a mission, not about to be distracted by pleasantries. His Mexican upbringing had taught him to be gallant, so he pulled out a chair for her; she sat elsewhere. Petra Horr, watching this scene from the doorway, cleared her throat to suppress a laugh.
The deputy chief showed the visitors the case files for the six murders and brought them up-to-date on the investigation, as well as his own thoughts on the matter, without mentioning the contributions of his daughter Amanda and his ex-father-in-law Blake Jackson, for fear that the agents might take these for nepotism. This was how Alan Keller had described the convoluted relationships in Indiana’s family; before hearing it from Keller’s lips and looking it up in the dictionary, Bob had never heard the word.
The first order of business for Barcott and Fournier was to make sure no one had touched Ryan Miller’s computers, which were safely stored in the department’s secure evidence locker. This done, they hunkered down to review the evidence in search of some detail that might reveal a conspiracy by the usual enemies of the United States. They informed Bob Martín only that the Navy SEAL worked for a private security company that had contracts with the US government in the Middle East; this was the official line, and they could not reveal any further details. Miller’s work was confidential, and spanned a number of gray areas where it was necessary to work outside normal agreements in order to be effective. Given the complexities of the situation in the Middle East, it was important to weigh the duty to protect American interests in the region against international treaties that unreasonably limited their ability to act. The government and the armed forces could not be seen to be involved in activities forbidden by the Constitution or which the public found distasteful, and so they employed private military contractors. It was obvious that Miller worked for the CIA; since the agency did not have jurisdiction on home territory, however, the case fell to the FBI. The agents had no interest whatsoever in the six murder victims; their brief was to retrieve the information in Ryan Miller’s possession before it fell into enemy hands, find the Navy SEAL so he could answer a number of questions, and then take him out of circulation.
“So Miller’s been involved in crimes on an international scale?” said Bob, thunderstruck.
“Missions,” said Fournier III, “not crimes.”
“And here I was, thinking he was just some workaday serial killer!”
“You have no evidence to substantiate such an allegation, Deputy Chief Martín,” spat Barcott, “and I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”
“The evidence against him in Keller’s case file is convincing enough,” said the deputy chief.
“Evidence that he visited Mr. Keller, not that he killed him.”
“Then why did he run away?”
“Has it occurred to you that he may have been kidnapped?” asked the woman.
“No,” said Bob, barely able to suppress a smile. “I can honestly say it hasn’t.”
“Ryan Miller would be of great value to the enemy.”
“Which enemy are we talking about?”
“I’m afraid we cannot discuss that.”
FBI headquarters in Washington also sent an expert in computer forensics to examine the machines seized from Miller’s apartment. Deputy Chief Martín had suggested they use his forensics team, but was informed that the content of the hard drives was classified. Everything was classified.
Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the federal agents had arrived, and already Bob was at the end of his rope. Fournier turned out to be obsessive, incapable of delegating, and so intent on understanding every minor detail that he held up work for everyone else. The deputy chief had got off to a bad start with Lorraine Barcott and his later attempts to ingratiate himself with her were unsuccessful; the woman was immune to his charms, even to simple camaraderie.
“Don’t take it to heart, boss,” Petra Horr consoled him. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Barcott’s a lesbian.”
The computer forensics expert spent his time analyzing the hard drives, doing his best to salvage something, though he assumed that Miller knew exactly how to safely erase everything on there. In the meantime, Bob gave Fournier and Barcott an account of the twelve-day manhunt to track down Miller. Initially they had put out feelers to the other police forces around the Bay Area and to their usual informants, but after the first week they issued a photo and a description of Miller to the media and published it online. Since then, they had received dozens of calls from people who had seen a cripple with a face like a gorilla hobbling around with some savage beast on a leash, but none of the reports had led to anything. On a handful of occasions one or the other tramp and his dog had been mistakenly arrested and then immediately released. A Gulf War vet tried to turn himself in at Richmond Police Station, claiming to be Ryan Miller, but no one took him seriously—his dog was not only a Jack Russell but a bitch.
They had interviewed people who had dealings with the fugitive—Frank Rinaldi, the owner of the Dolphin Club, where Miller regularly went swimming; the superintendent of the building where he lived; a couple of underprivileged kids he was teaching to swim; Danny D’Angelo at the Café Rossini; the people at the Holistic Clinic, and, most particularly, his closest friend, Pedro Alarcón. Bob had talked to Indiana but, determined not to bring his own family to the agency’s attention, casually implied to the FBI agents that she was just another therapist working at the Holistic Clinic. He knew that Indiana had had a brief affair with Miller, which for reasons he didn’t understand bothered him more than the four years she had been with Alan Keller. He could not help but wonder what Miller had that appealed to Indiana. She had probably slept with him out of pity, he decided; given her compassionate nature, Indiana could not have rejected an amputee. He couldn’t believe how dumb she could be. What would it be like, making love to someone with a missing leg? It was a circus act; the possibilities were limited, and it was better not to imagine. His determination to apprehend the fugitive was sheer professional zeal; it had nothing to do with whatever filthy things the man had done with the mother of his child.
“This Alarcón, he a Communist?” said Lorraine Barcott, after finding his file in the FBI database via her cell phone in under a minute.
“No, he’s a professor at Stanford University.”
“That doesn’t preclude his being a Communist,” she snapped.
“So there’s still a few commies out there, huh? I thought they’d gone out of fashion. We have Alarcón’s cell wiretapped, and we’re keeping a tail on him. So far, we’ve found nothing linking him to the Kremlin, and nothing illegal or suspicious in his daily routine.”
The FBI agents pointed out that the fugitive was a Navy SEAL trained to survive in the most inhospitable conditions—to hide, evade the enemy, or fight him to the death. It would be difficult to track him down, and the only thing achieved by alerting the public would be to spread panic. The police would be better off, they suggested, saying nothing to the media and quietly carrying on the investigation with the invaluable help the FBI could provide. It was imperative, they insisted, that nothing be revealed about Ryan Miller’s activities or the international security firm.
“My job isn’t to keep secrets for the FBI,” said Bob, “it is to lead this investigation, solve the six open cases, and ensure no further crimes are committed.”
“Of course, Deputy Chief,” said Napoleon Fournier III. “We wouldn’t dream of interfering in your work, but I think it best to warn you that Ryan Miller is a possibly unbalanced individual who may have committed the murders he is accused of while in an altered mental state. One way or another, as far as we’re concerned, he’s got himself burned.”
“What you mean is, he’s no use to you anymore, he’s a problem, and you don’t know what to do with him.
Miller is dispensable, Agent Fournier—is that what you’re telling me?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“May I remind you that Miller is violent and heavily armed,” Lorraine Barcott interrupted. “He’s been a soldier all his life, used to shooting first and asking questions later—I strongly advise you do likewise: think about the safety of your officers and of civilians.”
“It wouldn’t do for Miller to be captured and start talking, would it?”
“We seem to understand each other, Deputy Chief.”
“I don’t think we understand each other at all, Agent Barcott,” snapped Bob, piqued. “I realize the agency’s methods are rather different from those of the police, but Ryan Miller is innocent until proven otherwise. It’s our intention to arrest him and question him as a suspect, and in doing so to cause as little harm to him and to any bystanders as possible. Is that clear?”