The naked edge

THE KNIVES OF OLD SAN FRANCISCO
1

Kim threw up again.

A policeman hurried toward a door in the harsh corridor, only to be blocked by Lt. Russell, who suddenly opened the door. Russell was accompanied by two other grim-faced men, one white, the other black: William Faraday and John Rutherford.

"… sick," the policeman explained to Russell, pointing toward the holding cell. "The Chinese woman's throwing up."

"My client demands medical help," William said.

"And believe me, counselor, she'll get it. I'll send for the police chief's personal physician if that'll make you happy."

"Nothing makes me happy."

"I already got that impression." Russell turned to the policeman. "Send for a doctor."

The group marched along the corridor, stopping in front of the cell, where Russell motioned for an officer to unlock the door.

"Hi, William. Hello, John," Cavanaugh said as they stepped in.

Kim threw up again.

"What's wrong with her?" Russell asked.

"Back injury," Jamie explained. "She needs a pain killer."

"Like more of those OxyContin pills we found in her apartment?" Russell asked.

"Those pills belonged to the attackers," William said.

"Yeah, right," Russell said.

"In the frenzy of the moment, the pills fell out of a gunman's pocket," the attorney said. "That's the sort of man who'd be capable of that kind of violence. A pill popper. A drug addict."

"Whatever you say," Russell told him.

"And you had plenty to say." William turned to Cavanaugh. "I told you to volunteer nothing but your name and your vital statistics."

"It's nice to see you, too, William."

"But the lieutenant tells me you pretty much gave him your life history. If you want to be your own attorney, why drag me down here?"

"Hey, I thought I was doing you a favor, freeing you from your safe site," Cavanaugh told him.

"Well, you didn't do me any favor-" Lt. Russell pointed toward the black man next to him. "-bringing in the FBI. At the start, I figured you were bullshitting me to try to talk your way out of that shooting. Now the director of the FBI's counterterrorist unit invokes national security."

"Bottom line," Rutherford told Cavanaugh. "You're coming with me."

"But that doesn't stop me from trying to untangle this mess," Russell said. "We managed to get fingerprints from the men who were killed in those blasts. It won't be long before we find out who they were. Maybe that information will lead us to your ex-buddy Carl Duran."

"Won't help," Cavanaugh said. "You'll discover they got out of prison recently. Probably within the past six weeks. They were doing time for violent offenses, but they each went to a different prison, and they didn't know each other before they went in."

Russell asked Rutherford, "Is this more bullshit?"

"Afraid not."

"Then enlighten me," Russell told Cavanaugh. "Show me how smart you are. How did these guys wind up together?"

"Carl approached them when they got out of prison, and in a brief time, he turned them from being rough criminals into operators."

"How?"

"I think Carl selects his recruits on the basis of their capacity for violence, their ability to learn, and their need to be somebody important. They're wannabes, guys who'd love to be in Marine Recon, the Rangers, Special Forces, or the SEALs, just to show how tough they are and force people to look up to them. But they don't have the character and the discipline to make the grade. Approach them when they're fresh out of prison with no prospects and no money but a powerful urge to let off the anger they've been building up. Pay them. Flatter them. Use visualization and other accelerated instructional techniques. Give them a chance to play with guns. Six weeks later, their egos are so pumped, they'll do anything to prove to Carl they deserve his respect. Just as important, they're the kind of guys nobody cares about and nobody'll miss. If Carl thinks they're in a position to be captured and questioned, he blows them up. It's like they never existed."

"That's quite a theory," the lieutenant said.

"Help me prove it," Cavanaugh said.

"You suggested I look at places where Carl Duran lived," Rutherford interrupted, "including where he was stationed in the military. We searched for a pattern of cats and dogs that disappeared. Or maybe they didn't disappear. Maybe they showed up in alleys or ditches, with their guts sliced open and their heads cut off. The police and the humane societies had records of clusters like that. In Iowa City, just before Duran moved away. In Nashville, Tennessee, just before he moved from there. In Columbus, Georgia, next to Fort Benning, where he started his Ranger training. In Tacoma, Washington, next to Fort Lewis, where he got more Ranger training. In Fayetteville. North Carolina, next to Fort Bragg, where Delta Force is trained. Especially just before Duran moved to another base or when he left Delta, there was a high incidence of mutilated animals." Rutherford paused. "Then the bodies started turning up."

"Bodies?" Russell asked.

"Winos and homeless people. All of them stabbed to death. Other winos and homeless people spread a rumor about a man who stalked them at night. Under bridges. In storm culverts. In parks and alleys, in abandoned buildings and junk-filled lots. The rumors were about this man kicking drunks awake or knocking cardboard boxes over and making homeless people crawl out. He gave them a knife and told them to fight. Then he went to work. But the patterns of the cuts showed that he took a long time to finish them off."

"Yeah," Russell said. "The prince of darkness."

Kim threw up again.