mirrors, chrome plated dumbbells, and Nautilus machines. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I checked a bathroom off the gym, then made my way down a hallway to the main portion of the house. Along the way I passed four guest bedrooms, a den, and a powder room. All were lacking even the barest of furnishings. The living room came next. Past that lay another hallway and a staircase leading up.
Check the upper floors first. Make sure no one’s home.
I crept up the stairs. At the top, an oak-paneled library lay to the left. A short corridor ran the other direction. At the end, a pair of eight-foot doors stood open.
Carns’s bedroom.
After a cursory look around the library, I searched the bedroom. Dresser: socks, underwear, and T-shirts, all neatly folded. Walk-in closet: shelves stacked with sweaters and shirts, racks containing hundreds of shoes, poles laden with suits, sports coats, and jackets. Bathroom: Jacuzzi tub, marble shower, a jar of hand cream on the sink. Medicine chest: prescription vials-Donnatal, Ampicillin, Imitrex, Midrin-along with a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of black hair dye. I removed a plastic bag from my pocket and deposited several strands of hair that I teased from the hairbrush. I also took a sample of the dye, tipping the mouth of the bottle against a wad of toilet paper and saving the specimen in a second bag. A search of the trash basket revealed an empty pill vial, sure to have prints. It went into a third.
Moving quickly, I descended to the first floor.
Right or left?
I turned right, entering one of the single-storied wings I had seen from the street. The rooms there, like the guest bedrooms I’d passed earlier, were devoid of any signs of habitation. After passing a darkened stairway leading down, I searched the other wing, finding it similarly barren.
After returning to the base of the main stairs, I entered a third corridor leading to a gigantic dining room with a large kitchen to the left, past which a door accessed the garage. I stepped through. A garage workbench ran the length of one wall. Another door with a simple button lock opened onto a walkway to the tennis courts. The garage had slots for six cars, all empty. No oil drips on the concrete floor.
Where’s he storing the cars?
An inspection of the workbench revealed vises, metalworking tools, and an array of electronic equipment- none of which resembled Hank Dexter’s spectrum analyzer.
Time was running out. Trying not to rush, I reentered the house. Two areas remained to be searched: a door I had spotted at the end of the third hallway, and the stairway to the basement. I glanced at my watch. Nine minutes had elapsed since I’d entered, and I still had nothing that would tie Carns to the murders, at least nothing the task force could use. Although the dye sample, loose hairs, and any latent prints on the prescription vial might prove out, they were worthless because of the method in which I had obtained them. Worse, should their warrantless procurement ever come to light, they could invalidate similar evidence gathered later-possibly even poisoning the entire case. I knew the analysis of any materials I gathered would definitely have to take place on an unofficial basis.
Although I realized my illegal entry constituted a serious risk, it was one I felt was justified. In addition to making absolutely certain about Carns, I hoped to find incriminating material that could plausibly surface in some other way-thus giving the task force grounds for an airtight warrant, grounds they didn’t have and might never get. Hair evidence wasn’t definitive enough. Showing Carns’s picture at the murdered women’s health clubs might pan out. Then again, if he had altered his appearance, maybe not. And even if he were recognized at various clubs, so what? I felt even more skeptical about Carns’s DMV thumbprint matching an unknown print from one of the crime scenes. Carns had been far too careful for that. Whatever happened, I was certain of one thing: To nail Carns would take more than the circumstantial evidence already assembled.
Deciding to save the basement for last, I returned to the middle hallway and pushed through the final door, entering what appeared to be Carns’s office. Three desks spiraled out from the center of the room. Two were neat and tidy. Ignoring these, I moved to the third, which was strewn with computer printouts and reference books from an adjoining bookshelf. As I began my search, a single printed word in the jumble of papers on the desk jumped out at me.
Philharmonic.
It was in an article that had been published in the Los Angeles Times describing Catheryn’s appointment as the Philharmonic’s associate principal cello. Stapled beneath was her picture, along with a property report giving our home address. Stunned, I searched further, finding other newspaper articles detailing several of my past homicide cases, as well as another piece about Catheryn. With a chill, I noticed that each mention of her name had been neatly underlined. I stared at the articles, realizing their implication.
I have to tell Kate, I thought, shaken by what I’d found. Thank God she and the kids are in Santa Barbara.
With an effort of will, I forced myself back to the business at hand. I quickly searched the rest of the desk, careful to leave everything exactly as I had found it. Next I moved to the file cabinet, discovering Carns’s IRS tax returns for the past eight years. The most recent return gave his present Coto address; five years before that Carns had lived in San Diego. The oldest listed address was in San Francisco.
Making a mental note of the previous addresses, I replaced the tax returns. As I did, I noted something odd about the reference works lining an adjacent bookshelf. Most were technical publications involving finance and investment strategy, but near the bottom were a number of seemingly misplaced volumes-true crime studies of various modern sociopaths like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, and Randy Craft, along with a book on hypnosis and an array of clinical psychology textbooks. Intrigued, I leaned closer, noting a manila folder jammed between two of the psychology books.
I pulled out the folder. It contained a psychological evaluation on Carns from a Portland doctor, and another from a psychiatrist in San Francisco. I scanned them quickly. I also found social service documents from upstate New York and a five-year span of outpatient records from a San Francisco medical institution.
My cellular phone rang. I flipped it open. “What?”
“Just checking,” said Barrello.
“Where is he?”
“Still in the market. How’s it going?”
“Slow. Don’t call again unless you have to.”
I replaced the folder and checked the time. Thirteen minutes. After a final glance around the office, I retreated to the hall.
One last area.
I descended to the basement, again resolving to call Catheryn and warn her the minute I was out of there. At the bottom of the staircase a pair of doors lay to the left, another to the right. After a moment’s hesitation, I entered the room on the right. A massive gun cabinet squatted against a side wall. Across from it, flanked by a shooting bench and an ammunition stand, the maw of a four-foot-diameter concrete pipe gaped into the room. I moved to the cabinet and opened a number of drawers. The smaller ones each contained six to eight pistols; the larger ones held rifles and shotguns.
Next I walked to the waist-high tunnel and peered into its interior. In the distance I could make out a faint glimmer of light. Curious, I tripped a switch next to the tunnel opening. A string of bulbs running the length of the shaft came on, revealing a pulley system of range markers and a large mound of sand blocking the tunnel at the far end. Although I couldn’t make out the numbers on the final range marker, I gauged the distance to the sand to be at least several hundred feet. Briefly, I considered crawling down the shaft and recovering comparison slugs from the sand pile at the far end. Again, I checked the time.
Sixteen minutes.
I decided that entering the tunnel would take too long. Besides, considering all the guns in Carns’s collection, chances were slim that any projectiles recovered in a hurried search would match those found at the various crime scenes.
I retreated to the doorway, again making sure I’d left nothing disturbed. But instead of leaving, I stared back into the chamber, certain I was overlooking something.
The guns? The tunnel? What?
Unable to put my finger on it, I resolved to return if I had time. There were still two rooms left to search. Moving quickly, I entered the first. It proved to be a professionally equipped darkroom with stainless-steel sinks,
