“Same here.”
Felix was approaching the table and overheard. “So either they’ve been arrested or they’ve changed their mind about doing this. Either is equally likely, I’m afraid, and little we can do about it, whichever it is. We’ll continue trying to contact them, but for now we’ll have to presume our investigation is down to four.”
“Five,” Jack said. “Evelyn’s in.”
Felix handed out our cans. “So you
Jack nodded. They talked for a moment. As they did, I realized Jack sounded…odd. Had since we’d first met Quinn and Felix at the hospital, though it was only really obvious now, as he spoke more. It took a second to figure out what was different. Then it hit. The accent-or lack of it. Since meeting the others, he’d swallowed that trace of a brogue, as he did whenever we were out. With Evelyn, he let himself fall back into it. Everyone else got a standard undefinable American accent.
Quinn popped open his can. “Back to the case. The DNA is a match. That’s confirmed, so the question is, how did Moreland do it?”
“He didn’t,” Jack said.
I could see Quinn’s hackles rise, and jumped in. “It’s unlikely Moreland did it. He’s a diagnosed disorganized schizophrenic. If he did commit the murders, they’d be more like Manson’s. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s an ironclad ‘no way,’ but combined with the problem of getting out of the hospital for each murder…”
“Damned near impossible,” Quinn said, nodding. “Feds are bound to figure that out soon.”
“So the hair was a plant,” Felix said. “Quite clever. Exceedingly clever, in fact, requiring only a hospital visit, and a plucked arm hair, strategically placed as trace evidence. I’ll have to remember that one. So, I suppose this puts us back to the proverbial square one. Shall we compare leads and set out again, then?”
“Not yet,” Jack said. “Wait for the fallout. See which way it blows. Shouldn’t take long.”
To Jack, “waiting for fallout” did not mean waiting as a group. He wanted to separate, then discuss leads by phone after Quinn found out what the Feds were doing about Moreland. Felix seemed inclined to agree, but Quinn argued that it made little sense when morning-and news-would be here soon enough. We should separate for the night, but reunite at breakfast so we could discuss our next steps together.
I understood Jack’s concern. Spending as little time together as possible made sense. But after mulling it over for a few minutes, he agreed that breakfast-in our hotel room-should be safe enough. He’d contact them later with the address.
HSK
He stood in the stand of trees, binoculars trained on the front entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The agents had gone in that way, so he presumed they’d exit there, too, but every few seconds, he’d scan over to the other doors as well, just to be sure.
He’d taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he’d planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he’d need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.
But now he’d had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.
Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he’d been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he’d followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer’s mistakes, and fascination at the uproar he’d caused.
The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson’s crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they’d been done right…if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he’d never be caught.
When he’d come up with this plan, he’d thought of the Manson killings. He’d considered reenacting them, but he didn’t have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he’d done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people’s minds and fears buzzing. It’d worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.
He’d tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they’d know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they’d concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn’t worried about that-his cover was secure-but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They’d turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.
Yet after he’d made his decision, he’d realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he’d dealt them.
As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He’d hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he’d expected them to arrest Moreland, but he’d thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.
He shook off the disappointment. No matter. He could still use this. The Feds had been here, and staff could confirm that. Good enough.
In his letter, he’d promised a demand, but hadn’t planned to make one. Just part of the game. Game…A week ago it had been a mere plan. A simple plan for a simple, practical purpose. Now it had become so much more. A huge, intricate game, the patterns, possibilities and plays becoming evident only as it unfolded before him.
What if he made that demand? He wouldn’t ask for much. Just a small token from the people of America. One that could never be paid, no matter how insignificant it might seem. But payment wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the game, and this would take it to a whole new level.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Very nice,” I said, looking around our hotel room.
The living room of the suite was bigger than my bedroom back at the lodge. Better furnished, too. It even came with flowers-the kind that need water. The last time I had a hotel room with live flowers was…well, never. I was impressed all to hell.
“And a kitchen. Wow. Fridge, stove, microwave. Is this a hint about dinner? I should warn you right now, the only thing I cook is microwave popcorn. And I usually burn that.”
I crossed the room and opened the door. Inside was a bed. One bed.
“For you,” Jack said. “Couch folds out in here.”
I opened the other door. “A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn.”
I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they’d haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.
“You like those?” he said, motioning at the tub. “You should get one. Use some of the money.”
I laughed. “How big of a paycheck am I counting on?”
He shrugged. “Big enough.”
I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. “I’ve considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the ‘romantic getaway’ allure. The only drawback is hygiene. They don’t strike me as the most sanitary things.”
