Christ Clone (23 page)

Logan was trawling through computer files when the call came from the forensics lab. He had been matching the murder of Anita Bailey with similar MOs in California and the surrounding states when he came across the murder of a young mother, Sarah Delonzo, in San
Francisco. It was another brutal home invasion/murder, but with one major difference — both the mother
and
the daughter had been abused and stabbed to death.

With every click of the mouse a different crime scene photo appeared on Logan's computer screen, each more violent than the one before. He studied each grotesque image: there was something familiar about them; they had a disturbingly similar feel to the Bailey case.
Logan switched between the case notes and the pictures.

The Delonzo murders had taken place two and a half years ago.
All the leads had dried up and the murder had remained unsolved and, for the best part of a year, unworked. Logan read through the list of suspects and their alibis, automatically double-checking and cross-referencing their stories. Once satisfied they seemed in order, he started looking through the witness statements but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

'Logan.'

'Hey, Logan, Merrick here from Forensics.'

'John — what have you got for me?'

'You really need to work on your manners, Logan.'

'I get that a lot,' Logan replied with a hint of humour in his voice.
'Now, do you have something for me or not?'

'Okay, that disk you gave me for the Bailey case — I got the data back from Acoustics. They told me to say that the guy you're looking for has really bad taste in music.' Merrick waited for Logan's laughter; with nothing forthcoming, he continued. 'Ahem. Their main point of focus was obviously the last track — the beautifully titled 'I'm gonna cut your head off'. They managed to filter out the mess of a tune and studied the less than creative lyrics. The singer is a male Caucasian, early forties. They are still working on more . . .'

'Is that it?' Logan jumped in. 'A border-line middle-aged white male?'

'If you'll let me finish!' Merrick snapped back.

Logan fell silent.

'Thank you. What many people don't know is that a rewritable
CD disk has the same characteristics as a computer hard disk. Information written to it overwrites previously stored information. What
I'm trying to say is, I managed to recover a document that had been stored on the disk earlier, and I've come up with the name Robert
Richins. Now, if you can find this guy, Acoustics believes that by using voice printing they can tell you if he's the singer or not . . .
Logan, are you there?'

Logan had tuned Merrick out the moment he heard the name
Robert Richins.

'John, I've gotta go. Richins is one of the witnesses in the Delonzo case.'

The information Merrick had given Logan was priceless. He had no idea that you could get so much data from one CD. Maybe technology does have its part to play in the future of law enforcement after all, he thought.

Ironically, tracking down Richins turned out to be easier than finding
Anita Bailey's parents had been. For most of the past year, Richins had been living and working in Barstow, California. 'Seems killers don't travel much these days,' Logan muttered.

While the warrant was being prepared, Logan contacted the local sheriff and arranged to meet him at Richins' home.

Logan made good time to Barstow, arriving at Richins' street around midnight. With his lights off, he drove slowly past the house, swung a U-turn and parked behind the sheriff's car on the opposite side of the street. Richins' house was in darkness; what looked like a late model Chevrolet was sitting in the driveway. Happy that everything looked in order, Logan left his car and joined the sheriff in his wagon.

'Hi, I'm Detective Logan,' he said as he shook the sheriff's hand.

'Grainger,' the sheriff replied. 'Got my boys parked round the back like you said. They're ready to go when you say the word.'

Logan nodded. 'Let's go get him.'

Bursting through the door, Logan went in first with his gun drawn.
It was sitting solidly on top of the torch he held in his other hand.
'Robert Richins — LAPD!' he yelled as he slammed his way from room to room, the bright, white light from his torch cutting its way through the darkness ahead of him. In the last room he checked,
Logan found Richins rousing himself from sleep.

'Hands behind your head where I can see them — NOW!' he screamed. Logan jumped on top of Richins on the bed and secured him with cuffs. Within seconds, lights were on and the room was filled with officers. Unfortunately for Logan, Richins didn't resist arrest.

Back at the station, Logan wasted no time before questioning his suspect. Putting him in the interrogation room, he read Richins his rights and immediately set about goading him. 'So, Mr Richins, are you sitting comfortably? Can I get you anything? A coffee, a sandwich, a sharp knife to cut it with?'

Richins eyed Logan as he moved around the room.

'Now, you understand your rights don't you, Mr Richins? You understand that you're allowed a lawyer, and you know that you do not have to say anything, nothing at all . . . But most of all, Mr Richins,
I want you to understand that I am here to help you get things off your chest. I'm here for you to talk to, for you to let go of all those little secrets that you keep inside. Those inner voices that are singing out . . .'

The word singing seemed to grab Richins' attention.

'Ah yes, Robert, I know about your obsession with music . . .
What, can't you get it up without a song? Need a little whistle for your flute?'

'You have no fucking idea about me,' Richins yelled. 'You think you know it all, but you know nothing, you hear me. Nothing!'

'Well, why don't you set me straight?'

Richins looked directly at Logan, and he began to confess. Little did Logan know what an appalling confession it would be . . .

Dale sat at his desk, his head in his hands. Malone had been dragged from the office, but he still felt shaken up. His secretary came in to see if he was okay and Dale told her he was fine. He also thanked her for calling security.

'That man didn't look right from the moment he came in, and when
I heard some crashing noises coming from your office . . . what did he want anyway?'

Dale knew she had his best intentions at heart, but he also knew she was a gossip. 'A case of mistaken identity, I'm afraid. He's a very confused man.'

Judy nodded and waited for more of the story. When nothing was forthcoming, she told him the other partners wanted a word with him when he got a chance. Dale nodded and Judy left him alone.

Why the hell did the Twins go so far? he asked himself. They were just supposed to scare the man. The thought of the police getting involved, and the partners wanting to see him, made his stomach churn. He needed to speak to Travis. He picked up the phone and after exchanging a few forced pleasantries with Taylor, he was put through to Travis.

'We need to meet, but not at either of our offices.' Dale's voice was on the verge of frantic.

'Calm down, what's the matter?' Travis, on the other hand, sounded relaxed.

'I don't want to talk about it on the phone. Where can we meet?

'Outside the Page Museum at La Brea Tar Pits, in an hour.'

Ending the call, Dale buzzed Judy to tell her he needed to get some fresh air, and would speak to the partners when he returned. He left the office and hailed a cab.

***

Malone started his car and followed as closely as he could. They headed northwest, the cab shifting from lane to lane as it weaved through the traffic. Taking a left onto Wilshire Boulevard, they arrived at the
La Brea Tar Pits. Malone felt for sure he'd be spotted when Dale jumped out of the cab and crossed in front of his car, but Dale's mind was obviously elsewhere as he just stared right through him and carried on across the street.

Malone found a parking spot and raced after Dale, wondering what the attorney could possibly be doing here and at the same time feeling good about his first successful tail. As he rounded the corner, he saw
Dale leaning against the wall of the museum's entrance. Malone joined a tour group and, keeping his head down, went inside. He found an information plaque and stood in front of, appearing to read it but keeping one eye on Dale.

After a few minutes, another man joined Dale. Malone recognized him immediately — Simon Travis. The two men shook hands, and although he couldn't hear them, they seemed to go straight into a heated conversation.

***

'What's so urgent and so secret?' Travis sounded irritated.

'That Malone guy came in to see me again. He looked pretty beaten up, but all the Twins' visit seemed to do was get him riled. He talked about the police and . . .'

Travis put his finger to his mouth to quiet Dale; he pointed towards the pits and suggested they take a walk around.

***

At this point Malone had read the museum's sign so many times that, even with his bad memory, he figured he'd be able to get a job as a tour guide. As he followed the two men around the pits, he stopped at each of the information signs doing his best impression of a tourist.

When the two men split up, Malone followed Travis to the road and watched as he slipped into a jet-black Aston Martin. The registration plate was personalized: SPACE, with The Final Frontier written in the plate's surround. Struck by the car's magnificence, Malone almost forgot that he needed to follow him. He quickly rushed across the road and into his rental. As it pulled away, the Aston's wheels spun a little, making a tiny screech. Travis loved to turn heads with his car.

Malone followed the Aston several miles towards the city, passing intersections and suburbs he'd never seen before, and some he'd never even heard of. The traffic was noticeably light for the time of day — Malone guessed it must be school holidays — so that even with the Aston's rapid acceleration, Malone found it easy to follow.
They got to the Travicom building and the Aston went straight into the underground parking lot. Malone found a park on the street, and he got out of his car. He stared up at the building in front of him, its sheer size making him feel the way he did when he looked at the stars
— insignificant.

The whole drive there, he'd been racking his brain. What did Simon
Travis or Travicom have to do with all of this? It could just be that
Dale Galbraith was meeting his client as scheduled, but he doubted it.
Galbraith was spooked — he knew that much for sure — and then he went running to Travis. That alone convinced Malone that Travis was a part of this mess too.

'Can I help you, sir?' A man dressed in a doorman's suit broke into
Malone's thoughts.

'Uh, not really, I'm just admiring the view.' It was the truth; Malone was taking in the size of the mammoth building.

'Then may I ask you to move your car please sir? You're parked in our designated valet spot.'

Malone apologized and got back into his car. His head was still aching from the bruising he'd received from the Twins, and his second-guessing was compounding the pain. It was time to go back to Headquarters.

Tentatively opening his front door, Malone slipped quietly in, the visit of the night before still vivid in his mind. As he walked past the office he heard the rustle of paper. He crept to his bedroom and picked up the baseball bat he'd hidden there earlier. Standing outside the office door, with his heart pounding louder than his head, he took a deep breath and rushed through the doorway, swinging the bat and yelling at the top of his voice. Daniel almost shat himself as he ducked below the bat's swinging arc. He felt the breeze as it missed his head, but the whooshing sound was masked by the maniacal screams from
Malone's mouth.

'Malone, stop — it's me!' Daniel yelled, trying to make himself heard. Malone at last registered who was cowering in front of him and he dropped the bat.

'Wha-what the fuck!' Daniel gasped, his voice wobbling.

'Sorry, sorry! I didn't realize it was you.'

'Who the hell else did you think . . . ?' Daniel's voice trailed off as he saw the state of Malone's face. 'What happened to you . . . your face?' he asked, concern quickly replacing fright.

Malone proceeded to tell him about the events of the past twelve hours.

'Wow. I can't leave you alone for five minutes.'

Malone smiled, and then winced as the pain returned to his face.
'Who's place did you stay at last night? You'd better not be up to your old tricks again.' Daniel looked hurt. 'I'm just kidding, you're allowed to have friends! Just let me know if you're going to be out all night again — in case Logan calls round unexpectedly.' Malone had added the last bit to cover for his concern. 'What did you manage to find out?' he asked, changing the subject.

'Not as much as you, I have to say. But I'm pleased you asked. I knew you couldn't do this without me — where would Batman be without Robin? Wait there while I get you some painkillers.'

Daniel returned with a glass of water and some tablets; he gave them to Malone, and then went straight to the whiteboard to update it. He drew a big circle around Dale Galbraith. 'So, it seems our lawyer friend
is
involved in this in some way; he's not so clean after all.'
Under Dale's name he wrote Simon Travis and Travicom, connecting
Simon and Dale with a small line. 'So the next big question is, what does an incredibly large communications corporation have to do with a biblical cloning experiment? They certainly have the funds to put up as a prize, but what's in it for them?'

Malone's head was pounding; he needed to sleep it off. 'It's getting late and I'm not feeling so great. I think it'd be best if we resumed our investigation tomorrow.'

Although it was early evening still, Daniel's heart rate had only just returned to normal. He was happy to agree. 'Bright and early tomorrow then,' he offered.

Malone nodded his head gingerly and retired for the night.