Freezing

DAY NINE

Wednesday

NINETEEN

Southwest Airlines Flight 597 from Phoenix to Los Angeles had arrived on time and Eric was walking into his office on Wilshire Boulevard by mid-morning. The first call he made was to the Information Technology investigators on the third floor to get an update on the request they’d phoned in from Phoenix to have the ITI monitor www.offthegrid.net for activity by the screen name ‘Tripper’. They reported no activity yet, but they were pulling caches of old posts by that screen name. So, no leads yet on Tripper’s identity.

Eric glanced behind him at the computer that was dedicated to NCIC traffic. He was waiting for a beep on it that would indicate a hit. There was no guarantee it would be a hit on their All Points Bulletin for Wayne’s car because the system would beep for any report filed by the Los Angeles office on any case since the database had been in use. But he was still waiting for that beep.

The phone rang and he picked up. It was the Phoenix Crime Laboratory. They had a preliminary report on the examination of Wayne Spicer’s/Tripper’s van: numerous particles of biological trace evidence had been located inside the vehicle. Although the van’s interior appeared to have been cleaned thoroughly, the criminalists had collected traces of blood, saliva, and epithelial from its faults, joins, and other surfaces. It was too early for the lab to tell if all the biological material came from a single source or from multiple sources, or whether any of it could ultimately link Tripper to the vehicle. They told Eric they would need reference material from people known to be in the van; for example, the man behind the screen name.

Eric looked back at the computer. Nothing.

Scott’s first thought when Cliff Lockwood opened his office door was that he could have been Kris Kristofferson’s stunt double. His barrel-like chest blocked the doorway for a moment before he invited Scott in, indicating a seat to the left that was turned to face two people who were rising from their chairs.

The room wasn’t large and with everyone standing up, Scott felt like he had walked into a closet that was already too full. But it opened up the moment Lockwood sat down behind his desk. He introduced Ben and Linda Alston, describing Scott as the law enforcement officer who had found their daughter.

Linda Alston had brown hair caught in a loose bun. Her eyes were a clear blue and she was looking at Scott with undisguised relief. Ben Alston had a close-cropped brown beard. He extended his hand to Scott, then folded his other hand over the handshake. Neither man spoke. Linda smiled at Scott but didn’t shake his hand. She was holding a sizeable piece of cardboard to her chest.

‘Please take a seat, Mr and Mrs Alston,’ Lockwood began. ‘Agent Houston is here to answer any questions for you that he can. As I mentioned before, he may be limited by the needs of the ongoing investigation into your daughter’s case but those limits will be lifted as soon as possible.’

Ben and Linda nodded.

Linda turned to Scott, still holding the cardboard tight. ‘We wanted, first of all, to thank you for finding Kate.’

Scott nodded gravely.

She continued with more difficulty. ‘We’ve seen her now and—’ She broke off, her mouth twisting, and her husband put his long arms about her shoulders. She drew herself up. ‘And we wanted you to know what a beautiful girl she really was.’

She turned the piece of cardboard around and Scott was looking at a large portrait of a smiling version of the woman he’d found in Wayne Spicer’s freezer. He felt as though the color ink had flowed through her like blood, bringing her to life. And then he took in her smile. He would recognize those teeth anywhere.

Ben was saying, ‘Kate was very bright. A bright, beautiful . . . good girl.’

Lockwood said, ‘All of that is very clear to us, Mr Alston. I hope you understand that.’

Linda had more to say. ‘Mr Houston, how did she end up out here?’

Scott knew from Steelie’s phone message that if he said nothing else to the Alstons, he had to answer this question. He had been going over it with Eric the night before at the hotel, each trying to put the known facts into more palatable terms, and failing. Eric had finally said, ‘It won’t be the words you use, it’ll be the way you say them.’

Scott glanced at Lockwood, who was looking back at him while reclined in his chair, his mouth obscured by his fingers, which were interlocked in a steeple. As Scott turned to the Alstons he played in his mind the visit to Spicer in the holding cell the evening before.

The words that Scott would use to tell the Alstons this story were censored by his law enforcement training, which protected the future prosecution of Wayne Spicer and were informed by his sense of what the Alstons’ image should be of their daughter’s last moments. He tried to soften the edge of every word.

‘Mrs Alston, the person who abducted your daughter was wearing a replica of a police officer’s uniform when he approached her sitting in her broken-down car on the shoulder of the Hollywood Freeway. It was by showing her what looked like a real police badge that he was able to get her to leave her own vehicle. He’s kept her body with him since that time.’

Scott suddenly realized that although Ben Alston had remained motionless, tears were streaming down his face. He did not wipe them away but kept one hand gripped around his wife’s shoulder and the other on her arm.

Linda Alston smiled, her eyes bright and fixed somewhere behind Scott. ‘Kate always minded people in authority.’ She patted Ben’s knee as she wiped her eyes quickly with a tissue she pulled from under her watchstrap. ‘She did what I would have done.’ Her voice caught on the last word and her hand flew to her mouth, the tissue only half covering the pain hidden behind it. A muffled, ‘Oh, God’ escaped and she collapsed against her husband, who tilted his face down into her hair. The photo of Kate smiled back at them from where it lay in Linda’s lap.

Scott felt as though the Alstons were radiating a sorrow so raw that it was palpable. He found himself swallowing several times and looked back at Lockwood, who nodded at him slowly. Scott realized he’d just passed some kind of test and knew he’d underestimated Cliff Lockwood. He needed to leave. He returned Lockwood’s nod and walked out, not stopping until he was beyond the front doors of the Medical Examiner’s Office. Immediately, he was assaulted by midday heat and a blare of nearby ambulance sirens. The morgue was next to the hospital, not the police station and its yellow holding cells. He had lied to Wayne Spicer on that point.

Dr Bodell interrupted the story she was telling Jayne and Steelie to introduce two colleagues who were emerging from the autopsy suite. One of the men said, ‘I understand you had a role in this freezer case?’ He nodded back to the suite, where a technician was rolling Kate Alston’s bagged body on a trolley back to the refrigerated storage room, now that her parents had finished their viewing.

‘It looks like the full dental profile we managed to get added to the misper file helped with the ID,’ Jayne said.

Steelie gestured at Bodell. ‘If it wasn’t for the dental worksheet Liz made for us last year, we wouldn’t have even known how to code half the synthetic restorations for NCIC.’

Dr Bodell turned to her colleague. ‘They’re too modest.’

He smiled faintly, assessing Steelie. ‘Well, it’s good to meet you.’ He looked at Dr Bodell. ‘Lunch, Elizabeth?’

She nodded and said, ‘I’ll catch up with you, Hal.’ She motioned for Steelie and Jayne to head for the rear exit doors.

When the three of them reached the bay where two body recovery vans were parked, Steelie leaned into Dr Bodell and whispered, ‘Is there something we should know, Elizabeth?’

Dr Bodell smiled but ushered her on. ‘Go on around front. Your clients will be needing you. Jayne, come back to visit again soon. You needn’t bring Steelie and her innuendos.’

As Jayne and Steelie rounded the building, Steelie said, ‘That makes me sound like I’m part of a band. Steelie and The Innuendos. But what would we play?’

‘Something heavy-handed,’ Jayne said as they took up a position under the mesquite trees casting dappled shade at the front of the building. Only their reflection was visible in the tinted double doors that led into this side of the structure, where relatives of the dead came and went. The reflection showed someone emerging from a car behind them and then a voice called out their names. They turned around to see Scott next to a Suburban one row back in the parking lot.

Going toward him, Jayne said, ‘Scott? What are you doing here?’

His mouth was a grim line. ‘The Alston case.’ He looked at Steelie. ‘I got your message. They’re in there with the MI now.’

‘Thanks for arranging that,’ Steelie replied.

‘I didn’t do anything.’ His tone was sharp. He wiped a hand over his face. ‘Sorry. Are you escorting them?’

Jayne nodded.

‘Good. Well, I’ve got to get on the road. Eric’s already in LA.’ He gave a lopsided smile. ‘It’s nice to see you guys.’

As he turned away, Steelie nudged Jayne while calling after Scott. ‘Um, Scott? Do you mind taking Jayne with you?’

He turned back and looked at Jayne. ‘No. Why?’

‘Because I . . .’ Jayne looked questioningly at Steelie.

‘Because of the turbulence,’ Steelie said. ‘It was a bad flight out and you said you’d prefer to drive back if you could.’ She turned to Scott. ‘She was ready to get a rental car, so this would be perfect.’

Scott appeared to accept the explanation and went to move something from the passenger seat of his vehicle.

Steelie murmured to Jayne, ‘He needs back-up, Jayne, if only to keep awake. I’ll stay with Ben and Linda.’

Jayne nodded and Steelie gave her a quick hug in parting.

It took seven and a half hours of driving for the essence of the meeting with the Alstons to percolate through Scott’s consciousness and then it hit him hard.

It happened in stages. The first stage made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. As he gulped air, he hyperventilated. That was the second stage. The third stage made him think he was having a heart attack. His hands tingled where they gripped the steering wheel and his chest was tight. He felt there was a direct electrical current between his heart and his hands.

He veered wildly from the right lane on to the shoulder, spraying loose gravel before steering into the upcoming exit lane, and that’s when he became aware of Jayne calling out his name. He automatically read the exit sign as he passed under it: Calimesa. Scott had never heard of it and he didn’t care. His eyes were watering and he needed to stop the car.

On the exit ramp, he pulled sharply on to the shoulder and put the transmission into park. He didn’t turn off the engine because he felt like his breathing was getting easier, even though it was made up of deep breaths he couldn’t control. Jayne was gripping the dash and he sensed she was staring at him but he was calming slightly, sure now that he wasn’t having a heart attack. He closed his eyes in relief and that’s when he saw her: Kate Alston. Preserved in the cold stillness of the freezer. Smiling at him from the autopsy table. Living in her parents’ photograph. Her parents. Their devastation.

The sob was dry but shocked him into opening his eyes. He slammed the palms of his hands against the steering wheel and then gripped it tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and, immediately, the same physical sensations tore through him, followed by an image of Kate Alston’s teeth, disembodied, ruthlessly exposed. He didn’t realize Jayne had opened a door until hot desert air filled the cabin with the musky scent of creosote. He opened his eyes again and saw the back of Jayne’s head, her familiar wavy hair just in front of him as she reached under his arms to turn off the engine. He couldn’t speak.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You need to get out of there.’

He felt like her voice was coming from a great distance away. She reached around him and undid his seatbelt, then pulled his hands from their hold on the steering wheel.

‘It’s all right, Scott. Come on.’

Tripper cruised the streets in one of his favorite Atlanta neighborhoods, savoring the familiarity of both the dark stretches and the residential blocks where elderly owners lived in the back at night, the volume on their televisions cranked up because Medicare still didn’t cover hearing aids. He’d taken risks in Los Angeles – especially with the surveillance gear – even though it had provided the answers he needed and thereby allowed him to move freely again. But it had still involved risks. He’d mitigated them by retrieving the repeater from outside the brunette’s apartment, which ensured that, if anyone ever found the wiretaps, they’d assume a Peeping Tom, not someone at a distance, put them there.

Tripper considered the white hatchback he’d been following, looked at the street they were on, and decided it was time to get started; he did need new dump material. He turned on the red light on his dashboard and the hatchback dutifully pulled over ahead of him.

The only building on the street was an office complex under construction. Its windowless bulk was dark, the workers long since home for the night. As Tripper walked up to the car, he missed his van and the old method. But the van had to go and this new method had potential. He leaned into the driver’s open window.

‘License and registration, ma’am.’

The driver handed the two items to him without speaking.

Tripper stood up and perused them. Her name was Pamela Winton. He leaned back down.

‘You sure were in a hurry back there, Mrs Winton.’

‘It’s Ms Winton.’

‘Step out of the vehicle, ma’am. I require you to complete a sobriety test.’

She sighed and got out of the car. Tripper smiled to himself. The new method had passed its test. Ms Winton, on the other hand, has just failed hers. He watched her move to the sidewalk, which was disappearing under sand and gravel seeping out from the construction site, unhindered by the tall chain-link boundary fence.

He directed her in a friendly tone: ‘Put your hands out to either side of your body at shoulder height and walk towards me, one foot in front of the other, with your eyes shut.’

As soon as the woman closed her eyes, Tripper moved behind her, clamping an arm around her body and a hand over her mouth. She raised both hands and tried to pull his hand off her face. He wrenched her to the side so forcefully that her feet left the ground for a moment. But when she came down again, she stamped hard on his right instep. He inhaled sharply, inadvertently relaxing his grip enough for her to get the purchase she needed to pull one of his hands down and she bit the soft skin between his thumb and first finger.

Now he only had one hand firmly on her and she repeatedly jabbed her left elbow behind her in gawky, unplanned movements. He was aware that while the method he’d used had got the mark out of her car, it didn’t get her into his car. It was always easier, and safer, when they got in themselves instead of him fighting them first. He moved in to control her but this allowed a jab that ordinarily would’ve only bruised him to hit his solar plexus and he keeled forward, struggling to breathe. The woman seized him by the hair and pulled downwards. As Tripper’s face thudded against her right knee he was reminded of how little fat covers a patella once the knee is bent.

Pamela Winton whimpered as she stared down at the police officer. He was lying on the sandy pavement, face down and silent. Then he groaned and she leapt away, crying out. As she stood in the beam of his patrol car’s headlights, she could see him slowly pull himself to lie on his side, and then he collapsed on to his back. Blood flowed freely from his nose and across his face, only pausing at his earlobes to pool before the overflow dripped on to the gritty pavement.

Pamela Winton clutched her shirt about herself and trembled. She knew no one would believe that a policeman had attacked her unless she had some proof of her own. She looked up and down the street. It was deserted; not a single car or person visible in the glow of the streetlights. She peered at the policeman. He was breathing but his eyes were closed. His badge reflected the swirling light from the dashboard of his vehicle. Pamela Winton took a deep breath and then lunged at him, screaming in fear as she ripped his badge off along with most of the shirt pocket. She continued to scream even as she sped away in her hatchback. Her distress trailed out her open window only to be trapped by the car’s slipstream and stay with her.