Dire Means (31 page)

As usual, the morning television news was on, repeating the same story that Mark had watched before going to bed. More of the same video footage of Keith Mendalsen and Brandon Chargon. Then something new came on the screen. It was footage of Jackie Dunbarton, just released. The café became quiet as Mark and the other patrons gave it their full attention. Jackie had her index finger raised to the camera and then switched fingers to display her middle finger, followed by her screaming, “Get off our property and get a job you putrid son of a bitch! This is private property!” She rushed the camera and swatted at a hand that raised in defense. The camera backed away and wobbled before it steadied on Jackie again who had her cell phone to her ear. “I'm calling the police—you better be invisible before they get here.”

There was something different about the Jackie Dunbarton footage, however. Halfway through her rant, the camera turned away from her and the picture went black for a moment. When the footage restarted, the camera was in the same place, but Jackie was wearing different clothing. She said, “I thought I kicked your ass off this property yesterday.” She then unleashed the same rage she had shown the previous day. The location wasn’t obvious—other than a concrete wall leading to the steep driveway of an underground parking garage. There was a nearby planter and a public trashcan that would no doubt help law enforcement identify the location.

As Mark drove to his first client visit of the day, his phone vibrated. He answered it and pulled to the side of the road. It was Jaffey Melugin. His voice was excited.

“I need fifteen new computers and a domain name. How soon can you do it?”

“I should have some time next year.”

“Look, Mark, I’m serious!”

“If I can get fifteen computers, where will you put them? Your home has a computer in every room and I just finished installing three more in your guest house last week.”

Jaffey laughed and said, “I’ve temporarily closed my gallery on Fourth Street and I’m converting it into a homeless training communication center. I want to put the computers in there and provide job training and Internet access to homeless people.”

The Allume Gallery, one of Jaffey’s properties, was a profitable art gallery famous for its collection of oil painting reproductions of the masters. The gallery was also well known by the locals for showcasing new talent. Jaffey’s decision to convert it to a homeless training and communications center didn’t surprise Mark; Jaffey had deep pockets when it came to homeless issues.

“What domain name do you want to register?”

“altruistablishment dot com.”

“I’ll see if it’s available,” Mark said, wondering if Pop’s spree had influenced Jaffey. “You’ll need a hosting account for it, too.”

“Take care of everything for me—bill me whatever it costs.”

“When do you want this to happen?”

“ASAP. Can you do it tomorrow?”

Mark laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The rest of the afternoon practically drained Mark’s phone battery as a host of clients contacted him to perform various types of security checks, camera installations, and upgrades to their computer systems. Many of his Santa Monica-based clients asked him to set up remote access so employees could telecommute from cities that had so far avoided the focus of the serial murderer.

Mark scheduled as many appointments as possible during the remainder of the week. He knew that the odds of Pop’s capture before then were slim—even if police received a strong lead.

He installed two more sets of Internet-based security camera systems for clients before calling it a day. On his way home, radio news reported that another body had been found. The Mayor of Santa Monica had declared a State of Emergency and was petitioning the governor for military assistance. The city of Santa Monica was being enclosed in a virtual barricade. All major thoroughfares were blocked with police security checkpoints and the resulting delays were devastating to local businesses.

A local restaurateur being interviewed said, “Our business is already hurt. People are afraid to go out for dinner. Now, when we need fresh supplies, delivery can be delayed for hours—sometimes a full day. I don’t know how much more we can take.”

Exits into Santa Monica from the I-10 freeway were perpetually jammed as vehicles inched toward checkpoints. There was talk on the city council of establishing a city-wide dusk to dawn curfew.

At home, Mark picked up his mail and sorted through it as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. It was the first day since his rescue of Pop that he had received no letters from admirers. How fleeting his fame had been. He welcomed the return to anonymity.

Inside, he tossed his laptop bag onto the sofa and then went to the kitchen to check his messages. A yellow five blinked on his machine. He turned the volume up so he could listen while he changed for an evening jog.

One message was from Jared McCrane, the member of Soft Landing’s board of directors. His gruff voice said, “Mr. Denny, I want to thank you for your prudence in contacting me regarding Neva Boyston’s administration of our Shelter. I had an interesting conversation with her after which she assured me that the computers you donated would be in place at the shelter before the end of the day tomorrow. I then informed Ms. Boyston that her attendance is mandatory at a board meeting my colleagues and I have scheduled for next Monday. At this meeting, we will require some very direct answers from her. Have a good evening and thank you for your generosity to our shelter.”

“That’s more like it,” Mark said. He knew that Neva couldn’t have taken the reprimand well. Mark imagined her seething. He planned to visit the shelter the following night to verify that Neva followed Jared McCrane’s directive by returning the computers.

Mark left his apartment complex to begin what he hoped would be a mind-clearing jog. When he reached Main Street, he checked his pulse. He slowed to a walk and noticed a Trail Bladers truck passing by, whining with the high-torque of an armored truck. He couldn’t see the driver and the truck disappeared into darkness from the hazy glow of a street light. Mark was resigned to the fact that Pop was watching him. It made no difference whether it was the Trail Bladers truck driver or someone in an unmarked car.

He had to wonder if the next victim or victims were trapped in the back of that truck, secured in a sound-proof labeled container that would pass the police checkpoint getting little more than a glance.

§

The next morning, Mark skipped a shower—something he never did—and went to work on his laptop. He phoned in an order for Jaffey’s fifteen computers and scheduled delivery to the art gallery, approving a hefty rush fee that Mark knew Jaffey would gladly pay. Then he started some coffee and while it brewed, he registered the new domain name
altruistablishment.com
for Jaffey.

The morning news featured another abduction. The missing woman, Melissa Brandart, 38, was last seen going into the women’s restroom in the back of a supermarket. The supermarket’s offices were adjacent to the restrooms, as was an exit to the loading docks. Security cameras had no recording of the woman leaving through the front door. Police brought in tracking dogs that led their handlers from the restroom door, down the hall past the main office, and out to a loading dock. The loading dock had no cameras, but was scheduled to have them installed in two days. There were no witnesses. Police stopped and searched every grocery tractor trailer that passed any checkpoint.

“Too big,” Mark said to the TV as he stirred his coffee. “You’re searching trucks that are too big.” Mark knew what type of truck held the abductees. It was red, black, and boxy, and carried away the supermarket’s proprietary document waste along with Melissa. Mark wondered how they had lured or forced Melissa into the truck. Perhaps Morana would tell him if he asked.

He went to his bedroom and picked up the phone Morana had given him and tucked it in his pocket. He was getting used to carrying it although it disturbed him as the phone was a tangible link between him and the murders. Still, disobeying Pop and forfeiting his safety and his connection to the Trail Bladers underworld wasn’t something he was prepared to do just yet.

There had to be a way to delay Pop long enough to get inside and end his killing spree. Pop’s operation was technology-based. Mark knew that he was likely the only person who could infiltrate his tight knit organization, and that he had enough knowledge to use technology against Pop. He didn’t know how he would do so, but if he passed up the opportunity to try, he’d never forgive himself.

Abductions in a city surrounded and practically choked with security and inspection checkpoints should have been impossible. Uniformed men held huge under-vehicle search mirrors, spooning the bottom of each truck or car that stopped and peeking at transmissions and axles as if they might find the next victim tied up and shoved in there.

The killer’s pace hadn’t slowed, nor had he changed his modus operandi to avoid detection because there was no need. His methods were transparent. He had exasperated the police and new law enforcement agencies, federal and state, were joining the hunt each day. Santa Monica was, for all practical purposes, paralyzed. If residents continued to panic and flee, Santa Monica would soon be a ghost town, filled with nothing but media and law enforcement personnel for the killer to abduct.

Although the number of people walking the streets had diminished by the day, there were many people for whom the victim’s videos had little effect.

In some people, the videos evoked fear, in others only sadness. Those saddened by the mistreatment of the homeless portrayed on the videos were immune to the fear and paranoia. They carried on, realizing that the murderous vigilante exempted them. They walked the streets with some sense of immunity, although not with the total inoculation that Mark enjoyed.

People scared by the videos tried to recall their recent behavior toward the homeless. They remembered the places, times, and witnesses to their encounters with the homeless. Some lost sleep and appetite while wondering if they had been unknowingly cast and filmed in the killer’s next production.

Other people remained indoors, altered their daily travels, or stayed in groups. Some carried guns. Many residents left town, vowing not to return until the Santa Monica nightmare ended.

A delivery truck was parked in front of Allume Gallery. As Mark drove toward it he saw Jaffey standing on the curb. He was pointing and shouting instructions to men who dollied a large desk from a hydraulic lift mounted on the back of the truck. Mark parked around the corner. He walked by a group of bystanders who stood nearby on the sidewalk.

“What’s going on here?” Mark asked a woman while pretending not to know.

“Mr. Money Bags over here,” she pointed to Jaffey who was just out of earshot, “can afford to use his gallery to save his ass while the rest of us depend on our stores to earn a living.”

“What’s he doing?” Mark asked, trying to appear sympathetic.

“He’s gonna bring in all the bums and drive all our customers away.” She turned and pointed to the business next to Allume Gallery. In the window a sign read Munch Café. “That’s my restaurant over there with the outdoor dining patio. How would you like to eat your breakfast right next to ‘bum central’?” She leaned toward Mark and squinted, daring him not to say it wouldn’t bother him. Mark turned to the other bystanders as they gave him hard stares, waiting for an answer.

“I—I don’t know,” Mark said.

A man took his hand from his pocket and pointed to Mark. “Say, aren’t you that fella that did that rescue over on The Promenade a while back?”

Mark smiled and said, “Uhhh,” while trying to decide if he could wriggle out of answering.

“Yes, it is him,” another man said. “I saw you talkin’ on the news a few days later. You sure are brave. I wouldn’t risk my life like that for a bum.”

“I don’t know what got into me that night,” Mark said, feeling like he needed to sound apologetic in the presence of people who were inconvenienced by the homeless. He turned to the woman, “Looks like I might have rescued a person that you don’t want around.”

She swatted her hand toward him and turned away. He saw another delivery truck pull up and suspected that it might carry the computers to be set up for Jaffey. As he began toward it, a man said, “Hey!” Mark turned to him. “We just want to run our businesses. I still think you did good that night.”

“Thanks,” Mark said.

Jaffey came out of the gallery carrying a clipboard and spotted Mark. “Hey Mark, come on in!” he yelled. “We’re almost ready for you.” Jaffey slapped Mark on the back and pointed toward the door. As Mark entered, he looked back at the bystanders. The café owner’s eyes were wide and she lifted a middle finger high in the air.

The Allume Gallery had been gutted. Some of the art remained on the walls, but all the freestanding display cases were gone, replaced with desks. “Welcome to the Altruistablishment,” Jaffey’s voice echoed. Three men dressed in worn faded clothes paused from assembling desks to look at Jaffey who was headed back to the front door to sign for the computers.

Mark helped Jaffey select locations for the computers and began setting up the cabling and Wi-Fi for the gallery’s Internet connection. The three workers were homeless men Jaffey had solicited the day after the first video was released. He gave them shelter in a converted storage room he arranged in the back of the gallery. The men seemed happy in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way. They were happy Jaffey had employed them.