Crime Zero (5 page)

After his arrest the FBI had searched his house and eventually found the twelve boxes. Decker's FBI colleagues in forensics couldn't have amassed a better mountain of evidence confirming Axelman's guilt, but despite every inducement, threat, and deal, Karl Axelman never told them where the bodies were. "Don't worry," he'd said with a chilling smile, "their bodies are fine. And they'll stay that way."

Even after being sentenced to death, he had shown no remorse or inclination to reveal any details about how they had died or what he had done with their bodies. Agents on at least three occasions in the past had interviewed him with no success.

So as the yellow walls of San Quentin Penitentiary came into view, Decker had few illusions about his chances. But this could be the bureau's last opportunity. Somehow over the last seven years Axelman had managed to postpone his date with the recently reinstated gas chamber, successfully appealing and being granted a stay of execution on several occasions. Decker checked the file. His date with destiny was now scheduled for tomorrow, Thursday, October 30. It was at least fifty-fifty he'd wriggle out of it again.

Parking his car in the visitors' lot, Decker considered how Axelman had asked for him by name probably because of his involvement in the Tice murders. It occasionally happened that way after a high-profile case. He took off his suit jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves. The last thing he wanted to look like when interviewing a con on the row was a stiff G-man. He gathered his files together, put them in his case, and locked it in the trunk of the car. Then he collected his pad, pen, and tape recorder and walked toward the imposing entrance of the prison.

The recent security changes meant that San Quentin, like most state penitentiaries, had increased the number of guards. Decker had been here often in the past and recognized most of the men on the gate when he handed in his gun and showed his badge. No one bothered to ask him what he was here for; he was just waved through the metal detector and X-ray scanner. One guard, a tall black man in a neatly pressed uniform named Clarence Pitt, escorted him into the inner prison more out of habit than necessity. Decker knew exactly where he was going. He had requested the private visiting room he always used when interviewing cons.

"Watch the game, Decker?" Clarence Pitt asked as they walked past the adjustment center, where death row inmates were placed when they first arrived. He looked perplexed, as if something unjust and unfathomable had come to pass. "The Forty-niners got creamed again."

Decker laughed. As a kid he'd been an ardent fan. "What do you expect? When was the last time they won anything?"

Pitt shook his head and frowned. He looked genuinely upset. "You always gotta have hope," he said, and then fell into silence.

"Ain't that the truth," mumbled Decker, looking around him. He had never got over his hatred of these places, never got used to his deep discomfort whenever he visited them. There was a pervasive smell that tainted every prison he'd visited across the States, a bitter blend of institutional disinfectant, stale air, sweat, and despair. He looked down and studied his shoes as they neared the north segment of the prison where the green chimney of the gas chamber rose to belch its poisonous fumes into the sky. Decker's spirits lifted for a moment when he considered that this would be his last visit to death row.

Eventually they reached the private visiting room, and Pitt stood aside from the closed steel door. "He's waiting inside with his attorney. You know the drill. I'll be outside if you need me."

"Thanks, Clarence." In his mind he went over the key points he wanted to cover with Axelman and his strategy. Taking a deep breath, he ensured that he felt calm and in control. Then he opened the door.

Not much surprised him anymore. But the sight of Karl Axelman sitting manacled to the stainless steel table in the middle of the room shocked him so much that he broke one of his cardinal rules and allowed it to show on his face. What astonished him even more was the equally obvious shock on Axelman's face.

Decker immediately turned to Axelman's attorney to regain his composure. The lawyer introduced himself as Tad Rosenblum. He was a round man with a cherubic face and curly brown hair, graying at the temples.

"Special Agent Decker, I want to make it perfectly clear that my client has agreed to speak to you against my instructions. His execution date is scheduled for tomorrow, and an appeal is currently lodged with the governor. My client is in an extreme state of agitation verging on the irrational. If I feel that speaking to you makes his condition deteriorate any further, I will overrule Mr. Axelman and immediately stop this interview. Is that clear?"

Decker nodded slowly. He didn't bother to make it clear to Mr. Rosenblum that his client had asked to see him, not the other way around, or that if Decker felt Axelman was wasting his time, he would stop the interview. "Mr. Rosenblum, I was under the impression your client wanted to see me alone."

Rosenblum frowned, and Decker could see the lawyer's jaw muscles twitch. "I shall be outside."

Now that Decker felt calmer he turned back to Axelman, keeping his face devoid of expression. But it was difficult. Axelman no longer looked like his photograph. His groomed thick hair had fallen out in clumps, exposing pink scalp beneath. His skin was pitted with acne, and he clearly hadn't slept in an age. The man's eyes were bloodshot and puffy with dark shadows beneath them. But what unnerved Decker the most was the way those eyes stared at him. Axelman seemed mesmerized by him, studying him like some rare antique whose authenticity was in doubt.

Decker sat at the table facing the convicted killer. "Karl, my name is Luke Decker. I run the behavioral sciences unit at the FBI training academy in Quantico, Virginia. You asked to speak with me."

Axelman said nothing, just continued staring at him. Rosenblum was right. He didn't look rational. This wasn't the man Decker had read about. Axelman was supposed to be an iceman, an arrogant control freak who would pretend to tell him where the victims were buried and then at the last minute give Decker nothing and laugh in his face. That was what Decker had prepared for. But this man looked on the verge of a breakdown. Could the imminence of his execution be getting to him this time? Or was this an even more elaborate mind fuck? If so, it was a good one.

Decker smiled at the man as if he were a patient rather than a criminal. He kept his voice friendly and matter-of-fact. "Karl, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you want to talk to me about?"

For a second Decker thought Axelman was going to say something. He leaned forward, and Decker instinctively copied his body language and leaned forward too. But then Axelman shook his head and let out a low moan. He seemed to be fighting some battle in his head. "I can't tell you," he whispered suddenly, holding his head in his hands.

Decker frowned. A battle was raging in his head too. His experience told him that the man was screwing with him, doing what he'd done to three other agents before him. But Decker could also see that the man was patently troubled, physically and mentally. "Why can't you tell me?" Decker asked reasonably.

"I can't," Axelman shouted suddenly. "I thought I could. But I fuckin' can't. Not face-to-face." His body began to shake, and he seemed about to crush his head in his hands as if trying to make it disappear. From being unable to stop staring at Decker, Axelman now couldn't meet his eyes.

Decker rose slowly from the table. He had seen manipulative killers feign madness before, and many had done it brilliantly, but usually he could tell. This was different. He kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "If you have nothing to tell me, I may as well leave."

Axelman stood and pulled at his manacles, reaching for him. "No," he shouted in panic.

"Then talk to me. There's no point in my staying if you won't say anything."

"I can't," Axelman screamed at him, so loud that Decker heard the scrabble of the door being unlocked behind him. The man was demented or putting on a very good display. Either way Decker wasn't too disappointed that Axelman's protective lawyer was coming in to end the interview.

But his instinct told him to try one last time. Moving to the door, he saw the handle being turned from the outside. "I'm going now, Karl," he said calmly. "Just explain one thing before I go. Why couldn't you tell me? What's the problem here?"

Axelman slumped back into his chair defeated. As he did so, he said something so quiet and so outlandish that Decker assumed he had misheard it.

Decker stepped toward the murderer. "What? What was that?"

Axelman sat statue-still, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. A droplet of sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and shattered on the table. Behind him Decker could hear the door opening, but before Rosenblum could enter, Decker grabbed the handle and pushed against the door with his

body weight to keep it closed.

Then Axelman repeated what he had said.

Although the killer only whispered the four words, Decker heard each one as clearly as if it had been shouted into his ear: "I am your father."

Chapter 4.

ViroVector Solutions, Inc., Palo Alto, California. Wednesday, October 29, 3:47 P.M.

Dr. Alice Prince was more preoccupied than usual. After adjusting her thick, round eyeglasses, she brushed back wiry black hair, streaked with gray. Her white lab coat had been buttoned incorrectly, making it appear as if her right shoulder was drooping. When she wandered through the reception lobby of ViroVector's vast dome and nodded at numerous members of her staff as she passed, a few of them stopped to tell their boss that her jacket was crooked. All did it with a respectful and affectionate smile as if this weren't the first time. To each one she gave a small smile and a thank-you and then moved on, leaving her buttons untouched. She had more important things on her mind. The project she had been working on for years was finally coming to fruition. But now that the theory would soon be a reality she could see all the small things that could unravel. In particular she was trying to remember exactly when Karl Axelman was meant to die.

Now fifty-one, Alice Prince had founded ViroVector Solutions in 1987, two days before her thirtieth birthday. Twenty-one years later her brainchild was already the world's third-largest biotech company and the most influential on the West Coast. Headquartered just south of Palo Alto between San Francisco and San Jose, its sprawling campus comprised the huge crystal dome, three separate hundred-yard production sheds, a helicopter landing pad, a sports complex, and a parking lot. Bordering a science park and the Bellevue Golf and Country Club, the perimeter was protected with a lightweight steel fence, linked to a series of sensitive scanners and alarms. The crystal dome, like the rest of the campus, was a so-called smart building, designed by the celebrated British architechnologist Sir Simon Canning. It resembled a visiting spaceship, particularly at night when the interior lights illuminated the predominantly glass structure. But everyone at ViroVector called it the Iceberg because the visible part of the building, which housed the commercial offices, administrative departments, and the supercomputer TITANIA, was a tiny part of the overall structure. The majority of it was underground, where the extensive warren of biocontainment laboratories was located.

It was to the underground laboratories that Dr. Alice Prince was heading now. After going through one of three doors off the dome's ground-floor reception hall, she walked down a long corridor, past a white door on her left. AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY was stamped above the acronym TITANIA. As she passed, the temperature in the corridor dropped slightly. The Cold Room housed ViroVector's vast protein-based biocomputer. TITANIA, an acronym for Total Information Technology and Neural Intelligence Analogue, was the artificially intelligent brain that controlled and coordinated all the smart buildings and most of ViroVector's corporate functions, from data capture and manipulation to production scheduling, project management, payroll, and security.

At the end of the corridor Alice stopped before a yellow door marked with a large black biohazard symbol. And when Alice placed her palm on the door sensors, it was TITANIA that recognized her DNA profile and ratified her Gold clearance to the biolab complex. Through the yellow door was a small vestibule with a computer terminal and a printer. Two white-coated female technicians greeted her, and she smiled back. She wished she had a better memory for names because she recognized their faces. From here she walked to another door, which again required TITANIA to check her identity before hissing open to reveal a transit station containing lockers and shower cubicles. She undressed and took a quick shower, then dressed in surgical greens and safety goggles. She now walked to one of two yellow elevators with large black biohazard symbols on the doors.

Inside the elevator there was only one button with a star on it. When she pressed it, the doors closed, and she felt the high-speed cabin descend fifty feet underground to the main complex. As the doors opened, the safety goggles shielded her eyes from the ultraviolet light in the screening corridor outside. The light was used to break down viruses. At the end of the corridor was an entry area that gave access to the underground system of five concentric circles forming Vi-roVector's biosafety laboratory complex.