The killer had placed the two of them on the ground beside the table. He had yanked the male officer’s pants down to his ankles. He had done the same to the female officer, but had removed her shoe from her left foot so he could get the trouser leg all the way off on that side and fit the male officer between her legs.
The cops were working in full force on the crime-scene preliminaries because they really wanted this killer. But they were working fast too, out of an almost instinctive compulsion to protect the bodies from the gaze of outsiders. The police wanted them in body bags before the reporters came.
“Dale, can I go in beside them yet?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “We’re done there.”
Carrera stepped closer, at his shoulder. Millikan glanced into the car and said, “They were killed somewhere else. The bodies were driven here and dumped. Where did it happen?”
“Outside Valley Pres. They had just dropped off a kid that had been hurt in a fight at a party.”
“Any prints?”
Carrera shook his head. “The best hope was Marianne’s shoe. That’s the female—Officer Marianne Fulco. She had them all spit-shined like a marine. And this character pulled off one of them to get her pants off. If there was going to be a print, the heel of that shoe was probably where it would have been. He was wearing gloves.”
“He brought gloves?”
Carrera shook his head. “They had just brought in this kid who was bleeding. They put on disposable rubber gloves, and the box was still on the car seat.”
“He’s good at using what he finds.” Millikan knelt beside the bodies. “Whose blood is that?”
“The male. Officer Jonathan Alkins. He had his throat slashed. Looks like the guy used Officer Fulco’s knife. It’s on the floor in the back seat.”
“I think I see this,” said Millikan. “He must have waited in the dark until the two of them were separated somehow. One of them must have been in the car or near it, probably listening for calls. That would be Fulco.”
Carrera raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t ask how Millikan knew.
Millikan said, “If he used her knife on Alkins, he had to get her first.” Millikan lowered his head nearly to the grass to look at the woman’s face. The eyes were open, the mouth gaping.
“See her neck?” asked Carrera.
“I’ll bet it’s broken,” said Millikan. “He did that in Louisville, too: a quick twist to the head from behind.” Millikan looked down toward the feet at the crumpled pants, and his eyes passed along her belt. “He took their sidearms?”
“Right. He tossed Alkins’s in the bushes by the hospital, but he kept hers, and a couple of ammo clips.”
“I wonder why he didn’t take both?”
“I wonder why he did any of this,” said Carrera. “He didn’t do this to get guns. You say he’s from out of town, so it can’t be retaliation. And leaving the two of them like this . . . it’s just sick, mean stuff.”
Millikan looked back at the bodies one last time. “He was trying to show that he could kill just about anybody, just for the hell of it, anytime he wants.”
“Who is he trying to scare—you?”
Millikan shook his head. “Not me. I was convinced by what I saw in Louisville. But Roy Prescott has been hired to look for him, and he was trying to rattle him.”
Carrera’s head spun to the side to stare at Millikan. “Roy Prescott? What a waste. Prescott. Shit.”
Millikan stepped away and began to examine the car. The interior was blotched with fingerprint powder, and the bloodstains were still clearly visible. They confirmed the details of the story he had already constructed, but he could tell that he was not going to learn any more until Dale Chernoff’s report had been completed. He studied the ground and walked up the gentle slope to examine the angle of the indentations left by the car tires when it had pulled off the road. Then he walked up the shoulder of the road a hundred yards, trotted to the other side, and tried to determine what had made the killer choose this spot. Did he know L.A. well, or had he seen one of the signs at the entrance to the park and assumed that any park was adequate for his purpose? Millikan decided it could have been the signs. The raised roadbed let the killer see that there were no lights, no cars in the park.
Millikan stood still and watched the line of officers with flashlights walking along, staring at the ground and searching for the killer’s footprints. They wanted him so badly, and they knew nothing about him. They would probably never know enough. The thought reminded him of why he was here. He had to go somewhere to call Prescott and tell him what he had just seen. After that, he was through.
Prescott sat in the dimly lighted lobby of the office building and waited. It was situated directly across Wilshire Boulevard from his own building. It did not enter his mind that the killer might not show up. He had killed the two cops, and Prescott was next. The only question to be settled was whether this was the right time. This one had a lot of braggadocio, but he was not about to do anything crude. He was not like any of the others Prescott had known. It was important to plenty of them that they be smarter than anybody else, and being smarter required that they act carefully in situations like this, when their professional competence was in question. But this one was simply better at it.
Prescott knew the general tenor of what this one was thinking. But he could not yet know the details, and the details were what got a man killed. Prescott had managed to insinuate himself into this one’s brain, and get him to focus. That was a necessary step, but it had brought on the rest of the job more quickly than Prescott would have liked. It was like setting a fire at the entrance to a cave: there was no question that what was in there would be out shortly, but whatever it was, it would be moving fast and looking for the guy holding a match. This one had fooled him. Instead of coming for Prescott, he had stopped to kill two innocent people. Now Prescott could only wait and hope that he would be faster, or stronger, or maybe just luckier.
He watched the lighted lobby of his building, where the two security guards sat behind the big counter. There was a console above them with twelve little television screens that showed nothing much this time of night but empty hallways and the locked main entrances of the building. Prescott had to admire the two men. Since he had been here, they had both looked at the screens pretty regularly, in spite of the near certainty that there would be nothing more on the screens than there had been every time before: right angles and bare surfaces.
A lot of buildings around here had security guards with fancy uniforms and no sidearms. To Prescott, that defied logic. Anything that could be handled by an unarmed man wearing a uniform was not something that Prescott had much concern about. When he had been looking for an office to rent, he had paid special attention to the security guards. As soon as he had verified that at the building across the street they all carried sidearms, he had been able to proceed to their mental equipment. Rent-a-cop companies had a bad record as judges of character. They ran a quick check to see if the job candidate had any felony convictions under the name he happened to be using on his application, then hoped for the best. Most of the best-known serial killers of the past thirty years had, at one time or another, been security guards.
Before he had signed the lease, Prescott had taken the time to stop in at different times over a week to chat with whatever men were on duty, to be sure there were no symptoms of craziness or ineptitude. His excuse had been that he wanted to introduce himself and be sure they all recognized his face. There was some truth to it: the instant of some emergency wasn’t the moment when Prescott wanted a scared man with a gun to have to choose between him and an intruder.
He stared across the street at the lighted lobby again, then looked up and down the sidewalks and at the cars going by. He was hoping to spot this shooter on his first scouting visit, before the game had even started. He wanted to see him when he was still sitting in a car outside and counting floors and windows, or walking in a leisurely way down the sidewalk, gazing up at the sides of the building to search for ventilator grilles that a fat fifty-year-old architect would not have considered accessible but might serve as an entrance to a man in his late twenties who killed people for a living.
The thought reminded Prescott again of his summers working as an exterminator. He had learned to look at buildings the way a rat would look at them—with a mind that was without preconceptions concerning the purpose or suitability of openings, free of awareness of what they were designed for—merely gauging their sizes and shapes against the capabilities of his body to climb or squeeze or flatten itself. This killer would be like that. He was accustomed to using whatever he found. But before he committed himself this time, he would take a long, hard look, and Prescott would know him.
Prescott could only guess what he might look like, because Prescott had lied about the surveillance videotape in the store in Louisville. When the killer had stopped in front of the steel grate to open the padlock and chain, the camera had caught nothing useful. Prescott had counted on making the killer hate and fear him enough to keep him
