“What’s that?”
“When a case gets personal… things go wrong.”
47
I had been working in the squad room for over an hour the next morning when Lieutenant Long strode in. Arnie was sitting nearby at Deluca’s empty workstation, talking on the telephone. At Long’s raised eyebrow, Arnie nodded, then continued his phone conversation.
Long paused at my desk, glancing at his watch. “Morning, Dan. You’re here early.”
I looked up. “Lieutenant.”
“Didn’t your ex-partner over there retire several years back?”
“I believe he did, sir.”
“So what’s he doing here?”
“Arnie’s, uh, helping me chase down a few leads. Don’t worry, he’ll be gone before you know it.”
“Leads on what?” Long asked, then quickly raised a hand. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Nope.”
“I thought not. If someone asks, I probably didn’t see Arnie here, either.”
“No, sir. You didn’t.”
“Don’t screw up, Kane. If Snead gets wind of-
“He won’t.”
“He’d better not.” Long hesitated. “About yesterday. Although I sincerely question some of your recent actions, I did everything I could.”
“I know. And thanks. I appreciate it.”
“If you get jammed up on the candlelight case again, I won’t be able to help.”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. If things turn out like I hope, there won’t be a problem.”
“And if they don’t?”
I spotted Deluca entering the squad room. “I’ll worry about it later. Right now I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me…”
Long gave me another questioning look. “Okay, Dan. But watch your step.” With that he turned and headed for his office, glaring crankily at Deluca as he passed.
After stopping to talk briefly with Arnie, Deluca ambled over to my desk. “What’s with the el-tee?” he asked, setting down a cardboard box he’d been carrying.
Ignoring his query about Lt. Long, I opened the box and began pawing through its contents. “You bring the stuff I wanted?”
“There wasn’t much. A picture of Kate and the kids, some pens and pencils, a coffee mug-”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, this. Remember, you didn’t get it from me.” Deluca pulled a computer disc from his pocket and set it on the corner of my desk. “I copied each data category as a separate file. Health club members, hotline callers, employees at that lawyer’s office-”
“Is there one of remote control purchasers?”
“The garage door stuff? It’s there. Why do you want all this, anyway? Come up with a new angle?”
“Maybe. It’s nothing Snead would go for, though, even if I were still working for him.”
“Minor point,” said Deluca. “At least for you. Listen, I’ve gotta hustle to make the task force briefing. You’ll let me know if you come up with anything?”
“You’ll be the first.”
Steve Gannon
Kane
Hank Dexter called around eight AM with a fairly short list of spectrum analyzers that possessed the minimum capability to snag a garage door opener code-limiting the number of devices for which I’d have to search. Procuring a roster of recent analyzer purchasers from various distributors and sources like eBay proved tricky without a warrant, but I called in a few favors and for the most part got what I needed.
Working through the morning and most of the afternoon, Arnie and I compiled three new suspect lists containing the names of local subscribers to various electronic, ham radio, and hacker magazines; employees of Southern California aerospace and engineering firms-especially anyone with access to electronic test equipment- and individuals who, over the past two years, had purchased, leased, or rented a spectrum analyzer. Although the two-year cutoff was an arbitrary limit, our inventories quickly showed signs of becoming unmanageably large, and we had to draw the line somewhere.
“What now?” asked Arnie at a little after six that evening, eyeing the piles of notes and faxes spread across our desks.
“It’s too late for any more calling,” I answered. “Let’s start cross-checking this stuff against the task force database.”
“Now? Hell, Dan, it can wait till tomorrow. It’s time for dinner.”
“You go ahead. I’m going to keep at it awhile longer.”
“Suit yourself. See you back at the ranch.”
After Arnie left I rose from my desk, stretched, stumbled to the coffee station, and poured my seventh cup of the day. After returning to my workstation, I used the disc Deluca had brought me to access the task force database. Next, I began a comparison of our new data with old-name by name, category by category.
Later that evening I glanced at the time, surprised to see that three hours had already passed. By then, starting with the most promising comparisons-people owning or with access to a spectrum analyzer versus members and employees of the victims’ health clubs-I had barely made a dent. It was going to be a long night.
I was still working at the computer the next morning when Arnie arrived. Upon entering the nearly deserted squad room, he shook his head in disbelief. “Damn, amigo. You’ve been at it since I left?”
Wearily, I nodded.
“Anything?”
“I just now came up with another possible. Fifth one so far. This one is a guy who purchased a Hewlett- Packard 8590-series spectrum analyzer last February. He also subscribes to a publication called Hardware Hacker.”
“Any other correlation?”
“He lives in Orange County and made a credit card purchase of pair of Genie garage-door remotes last April from a local distributor. No connection with the victims, no repair shop tie-ins.”
“What about the attorneys’ office?”
“He’s not on their employee list. I was just about to check DMV records.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’m gonna grab some coffee. Want a refill?”
I nodded. “Black.” I handed Arnie my mug and refocused my attention on the computer screen.
When Arnie returned, I was no longer fatigued. I sat erect, eyes riveted on the monitor. Sensing something was up, Arnie peered at the screen. “What’ve you got?” he asked, checking the name on top of the readout: Victor Carns.
“DMV shows three vehicles registered to this guy,” I answered. “A Lamborghini, a Ford van, and a Toyota.”
“So?”
“We think the killer was driving a white van when he followed Maureen Baker from her health club in West LA. Later he switched to a dark-colored Toyota when he broke into her house. Plus, some guy driving a blue Toyota bumped Julie Welsh’s car, probably to get her home address. Somebody in a van did the same to Susan Larson.”
“Damn! This could be the guy.”
“Maybe.” I picked up the phone. After placing a call to DMV headquarters in Sacramento, I turned back to
