The Fourth Motive (13 page)

“It was neither reckless nor impulsive,” Farrell said. “It was actually quite clever.
His tactic of hitting Paige immediately after she’d left the ruins of her burned-out
condo was a bold but sound strategy. He struck when she was psychologically vulnerable.”

“What do you mean by psychologically vulnerable?” the Judge asked.

“People generally have an innate sense of timing,” Farrell said. “It’s how we make
order of the world. If a guy gets into an automobile accident, psychologically, he
might feel he’s immune to another car crash for a while. Like he’s met his quota of
bad luck. Same thing if he catches a cold; he’s just as likely to catch another a
week after getting over the first one, but mentally he feels like he’s somehow built
up an immunity.”

“As if he’s already had his ration of bad fortune,” Callen said.

“Right.”

“How does this apply to my daughter’s stalker?”

“When I was in Vietnam,” Farrell continued, “we learned that the most effective time
to counterattack was just after we’d been hit, especially if the attack had been an
effective one. Psychologically, the attackers feel it’s unlikely a just-defeated adversary
will mount a counterstrike. It’s called ‘initiative’. They don’t expect it. That’s
what happened to your daughter today.” Farrell punctuated his conversation with a
deep drag on his smoke. “When she drove away from the wreck of her condominium, even
though she was distracted and upset, I’ll bet the last thing she was thinking about
was that she’d be attacked again a few minutes later in broad daylight, on a busy
street, on the way to her father’s house only a few miles away.”

“Paige’s guard was lowered deliberately? Is that what you’re saying?” Callen posed.

“I believe so,” Farrell said. “It’s a pattern. Yesterday’s dawn attack, the afternoon
phone call, and then being smoked out of her home–”

“There was a message inside her condo, and a note on her car,” Wendt added. “I see
where you’re going with this.”

Farrell nodded. “I think your daughter’s stalker did these things deliberately to
put her in a vulnerable state of mind. To lull her. The cops, too.”

“The cops?” Wendt exclaimed. “We weren’t lulled.” He made no attempt to hide his disbelief.

“You sure about that? Alameda’s a small town. Where were all the cops this morning
when her condominium was burning on Bay Farm Island?”

“All the east end units were at the scene of the fire,” Wendt conceded. “The west
end units were on the other side of the island. It was at shift change. Morning crew
was probably just getting their coffee.”

“Where did the kidnap attempt go down?”

“Midtown.” Wendt’s shoulders dropped.

“Exactly,” Farrell said. “You think that was a coincidence?”

“That would mean–”

“That would mean,” Farrell interrupted, “this guy knows your department’s deployment
routine, where the respective beat patrol units are at any given time, and what their
response times are from various points on the island. How do you think he knows that?”

“Either’s he’s got inside knowledge of our department…” Wendt said.

“Or?” Farrell said.

“A scanner,” Wendt said. “He’s got a police scanner.”

“Bullseye.” Farrell squinted at him around his cigarette.

“What are you two talking about?” the Judge asked.

“If you listen to the radio traffic on a police scanner,” Sergeant Wendt said, “within
a short time, even a layman unfamiliar with police procedure can get a pretty good
sense of how cops operate and where they’re deployed. Police scanners are not expensive
and can be bought at electronics stores like Radio Shack. You can even build them
yourself from parts if you know what you’re doing.”

“And you think Paige’s stalker has the use of such a device?”

Wendt looked at Farrell and nodded in reluctant agreement. “I think it’s very likely,”
he answered.

“It fits his modus operandi,” Farrell said. “This guy is meticulous. He obviously
does his homework. He knew your daughter’s jogging routine, her work schedule, where
she lives, what health club she works out at; and we know he likes electronic gizmos.
Why wouldn’t he use a scanner?”

“You lost me,” the Judge said, further confused. “How do you know he’s an electronics
buff?”

“The stun gun,” Wendt said, snapping his fingers. “Of course.”

“That’s the device you told me about earlier on the phone? The thing he used to incapacitate
Paige this morning?”

“Yes, Your Honor. He left it at the scene when he fled. Unfortunately, the serial
number on it was removed.”

“I’ll wager you’ll find no fingerprints on it, either,” Farrell said. “Not even on
the battery inside.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Wendt concurred. “And like the paintball gun he used on
Paige yesterday morning, tracing something like a stun gun, which can be purchased
by mail order, is virtually impossible.”

“What do you think the odds are you’ll find prints on any of the shell casings ejected
from the suspect’s gun?”

“You briefed Mister Farrell well,” Wendt remarked to the Judge. “I didn’t realize
you knew about the shoot-out.” He gave Judge Callen a disapproving glare. “To answer
your question, about zero. But at least if we find the gun, we can match the casings
up by the markings on the ejector, extractor, and firing pin.”

“If you find the gun,” Farrell pointed out. “How about the car?”

“It’s already been recovered in San Leandro. It was an unreported stolen auto taken
from the Oakland airport long-term parking lot.”

“Clean?”

“As a whistle, so far,” Wendt said, “except for a couple of fresh bullet holes. This
guy apparently leaves nothing to chance.”

“Essentially,” the Judge declared, “despite all that’s occurred, we’ve made no real
progress in identifying Paige’s stalker?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Farrell said. “I think we’ve learned some things that might
narrow down his motive. If we can figure out his motive, it might lead us to him.”

“I agree,” Wendt said.

“I don’t believe it,” a woman’s voice interjected. Sergeant Wendt, Farrell, and Judge
Callen looked up as Paige entered the study. She was wearing a sweater and jeans,
and her hair was wet. She was trembling in fury. Her heated eyes were locked on her
father and her fists were clenched.

All three men stood up.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” the Judge asked.

“Long enough,” her voice wavered in outrage.

“I told you there’d be fireworks,” Farrell said, putting out his smoke.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 16

 

 

Ray Cowell’s face was contorted in a mask of anguish as he knelt over the toilet.
He’d been intermittently vomiting and urinating blood for the better part of an hour,
and as a result was dizzy and weak.

He’d driven the stolen Mercury into San Leandro and ditched it at the marina, not
far from where he’d parked his Hyundai. He then drove straight home, cursing in agony
the entire journey. Once at his mother’s house, Ray staggered down the steps to his
basement room and collapsed in the bathroom.

The ache in his groin was immense and rivaled only by the stinging in his chest. While
the body armor he’d been wearing undoubtedly saved his life, the bullet’s impact badly
bruised his torso beneath where it struck the vest, possibly even cracking a rib.

Ray stripped his sweat-soaked clothes off and examined his genitals. To his horror,
he found his testicles swollen to the size of golf balls. The slightest touch sent
shivers of excruciating pain rippling through his body. The pit of his stomach was
a burning knot of fire and he felt a constant urge to relieve himself. But when he
did, he found the urine pink with blood, and the pain rose to a fever pitch. It hurt
so badly he almost fell to the tile floor.

Ray vomited, splattering the floor and walls surrounding the toilet as well as himself.
The only sounds emanating from his mouth, besides the noise of his violent retching,
were the words “slut” and “whore”, over and over.

Gradually, the puking and tremors subsided. By then, Ray was so weak from exertion,
he could barely stand. Using the toilet for leverage, he attempted to leave the bathroom.
He was in this state, kneeling over the toilet and waiting for the waves of nausea
to subside, when the knocking started.

“Raymond? You in there? Raymond?”

The biting staccato of his mother’s voice corresponded with a persistent pounding
on the door leading upstairs to the main house, a door Ray kept locked at all times
due to his snooping mother. Neither the voice nor the knocking would go away.

“Leave me alone,” he called out, the effort making his head ache even more. “Go away.”

“Your boss is on the phone. You open this door, you hear me? Your boss wants to know
why you aren’t at work.”

“Tell him I can’t come in today,” Ray stammered weakly. “Tell him I’m sick.”

“I will not,” his mother’s shrill voice insisted. “If you think I’m going to make
excuses, you’ve got another think coming. You’re going to tell him yourself. Raymond,
open this door right now.”

His mother had been trying to gain entry into his basement apartment for years, ever
since he’d moved back home. He’d installed sturdy locks on both the upstairs and outside
doors to keep her prying nose out, but she never tired of trying to get in. Sometimes
after dinner, as he retired to his room, she followed, as if that night, unlike every
other, he would allow her admission to his lair. It had become an obsession with her.

Ray pushed himself shakily to his feet and made his way to the upstairs door. The
soreness in his bruised chest made breathing difficult, and he was forced to shuffle
in a knock-kneed gait to lessen the stinging in his groin created by walking. By the
time he reached the door, he had to lean against it for several long seconds to recover
his breath and prevent himself from passing out. The pounding on the door continued.

“Raymond?”

“Mother,” he began, trying to calm his voice, “I’m very sick. Please tell my boss
I’m taking today off on sick leave. I haven’t used a sick day in over eleven years;
I’m entitled. Please do it.”

“No, I won’t, Raymond. You’re going to have to do it yourself.”

The sound of locks unlatching was followed by the door swinging violently open. The
victorious smirk on Margaret Cowell’s face instantly vanished when she saw her son.

Raymond, pale and stooped, stood shakily before her. His skin was a dreadful hue and
he was completely naked. His stringy hair was sweat-plastered over his balding head,
and he had vomit-spittle running down his chin onto his chest. But it was his eyes
that were the most alarming. They were red-rimmed and glaring, brimming with hatred.
For a moment, she didn’t recognize her own son.

“Listen to me, bitch,” hissed the thing that resembled her son. “You’re going to get
on the phone and tell my boss that I’m going to be sick for the next couple of days.
If you don’t and I lose my job, the first thing I’m going to do is kick your stupid,
fat, lazy, drunk ass out on the street.”

Ray’s mother started to respond but kept silent. She had once before witnessed such
behavior from her son, and was afraid how he would react if she retorted. She retreated
from the basement door and from the foul odor emanating out of her son’s room.

“OK, Raymond, if that’s what you want–”

“Just do it!” he shouted, slamming the door.

When his mother had gone and he’d relocked the door, Ray hobbled to his bed and collapsed.
The aroma of sweat and barf hung heavily in the room, and he rolled his head from
side to side to clear the fog from his pain-addled mind. Above him, suspended by fishing
line, model aircraft dived and plummeted. His thoughts turned to the events of earlier,
and his face twisted into a grimace of rage.

How could he have been so stupid? Why didn’t he wait? He wasn’t supposed to take her
until tomorrow night. That was the plan. He expected her to be driven or escorted
to her father’s house from the fire by one of the police officers at the scene. But
when he saw her drive past in the shiny convertible Saab, all alone, her ponytail
flowing in the crisp bay air, it was too good to pass up.

She didn’t even see him come up on her from behind, just like on the beach the day
before. What a grass-eater!

Ray’s dad used to tell him that there were only two kinds of animals on the earth:
meat-eaters and grass-eaters. He said grass-eaters were dumb herd animals, like sheep
and cattle. Grass-eaters wandered around in groups, always looking down at the ground,
oblivious to everything but their next mouthful of grass. Ray’s dad said that’s why
nature made so many of them, because they were easy to prey on.

Meat-eaters, Ray’s dad told him, usually hunted alone. Meat-eaters were always on
the prowl, warily searching for grass-eaters to feed on. Or for other predators who
might wish to consume them. Meat-eaters were like the tigers at the Oakland zoo, or
the wolves he watched on television on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom as a boy.

Ray’s dad told him it was always better to be the diner than the dinner. Ray decided
early he would not become a grass-eater. He would become a meat-eater.

But this morning, in his haste to exploit the golden opportunity of her unexpected
solitude on the road, Ray screwed up. He’d failed to heed his father’s words and acted
like a grass-eater when he fixated on her. Certainly not like a predatory meat-eater.

He’d rammed her car, and before the slut had time to recover from the impact, he rendered
her senseless with the Nova stun gun. It worked just like the brochure promised.